Rating: M, sexy stuff
Disclaimer: Characters and universe are intellectual property of Matthew Graham, Ashley Pharaoh, BBC, Kudos, et al. Lyrics from "Save Your Love" are property of T. Hendrick and K. Van Haaren. No infringement intended on either.
Spoilers: Nothing major
Pairing: Gene/Alex
Summary: GALEX. Post-ep for 2.07, an ironic foreshadowing of 2.08 and then a pre-ep for 3.01. Gene and Alex have one night together before everything falls apart.
A/N: So if there's any point within canon that Gene and Alex could have slept together, I think this is it. This is the height of their intimacy and allegiance. This story therefore doesn't seek to diverge from canon but rather give another interpretation, a deeper resonance to the events of 2.08 and the subsequent series.

…Darling, I will love you endlessly
Even though you're far away from me
I can't forget the words I told you
How it felt to love and hold you
Love like ours will last eternally…

She hadn't been sleeping.

She'd been dreaming. Tossing and turning on slippery sheets, plagued by images of her parents' car exploding. Of rolling a lifeless body into a pool of cement. Of a girl waiting in a hospital hallway, hair hiding her face. Of the tears on Chris' cheeks and the shame on Shaz's. Of Gene Hunt's eyes on her body as she walked towards him in a gold dress they both knew she wore for him alone.

It made sense to her unconscious that this image should be mixed in with all the others. Perhaps because of the tinge of sadness, of confusion and betrayal, that narrowed his eyes whenever she spoke of leaving. In the wee small hours of Viv's birthday bash, emboldened by excessive booze, he'd slung an arm over the back of her chair and leaned in close. Complimenting her on her "pretty speech", he'd asked why "if she loved them all so much, she was forever harpin' on about leavin'?".

Her reply had been stumbling and vague and she'd swiftly shifted the conversation to Chris and Shaz's impending nuptials. Gene had pointed to the seating chart that placed them side-by-side and suggested they go together. As friends and colleagues, he'd been quick to clarify. She hadn't had the heart to tell him that she didn't plan to still be around, inhabiting the early eighties and the role of his friend, colleague and faithful side-kick.

It was probably why he sat on the end of her bed the following night. And every night since. Blaming her. Just like all the others. Her mother was there, blaming her for not preventing the bomb that ended her life. The younger Summers was there, blaming her for not stopping the bullet that ended his. Mac was there, bloody and silent and staring. The older Summers taunted her, telling her he wouldn't let her leave. And Molly was there, accusing her of not wanting to leave. "If you love me so much," she asked, her voice melding with Gene's, "why do you want to leave me?".

She'd woken with a start, just in time to see the small figure of her faceless daughter morph into the tall, sturdy frame of her boss. She'd sat slowly up in her bed as he stared at her. With those eyes. Those enigmatic eyes that seemed to simultaneously loathe and adore her. Before the dream broke entirely, he muttered one more word. A word that cleaved her in two, confirmed her torn heart. "Stay," he'd said, echoing his request from the previous night. "Stay," he'd begged, sitting on the end of her bed in the dark, his eyes fixed on her face.

The thump on the door had turned her head and when she turned back, he was gone. Just a figment – unlike the man at her door. She'd reached for her robe, relieved by the opportunity to escape her unconscious. She'd let him in, accepted the glass of red he handed her and agreed that everything was indeed shit. It was about the level of discourse they were each capable of. Both were exhausted by the day's events, stunned by Chris' gullibility and deceit. She was shell-shocked by nightmares and he was drunker than she'd ever seen him. Yet, even swaying on his feet and slurring his words, Gene seemed to have more to say. Unlike stoic, sober Gene, sloppy, drunken Gene often wanted to talk.

"So." He sipped his wine, jutted the glass at her. "Ask."

She blinked at him in half-asleep confusion. "Ask what?"

"The obvious question."

"Which is?"

"Don't play dumb, Bols, doesn't suit y'..." He made for the couch, dropped onto it with a hefty sigh. "Can't 'ave escaped your notice that I assigned a box to everyone on my team." He took a breath, eyes lifting to hers in the half-dark. "Everyone but you."

Alex bowed her head over her wine. She had noticed. Of course she'd noticed. His unspoken assumption of her innocence had touched her, galvanised her as she stood by him, as she took over the interrogation he didn't have it in him to perform. Just as it touched her to see the fearsome Manc Lion stumble into her home in the middle of the night, looking for solace, for someone to believe in, someone to lick his bloody wounds.

She lifted her head, met his wavering gaze. "I appreciate your faith in me."

"Faith?" he grunted sullenly. "S'that what it is?"

"What else?" She moved to the couch, perched herself at the other end.

"Well, look at y'…" he muttered, unfocused eyes roving over her, "Not 'ard for a woman like you to pull the wool over the eyes of a bloke like meself."

She put down her wine. "Gene—"

"Even now, like this…" He nodded at her loosely-tied robe and scrunched bed-socks and tousled bed-head. "I mean, I've known some nice lookin' birds in me time but—"

She extended a hand, palm upwards. "Give me your keys."

He blinked at her. "Wha'…?"

"Keys." She clicked her fingers once. "You're blind."

"S'what I'm tryna tell y'."

"Not that kind of blind. Blind drunk."

"I know 'ow to hold me liquor," he protested, not doing a thing to prevent her hand sliding into his coat pocket to retrieve his keys.

"And I know," she said, rising and heading for the cabinet across the room, "I'm not letting you drive anywhere in this condition."

Gene was silent a moment, his eyes on her back. "Where'll I sleep?"

She nodded over her shoulder. "Right there, on the couch."

Another silence. Then he murmured, low and smooth, "I'd be more comfortable in the bed. With you."

Alex opened a drawer and tucked his keys inside. "The couch is perfectly comfortable, believe me."

"C'mon, Alex, no funny business, I promise..."

She heard him grunt, heard his clothes rustle as she buried the keys under some bills and slid the drawer closed.

"…I'll just wrap meself round you and pass out."

"As tempting as that sounds—" She turned to find him on his feet, behind her, in front of her, close to her.

Gene leant even closer, alcohol-breath bathing her face. "Does it? Sound temptin'?"

Her breath hitched in her throat and body heated at his words, his voice, his proximity. Shuffling back a bit, she placed a light, distancing hand on his lapel. "Listen. I know, you feel…rattled by what happened with Chris. You feel hurt and confused and betrayed—"

He placed a hand over hers on his heart. "Tha's right. In need of some comfort, me."

"Gene…" The warning in her tone sounded unconvincing, even to her own ears.

He moved in, mouth mere inches from hers as he imitated her stern tone with a softly rumbled: "Alex."

Her name on his tongue thrilled her flesh, made her blood race. The hand covering hers was warm and firm. She felt trapped in place and unwilling to escape. She knew she was supposed to escape, supposed to want to. Not supposed to want this, want him. No matter how he crowded her vision, hid her from where she was supposed to go, who she was supposed to be. She was different here, with him, in his world. She'd watched herself become the very best of herself and the very worst. Watched herself fall for a man who at times she abhorred, at times she admired, at times she outright adored.

Like now. For instance. Like right now.

He seemed to tower over her in her sleepwear with his boots and his long coat and his puckered brow. And all she wanted to do was submit. To the very best in him. To the part of him that might be able to love her as she'd always longed to be loved. The part of him that had always silently promised he could. She'd always resisted letting him, letting herself want him. Love him. Loving Gene Hunt made absolutely no sense at all, it made everything so much more complicated. Resisting him hadn't made it less so though. Resisting him, distancing him had made a mess of both of them. Resisting him was what made no sense now. Not when he was standing so close. Not when he was touching her with his warm palm and breathing her name in his gravelly voice and looking at her like devouring her would make, not just his night, but his whole damn life.

She breathed his name again, this time with less severity and more uncertainty, less chill and more desire. "Gene. I…"

He sidled closer, clothes brushing her pyjamas. "Yes, Alexandra, what might I do for you?"

She closed her eyes. Now he'd done it. Good God, had he known? Could he possibly know how the four drawled syllables of her full name affected her body and soul? She let it wash over her, let the wave of arousal subside. She ducked her head and drew a breath. Then opened her eyes and lifted them to his shadowed face, his hooded eyes.

"Wha's botherin' you?" he asked, voice tight with resolve and loose with drink. "Worried you'd be takin' advantage? I'm beggin' y'—" Gene tipped his head to one side, muttered into her ear, against her cheek: "Take advantage. Take advantage of me til the cows come 'ome. You'll 'ear no complaints outta—"

"Fuck it—" She'd grabbed him before he'd finished his sentence, before she'd even decided to. Her final words of surrender were weak and breathless, all her remaining energy spent on grasping his coat with both hands and pulling his mouth to hers.

Lips and breaths collided and her back made contact with the cabinet behind her. He must have pushed her against it. Or she must have stumbled backwards, pulling his body with her. She didn't know which. Everything was a haze of hasty, impatient movement. Neither of them seemed to know where to touch first. And once touched, they seemed incapable of staying and exploring for longer than a fleeting moment. Gene seemed to make a sudden decision though, his mouth descending down her neck, her chest, heading unerringly for her breasts. He tugged at the sash of her robe, flung it out of the way. Then grasped the halves of her black satin nightshirt, ripping it in two and flinging buttons all over the floor. Her haste momentarily halted.

"You did not just do that," she panted, chest rising and falling rapidly.

He glanced up at her, "Oh yes, I bloody did," then lowered his gaze to her bared breasts.

He seemed to welcome them like old friends. Eyes alight, he lifted both hands, cupped them fondly, nuzzled each in turn and called them his "lovelies". She'd have laughed if it hadn't felt so exquisite. Her head tipped back against a shelf and her eyes closed over. She sighed as his lips closed around one nipple and dug her hands into her hair as he sucked her, bit her, plucked his tongue over the tips of her. He gave both breasts equal treatment then dropped to his knees, picking up the pace and continuing his descent down her body.

He kissed her stomach, palmed her waist with his still gloved hands then grasped her pyjama pants at the knees, yanking them down without tact or finesse. Clearly, he wanted them gone. And once gone, he found her bare, underwear absent. Alex toed off her socks, kicked them and the pants away. Then watched as he reached out, sliding the fingers of one hand up the outside of one leg. His touch was light and reverent, yet an obvious foretaste of accelerating passion. His other hand joined the ascent and his mouth moved in, placing kisses up her thighs. He gave each limb a few at a time, punctuated by avid nips of his teeth and swipes of his tongue. She watched him with parted lips and heavy eyelids, fingernails scraping through the hair at the base of his skull.

She grabbed that hair, made him look up at her as his mouth reached the apex of her thighs. "Gene Hunt—" she shook her head in another breathy, ineffectual warning, "don't you dare…"

He dared. And she was right. She couldn't take it. It was too, too much – his fingers parting her, his tongue squirreling into her wet folds and his mouth closing over her in the most intimate kiss imaginable. His leather-clad hands smoothed up and down her thighs then around the cup her butt, urging her against his mouth, to open herself to his kiss. He lifted one thigh over his shoulder, nuzzled against it with his whiskers and stumble. Then he dove back into her, making her eyes clamp shut, her brows shoot up and her head snap back.

His technique was simple, but effective. He had the basics down and performed them all with a constant, savouring hum. He reached up with both hands, palmed her breasts and tweaked her nipples. He squeezed her waist on the way back down, squeezed her arse even harder. Then he slid one leather-clad finger between her lower lips. The worn leather, shaped to his hand, felt smooth and warm and soft. He slid it back and forth a few times, spreading her arousal, then lifted the glove to his mouth. He bit that same finger between his teeth, preparing to pull the glove off.

"No…" she whispered, shaking her head, "no, leave them." Alex licked her lips and nodded her head. "Leave them on…"

"Bloody 'ell. You…" Gene wagged his head and rose slowly to his feet. "You'll be the death o' me, you will."

He planted his mouth over hers, pushed her lips apart with his. As he kissed her, his hands slipped her robe and ruined shirt from her shoulders. They skimmed down her arms, wound round her body and hauled her up against him. His mouth moved against hers, plucking and diving and pressing and drawing out moan after moan. Then his hand was back between her thighs, one finger circling her entrance before easing inside. The leather coating added thickness, texture and excitement. She ached to feel him inside her, and would. But, for now, she sank back against the wood of the cabinet, let insignificant crap fall from the shelves to the floor as one of his arms curled round her waist, anchoring her body to his. The other was pinned between their panting bodies, his hand at work between her legs.

He kissed her jaw, her neck, her ear as his finger moved in and out of her and his thumb pressed circles to her clitoris. She panted his name, grasped at his body, at the shelf behind her to keep herself upright. Her knees were weakening with every swipe of her clit, every plunge inside her, every brush of his clothes against her breasts or his breath against her flesh. She pulled his mouth up to hers, kissed him with an open, eager mouth then muttered the only word other than his name that currently meant anything to her.

"Bedroom. Bedroom…"

Needing no further encouragement, Gene swept her up, hands under butt and feet staggering in a mostly straight line. Her legs curled round his body and arms round his neck. She kissed his jaw, tugged at his tie, sucked in his smell – before being dropped, rather unceremoniously, at her bedroom door. She leant back against the frame as Gene shrugged off his coat and hung it by the door. He didn't take his eyes off her as he slipped off his jacket and hung it over the coat. The thing fell immediately to the floor. Even bending to remove his boots, his eyes never left her naked form. Alex folded her hands behind her back and waited.

She frowned slightly as he stumbled over the removal of his second boot. "You sure you're up for this?"

Gene straightened, discarding his gloves as he stalked towards her. "Feel for y'self if you're so unsure."

He stopped in front of her, shoulders straight and chest puffed. He looked down his nose at her, body swaying towards hers. She placed a hand on his chest, just like she had before. Felt his warmth, his heartbeat, his flesh beneath the thin shirt and undershirt. Then she let her palm drop, drifting down his chest, down his body, over his gut, past his belt. She unzipped him, slipped her hand inside and watched his eyes slowly blink and his breath hold as she cupped him, stroked his stiff length. Gene reached for her, arms encircling her as he pressed himself more insistently into her palm. His mouth reclaimed hers, growling into a new kiss as he pulled her away from the door frame and backed her inside the bedroom.

-x-

…Save your love, my darling, save your love
For summer nights with moon and stars above
A serenade I long to sing you
The reddest rose I'll always bring you
Save your love for Roma and for me…

He'd slept well. No dreams at all.

That never happened. Usually, his nights were plagued by images of unsolved crimes, of mangled corpses in barren landscapes. They were filled with the eyes and voices of unavenged victims, soulless criminals and corrupted colleagues. They were frustrating, not peaceful. Tortured, not blissful. When left alone by such visions, his libido often commandeered his dreams, taunting his mind's eye with fantasies he'd never realise. For the past year or so, those fantasies had starred one woman only. He'd tried to replace her, tried to banish her from his brain. But she infiltrated it as effortlessly as she waltzed into his office each day to overturn his iron-fisted grip on his kingdom.

Rolling over in her bed, he found the red sheets empty. Fantasy had given way to reality the night before. But now bliss gave way to doubt. His memories of the night before were hazy and his temples throbbed, reminding him of how drunk he'd been. How artless, how insistent. And while Alex had been nothing less than a full participant in the night's activities, he was starting to wonder if he owed her an apology. She'd voiced no objections – not the first, second or third time he made love to her with everything he had in him. And he was not a man who made love often. If ever. The term was as foreign to him as the act. But there was no other way of accurately describing what he'd done with her, what she'd done with him the previous night.

He'd never forget – no matter how long he lived – the look of ecstasy on her face as she'd rode him. Or the sounds she'd made when she came beneath him, parted lips pressed to his shoulder, teeth digging into his flesh. Or the way she'd moved her hands over his chest, how she'd guided him inside her. The dark grey of her eyes, the flushed pink of her nipples, the taste of her mouth and her thighs and her lovely, wet cunt. It was enough for a man to live on for the rest of his days. And he could easily lie there thinking about it for an eternity. But he could hear her clanging about in the kitchen. So he figured he better rise and face his fate. Whether it was to be more of the same – naked, amorous Alex and ecstatic, long-craved sex. Or whether, in true Alex Drake style, she'd blindside him with an incomprehensible reaction he never saw coming.

His limbs felt lax and floppy as he dressed. Tight in unused places and loose with relieved tension. He found his pants on the floor, slipped his undershirt on over his pounding head. He wanted to be dressed enough that he could escape quickly if required. He didn't want to be standing there, half-naked as she chastised him for his lecherous behaviour. On the other hand, he didn't want to put on so many clothes that he discouraged her ripping 'em off again. If she chose to. Gene zipped himself up but left his belt unbuckled, shuffling to the door and pausing on the threshold.

She was standing at the counter, dressed in her robe – only her robe, if he was not mistaken. He could see the curves and dips of her arse beneath the silky material. His hands itched, wanting at it again. He was an arse man, no two ways about it. He was also a breast man and a leg man. Cos he saw no reason to limit himself. And absolutely nothing about a woman's form to neglect. Especially if that form belonged to Alex Drake.

Licking his lips, he shuffled just outside the bedroom door then stopped. Her shoulders were relaxed, her head tipped to one side and she was humming along to a song on the softly tuned radio. Something about lovers saving their love for each other. Seeming to sense his presence, she stopped her hum, glanced over her shoulder, and smiled.

"I'm always starved after sex, aren't you?"

Gene cleared his throat but didn't answer. He watched her another moment. Watched her turn to the stove, pour a whisked mixture into a sizzling pan. He watched the sleeve of her robe sway as her arm dug into it with a spatula. He watched her pick up a salt grinder and twist it over the pan, do the same with the pepper. He watched her hips cock to one side and one bare foot curl around the ankle of its pair. Sensing no immediate threat, he started towards her. Again, Alex glanced up at him.

"How do you like your eggs? And please say scrambled."

He reached her, reached for her. He slipped his arms under hers, palming her stomach, wrapping her up and pulling her against him. "Don't want eggs," he mumbled, nuzzling her cheek and kissing her hair.

She smiled and lifted a cup of tea to her lips. "What do you want?"

He bit her ear and growled. "Guess."

She turned to look at him, a glint in her eye and smile on her lips. "Again?"

He pressed his mouth to hers, muttering between kisses, "Again…and again…and again."

"Can I at least eat something first?" she asked when he pulled back.

"No."

She gave a mock huff. "Slavedriver…"

He loosened his grip on her, told her gruffly, "Oright, make it quick."

Her lips twisted in a suppressed laugh then her fingers dipped into the frypan, gingerly plucking out a clump of steaming, scrambled egg. She blew on it once then threw it in her mouth. Gene picked up her mug, watched her over the rim as she cooled then ate another clump, then another. He downed her tea in three large, sugarless gulps then cast the mug aside and clapped his hands together.

"Right, you—" He bent, put his shoulder to her abdomen and tossed her over his shoulder.

Alex shrieked in surprise then let out a belly-deep laugh that he could feel against his chest. Her legs dangled and kicked in front of him and her hands both clutched at his back and hit him in feeble protest. He carried her back into the bedroom, flung her down on the bed and covered her body with his. Her face was flushed with joy, her eyes sparkling and mouth gasping. She ran her hands up his arms and caressed his calf with her toes. And Gene felt, for maybe the first time in his sad excuse of a life, that everything was fine.

More than fine. Perfect.

They'd figure out the whole mess with Chris. Together. Cos he had her now. His Bolly. His Alex. They were a perfect match, an unbreakable team. Nothing could come between them – not now. Nothing could break this connection. He was sure of it. There would be no more secrets, no more corruption, no further splintering of his team. His days would be productive and his nights peaceful. His dreams would be devoid of nightmare visions and his bed full of Alex's body, love and laughter. He leaned down and kissed her, felt her kiss him back, and knew that this night was just the start. One of many. He was hers now and she was his. And whatever the future held, they'd tackle it together.

Nothing could possibly go wrong.

-x-

…Even though it's been so very long
The memory of our love still lingers on.
I can't wait to hold and kiss you
Don't you know how much I miss you
Darling, sing for me our lover's song…

He sat at his table for one, full English breakfast spread out in front of him. Families wearing snowman jumpers and reindeer antlers surrounded him. Kiddies squealed and mothers cooed.

Gene ground his teeth.

Ferns swayed benignly on the windowsill as the loopy Renée and Renato song played endlessly. It couldn't help but remind of that night with Alex. That one night in which they'd done their level best to break whatever unknown record might exist for most shags in an eight-hour period. He'd complain about the lack of variety in tunes but then the second the stupid song stopped playin' and the Christmas carols kicked back in, he couldn't think of anythin' other than the shock on her face, the crumple of her body as his bullet penetrated her body.

Gene lifted his mug and sipped, punishing himself with the hotel's weak, black, bitter coffee. He didn't know why he was where he was. The second he arrived, he had the overwhelming urge to leave again. Go back to London, to Fenchurch East. To her.

He'd left her there, fighting for her life. Bleeding from her guts cos of a slug he put there. He hadn't held her. In the courtyard. Not like he held that other copper, like he'd held Mac. He didn't know why. Something in him told him not to. Not to kneel at her side, lift her head into his lap, stroke her face and tell her everything was going to be alright.

He rode with her in the ambulance. Held her hand when she cried out in pain. Reminded her of what a tough old bird she was when a tear slipped from one of her wide, green eyes. By the time they reached the hospital, she'd lost consciousness. And no matter what he said, no matter how loud he yelled, he couldn't get her to come back to him. To open her eyes and accuse him. To take a deep breath, open her smart-arse mouth and verbally flay him the way he deserved.

Because he should've listened to her. He should've trusted her. He should've kept her close, kept her safe. Kept her his. He didn't know how he could've been so stupid, so wrong. So blind.

He sipped his coffee again, glowering at the Christmasing families about him. Their joy was unbearable. He hated this place even more than the Isle of Wight. Or – as he dubbed it when he waved goodbye to its bleak shores – the Isle of Nothin'-Could-Be-More-Wrong. At least there the weather was miserable. Here, it was fine and sunny and everyone was happy and together. He hated 'em. Blamed them all for his isolated exile. So absorbed he was in hating and blaming them that he didn't clock a waiter who approached and gestured at his untouched, solidifying breakfast.

"Is everything alright, sir?"

He looked up, narrowed his eyes. It was a young chappie with curly hair and a nametag that read Alex.

"No, Alex," he grit, "It is not. Nothing…is all right."

The young man collected his plate, asked, "Can I get you anything else instead, sir?"

Gene took out his silver case, stuck a cigarillo between his lips. "A ride outta this hell hole would suit me…"

Alex lifted a cautioning hand. "I'm afraid you can't smoke in here, sir. Rules of the establishment."

Gene removed the cigar from his lips, tucked it back in his case and slid the case back into his breast pocket. He rose slowly, squared his body and stared down the younger man. He wanted to be back in his own establishment, back where he made the bleedin' rules. He wanted to be back amongst his people, his team, his family. And he was going to be. Because he was going back. Now. He never should've left in the first place. A lot of things never should've happened in the first place. But he was going to make them right. He was going to make everything alright.

He strode away, then doubled back to collect his long, black coat and to snatch a cold sausage from his plate. Gene shoved it in his mouth as he made for the door. He was off to reclaim his kingdom. Right after he reclaimed his woman. He'd drag her back from the grave if he had to. But he was coming for her. So she better be bloody ready.

END.