I, um. Made fic happen.

[pet_lunatic]

I wrote this this morning. Lunch was late. I have no idea what the point of it is, it just turned up in my head. First fic in Ashes to Ashes fandom! :)

Title: Maternal Instinct
Author: pet_lunatic
Rating: Mild PG (all ages)
Type: Gen. Could read as shippy if you *really* wanted, but not intended that way.
Character/pairing: Alex-Jim Keats friendship, mention/cameos of Gene, Ray, Chris, Shaz, and Luigi.
Genre: Drama, very mild horror. Could read as fluffy hurt/comfort if you squint and really, really like Keats... :)
Warnings: Nothing outside what happens in the show. Mild drunkenness, mind games. Voluntary, non-violent physical contact with Jim Keats ;)
Summary: Keats comes up with yet another subtle way to manipulate Alex.
Spoilers: Season 3 generally. Nothing specific, and no direct spoilers for the finale (I don't think), but makes more sense if you've seen the whole season.

A/N. Apologies for any mistakes made, especially regarding the layout of Alex's flat! I haven't got the show to hand to check those details, so please bear with me :) First A2A fanfic, not really sure where it came from. Just a random slot-in scene set early in season 3.



Luigi’s was unusually quiet for a Friday evening. Chris was sitting at a small corner table, toying gloomily with a half-empty pint mug. Ray sat next to him, smoking, occasionally shooting him a surreptitious little glance, as though wondering how he could cheer his friend up without coming across as soppy. God forbid that he should let the world see his sensitive side. Shaz had chosen not to join them at all this evening, which explained Chris’s mood, a fact Ray knew, but had no way to bring up without putting his foot in it.

Alex, who was doing her fair share of attempted cheering-up herself tonight, gave a mental round of applause for Ray’s greater-than-usual display of tact. She felt that Gene could have learned from it - if he hadn’t walked out of the restaurant thirty seconds after arriving, pausing only to drain an entire pint of lager and slam the empty glass back onto the bar before storming out in a whirlwind of flapping coat and furious scowl.

Jim Keats, the recipient of that departing glare, gave Alex a helpless look. “Was it something I said?”

“No,” Ray chimed in grumpily from the corner. “The Guv just ‘ates yer guts on principle.”

“Lovely,” Jim muttered, finishing off the wine in his glass. “I get this everywhere,” he added, to Alex, with a wink and a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. She half-smiled in return, shrugging sympathetically, hiding her own annoyance. It would hardly have killed Gene to be civil, just for once. She could understand why he objected to D&C’s presence in his station, but blaming the messenger was unfair: Jim was doing his job, and he had tried to be conciliatory, even friendly, right from the start. When he had shyly asked Alex to join him for an after-work drink, she had accepted resignedly, knowing that she would end up refereeing again between her aggressive Guv and the bemused newcomer. At least Gene’s petulant departure at the sight of the two of them sitting together had spared her that fate.

“It won’t make a shred of difference how I handle this, will it?” Keats sighed, resting his elbows on the table, his shoulders hunched and tense. “He acts as though I’m trying to emasculate him. Take his toys away. He’s making this personal, and it’s not, it’s really not.”

“I know,” Alex soothed. “Perhaps he’s intimidated by you.” Her teasing almost succeeded in lightening the atmosphere; Keats quirked half a smile as he replied,

“Hunt doesn’t know the meaning of the word - except when he’s on the delivering end.”

Alex had to concede that point. “Try not to let him get to you, sir. He’ll come around. He really is a much more reasonable person than he likes to pretend, once you get past all the posturing and testosterone.”

“Yeah.” Keats didn’t sound convinced. He tapped his fingers against his empty glass, then got to his feet. “I think I’ll be off.”

Alex sighed inwardly. It seemed as though she was refereeing after all, even if one of the contenders was making his play in absentia. “Don’t go. Have another drink.” Admittedly she had an ulterior motive. This was the first time she had had an opportunity to talk to Keats for any length of time outside work, and there were questions she wanted to ask him. Questions she had no idea how to phrase, but the longer he stayed, the more she might discover, just by letting him talk. She sensed he was different from the others - that much was obvious. But different how? Could he be different in the same way she was - or was it something else entirely? Was it wishful thinking that made her wonder if he knew something, anything, that might help her get home?

Keats was looking at Ray and Chris. Ray stared back impassively, cigarette burning low between his fingers. Chris, mired in his own problems, didn’t acknowledge the DCI's questioning gaze at all.

“No, thanks,” Keats replied finally, to Alex, turning away. “I think I’ll just…”

“Please. Come upstairs.” She spoke quietly, not wanting Ray to overhear and misunderstand. The unfortunate side effect was to make the words seem too intense, imbued with a meaning she hadn’t intended.

Dark eyes widened behind horn-rimmed glasses. “Er, I’m sorry?”

She laughed awkwardly. “I just meant that, um - we we could have a more private conversation. About Gene,” she offered.

Keats looked bemused. “You want me to come upstairs with you and talk about - Gene?”

Ray was staring at them openly; even Chris glanced up from his maudlin pint. Alex sidled closer to Keats, speaking so softly that he had to bend down to place his ear closer to her lips.

“I just thought we could have a private chat about work, upstairs, in my flat. I’ve got a nice bottle of chardonnay in the fridge,” she tempted. It only made things worse; Keats’ expression now resembled a bespectacled rabbit transfixed by oncoming headlights. She detected a certain amusement in his eyes, however. Sure he was about to murmur something about the inappropriateness of fraternising, she whispered, “I’m not propositioning you - sir. I really do mean a drink and a chat.”

His tense posture relaxed slightly. Leaning closer, lowering his voice to the same level as hers, he hissed, “okay,” and flashed her a bright grin. Mildly startled, but relieved, she called a too-loud goodnight to the watching Ray and Chris, smiled a goodbye at Luigi, and led Jim out of the restaurant and up to her flat.

He sat on the sofa, looking around with interest while she fetched glasses and a bottle of wine from the kitchen, rinsing out the second glass to remove a thick layer of dust.

“Here we are.” She set the glasses down on the coffee table, pouring large measures for each of them. “I hope I didn’t embarrass you downstairs. I just…didn’t want Ray and Chris to get the wrong idea.”

“I think it backfired,” he told her, smiling. “Gene’s going to love me even more when they tell him about this tomorrow.”

She winced, imagining how Gene might express his displeasure. He had been surprisingly restrained so far, at least, satisfying himself with needling, mockery, insults. Still, it was early days. “Sorry.”

“Never mind. If it wasn’t this, it would be something else. What did you want to talk to me about, Alex?” He sipped his wine, smiling approvingly at the crisp, cool taste.

Alex took a gulp of her own drink, tried for a disarming smile. “I just thought you and I could - get to know each other a bit better.”

His eyebrows climbed towards his hairline as Alex winced again. “I’m starting to wonder what I’m getting myself into,” he joked. “Seriously, though - I thought that you and Gene…”

“No,” she said quickly, sipping more wine.

“No?”

“No.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. My mistake.”

“It’s fine, sir.”

“Jim - call me Jim. Easy mistake to make,” he murmured, turning his wineglass, studying the light refracted by the translucent liquid inside, “with the chemistry between you.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“I stand by it.”

She put her glass down. “It must be very difficult for you, coming here like this. Gene’s is a very close-knit team, a very loyal team.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Jim’s amiable smile had faded; he was staring into his drink, lips slightly parted, looking rather hurt.

“So you believe the same as he does,” he said eventually. “You think I’m here to cause trouble, trying to set you all against him.”

“No, no, that's not what I said.”

“That’s not what I’m here for, Alex. I’m here to help. Honestly. To help Ray, Chris, and Shaz. To help you.”

“And…Gene?” she couldn’t help asking.

“I think we’ve all established that Gene Hunt can take care of himself. Look…” he put his glass down, leaning forward to gaze earnestly into her eyes. “All I want is to see them reach their potential. You want the same, I know you do. You care about them. So do I. I’m not here to engage in petty squabbles over procedure; if Gene gets results using his methods, I’m all for it. Within reason. I just - I worry, that’s all, about some of those methods, the ones that aren’t always within reason. Sometimes I think he’ll do anything to get what he wants, Alex, to keep his team close to him, on his side. He needs them, and to keep hold of them he needs you. It isn’t fair, not when they have so much to give. They have the right to make their own decisions, choose when they move on.”

There was something in the way he said it: holding her gaze, emphasising those last two words, his voice low and intense. She found herself riveted, mesmerised, glass tipping precariously in her hand.

“Move on to where?” she whispered.

He leaned back, shrugging; the spell was broken. “Promotions. Better stations. They deserve it, Alex, but they can’t see beyond him. They're trapped in his shadow, a shadow that keeps on growing. He stifles them.”

She wanted to defend Gene, but her head was beginning to ache. This wasn’t the conversation she’d intended to have.

Keats was regarding her thoughtfully. “I’m sorry. I’ve just proved you right, haven’t I? The serpent in the garden.” He shook his head. “That’s what they all think. Gene believes I have an easy job, sharpening pencils and filing paperwork, writing up my nasty, insidious reports, trying to get him sacked. You know, it’d make all the difference if just one person had a little faith, a little trust.”

“In you?”

“In my good intentions. I try to shrug it off, to laugh and smile, but really, Alex, it’s getting harder and harder every day. I don’t belong here; I’m not one of them, and no matter how much genuine concern I might have for their welfare, I never will be.”

She refilled their glasses absently, turning over the words. “Perhaps - perhaps you’re not supposed to be. One of them, I mean. Perhaps being different, being on the outside, lets you see things they can’t. Maybe that’s what you’re here for?” She looked up at him, but his face was turned away from her, his profile grim. He got up, ignoring the replenished wine, and went over to the window, his back to her. She could see the tightness in his shoulders; his hands were clenched into fists. After a moment he sighed, removed his glasses, passed his hand over his face.

She got up and went to him, touching him lightly on one narrow shoulder. “Are you ok?”

He wiped the back of his hand quickly across his eyes, replaced the glasses, pasted on a brave smile. “Yeah. It’s just…sometimes I feel like packing it all in and going home, you know?” He turned back to stare out into the dark, rainy night, repeating, “sometimes I just want to go home.”

Alex scarcely dared to breathe. The world seemed to be receding, cracks forming, slowly but surely. In her mind she saw a hospital room, a deserted farmhouse, a weathervane, a dead, bloodied face…her vacant gaze fell on a long hand, gripping her arm, bringing her back. Below the hand was a pale wrist, and encircling the wrist, a smart gold watch. Dazed, unthinking, she read off the time. Six minutes past nine.

“Alex?” Jim Keats’ voice, strangely clear and close when everything else seemed so very far away. “Are you all right?”

“You haven’t had your watch repaired,” she whispered, struggling for coherent thought.

He glanced down, surprised. “No, it’s right,” he said. “Just after five past nine. Later than I thought. Look, I should probably go. You’re tired, and -”

“No.” She looked up into his eyes, wide and concerned behind their shielding lenses. “I was distracted, that’s all. Stay. Have another drink.” She found herself gripping his wrist, fingers curling, hiding the treacherous watch from view. “You don’t have to be alone all the time,” she told him.

He smiled, allowed her to lead him back to the sofa. “Thank you.”

They drank, and talked about anything and everything - music, politics, Luigi’s disastrous attempt at a steak and chips pizza. They even touched on football. Anything but work. Everything but what Alex wanted to know. As the evening wore on, the less it seemed to matter, though; they relaxed in each other’s company, and Alex found herself trying less and less to steer the conversation back to something more meaningful. They both assiduously avoided mentioning Gene.

They had polished off the first bottle and were well into the second when the lights went out. Alex jumped, half-expecting the television to blare into life, the ghostly police officer to appear before them, the world to be suddenly full of stars - would Jim see them, too? - but nothing happened. Nothing except the sound of rain on the window, somehow magnified in the dark, and Jim’s surprised chuckle.

“Power cut,” he observed. “Seems to happen a lot lately. Got any candles?”

She found a couple in a drawer in the kitchen, lighting her way with a box of matches Jim handed her from his pocket. Alex set the white wax cylinders securely on plates, carrying them back into the sitting room. She could see her guest’s vague outline near the window: he seemed to be flanked by red light. He looked up as she came in.

“Hope you don’t mind,” he said. He’d lit a cigarette, the light from its red tip reflected in the window beside him. She shrugged, shook her head. She’d inhaled enough of Gene’s secondhand smoke over the last couple of years; what was one more?

She set the candles on the table. They didn’t give out much light.

“The whole street’s out,” Jim observed, returning a little unsteadily to the sofa and their abandoned wine. “Blimey.”

“I’m sure it’ll be back before morning. It’s a good thing we ate in Luigi's - not that you deserve to be subjected to my cooking, anyway.”

“I’m not much good in the kitchen myself,” he replied. “I always seem to burn everything.”

The talked about food for a while - good food, bad food, good-but-bad-for-you food, international cuisine, good old pub pie and chips. The dim light, the late hour, the wine, were all conspiring to make Alex relaxed and sleepy. Jim seemed to be affected the same way; after a while conversation became an effort, and they lapsed into a companionable silence. Alex studied her watch in the glow of the candle: almost midnight.

“It looks as though the power won’t be back on tonight. It’s late, and you really shouldn’t drive - perhaps you should stay here. On the sofa, I meant, not…” she trailed off. “Jim?” He’d fallen asleep, slumped back against soft cushions. His mouth was slightly open, and in sleep he looked very young, almost like a boy. She wondered how old he was; he looked so young to be a DCI. She shook off the thought, frowning. Irrelevant, surely.

She should go to bed, but the thought of her cold, empty bedroom was unappealing. Instead, she unfolded a blanket from the back of the sofa, one she’d often slept under herself, and tucked it as best she could around her guest. He’d complained of sensitivity to the cold, she remembered, and the night was becoming chilly; in fact, she thought she could see him shivering, just a little. His glasses were askew. She removed them gently, folding them and placing them on the table.

Settling back in her seat, keeping a respectable distance between them, she watched Jim sleep. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for - some sign that would tell her who he really was, what he was doing there, how he could help her. She saw nothing but a tired, stressed, tipsy man who’d fallen asleep on a friend’s sofa. Sighing, she let her thoughts wander back to the farmhouse with its dark weathervane. How did it relate to her ghost? Who was he? And would he haunt her until she discovered the truth?

A soft noise, a moan, made her jump. She studied the dim shadows in every corner of the room, but saw nothing. The sound came again. It was right beside her.

Keats was moaning, almost whimpering in his sleep, softly at first, but with increasing volume. Hesitantly, she touched his arm. “Jim? Jim, wake up.” He twisted away from her, cringing, still trapped in his nightmare.

“Jim!”

His eyes flew open; he gasped, clutched at her, trembling violently, still half asleep.

“It’s ok.” Responding automatically, she cradled him against her, rubbing his back between the shoulder blades, rocking him the way she had rocked her daughter when Molly woke up crying from a bad dream. “It’s all right, you’re safe. It was just a dream. Shh.”

Gradually, he relaxed in her arms, the shivering subsiding; he drew back, fully awake now, and looking embarrassed, if still somewhat shaken.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “What a horrible dream. Wow.”

“What was it?” Her heart was in her throat; she waited for him to say he had seen a dead police officer, a ghost with a bloodied face.

“Gene,” he said.

She blinked. “Gene?”

“I know, it’s stupid.” He grinned sheepishly. “I’m not afraid of Hunt, Alex, but in my dream, he was staring at me with such hatred, such utter loathing - as though he wanted to kill me.” He let out a shaky sigh. “And I knew - somehow I knew he was going to try.” He looked into her eyes, fingers entwining with hers as he grasped her hand, perhaps without realising it. His face was centimetres from hers. “Ridiculous, isn’t it?” he breathed.

His touch was uncomfortable; his skin felt abnormally hot. Alex was torn between pulling away from him, and touching the back of her hand to his forehead to check for fever.

“No,” she managed, struggling for briskness. “Not ridiculous at all. Psychologically, it makes perfect sense. You’re under stress, you feel isolated, and you’re - you’re personifying all those fears, consolidating them into a single representative symbol.”

“Gene Hunt.” He sounded amused, all traces of terror vanquished.

“Exactly. See? Perfectly normal.”

“I’m not mad after all, then.”

“I didn't say that.” Her smile was more natural this time.

He smiled back, looking awkward again. “I really should go. I’m afraid I’ve made a bit of a fool of myself, and I’ve taken advantage of your hospitality and your patience.”

“It’s fine, Jim, really.” She made herself squeeze his hand. “Everyone needs a little company sometimes.”

“A place to call home?” he suggested, with a faint smile. “Just for tonight?”

“Yes.” Her own smile was just as distant. “Something like that.”

He didn’t go. She persuaded him that it was too dark, too late, the weather too wild; he’d been drinking. She had the feeling that this night would never happen again, not like this: it was her only opportunity to learn something, anything from him that might help her get home. Even if only by watching him sleep. And sleep he did. Eventually, well into the early hours of the morning, so did she.

She woke with a start, heart hammering in her chest. The candles had burnt out; the earliest of pre-dawn light illuminated the room dimly in their place. She listened intently, seeking the sound that had woken her. She heard only rain battering the window like an angry whisper. And yet she could have sworn that someone had spoken her name. It couldn’t be Jim; he was fast asleep, his head resting in her lap. She couldn’t remember how he’d got there, but his too-warm weight wasn’t as comforting as she might have expected.

All was quiet. She must have dreamed the voice. Already almost asleep again, her gaze travelled idly back to the window, dark blue now instead of black.

There was a figure in front of it. The dead uniformed policeman, his head horribly disfigured and clotted with blood. Her breath caught sharply in her chest. He was staring at her, his face grim. He shook his ruined head very slightly, as if in disapproval.

Alex felt blindly for Keats’ shoulder, not daring to take her eyes from the apparition, but wanting to wake him, wanting him to see. She shook him lightly, then harder; he didn’t stir. He must sleep like the dead, Alex thought, except when he had nightmares. The ghost’s grey stare was upon her, intent, pained, sorrow lengthening the broken youthful features. There was something like betrayal in its face. Alex had to look away. When she turned back, its expression had changed. The bloodied face was now full of loathing, the most furious, hateful glare she had ever seen, fixed not on her, but on the man sleeping in her lap.

Shocked, Alex pulled Jim closer to her. Afraid, but not for herself, she leaned forward, curving her body over his as though to hide him from the ghost’s angry view. “Why?” she whispered to it. “What’s he done to you? Do you know him? Do you know why he’s here? Why I’m here?”

The ghost, as ever, was silent. If it knew the answers she sought, it was keeping its own counsel. As she watched, it met her eyes for a moment before turning to the window's grey-blue light, fading slowly as darkness gave way to dawn.