It needs to be 2010 now. Right now.
Ashes to Ashes, why are you so freaking awesome? I always loved New Order and Adam Ant and Bowie, but this show has reignited my love for them in EPIC proportions. And I already loved the characters from my LoM loving days, but they're just so much more fun with perms and highlights. The wardrobe, the sets, the action, it's all supersaturated and brilliant. Perhaps most importantly, I have no idea what will happen next, which is an amazing pleasure in televisual entertainment.
But beyond that, the fandom is really, really intelligent, talented and fun. For example, daygloparker wrote this incredible little Gene/Alex and ghost!Sam drabble, i'm stuck with a valuable friend, and grenadine wrote a follow up, no stranger to you and me. Read them! They're sexy and spooky and speculative and spoiler-free (and sort of jossed, but, whatever).
And, um, apparently I write fanfic for other fanfic now, um, because I kind of wrote something that fits inbetween them. Man, I don't even know. Anyway.
Gene Hunt has no bedroom voice. Alex learns this the second time they have sex (not love making, but not fucking either), for the first time in his postage stamp bed, blinds slatted against the noon sun. She had just been explaining that an increased libido is not an entirely unexpected reaction to a near-death experience, and since every thing in her life here might be classified as a near-death experience, it was no surprise that she found herself needing to satisfy her id-based urges more and more.
“Y’know, you’re insane, Drake.”
He said it as he would in CID, or the Quattro, as though he wasn’t sitting there in a shirt with no buttons and bite marks on his shoulders and slits of golden light making his hair glow. Her mouth hung open for a moment, at the sheer audacity of him, the bastard. He raised his eyebrows, her mouth snapped shut.
“Well, obviously.”
She slid her leg over his, pressing her heel into his calf, trailed her hand over his chest. He squinted suspiciously. “But so are you.” He growled, like he does in her dreams, the Manc lion, and she laughs at herself, because it’s ridiculous, all of this, she couldn’t have made him, he’s too -
Everything.
He’s everything.
~
For the first six seconds she worried that everyone would know.
Then Chris solved a side of his Rubik’s cube, and Ray called him a poof, and Gene told them they were both idiots, and there was a murder to solve (the mutilation indicated an oral fixation, which gave the villain away), and everyone got shitfaced and it was Gene and Alex, alone at the end of the night, hiding behind cigarette smoke and alcohol haze.
Like always.
She doesn’t know what to do.
So she drinks more wine, and they both pretend not to notice Sam’s standing by the empty bar. She knows Gene’s seen him because his breathing catches and his eyes slide. He’s only there when she looks through glass, which may or may not be a metaphor, and the back of Gene’s hand brushes her knee and she has to fight very hard to keep from licking his neck, and, honestly, when did she devolve into a teenager?
She should stop drinking, maybe. Her head is heavy. Gene stares at her, seriously, carefully not looking at where Sam might be.
“Bolly, what the bleeding hell is going on?”
She has to laugh at that, laugh until tears run eyeliner down her cheeks. She’s still laughing when he leads her upstairs. By the time he’s pulling her boots off, (prince charming, she mumbles) the convulsions have stopped. He throws a blanket over her, walks away.
“Wait,” she sits up, which was a bad idea; she clutches her head as he stands in the doorway, blocking out the light. “I wasn’t laughing at you. Not you.”
“You,” he near shouts. She peers through her fingers and hair, he’s a silhouette, she misses his eyes. They’re good eyes. “You make no sense!”
“But you do! You’re all, all solid, and I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know if this is life, or death, or madness, I thought I did, but nothing is happening like it happened to him, like I thought it would. I never know what’s going on.”
He stomps back into the room, each step thrumming through her. He peels her hands from her face, and there are his eyes.
“Sounds like life to me, Bols,” kisses her, hands hard on her wrists.
~
She dreams of Shaz, bloody on the bitumen, Molly, catching a kiss.
There’s a face in the mirror that’s not hers. Sam cut himself.
Her father smiles, and frowns, and paint runs until there’s nothing left.
It’s a nasty, screwed-up world.
Blue sky, green grass, buckled shoes.
She can hear water dripping.
~
He does snore. Like a whale with asthma. His arm was angled in a way that might be covering her heart, or maybe just copping a feel, and she can press her forehead against his neck to feel his pulse. It’s six thirty and she should probably have a shower, get another day of hallucination and crime fighting under way. But if she stays here, eyes closed, not dreaming, listening to Gene Hunt snore, nothing can happen.
He wakes up, noisily. There’s some throat clearing (these are the reasons she can’t be dead: no bad deed deserves karma like that) and then she wraps her hand around his, over her heart, or breast. Doesn’t matter.
“I was very, very drunk last night.”
“Christ. Aren’t I meant to be the one making excuses, Bolly?”
“Shut up. I was pissed, but I was telling the truth. I don’t know what’s going on. But I’m,” he tilted his head down, trying to catch her eye, “I’m glad I don’t know what’s going on with you.”
“With me.” He tapped two fingers against her collarbone. “Is that your backwards way of apologising for making me as crazy as you?”
“We don’t know that it’s my fault! We don’t know anything!”
“You’re actually worse at this apologising lark then me.”
“Oh, sod off.”
~
By the time she was out of the shower, he was gone. She dressed to hide the marks, and they really shouldn’t be making her giggle, that was utterly inappropriate.
The TV was muttering something about riots, and maybe Sam was in the crowd, but the phone rang, and Shaz wanted to know if she was ready for pick up, there had been a bank job.
So she slides into the front seat and acts like everything is normal, nods to Chris and Ray, like there isn’t a ghost stalking her and the guv, who, by the way, snores after sex.
“Late night, Bols? You look godawful.”
Bastard.
I'll probably put together a zip of the songs I was listening to while writing, so if you like Regina Spektor AND New Order, you're in luck!
But beyond that, the fandom is really, really intelligent, talented and fun. For example, daygloparker wrote this incredible little Gene/Alex and ghost!Sam drabble, i'm stuck with a valuable friend, and grenadine wrote a follow up, no stranger to you and me. Read them! They're sexy and spooky and speculative and spoiler-free (and sort of jossed, but, whatever).
And, um, apparently I write fanfic for other fanfic now, um, because I kind of wrote something that fits inbetween them. Man, I don't even know. Anyway.
Gene Hunt has no bedroom voice. Alex learns this the second time they have sex (not love making, but not fucking either), for the first time in his postage stamp bed, blinds slatted against the noon sun. She had just been explaining that an increased libido is not an entirely unexpected reaction to a near-death experience, and since every thing in her life here might be classified as a near-death experience, it was no surprise that she found herself needing to satisfy her id-based urges more and more.
“Y’know, you’re insane, Drake.”
He said it as he would in CID, or the Quattro, as though he wasn’t sitting there in a shirt with no buttons and bite marks on his shoulders and slits of golden light making his hair glow. Her mouth hung open for a moment, at the sheer audacity of him, the bastard. He raised his eyebrows, her mouth snapped shut.
“Well, obviously.”
She slid her leg over his, pressing her heel into his calf, trailed her hand over his chest. He squinted suspiciously. “But so are you.” He growled, like he does in her dreams, the Manc lion, and she laughs at herself, because it’s ridiculous, all of this, she couldn’t have made him, he’s too -
Everything.
He’s everything.
~
For the first six seconds she worried that everyone would know.
Then Chris solved a side of his Rubik’s cube, and Ray called him a poof, and Gene told them they were both idiots, and there was a murder to solve (the mutilation indicated an oral fixation, which gave the villain away), and everyone got shitfaced and it was Gene and Alex, alone at the end of the night, hiding behind cigarette smoke and alcohol haze.
Like always.
She doesn’t know what to do.
So she drinks more wine, and they both pretend not to notice Sam’s standing by the empty bar. She knows Gene’s seen him because his breathing catches and his eyes slide. He’s only there when she looks through glass, which may or may not be a metaphor, and the back of Gene’s hand brushes her knee and she has to fight very hard to keep from licking his neck, and, honestly, when did she devolve into a teenager?
She should stop drinking, maybe. Her head is heavy. Gene stares at her, seriously, carefully not looking at where Sam might be.
“Bolly, what the bleeding hell is going on?”
She has to laugh at that, laugh until tears run eyeliner down her cheeks. She’s still laughing when he leads her upstairs. By the time he’s pulling her boots off, (prince charming, she mumbles) the convulsions have stopped. He throws a blanket over her, walks away.
“Wait,” she sits up, which was a bad idea; she clutches her head as he stands in the doorway, blocking out the light. “I wasn’t laughing at you. Not you.”
“You,” he near shouts. She peers through her fingers and hair, he’s a silhouette, she misses his eyes. They’re good eyes. “You make no sense!”
“But you do! You’re all, all solid, and I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know if this is life, or death, or madness, I thought I did, but nothing is happening like it happened to him, like I thought it would. I never know what’s going on.”
He stomps back into the room, each step thrumming through her. He peels her hands from her face, and there are his eyes.
“Sounds like life to me, Bols,” kisses her, hands hard on her wrists.
~
She dreams of Shaz, bloody on the bitumen, Molly, catching a kiss.
There’s a face in the mirror that’s not hers. Sam cut himself.
Her father smiles, and frowns, and paint runs until there’s nothing left.
It’s a nasty, screwed-up world.
Blue sky, green grass, buckled shoes.
She can hear water dripping.
~
He does snore. Like a whale with asthma. His arm was angled in a way that might be covering her heart, or maybe just copping a feel, and she can press her forehead against his neck to feel his pulse. It’s six thirty and she should probably have a shower, get another day of hallucination and crime fighting under way. But if she stays here, eyes closed, not dreaming, listening to Gene Hunt snore, nothing can happen.
He wakes up, noisily. There’s some throat clearing (these are the reasons she can’t be dead: no bad deed deserves karma like that) and then she wraps her hand around his, over her heart, or breast. Doesn’t matter.
“I was very, very drunk last night.”
“Christ. Aren’t I meant to be the one making excuses, Bolly?”
“Shut up. I was pissed, but I was telling the truth. I don’t know what’s going on. But I’m,” he tilted his head down, trying to catch her eye, “I’m glad I don’t know what’s going on with you.”
“With me.” He tapped two fingers against her collarbone. “Is that your backwards way of apologising for making me as crazy as you?”
“We don’t know that it’s my fault! We don’t know anything!”
“You’re actually worse at this apologising lark then me.”
“Oh, sod off.”
~
By the time she was out of the shower, he was gone. She dressed to hide the marks, and they really shouldn’t be making her giggle, that was utterly inappropriate.
The TV was muttering something about riots, and maybe Sam was in the crowd, but the phone rang, and Shaz wanted to know if she was ready for pick up, there had been a bank job.
So she slides into the front seat and acts like everything is normal, nods to Chris and Ray, like there isn’t a ghost stalking her and the guv, who, by the way, snores after sex.
“Late night, Bols? You look godawful.”
Bastard.
I'll probably put together a zip of the songs I was listening to while writing, so if you like Regina Spektor AND New Order, you're in luck!