Fandom: Life on Mars / Ashes to Ashes crossover
Disclaimer: I don’t own these characters or their universe. BBC/Kudos do. I’m not making any money out of this.
Rating: White Cortina
Word Count: 501
Characters: Gene, Alex Drake
Pairing: Implied Sam/Gene
Summary: Gene tries not to remember.
Spoilers: No LOM spoilers. Very mild spoiler for end of Ashes 1.01
A/N: I don’t see myself getting into writing Ashes; this is all about Gene. Previously posted to Lifein1973; bringing my journal up to date.
Gene sat alone in his usual corner, staring unseeingly into his glass.
He’d finally got used to the fact that, whatever he meant to say when he walked in, what came out of his mouth more often than not was “Bottle of red, please, Luigi.”
He’d gradually got used to sitting in this glorified caff full of candles instead of standing at the bar in the Railway Arms.
He’d even got used to the idea of Skelton growing a set big enough to ask the new plonk out. Not a bad looker, seemed a bit dim so far though.
He picked up the glass, took an unobtrusive sniff at the wine as he lifted it to his mouth. Took the first mouthful and swirled it around with his tongue.
But he couldn’t see how he would ever get used to sitting here – anywhere – without Sam by his side.
He looked up as the new DI walked in. Crazy woman, she reminded him of Sam in the early days. Not quite there. Babbling about other places. Pretending to think this place wasn’t real. He wasn’t real. He, Gene Hunt, the most real thing in the universe.
Gene had always been the confident, still centre of his own world, until Sam. Then he’d become one half of a binary and they had circled each other ceaselessly by day and melded breathlessly by night.
He smiled to himself, managing to forget for a moment. Sam.
Crazy, gorgeous Sam. Always had to have his say on everything. Always right. Always moving. Changed my life for ever.
“For God’s sake, Gene! It’s 1975 ...1978 ...it’s 1980!” Yes, he could count. Sometimes he seemed to be counting off the years as if they mattered more to him than to anyone else. Perhaps they did.
“Move on a little, Gene! Just try it, it’s not poisoned! I chose it specially for you. Look, different foods require different drinks, OK? And I am not spending the rest of my life drinking Scotch with my Bolognese, all right? It just doesn’t go. “
Right again, of course. Everything else shot to shit, but at least the wine still goes with the food. That really helps. As if it matters what it tastes like when I can’t taste anything any more. When I just want to forget everything. And when did I start choosing wine for myself anyway?
But he knew the answer to that one. When he had to start buying it for himself.
As if it matters whether it goes with the bloody food or not when I can’t stop remembering.
His new DI looked as if she had problems with remembering, too. What was real and what she’d only dreamed about. And when had she known Sam, anyway? He’d never mentioned her. She looks like I feel. Lost. Cast adrift without a paddle.
He walked over to the bar and poured her a generous glassful of his wine. Anything to stop him drinking the whole bloody bottle himself, remembering.