[oom] 2x08, v: Operation Rose
She thought she would have trouble sleeping but it had been a day of never-ending emotional assaults, and she was exhausted, body and soul. One last night in these red sheets. One last night here, and he was so far away from her, she felt like she'd already died.
Her dreams were filled with dark whispers. Summers.
"The fever's bad, Alex. Very bad. I've heard them talking. No improvement, eh? Look at us. Couple of desperate cases. Now you've lost your life line. Your constant, your Gene Hunt."
"No. No, no." She fought against this truth, even through the thick layers of sleep. "No, he'll come 'round. He knows he can trust me. He cares about me." She desperately wanted to believe that.
"You sure? You're alone, Alex. It's over."
"No."
She slept, but she did not rest.
And when she woke, it was to the memory of his kiss. The New Year's kiss, warm and lingering, the one that tasted of promise and goodbye, all rolled up into one bittersweet package. She pressed her hand to her lips, as if she could keep it there for another moment. As if by the power of that memory, she could call him back to her.
The alarm sounded, and when she looked, it was blinking: .
Nothing for it. She grabbed the .9mm off her night stand. There was a blag going down and she wasn't going to be deterred this time.
~~~
Even striding down King Douglas Lane, the crisps wrapper on the ground was in on it: .
Shaz had managed to get her a radio and she was listening in to their conversations, knowing there would be a diversion on the main road. A fire at a florist. Sure enough, the blag was going down right where she said it would.
She passed a house, and the number out front?
She watched as the blaggers stopped the bullion, helpless to stop any of it. It sickened her to watch as the bent coppers came in and shot them down, one by one. The appearance of Summers made her blood turn to ice in her veins, and she could feel it all slipping through her fingers as he shot the driver of the van down in cold blood.
Carnegie spoke to Chris. She couldn't hear his words, but she could see the earnest expression on his face. The evil bastard.
And there, DCI Carnegie, from Fenchurch West, giving Chris instructions to throw any pursuers off the trail. But it was no use. She heard the squeal of tyres and saw the flash of red. Hunt's Quattro.
The cavalry had arrived.
Carnegie drew his weapon and Hunt plowed into him, lifting him off his feet and hurling him across the pavement. She watched as Hunt got out of the car, and then she saw Summers slip away from the pack. She couldn't let him go, she had to follow him. The gun was cold in her palm. She had no warrant card. She'd been ordered off the case. This all went against her sense of right and wrong.
It didn't matter.
She had to stop him.
(A placard on a bench informed her she was almost out of time: )
She followed him deeper into St. Joseph's Gardens, spinning to keep watch. She'd lost him.
(A sign card at the base of the rose bushes: )
She was mid-step when he caught her by the arm and pressed the barrel of his gun against her ribs, twisting her weapon out of her hand and backing off to hold her at gun point.
"November, '82. The King Douglas job."
"There you go. Good girl."
"There was no mention of any bent coppers."
"The Met covered it up. Carnegie got away, the first time."
"And you saw it all... Back then. Young PC." She could barely catch her breath.
"They paid me off."
"And all this was about putting things right. You wanted them to get caught."
"When I joined the force, I believed, Alex. They took that away from me." His voice filled the courtyard, and she prayed someone would hear his desperate monologue and intervene.
She scoffed at him, silently urging him to go on, finish your sorry tale of woe.
"When I saw you couldn't be corrupted, I knew you'd uncover Rose."
"Police! Drop it!"
She'd never been so glad to hear his voice as she was in that moment.
"I will shoot."
Summers laughed, and she saw something in his eyes. Something very wrong. He lifted his weapon and pointed it at her. (Layton. The white clown.A bullet spiralling towards her.)
"I know." He twists the gun, aiming it at her sideways, his finger on the trigger.
The report is deafening in the enclosed space, and for a moment, she can't breathe, watching him tumble to the ground.
"Who is he?"
She can't breathe. She can't -- It doesn't matter.
"He's a copper."
Gene knelt beside Summers, cradled his head in his arms, listening to his quiet Northern Irish accent turn gravelled and weak. She listens, her heart still hammering in her ears.
Gene speaks and she watches as Summers dies in his arms.
And that's it. It's over. She turns her eyes to the heavens. "Come on. Come on. He's dead. It's over. Just let me go!" She pleas through gritted teeth, begging for an end to this.
"Just let me go home!" Nothing is happening. (Heaviness.)
Another gun shot makes her scream and then someone is holding her, the heat of the barrel sharp against her temple. A woman, shorter than she is. The blonde, again. (Cold heaviness spreading through her limbs.)
He's talking to her. The woman is screeching in her ear, the barrel of the gun against her cheek now. (A weight greater than she imagined possible. Spreading like molten lead.)
Gene's gun comes up, and he looks at her.
She'll never forget that look.
A voice crackles on the radio, "Fifty mils administered." (A cold leaden weight, across her brow. Weighing her eyelids down.)
Alex screams, "Just do it!" She drives her elbow into Jeanette's gut and hurls herself away.
The third and final gun shot rings out and she feels an explosion in her belly. (Heaviness. Dragging her under.)
Footsteps, running away.
"Bolly."
Gene...
She sees them standing over her, their faces limned in a pale light. All of them. (It's too late to say goodbye.)
(Blessed darkness closes over her and the cold weight fills her to the brim.)
~~~
She blinks, and her eyes are sore. The light over head seems too harsh to bear, but she has to look. Her hair is gone. She can feel the bandages against her shaved scalp, slightly itchy and tight.
She can't focus. Her eyes scan the room and she feels the cool hospital sheets beneath her hands, feels the IV running into the crook of her arm.
A masculine voice comes through the fog to her. "Looks like fifty mils did the trick! Mister Gerard will be delighted." He's standing at the foot her bed. "You may not feel it, but you're lucky. The bullet didn't penetrate. They stopped the bleeding, and you fought off that infection. And now, someone's been waiting to see you."
She can see the smaller shape beside him and her eyes try to focus. It isn't until the figure comes closer that it resolves into the face of her daughter.
Molly. (My heart.)
Again, she can't breathe, her heart aching, overflowing with a sentiment far too bright and powerful to merely be called joy. It seems like it takes all her strength, but she holds out her arms and draws her close, holding her tight, so tight. She's real. She can smell her hair, feel her skin, and the smallness of her body against her breast.
Her voice is sweeter than a choir of angels. "I knew you wouldn't leave me."
Alex can barely whisper the words, she's so overcome, but it's important.
"I love you.
My heart.
I love you."
Gene. My heart.
~~~
The doctor escorts Molly from the room, to give Alex a chance to rest and get her bearings. She finds her daughter's hand drawn get well card tucked next to her in the bed. It's a huge heart bounded by a rainbow on construction paper. (She recognises that image. It was on the posters in the car park. And somewhere else... It was with her in 1982.)
Her fingers play over the paper, and she feels another wave of emotion sweep over her. If only she could have explained to him, made him see that this was why she couldn't stay with him. Sorrow and joy battle for dominance in her head and in her heart, and she can barely focus her eyes, so she sets them both aside.
(The heaviness clings to her limbs. Not hot, not cold, just -- there. A weight pressing on her chest. Something isn't right.)
She looks up at the monitor, watching the children's programme they've left running. A tiny toy train hurtles headlong into a hedge and the screen pops with static. His face appears, filling this screen. His blue eyes look like he hasn't slept in days, and his voice is verging on frantic.
"Bolly? Bols.
Bolly! Bols!
Listen, I dunno if you can hear me, Bols. The nurse is gonna be back in a minute, I need you to wake up. What about if I -- if I gave you a slap?"
She can't believe what she's seeing. She reaches out a hand, tentative, as if she could touch his cheek through the monitor. Her fingers touch cold plastic and she gasps as the image becomes a burst of static.
"They think that I shot ya -- well, I mean I did shoot you, but they think that I shot ya. They're after me, Bollykecks. I am on the ruddy lam, here. I need you to wake up. C'mon, snap out of that coma!"
Her chest clenches, a cold leaden weight settling at the top of her throat. "In a coma in 1982, no."
"Bolly?" He's shouting now, the sound of his voice ringing in her ears.
"Nono. Nonono, I'm home!" (It's home! She's my home!)
"Bols?! Bolly!"
She tears the IV from her arm and scrambles out of the bed, terrified and desperate to get away, as if he could suck her back through the monitor itself. His shouts follow her out into the hallway, as she hears herself screaming for help.
"Bolly!"
She pushes through a set of swinging doors and an orderly is pushing a cart full of medical equipment. His face is in every monitor, every screen, as she dashes through the ward.
"Bolly!"
(ooc: All dialogue taken from Ashes To Ashes 2x08)
Her dreams were filled with dark whispers. Summers.
"The fever's bad, Alex. Very bad. I've heard them talking. No improvement, eh? Look at us. Couple of desperate cases. Now you've lost your life line. Your constant, your Gene Hunt."
"No. No, no." She fought against this truth, even through the thick layers of sleep. "No, he'll come 'round. He knows he can trust me. He cares about me." She desperately wanted to believe that.
"You sure? You're alone, Alex. It's over."
"No."
She slept, but she did not rest.
And when she woke, it was to the memory of his kiss. The New Year's kiss, warm and lingering, the one that tasted of promise and goodbye, all rolled up into one bittersweet package. She pressed her hand to her lips, as if she could keep it there for another moment. As if by the power of that memory, she could call him back to her.
The alarm sounded, and when she looked, it was blinking: .
Nothing for it. She grabbed the .9mm off her night stand. There was a blag going down and she wasn't going to be deterred this time.
~~~
Even striding down King Douglas Lane, the crisps wrapper on the ground was in on it: .
Shaz had managed to get her a radio and she was listening in to their conversations, knowing there would be a diversion on the main road. A fire at a florist. Sure enough, the blag was going down right where she said it would.
She passed a house, and the number out front?
She watched as the blaggers stopped the bullion, helpless to stop any of it. It sickened her to watch as the bent coppers came in and shot them down, one by one. The appearance of Summers made her blood turn to ice in her veins, and she could feel it all slipping through her fingers as he shot the driver of the van down in cold blood.
Carnegie spoke to Chris. She couldn't hear his words, but she could see the earnest expression on his face. The evil bastard.
And there, DCI Carnegie, from Fenchurch West, giving Chris instructions to throw any pursuers off the trail. But it was no use. She heard the squeal of tyres and saw the flash of red. Hunt's Quattro.
The cavalry had arrived.
Carnegie drew his weapon and Hunt plowed into him, lifting him off his feet and hurling him across the pavement. She watched as Hunt got out of the car, and then she saw Summers slip away from the pack. She couldn't let him go, she had to follow him. The gun was cold in her palm. She had no warrant card. She'd been ordered off the case. This all went against her sense of right and wrong.
It didn't matter.
She had to stop him.
(A placard on a bench informed her she was almost out of time: )
She followed him deeper into St. Joseph's Gardens, spinning to keep watch. She'd lost him.
(A sign card at the base of the rose bushes: )
She was mid-step when he caught her by the arm and pressed the barrel of his gun against her ribs, twisting her weapon out of her hand and backing off to hold her at gun point.
"November, '82. The King Douglas job."
"There you go. Good girl."
"There was no mention of any bent coppers."
"The Met covered it up. Carnegie got away, the first time."
"And you saw it all... Back then. Young PC." She could barely catch her breath.
"They paid me off."
"And all this was about putting things right. You wanted them to get caught."
"When I joined the force, I believed, Alex. They took that away from me." His voice filled the courtyard, and she prayed someone would hear his desperate monologue and intervene.
She scoffed at him, silently urging him to go on, finish your sorry tale of woe.
"When I saw you couldn't be corrupted, I knew you'd uncover Rose."
"Police! Drop it!"
She'd never been so glad to hear his voice as she was in that moment.
"I will shoot."
Summers laughed, and she saw something in his eyes. Something very wrong. He lifted his weapon and pointed it at her. (Layton. The white clown.A bullet spiralling towards her.)
"I know." He twists the gun, aiming it at her sideways, his finger on the trigger.
The report is deafening in the enclosed space, and for a moment, she can't breathe, watching him tumble to the ground.
"Who is he?"
She can't breathe. She can't -- It doesn't matter.
"He's a copper."
Gene knelt beside Summers, cradled his head in his arms, listening to his quiet Northern Irish accent turn gravelled and weak. She listens, her heart still hammering in her ears.
Gene speaks and she watches as Summers dies in his arms.
And that's it. It's over. She turns her eyes to the heavens. "Come on. Come on. He's dead. It's over. Just let me go!" She pleas through gritted teeth, begging for an end to this.
"Just let me go home!" Nothing is happening. (Heaviness.)
Another gun shot makes her scream and then someone is holding her, the heat of the barrel sharp against her temple. A woman, shorter than she is. The blonde, again. (Cold heaviness spreading through her limbs.)
He's talking to her. The woman is screeching in her ear, the barrel of the gun against her cheek now. (A weight greater than she imagined possible. Spreading like molten lead.)
Gene's gun comes up, and he looks at her.
She'll never forget that look.
A voice crackles on the radio, "Fifty mils administered." (A cold leaden weight, across her brow. Weighing her eyelids down.)
Alex screams, "Just do it!" She drives her elbow into Jeanette's gut and hurls herself away.
The third and final gun shot rings out and she feels an explosion in her belly. (Heaviness. Dragging her under.)
Footsteps, running away.
"Bolly."
Gene...
She sees them standing over her, their faces limned in a pale light. All of them. (It's too late to say goodbye.)
(Blessed darkness closes over her and the cold weight fills her to the brim.)
~~~
She blinks, and her eyes are sore. The light over head seems too harsh to bear, but she has to look. Her hair is gone. She can feel the bandages against her shaved scalp, slightly itchy and tight.
She can't focus. Her eyes scan the room and she feels the cool hospital sheets beneath her hands, feels the IV running into the crook of her arm.
A masculine voice comes through the fog to her. "Looks like fifty mils did the trick! Mister Gerard will be delighted." He's standing at the foot her bed. "You may not feel it, but you're lucky. The bullet didn't penetrate. They stopped the bleeding, and you fought off that infection. And now, someone's been waiting to see you."
She can see the smaller shape beside him and her eyes try to focus. It isn't until the figure comes closer that it resolves into the face of her daughter.
Molly. (My heart.)
Again, she can't breathe, her heart aching, overflowing with a sentiment far too bright and powerful to merely be called joy. It seems like it takes all her strength, but she holds out her arms and draws her close, holding her tight, so tight. She's real. She can smell her hair, feel her skin, and the smallness of her body against her breast.
Her voice is sweeter than a choir of angels. "I knew you wouldn't leave me."
Alex can barely whisper the words, she's so overcome, but it's important.
"I love you.
My heart.
I love you."
Gene. My heart.
~~~
The doctor escorts Molly from the room, to give Alex a chance to rest and get her bearings. She finds her daughter's hand drawn get well card tucked next to her in the bed. It's a huge heart bounded by a rainbow on construction paper. (She recognises that image. It was on the posters in the car park. And somewhere else... It was with her in 1982.)
Her fingers play over the paper, and she feels another wave of emotion sweep over her. If only she could have explained to him, made him see that this was why she couldn't stay with him. Sorrow and joy battle for dominance in her head and in her heart, and she can barely focus her eyes, so she sets them both aside.
(The heaviness clings to her limbs. Not hot, not cold, just -- there. A weight pressing on her chest. Something isn't right.)
She looks up at the monitor, watching the children's programme they've left running. A tiny toy train hurtles headlong into a hedge and the screen pops with static. His face appears, filling this screen. His blue eyes look like he hasn't slept in days, and his voice is verging on frantic.
"Bolly? Bols.
Bolly! Bols!
Listen, I dunno if you can hear me, Bols. The nurse is gonna be back in a minute, I need you to wake up. What about if I -- if I gave you a slap?"
She can't believe what she's seeing. She reaches out a hand, tentative, as if she could touch his cheek through the monitor. Her fingers touch cold plastic and she gasps as the image becomes a burst of static.
"They think that I shot ya -- well, I mean I did shoot you, but they think that I shot ya. They're after me, Bollykecks. I am on the ruddy lam, here. I need you to wake up. C'mon, snap out of that coma!"
Her chest clenches, a cold leaden weight settling at the top of her throat. "In a coma in 1982, no."
"Bolly?" He's shouting now, the sound of his voice ringing in her ears.
"Nono. Nonono, I'm home!" (It's home! She's my home!)
"Bols?! Bolly!"
She tears the IV from her arm and scrambles out of the bed, terrified and desperate to get away, as if he could suck her back through the monitor itself. His shouts follow her out into the hallway, as she hears herself screaming for help.
"Bolly!"
She pushes through a set of swinging doors and an orderly is pushing a cart full of medical equipment. His face is in every monitor, every screen, as she dashes through the ward.
"Bolly!"
(ooc: All dialogue taken from Ashes To Ashes 2x08)