I hope someone is still reading this. Several real life crises kept me from going on with this but I hope I'm back on track now. Thanks so much to lilgreenmomo for reading and reviewing over and over and over again and showering me with support. Also for pimping Gene's comments! Hugs.

Thank you to Lucida Bright for the beta and for being strict when you need to be. I'm sure it'll be a better fic because of you. Cupcakes for you.

Please read and review. Reviews are nice.

"Why don't you start by telling me about that look on your face yesterday when we met at the funeral?" Bolland says. They're sitting in the first cafe they came across. Not exactly the most romantic of places, but it's warm and relatively quiet and after she dries her hair with paper towels from the ladies Alex almost feels human again. The waitress is wearing a pink t-shirt emblazoned with a band name she doesn't recognise.

They ordered tea and sandwiches and kept the conversation light. This young, pre CIA Nicholas Bolland is nothing like Alex was expecting. Bolland talks about his work; he's a lawyer and does a lot of pro bono work. He tells her about his failed campaign to be Mayor of San Francisco. She tells him a little bit about her work, the things she feels are safe to mention. Alex can't stop fidgeting, tearing the bread into little pieces, playing with a sliver of cucumber, trying to balance her spoon on her forefinger. The spoon keeps crashing to the table. Bolland reaches for it at the same time she does, they're like two teenagers accidentally brushing hands over shared popcorn at the cinema. Alex looks down at Nicholas Bolland's hand; the mutilated finger isn't just missing the tip as she previously assumed. His middle finger doesn't go past the knuckle, the fingernail of his index finger is missing too; she'd never noticed that before, in 1997 he'd always held his hands in a way that made it impossible to see them clearly.

"Why don't you tell me where you lost that?" Alex asks dodging his question. She runs a thumb over the mutilated flesh before withdrawing her hand and curling it around her cup of tea. She knows where he lost it. Everyone in the Company did. He lost it in Vietnam. He's giving her a strange, very serious look that makes her stomach flip in discomfort. She's expecting him to launch into a drawn out war story, instead he leans back at looks at her intently.

"I lost it in playing Johnny Johnny Whoops." He says; his eyes are guarded but he has a fake smile plastered on his face. "I missed." He shrugs.

"Johnny?" Alex asks confusedly. Bolland reaches across the table and takes her wrist, gently drawing her hand towards him. His touch is cool, firm but she can feel his hand tremble at first contact with her skin. He presses her palm flat on the table and spreads her fingers; Alex is shocked at her own reaction to his touch, she prickles all over with pleasure. He picks up the spoon and sets it down gently between thumb and index finger, then between index finger and middle finger, then between middle finger and ring finger, ring finger and little finger. Alex holds her breath, bracing herself for what she knows will come next. He starts out slow at first, tapping between each finger, increasing in speed until the spoon is only a blur and the dishes on the table rattle with the force of each blow. There's a fierce determination in his face, his breathing is steady, Alex can't catch her breath and she stares down at their hands in morbid fascination. If he misses, even with the spoon…she doesn't dare continue that thought. It occurs to her she should draw her hand away before it's too late but she's frozen to the spot. The clatter of the spoon when he drops it is the only sound she hears. He draws away from her, his whole body tensed, his expression stricken. Alex raises her trembling hand, fans out her fingers and exhales with relief.

There's a harsh silence now. Like a needle torn from a record, the noise abruptly ended. Bolland's hands are curled into fists. The waitress looks over at their table in mild interest then goes back to reading her trashy magazine when she sees they haven't broken anything.

Bolland apologises profusely and Alex waves his apology away at once, her heart beat slowing as she forces herself to remain seated. She has to stay. If this is what is supposed to happen and she misses it…

He never lost that finger during a childish game. He lost it in Vietnam. Laurie told her. In 1997, Laurie had been Bolland's secretary and for a time Alex's only friend in Langley. The thought of Laurie saddens Alex acutely, like an arrow to the breast. Laurie Beaufort, the lively southerner with her blond curls and ready smile, who hadn't lived past 22.

Laurie had often recounted the story, her eyes foggy with admiration; she'd known Bolland years before she ever worked for him, since she was a little girl and very nearly worshipped him; a true hero, she always said. Alex had been expecting him to be proud, to be falling over himself to tell her the story of how he was injured and lost his finger saving a friend from a grenade. She should have known better, many vets don't want to even admit they were in the war, maybe Bolland is one of them, maybe it's too early for him to deal with it. Bolland was always very much in control, wound too tight, it was one of the first things she noticed about him when she met him in 1997. She attempts a smile but only manages to draw her lips into a straight line. "You lost it during a game? Bad luck." She hopes she sounds sympathetic.

Why do we become lovers? Alex thinks. What motivation is there but a soap bubble vision of a future/past without David, without Molly? Who is this man? Does she even like him? He isn't just the kind, soft spoken man she knew in 1997, he has an edge. A darkness that scares and attracts Alex and makes her wonder if it wouldn't be better to just get up and go home.

"Sorry." Bolland says breaking the silence. "Sorry, sorry, sorry."

"It's okay." Alex whispers.

"It's not."

He isn't talking about the game with the spoon, he means something else entirely.

His face is twisted in pain, pale, his eyes distant and cold. She knows that look. David used to look at her like that days before their marriage ended. Alex's mouth is bone dry. She thinks desperately of Gene and the soft touch of his lips upon her body and how it's all over now and that she's here sitting across from this man she barely knows, contemplating a love affair with him. She swallows painfully.

"Vietnam." Bolland says; he spits the word out so quickly, as if it burned his tongue. "I was there in'66; I volunteered, believe it or not. Right out of college; never worked a day in my life." He shakes his head as if he can't believe it himself.

"Five months in, my platoon saw some action. There was a grenade coming towards my buddy. I don't know how I did it, I caught it. Just like a baseball Alex, I caught it and pushed him out of the way. I held it in my hand for a split second; I guess I didn't throw it away fast enough. They saved most of the hand; the missing finger is little more than a souvenir now."

He breaks off here and sets his tea cup down on the table with a clatter; half of its contents spills across the table and mingles with the sugar Alex has been absentmindedly spreading with the tip of her finger.

"We're making a mess." She mutters.

"We are." Bolland says. "I'm making a mess." He brushes a hand over his hair and sighs; he looks younger with his hair tousled like an urchin.

"What was it like there?" Alex asks at last, the psychologist in her gaining the upper hand.

"Vietnam? It was like landing on another planet." Bolland says. There's real awe in his voice. "The smell of the earth, the colour of the sky, the sounds of the jungle, nothing in the world could have prepared me for it." He clicks his tongue against his teeth. "I brought you here to talk about your problems. I mean, if you feel like it. And here I am bringing up Nam." He says.

"No, I'm glad you did. It's good to talk about these things, you know." Alex says encouragingly.

Bolland gives her a sad smile. "Maybe you ought to try it then."

She drags her finger through the wet sugar drawing random patterns in it. She can't talk about it. Not with him, not with Gene, not with Shaz. If she even tries she'll end up in an asylum.

"Maybe I will one day." She says. "Have you talked about the war since it happened?" She asks.

"I did try to set up some aid programs for veterans while I was campaigning for Mayor of San Francisco. Carol felt it was a good angle: war hero. So I talked about it but not really. You tend to make it sound like something that just happened to you, when you're up there in front of people. Instead of something you chose for yourself. I haven't really talked to anyone about it properly since Allison."

"Allison?" Alex asks.

"My ex-wife. We used to talk about everything before the divorce. Even when we were fighting."

"So you're divorced. I am as well. Any children?" She knows he has children, she met the daughter once, she looked nothing liked him, apparently the spitting image of Allison.

"Three. I mean two."

"Aren't you sure?" Alex smiles.

"Two. Sue is 13. Gerard is 8. There was another girl. She died when she was 2. Drowned." His tone is conversational, calm; he smiles as if to reassure her.

Alex feels her stomach wrench in guilt. "I'm so sorry. That must have been horrible for you. " What can she say to this? This was something she hadn't known about him. She reaches over and presses him arm gently. "What was her name?"

"Molly."

At the sound of that name Alex's her throat is tight. Molly! Her grandmother's name had been Molly, David hadn't liked the name at first but towards the end of the pregnancy he'd been rather insistent they name the baby Molly after all. A favour to a friend, he'd said. She'd always assumed he'd changed his mind about her choice of name but was too proud to admit it. Was the friend Bolland? Alex forces herself to concentrate on what he's saying.

"It just happened so fast. She was playing near the pond; Sue was supposed to be watching her, she went under… Allison, she just stopped… we never really talked after that. She blamed me, I guess. I should have been there. Should have saved her."

Alex drags her finger through the sugar. "I can't imagine what it must be like for you. I can't think of anything worse than outliving your child," she says. I should have been there, she thinks. I should be there now. In the end all that really matters is getting back to Molly.

"You have children?" Bolland asks. He doesn't wait for Alex to answer him. "Forgive me. There's something about you, something wistful about you, something tragic."

I was shot. I woke up here in 1981 away from anything that makes sense, away from my child; I met a man who forced himself into my heart with brute strength only to abandon me at the first obstacle.

She doesn't answer him. He takes her hand in his own and holds it for a while and she surprises herself again by letting him.

"You don't have to say anything, Alex. I should probably shut up before you have me committed." He says looking down at their hands in the sugar. Alex looks down as well; she's used her finger to create a pattern of spirals and sunbursts in the sugar. Like the patterns on Jacob Lacey's body. She picks up her napkin to wipe the mess away and freezes. She's seen these patterns before. Where has she seen them before? A child's drawing, sunbursts and swirls. Suddenly all she can think of is getting home to her flat above Luigi's and hiding under her duvet.

"I have to go now." Alex says abruptly. She needs to get home; she needs to think this through. The sooner she gets home the sooner she can start making connections.

Bolland's confusion is instantly apparent. The man she knew in 1997, the Director of Support, was an entirely different creature. Someone who could mask his emotions, control his voice, formulate each sentence with exquisite care. Bolland at 36, before he even considered working for the CIA, is refreshingly transparent.

"Did I say something wrong?" He asks.

Alex shakes her head. She pulls her jacket back on and stands up. "Thank you for the tea."

She can't stay here another minute. She'll worry about Bolland later after she thinks about the serial killer. Intense relief almost blinds her. She can walk away; she doesn't have to decide now.

But Bolland has other ideas. He grabs her hand. "This is when you take off and I never see you again, right?"

Alex doesn't trust herself to speak. She shakes her head minimally. His thumb presses down on her wrist as if he's checking her pulse.

"I need to say this before you go." Bolland starts. He hesitates for a few seconds. "I'm in love with you."

There's an awkward silence. She knew this was coming, or something to this effect. Why then is every nerve in her body singing its confusion?

"You're probably going to say something like: but you just met me. And I don't want to come across as a lunatic…" Bolland breaks off again. "Probably too late for that, on second thought."

Alex can't help but chuckle at his last words. A smile radiant as the sun warms his features. What to say to this? How should she react? What's the right step? How easy just to run, back to Gene, to throw herself into his arms and pretend everything is fine. No.

"You don't have to say anything, Alex. I just needed to say it now, before you leave and I never get the chance. It's rare to meet someone so… amazing, so… God, what a spot I've put you on."

"No, no." Alex says. "I want to say something. I'm flattered. Really I am. But I barely know you." She stops for a moment searching for the right words. No burning bridges she thinks. It isn't just that though. She really did feel safe and happy these last few hours with him. She felt a sort of connection.

"That can be remedied though, can't it?" Alex concludes. She sounds too cheerful, too confident. Bolland isn't buying it. He smiles wistfully and nods.

"Why don't I walk you home?" He offers.

Alex nods her assent. They walk a while, close but not touching. Alex's heart is playing a little game with her, skipping beats. She doesn't want him to walk her all the way to Luigi's yet at the same time refuses to skulk in the shadows; she's an adult woman, capable of making her own decisions. They stop a few streets away from the restaurant having walked the whole way in silence. Alex feels a prickle of fear on her scalp when he offers her his hand to say goodbye. It may be too late already. If her future depends on what happens with Bolland she should take the step now.

"If you need me…" Bolland pauses. His eyes are dark with unspoken words. He swallows before continuing. "If you need someone to talk to again. Please. Anytime, night or day."

He hands her a slip of paper stamped with the name of a hotel. Alex takes it quickly without reading the number, crumpling it slightly as she shoves it into her jacket pocket. She gives his hand a brief squeeze. She doesn't know what to say to him now. The moment is broken.

"Thank you for a lovely afternoon." She says politely. She walks away from him not stopping to turn around. It's already dark; CID will be retiring to Luigi's around now. Soon her legs carry her back to the Italian restaurant. At the familiar scents and sights of the restaurant the lump in Alex's throat dissolves. She lets the relief rip through her like an electrical current. She doesn't need to start an affair with Bolland. She doesn't need to do anything she doesn't want to. She decides what she'd really like now is a glass of red wine. Luigi materialises by her side.

"Maybe Signora would prefer to drink in the comfort of her own home?" The Italian says. There's brittleness in his voice Alex has never noticed before. He grabs hold of Alex's arm to steer her towards the stairs.

Too late. She's already spotted Hunt sitting at the bar. He seems out of focus sitting by himself, his back turned away from Ray and Chris and Shaz. He's holding a glass of whisky in one hand and the bottle in the other. His tie is discarded and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up. His arms look strong, his hands beautiful. She has seen his hands streaked in blood after a fight and tenderly encircling her wrist after the act of love, now they spark an unexpected terror in her. He could hurt her.

"Drink, Bolly?"

His voice is impossibly steady and soft. Alex can tell he's drunk because of the effort he's making. His eyes are fierce and blood shot.

"I don't want a drink, thanks." Alex lies, looking desperately toward the stairs. He presses a glass into her hand anyway.

"Course you do. What you doing back here so soon, Alex? Ray informs me he caught you strolling in the moonlight with that lanky yank from the funeral."

Alex's heart is pounding so hard she can barely raise her head to look at him.

"I sent you home because I was worried about you. Because you've lost it. And part of that may be down to me. And you… you…" He stops here. It takes Alex a while to realise that shiver of emotion in his voice is rage. She considers taking his hands in her own and reassuring him that Bolland is no one important. One look from Hunt is enough to silence her.

"You said you recognised him," he continues.

What can she say to this? All at once Alex is bone tired. She can't keep all her lies separate anymore. If she could just tell him the truth she'd be free. The whole truth, Molly and the Prices, Layton and Bolland. Would he believe her? How would he take the truth? Would she believe it if she were Gene? Alex remains silent as Hunt pours himself another glass. He knocks it back.

"Do you want to tell me something Bolly?" He asks.

"It's none of your business." Alex manages to choke out, her voice hoarse with emotion. "You said maybe we shouldn't have. You said…" She breaks off there, sloshing the rest of the whisky out of the glass when she sets it down on the counter.

"It is my bloody business. I asked you a simple question. Answer it."

"What? What question?"

"Yes or no?"

He must mean Bolland. Whether there's something between them. "No. No. No!" Alex half shouts.

The look on Gene's face is terrifying. Pale as death, splotched with crimson. His lips are drawn back away from his teeth in a kind of wolfish grin. He nods deliberately, stiffly.

"That's what I thought, love." He says.

Alex has never heard him sound this cold. She has a feeling she's missing something, something crucial, then he takes her chin in his hand and jerks her head forward. The pain is excruciating. His breath reeks of alcohol and cigarettes, sharp twists of fear and excitement stab her stomach. Alex blinks her eyes shut, her breath short. When he kisses her she isn't really surprised. It's over in half a second. She isn't even sure it really happened. His lips stab hers, his teeth scrape hers. It feels like the ultimate betrayal. She leans into him for the second kiss. And he laughs at her. It's a snort of laughter, an ugly sound not his usual warm, hearty chuckle.

"All right then. Get out of my sight." He says his voice so soft, so dangerous, a caress in her ear. Alex hesitates, gripping the edge of the table with both hands.

"Get out!" He shouts abruptly. The whole bar turns to stare at them; the silence in the room is sharp as a knife. People must have seen him kiss her but Alex is beyond worrying about professionalism and Hunt is too drunk to care.

"And what the hell are you lot staring at?" He roars.

Alex doesn't wait to see what happens next. She manages to hold back the tears till she's safe in her flat. For a long time she sits on the floor, incapable of moving. Tears slide down her cheeks in silence. She's really lost him. She isn't sure how, she doesn't know why. The profound sadness of this truth envelopes her. And then she feels the rage bubbling up from deep inside her. It bursts forth from her in spurts, in wracking sobs. She wants to rip pictures from the walls and sweep objects from the coffee table, to break all the dishes in the kitchen. Her eyes fall on the telephone first though. Before she knows what's happening she's dipped into the pocket of her jacket and pulled out the scrap of paper with Bollie's telephone number on it. Fuck Gene Hunt, Alex thinks.

"You wanted to know about that look on my face." Alex says when she hears him say hello.

"Yes." Bolland says warily.

"What do you think it meant?"

"I hoped it meant you felt the same as I did when I first laid eyes on you." He answers.

"What was that?" She closes her eyes now, part of her is starving for his answer and another part of her wishes he would remain silent.

"That I knew you. That I wanted to know everything about you. That knowing you would make a difference in my life." He says, his tone is direct, matter of fact. He doesn't sound like a man making love to a woman, he sounds like he's telling her the unvarnished truth.

"That's what I felt." Alex says and means every word.