Disclaimer: I don't own Ashes to Ashes. If I did, I'd give it a happy ending. Which, after episode 6, is looking increasingly unlikely.

This really IS the final chapter. This fic started out as a one-shot, and has grown to become my longest yet. Many thanks to everyone who has kept with it all the way, and especially to those kind souls who have taken the time to review. I really do appreciate it so much. Feedback for this chapter would be just as welcome, please!

I'm about to go away for a few days, so will reply to any reviews on my return. After which, I'll get down to reading and reviewing everyone else's fics and seeing what the ending (sob!) of Series 3 does to my muse. I also have a few flashback and AU stories on the stocks.

Serious fluff warning ahead. I think those of us who have just seen episode 6 need it.

A couple of days later, following exhaustive enquiries among his contacts in the shadier end of the second-hand furnishing trade, Gene at last received a call for which he had been hoping for several weeks.

"Mr Hunt? Harold Lang here. Got both those items you wanted. Shall I deliver them to your address?"

"Don't you dare. They're a surprise for a lady. I'll come over to your den at lunchtime."

Alex was not unduly surprised to see him sweep out of the office at lunchtime without telling her where he was going, only barking to Shaz that he could be contacted by radio if he was needed. She had been doing a lot of that herself, lately. If either was to keep any surprises from the other until Christmas Day, it was essential that they did their present shopping separately.

The Quattro tore across Southwark Bridge and screamed through the streets of South London before halting outside a dingy warehouse in a side street off the Walworth Road. The sign over the door proclaimed H. Lang, Second-Hand Furniture, House Clearances a Speciality.

He knocked at the door. "Open up! Police!"

The door creaked open. The man who looked out was as wide as he was long, with false teeth and the wiggiest wig in London.

"Oh, it's you, Mr Hunt, sir. Come on in. I've got your items ready for you."

The atmosphere inside the warehouse was chill and musty, and it was illuminated only by the occasional dirty skylight. All Gene could see was acre upon acre of unloved mahogany and rosewood, with the kind of upholstery that gave strong men bruises and rogue springs lying in wait to skewer the unwary.

"So, 'ow's the furniture trade treating you, then, Squashy?"

"Not too badly, Mr Hunt, sir, not too badly at all." Squashy, whose nickname derived from the fact that he resembled one of his own cushions, trotted ahead of Gene, leading him through the warehouse.

"Glad to 'ear it. 'Cos it looks as though your stock's just the same as the last time I was here."

"Ah, you know how it is. People always want to get rid of the same sort of stuff. Nobody loves proper furniture now, it's all flatpacks from MFI. Look at that, now." He pointed to a gloomy wardrobe. "I could sell you that at half the price you'd pay for a pile of pieces of Formica and chipboard, but the undiscerning customer goes for the flatpack every time. Think how much you could get inside that."

"Looks like that bastard would take me to Narnia if I stepped inside it," Gene said sourly. "Business, Squash. Where's the items you promised me?"

"Over here, Mr Hunt, sir, with the reserved goods." He led Gene over to another area of the warehouse, which was better lit and contained furniture of considerably higher quality. Gene didn't know much about antiques, but he was pretty sure that some of the stuff here was seriously valuable.

"Here we are." Squashy picked up a white cardboard box, about eighteen inches square, from a handsome walnut sideboard with a deep French polish glow. "Care to inspect them, Inspector?"

"Cheeky bastard," Gene growled. He took the lid off the box, and his eyes gleamed as he saw the contents.

"Set of forty vintage glass Christmas baubles, all different. Perfect condition. Got 'em off an old lady who found 'em in her attic. Can't have been used in donkey's years."

Gene replaced the lid. "Price?"

"Normally I'd say fifteen quid, but I'll make it a tenner for you, Mr Hunt. Could be worth a lot more on the open market, to a collector of vintage Christmas memorabilia."

"You mean, worth more to the bloke you pay to bid up your lots at auctions, you cheeky bugger. Yes, I'll take 'em."

"Then they're yours. Must say I was surprised to find you asking for something like this. Wouldn't have thought it was your scene at all."

"These are for a kid whose tenth Christmas was ruined when 'is Dad smashed the Christmas tree an' beat up 'is Mam."

"Ah, that's a kind thought. Always knew you had a charitable streak, Mr Hunt, sir."

"Stow it. What about the fire guard?"

"Right here. This one's not an antique, about twenty years old I'd say. Made for a fireplace forty inches wide. Three hinged pieces, folds into a solid shape and clips here."

"Yeah, even I can see that. It ain't rocket science. Price?"

"A fiver."

"Sold."

"Thanks. Care to come over to the desk?"

Gene looked about him. "You know, Squash, if I didn't know you'd gone straight, I'd wonder about where you got some of this posh stuff."

Squashy looked reproachful. "Now, Mr Hunt, sir, you know I'm strictly legal now. All these things came from house clearances. Everything receipted, with a proper audit trail."

"Yeah, but 'ow were the 'ouses cleared?" Gene muttered as he followed Squashy back into the darker part of the warehouse. Squashy reached the desk, switched on a table lamp, produced a blank book and carbon paper, and started to write out a receipt.

While Gene waited, his eye was caught by the glass case on the desk, on which Squashy was resting the book. It contained a number of small items, mostly porcelain and a few pieces of tawdry jewellery. At the centre of the display stood a small dark blue velvet box containing an enchantingly beautiful diamond ring. He had never seen anything like it before. A large diamond, flanked by two smaller ones, gleamed in the lamplight. But what made it unique was the setting. A small, pale gold hand cradled the diamonds from beneath, and another reached over to enclose them from above. Just as she held his heart between her two hands.

He forgot his previous misgivings. All he knew was that Alex had to have that ring.

"Care to sign your receipt here, Mr Hunt, sir?"

He had totally forgotten Squashy's presence. "In a moment. That. Let's 'ave a look."

"Which?" Squashy peered into the cabinet.

"That ring, there, in the middle."

Squashy looked terrified. "That wasn't stolen, I promise, perfectly legitimate sale - "

"I believe you, millions wouldn't. Let's see it."

Squashy reached into the cabinet and withdrew it with a trembling hand. "There you are, Mr Hunt, sir. A very fine piece, that. Got it in a recent clearance. White gold and diamonds."

Gene removed his gloves, took the ring from the box, and fished a piece of paper from his wallet. Shortly after his talk with Fraser, he had found one of Alex's plastic rings on her bedside table, and had traced its size onto a piece of paper which he always kept with him, just in case. He carefully placed the ring over the tracing. They were a perfect match.

"Price?" he barked, replacing the ring in its box.

"S-s-seven hundred and fifty pounds. It's a very fine antique, you wouldn't find it any cheaper - " Squashy caught Gene's eye. "But for you, Mr Hunt, sir, five hundred, and I'll throw in the other two items for nothing."

Gene chose to ignore the whimpering sounds issuing from his wallet. Yes, it's a lot of cash, and it might not even be worth it. But I'm not like Chris. I've got the money. Time to spend some on the woman I love.

He patted Squashy's shoulder comfortingly. "Good man. You've made a sale."

Squashy relaxed. "I'll make out another receipt."

"You'll 'ave to keep it for me. Haven't got the cash on me."

Squashy smiled. "No worries. I can take a cheque. I know I can trust you not to let it bounce, Mr Hunt, sir, and if the bank gives me any trouble, I know where you work."

Gene scribbled the cheque and signed Squashy's receipt. "You won't need that. 'Ere you are."

"And here you are, Mr Hunt, sir." Squashy handed over the ring, and Gene pocketed it. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you."

"Ta." He picked up the fire guard and box of decorations. "'Bye, Squashy. Keep on the straight an' narrow."

"Always, Mr Hunt, sir. Always."

-oO0Oo-

When he was back in his office, Gene closed the door and phoned John Fraser.

"John? Gene Hunt 'ere. I need something engraved. Could you recommend a jeweller?"

"Bring it in to me."

"But it's gold, not silver."

"If it's only engraving, that doesn't matter. I'll be glad to help."

"Ta. See you tomorrow."

-oO0Oo-

Fraser was open in his admiration of the ring. "A magnificent piece. I've never seen anything like it before. Art Nouveau. French, I should think. English hallmarks, but they may have been applied after it was imported. Where on earth did you find it?"

"Lucky chance. One of my old contacts."

"So, what would you like me to engrave?"

"Just one word, inside the hoop. Unbreakable."

-oO0Oo-

It was inevitable that, having bought the ring, Gene should find his misgivings returning during the run-up to Christmas. His first thought had been to present it to her on Christmas Day, but if she refused, it would be very difficult to for her remain in the house with him. If she wanted to leave, there would be no public transport, and he would have to drive her across London to the flat. There was no need to risk spoiling their first Christmas together. Maybe I'll give it to her on our birthdays. The first anniversary of our getting together. If the time looks right. Maybe I won't. I'll wait and see. Things have been going well since she moved in. Don't want to spoil anything.

On the Saturday before Christmas, he got a snout who ran a greengrocer's shop to sell him a fifteen-foot Christmas tree at a bargain price, and he invented a whole new range of swear words while manhandling it into the house and getting it to stand upright in the living room. Alex didn't help, rolling up with laughter on the sofa while he did battle with the prickly bastard, but once it was in place she was in her element decorating it with tiny fairy lights, tinsel and the glass baubles, topped with a gleaming star, while he festooned the living room with his paper chains, hung a holly wreath on the front door, wedged holly sprigs above picture frames, suspended a large bunch of mistletoe from the ceiling, and set out their Christmas cards on the sideboard alongside his bronze lion, a small Nativity crib and a set of angel chimes.

When they had finished, Alex stood in front of the tree, surveying her handiwork while she picked pine needles from her hair and her woolly jumper. Gene joined her and wrapped his arm around her waist.

"Done a good job, sweetheart."

She had twined the fairy lights around the tree and swirled strings of silver tinsel in a series of spirals from top to bottom, placing them so that they shimmered in the multicoloured lights. Gene's decorations hung at strategic points, making the whole tree look like an old-fashioned toyshop.

"Thanks. Those glass baubles are beautiful. Where on earth did you find them? Were they in the attic when you arrived?"

"Nah. Squashy Lang tipped me off that 'e 'ad 'em. Mam used to 'ave some like this. Dad wrecked 'em on Christmas Day when I was ten. Pissed as usual. Smashed up the tree an' then smashed up Mam."

She nuzzled his shoulder. "When I was ten, my parents had been dead two years. I'd been miserable the Christmas after it happened, so the following year, my guardian threw a party on Christmas Day for myself and thirty kids of my age from the local childrens' home. We had a great time, dinner, conjurors, a disco, but my guardian must have been the worst Father Christmas in recorded history. He was much too thin and his false beard fell off. I made a good friend that day. Her name was Charlotte. We stayed in touch all the time I was at university, and she was one of my bridesmaids."

Gene's mind began to spin. She's described Alex Price's Christmas party last year. Just as Nelson showed it to me. He glanced at her sharply, and saw that her eyes were filled with tears.

"What's up?"

She gazed up at the tree. "I was just thinking how Molly would love this. Would have loved this." I have to keep remembering that he thinks she's dead. "How she'd have loved you."

"Sorry, Bols." He pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her, and she buried her face in his shoulder.

"Sorry. It's still hard, sometimes."

"Don't worry, love. I know."

-oO0Oo-

He made love to her that night with an aching tenderness, striving to let her know, without words, how much she was beloved, desired, needed, cherished, trusted. He held her while she slept, his own mind far too full to give in to the pull of sleep. Alex's few innocent words had sent his world spiralling crazily out of joint.

She's just described little Alex Price's party as though it had been her own. But she wasn't even there, she has no way of knowing about it. Unless White or little Alex told her, but why should she say that it was her party? Unless it was…

Nelson told me that I'll see little Alex again, that I'll be there for her, but that the day may come when I fail her just as she needs me most. Did he say that because he knows about the future? He said that he's a spirit guide. And God knows I failed Bolly when she needed me, over Operation Rose.

She said she came from the future. Just like Sam. That she was shot, and she woke up here, with me. That she was fighting not to die, because if she died, she would never get home.

It's impossible, but -

Sam pioneered techniques at GMP that had never been used anywhere in this country before. Forensics, fingertip searches, recording interviews, concealing witnesses at identity parades. When he died, Rathbone said he was years ahead of his time. But Sam was shocked that we didn't do them. Now a lot of them are standard practice, and it's not just because of him.

Sam knew that Red Rum would win the National. He always knew which team would win the Cup Final. Always knew which new bands would make it big. He knew that Vincent's car bomb wasn't planted by the IRA. He nailed Crane by claiming to be a time traveller from thirty years in the future.

Bolly knew that the Rose blag would be in King Douglas Lane. She says she knows what's going to happen to the property market. She knew that Layton was Markham's kingpin. She's just like Sam, keeps coming out with this stuff about the future that nobody understands.

She knew that Tim and Caroline Price would be killed by a car bomb and that Layton was involved. She told me that her parents were lawyers who died in a car crash when she was eight. Swap the bomb for the crash, and you've got little Alex. Again. That would be why she made friends with Caroline and White. Her mother and her guardian.

A couple of weeks ago, she told me that she and Sam had had a shared delusion about the future. But did she tell me something she knew I'd understand, because she was afraid of losing me again if she told me the truth?

Of course it's all impossible. But think what happened to me last Christmas Eve. I saw Mac, Sam, Nelson, Summers. Sam showed me things that had happened, and I recognised them all. Nelson showed me Chris's flat, before I'd been there to know what it was like. He showed me little Alex's party, and Bolly knows about it. Summers predicted that Kingston would try to kill me. All things I can never tell her, because she wouldn't believe me.

None of it should have been possible, but I know it happened.

So… did Sam and Bolly come from the future? Is that as "possible" as what I saw on Christmas Eve? Was Bolly Alex Price? Was the child I rescued from the blast, the woman I love? Little Alex is eleven, Bolly's thirty-eight. If they're the same, that would means she'd come from - what, 2008? 2009?

Bloody Hell, have I fallen in love with a female Doctor Who?

His head was spinning again with the very thought of it. But as he looked down at the woman sleeping peacefully in his arms, he knew that, whether it was true or not, it could not change what he felt for her. Wherever she had come from, and however she had come from there, she had made it clear that this place and time were her home now. That he was her home. He would accept what she had told him and ask no further questions. If, at some time in the future, she felt able to tell him more, he would accept that too. His trust in her was absolute.

She came to me alone, frightened, maybe from another time, another life. She's said that I'm all she has. She needs stability. I can give her that by asking her to marry me. Maybe I'll give her the ring at Christmas after all. Maybe.

-oO0Oo-

Christmas Eve in CID was a hilarious day-long party, laced with brandy, mince pies, and sausage rolls. Fortunately no major crimes occurred that day, as nobody was in a fit state to deal with them. At 4.30, everyone decamped to Luigi's. Gene and Alex were the last to leave. When she went into his office to collect him, she found him leaving a bottle of single malt and a glass on his desk.

"Aren't you afraid that the cleaners might steal that?"

"Wouldn't dare."

"Any special reason why you're leaving it out?"

He looked uncomfortable. "Just a bit of a ritual I've got on Christmas Eve."

Alex laughed. "Good grief, most people leave sherry and mince pies out for Santa. Trust you to be different."

"The Gene Genie is always different. Come along, Bols. Luigi's awaits."

The Christmas party at Luigi's was a riot. Only "party pooper" Keats was conspicuous by his absence. Luigi served everyone a choice of tagliatelle con tacchino or turkey and stuffing pizza, with Panforte di Siena, pudding, or ice cream to follow, with mince pies and coffee. The house rubbish flowed like water. When everyone had eaten and drunk their fill, the chairs and tables were pushed back and everyone crowded onto the dance floor. Gene and Alex were in the centre of the throng, twirling joyously to the music, oblivious to the way the others watched them.

The party started breaking up earlier than usual because Chris and Shaz, the latter newly promoted to DC, had to get home. "Mum's babysitting Tammy, but she wants to leave by ten," Shaz explained to Alex. "She and Dad are coming to us for Christmas dinner tomorrow."

Alex laughed. "With Tammy as well, you'll have your hands full."

"Remember to wish WPC Tammy Skelton a merry Christmas from 'er Auntie Alex an' Uncle Gene," Gene added.

Chris beamed. "We'll do that, Guv. And a merry Christmas to both of you!"

Gene and Alex departed with everyone else at closing time, with a bottle of Bollinger, a large boxed Panettone, and a cloud of Christmas wishes from Luigi and their colleagues. Just about the only disadvantage to their living in his house - their house - as opposed to the flat, was that he had to stay sober enough to drive the Quattro home. But when he stopped the car outside the house, seeing the holly wreath on the door and the tree lights gleaming softly in the darkness, even that sacrifice seemed worthwhile.

"We're 'ome," he said gruffly, unlocking the door. It meant so much to be able to say that.

He had wondered whether he would dream of Sam and the others that night, as he had last Christmas Eve. But as soon as they got to bed, Alex claimed him as an advance Christmas present, again and again, until they both sank into a deep and dreamless sleep. When they awakened in the morning, they wished each other a merry Christmas in their own way, and would have quite happily stayed where they were all day, if Alex had not reminded him that they had Christmas dinner to cook. Their shower together took longer than it should have done, but eventually she made her escape, dressed in her tracksuit top and leggings, added the charm bracelet, and headed for the kitchen. He donned his navy rugby shirt and jeans, and hesitated before following her. The ring box was hidden in a secret corner in his chest of drawers, wrapped in a fragment of colourful wrapping paper. Once again, he was undecided whether to give it to her now, or keep it for another occasion. He found it by feel and put it in his pocket. Just in case.

He stopped off in the living room to switch on the tree lights and prepare her first surprise of the day, before heading for the kitchen and a minimal breakfast. To his disgust, Alex refused to cook anything.

"You'll have enough food for a brigade when dinner's ready, and I've enough to do for that without your fryup as well," she said with mock severity. "It won't hurt you to go short for once. We need all the space we can get on the worktop, to prepare dinner."

"We?"

She looked outrageously innocent. "Well, you helped Chris and I with the dinner at his flat last year, and you have such a good way with a vegetable knife. I'll never forget the sight of you peeling sprouts and humming Christmas carols."

Gene fully intended to help, but his masculine pride demanded that he put up a fight. "Bloody 'ell, you're only cookin' for the two of us, not for the whole of CID. An' 'ow the 'ell am I meant to keep my strength up for peelin' spuds an' sprouts if all I've got inside me is a bowl of bloody cornflakes?"

"Oh, all right, I'll do you some toast. With marmalade. But the quicker we start, the sooner we'll be finished."

Gene suddenly wondered if marriage was such a good idea. "If I'm to spend my Christmas as your drudge an' kitchen boy instead of watching James Bond, you'll 'ave to make it up to me later."

She gave him her sultriest sidelong look. "Oh, I fully intend to. And the James Bond film doesn't start until 4.00, you fraud. We should be finished long before then."

"Right. Get your pinny on, you're nicked. But before you start loading me up with murderous kitchen implements, come into the living room. There's something waiting for you there."

"But we aren't opening our presents until after dinner."

"I know. This is an advance present." She raised her eyebrows. "An' it doesn't involve takin' your clothes off, you filthy-minded tart."

He led her, protesting, into the living room. It was bright and warm, and a fire blazed merrily in the grate. She gave a cry of delight.

"Gene! You've lit the fire! Oh, it's wonderful!"

He grinned. "Promised it for special occasions, didn't I? Thought our first Christmas together was the right occasion to launch it. I bought some sacks of coal an' bags of kindling, an' hid 'em in the shed until this morning. The coal scuttle, poker, shovel an' tongs were all in the attic. Got the chimney swept two Saturdays ago, when you were out Christmas shopping with Shaz. Had more birds' nests in it than a Chinky soup restaurant. I 'ad to pay the sweep extra to finish the job." He looked reflective. "Haven't laid a fire in years. Often used to do it for Mam. Didn't know if I'd remember how, until I did it again this morning."

She hugged him. "You haven't lost your touch. Oh, Gene, it's lovely. It makes the place feel so homely."

"'Fraid the fire guard spoils the effect, but if a spark hits the tree we'll 'ave to share our Christmas dinner with the fire brigade."

"Of course. Oh, thank you so much for this. Such a kind, thoughtful thing to do. Just like the woollens you gave me for my birthday." It was her turn to look reflective. "When I was a child, my home had an open fire, like this. It brings it all back to me."

"In a good way, I 'ope?"

She looked into the flames. For a fleeting moment, she thought she could see Molly on the far side, about to blow out her candles. Then the image was gone.

Is it Christmas where you are, Mols? If it is, I hope you have a happy Christmas, even though I'm not there.

"Yes. Definitely in a good way."

Despite Gene's growlings, with the two of them working as a team, the dinner did not take long to prepare. Alex had already stuffed the turkey crown with her own special mixture of sausage meat, apricots, mushrooms, chestnuts and breadcrumbs, and she had made the pudding the week before. That had given her a sharp pang, remembering Molly stirring the mixture for luck. She had put the oven on as soon as she got downstairs, so the turkey went in as soon as they had finished breakfast, and the pudding went into the saucepan an hour later. She had made the cranberry sauce in advance as well, so their morning's work consisted of the potatoes and vegetables, the smoked salmon for starters, and what she called "the little fiddly bits", the bacon curls, miniature chipolatas, gravy, and apricots for frying. Smelling the appetising aromas issuing from the oven, Gene thought that marriage might be quite a good idea after all.

"Good work, gettin' so much done ahead of schedule," he acknowledged, pricking sausages.

"Oh, Delia's emphatic on the need for advance preparation for Christmas dinner," she replied absently, striving to keep a piece of bacon curled.

"Eh? Who's she?"

"Oh, er, a cook I happen to know."

"Bloody 'ell, if this is a sample of 'er stuff, we'd better invite 'er round to dinner one day."

"That could be difficult."

Because she's in the future? Gene thought. Momentarily distracted, he stuck the fork in his thumb instead of a sausage, and the air turned blue.

-oO0Oo-

Apart from one minor mishap, dinner had been a triumph. They leaned back in the dining chairs, both replete.

Gene undid his top shirt button. "Well, if this is a sample of your wares, Bolly, perhaps we'd better see if there's a vacancy in the Fenchurch East canteen."

She looked mischievous. "What, for a DCI turned spud peeler?"

"For a DI turned head cook, you cheeky mare."

"Sexist bastard." Her eyes glowed with love as she said it. "I'm glad you enjoyed everything."

"Yeah. You excelled yourself, love."

"Sorry the bacon curls unrolled."

He scraped a stray bit of brandy butter from his dish. "Tasted good just as they were. Next year we'll go for pigs in blankets instead. Very suitable for cohabiting coppers."

"Pigs - oh, sausages wrapped in bacon."

"S'right."

"Just so long as you're prepared for more of the same tomorrow. There's still enough turkey, stuffing and pudding for a siege."

"Bring it on. We'll send anything we don't want to CID." He pushed a plate across the table to her. "Mince pie?"

"Spare me."

"Yeah, they can wait." He reached across the table for her hand. "Come on. There's a pressie or two waiting for you under the tree."

The fire in the living room was still burning brightly - Gene had gone into the room at intervals to replenish it - and the flames, and the lights from the tree, cast atmospheric shadows. He did not turn the light switch on. It looked cosier that way.

Buying the ring had obliged him to reconsider his original plans for Alex's presents, so the porcelain figurine was still in the antique shop in Shepherd's Market, but he had had a word with the owner, who had promised to keep it for him and let him pay for it in January. It would do nicely for her birthday. But he had bought her the silk scarf from Selfridges, the lacy underwear, the perfume, a book about Freud which he knew she wanted, and a pair of gorgeous black shoes with killer high heels. She loved them all, but to his surprise, the biggest hit was the topaz pendant.

"Oh, Gene, it's perfect! It's you."

"Eh?" He thought that she really had cashed in her mental chips at last. He could not imagine any possible connection between himself and the delicate piece of jewellery in her hand.

"It's exactly the colour of your eyes. Silver and blue. Oh, my love, I'll always wear this, and when I look at it I'll know I have you with me, wherever I am."

"Oh. Glad you like it."

"Thank you so much." She kissed him. "You couldn't have got me anything that would please me more. Will you help me put it on?"

Well, he thought, fastening the slender chain at the nape of her neck and planting a kiss there. I owe Fraser a drink. Several.

Maybe the pendant is all she needs just now, to show that we're together. I'll keep the ring. Perhaps give it to her on her birthday instead.

Alex's presents for him left him almost breathless. The enamelled City cuff links were great. So were the black leather driving gloves and the tailored black shirt. But the one which made him gasp was the heavy wooden box.

"I don't know much about single malts, being a Bollinger girl myself," she admitted. "So when I went to the shop and said that I didn't know which my boyfriend likes best, the nice man on the counter suggested I give you the lot. This box contains fifteen single malt miniatures. You can try them all and tell me which you like best, and I can get you your favourites next time."

"Bloody 'ell," he breathed, delving into the box. "Glenmorangie - Glenfiddich - Aberlour - Mortlach - Macallan - Glenlivet - Dalmore - Tobermory - Aberfeldy - Glencadam - Inchmurrin - Talisker - you've rounded up an' arrested the lot! An' what's this?" He extracted a shape wrapped in tissue paper.

"Open it and see."

He put the box down reverently and peeled the tissue away. It was a pewter hip flask engraved with his name.

"I thought that when you decide which you like best, you could put some in there, and keep it in your breast pocket. Just in case some bastard tries to shoot you again. You told me on our birthdays, what happened at the Gazette siege."

"Yeah." His voice was husky. "But anyone who tries to shoot a hole in my girl's present'll 'ave their knackers 'ung up for target practice." He pulled her close. "Thanks, Bols. Don't know what to say. I'll 'ave to quote you. You couldn't have got me anything that would please me more."

"Oh, that's a pity. I've still got one more present to give you." With a flourish, she produced a small, flat parcel. He tore the paper away and found a photo frame. The face staring back at him was instantly familiar. So was the signature. It was an autographed photograph of Gary Cooper in High Noon.

Wayne for the machismo. Stewart for the warmth. Cooper for the romance. Eastwood for the mystery.

Above all?

Gary Cooper.

He closed his eyes for a moment, and then forced himself to push the memory away. He opened them, and saw Alex looking at him anxiously.

"Do you like it?"

"I'm bloody overwhelmed. But where - ?"

"The same specialist shop where I got the book for your birthday. I know Cooper's your favourite, so I got the shop man to let me know if he got anything like this in the course of the year. This only came in a fortnight ago."

"You, Bols, 'ave managed to do something that neither cop nor criminal 'as ever achieved before. You've rendered Gene Hunt speechless. Twice."

She smiled. "My Will Kane. One against the world, doing what he knows is right."

He hung his head. "Wasn't always like that."

She kissed him. "That's where you're wrong. I know from Sam. You've always done what you saw as right for the people you were protecting. It's only how you've done it that has changed."

-oO0Oo-

An hour later, they were sitting on the sofa, wrapped tightly in one anothers' arms, her head resting on his chest, as they gazed into the firelight. She had switched the TV on for the James Bond film, but neither of them paid it any attention, and after a quarter of an hour he turned it off. One another, and the silence and peace that surrounded them, were all they needed.

Gene had taken the precaution of moving the glass coffee table out of the way, in case it was damaged by the heat from the fire, leaving an expanse of fire-warmed rug in front of them. His lips curved in a smile at the thought of them lying naked on the rug, the fire glowing on their bare bodies. Some serious shagging on the shagpile might be in order, later on.

I've done it. All of it. Tammy's alive. I'm alive. My house isn't for sale. Bolly's here, with me. Do you hear that, Summers? I've done it all.

What would have happened if he hadn't warned me last Christmas? Bolly and I wouldn't have got together. Tammy would have died because Chris and Shaz wouldn't have known about cot death. And Kingston would have killed me because I'd have gone to Cringle Street alone.

But if I hadn't been such a bastard last Christmas, I wouldn't have had Summers's warnings about what would happen this year if I didn't change, and then Tammy and I might both have died. So maybe being a miserable sod can pay off. Sometimes.

Better not make a habit of it, though. Not now I have a bird to keep happy.

Alex stirred. "Penny for them."

"Eh?" Gene said absently.

"Just wondered what you were thinking about, so deeply."

"Just thinking 'ow different this Christmas would 'ave been, if I 'adn't changed my mind last Christmas."

She disengaged herself and sat up, looking straight at him. "Why did you change? You never would tell me. On Christmas Eve you were a right bloody Scrooge, and on Christmas Day you were full of the joys of the season. You'd become the man I love once again. What happened, Gene?"

Shit. What the hell do I say now? He took a breath to answer, and a malfunction occurred somewhere between his brain and his mouth. Afterwards, he was never sure how he had intended to reply, but to his horror he heard himself saying, "Got you another Christmas present."

"Oh?"

Bugger, bugger, bugger. Why did I have to say that? I'll have to go through with this now, or I'll never hear the last of it. Diffidently, he reached into his pocket, produced the small gift wrapped parcel, and held it out to her. She took it, and at the sight of her tearing off the wrapping paper, total panic set in. He reached out to take it back, and she playfully pulled it out of his reach.

"Stupid idea, you won't want it, forget it…"

His heart sank. I've got this all wrong. Should have gone down on one knee and asked her properly. She'll never have me now.

She opened the box. The stones sparkled in the light from the fire and the tree, but they seemed like paste beside the sparkle of her eyes.

"Er, well, now you've found it, er, will you - "

"Yes, Gene! Yes, yes, YES!" She tore the ring from the box and placed it upon her finger.

He was nonplussed. "Er - you mean you like it? That you'll - ?"

"YES!" She threw the box aside, grabbed the astonished Gene in a passionate kiss, and pushed him back on the sofa before he could resist, straddling him and growling like a lioness. He didn't stand a chance.

-oO0Oo-

Half an hour later, he lay naked on the sofa, with Alex lying on top of him, her head on his shoulder, his arms wrapped tightly around her. He thought that she was asleep, but as he stroked her hair and her bare back, she stirred and mumbled, "You still haven't told me."

"Eh? Told you what?"

"Why you changed your mind about Christmas."

"Er - "

She reared up above him, magnificent, naked except for her pendant, bracelet and ring. "You don't think that you're going to get out of it, just because you gave me an engagement ring, do you? This is an interrogation, DCI Hunt."

"Bols, I - "

She placed her palms upon his chest. "Out with it. Or punitive measures will have to be applied."

He looked hopeful. "Really? I could do with some of that."

"Answer. The whole truth and nothing but the truth, or God help you, Hunt."

Oh, well, nothing for it. He settled comfortably beneath her. "Well, Bols, last Christmas Eve I was getting pissed in my office after everyone else 'ad gone 'ome, an' I was visited by a ghost who told me I was goin' to meet three spirits, who - Oy! Bols! Stop it! You know I'm ticklish!" He writhed beneath her in agony.

"You bastard!" She tickled him unmercifully. "I promise to make an honest man of you, and you try to fob me off with a story Dickens wrote in 1843! You can't even be original!"

"But, Bols - it was the tru - careful, you daft tart, or you'll 'ave us off the sofaaaaargh…"

Too late.

-oO0Oo-

Later still, Gene lay on the rug, feeling the warmth of the fire playing over all the areas of his skin which weren't already covered by Alex. Her soft snores told him that she was asleep, this time. Careful not to disturb her, he cautiously reached up for the blue blanket lying on the arm of the sofa, and spread it over them both. It was the one they had brought with them from the flat above Luigi's. The one he had spread over while she slept on the striped sofa, the second night after her arrival, three and a half years ago. Who would have thought then, that he would be lying here like this, holding her in his arms, her body warming his, his body cradled tenderly within hers? She had agreed to marry him. His promised bride. Alex Hunt. He had not thought that he would ever be allowed to be so happy. Maybe it's allowed, because I'm making her happy too. Because I'm giving her a home and a place in this world.

She didn't believe me when I told her the truth about last Christmas, just as I hadn't believed her when she told me the truth about coming from the future. Or what she saw as the truth. Fair enough.

Are you there, Mac? Sam? Nelson? Summers? I owe it all to you four. You saved Tammy, you saved me from getting shot, and you saved me from being a lonely, miserable bastard. Now I've got everything I could ever want, thanks to you. I've got the woman I love.

As though from a long way away, he thought he heard four voices he had known, raised in a toast, followed by the clinking of glasses. He felt the pull of approaching sleep, and surrendered to it.

Thanks for everything, boys. A merry Christmas, wherever you are. And as that Dickens bloke said, God bless us, every one.

THE END