A small story, probably only a few chapters long. This has forever been swarming around my mind, what may have happened in that episode should events have taken a different turn. This is set during the episode where the team are investigating Riley. Disclaimer: These characters are not mine, they belong to the BBC.

Catalyst

Before he knew otherwise, he felt a fist impinge upon his stomach, gasping vital air from his respiratory organs, resulting in him leaning forwards and providing his attackers with an easier advantage. There it was again: one, two, three… And a fourth which left him limp, almost lifeless, gasping for air and unable to defend himself. A fist collided with his skin, the rough image being harshly swollen as his lip began to bleed. He felt the metal bar, even before it unfairly sprung upon his stomach, the force increasing with each blow. He let out a grunt - a desperate plea for help in this area of isolation - falling to the ground as exhaustion overwhelmed his vulnerable body and his eyelids batted closed. With a final blow, a sharp kick in the stomach, the two men left Gene and ran through the nearby tunnel.

The sound of careless strides drifted through her front door, her ears picked up the sounds immediately. Cautiously yet quickly, Alex rose from the sofa, resorting to hiding behind the sofa arm. She had just hidden when the front door was broken down and the sound of two male voices, and the colliding sound of a glove and metal object came into her hearing.

"I don't think she's 'ere," came one voice: low, deep and gruff.

Her breathing rate increased.

"Shame, real sha-"

He was stopped, presumably by the man who had spoken first, as he was the one whose voice Alex could hear next.

"Can you 'ear that?"

His question pursued into the next few seconds, Alex still breathing heavily in response to fear and apprehension, even as she heard footsteps increasing as they neared, closer and closer…

"Hello, love," spoke the first man, maliciously. He was wearing a balaclava, therefore Alex had no chance of identifying the intruders of her home. However, her eyes were not fixed upon his masked face, but the metal bar that his gloved fingers clasped around firmly, eying its defenceless prey.

He took her roughly by the arm, pushing her into the arms of the second man as she whimpered helplessly. All policing instincts had flown out of the ironically closed window, her whole body was trembling in fear and preventing any form of negotiation. Hands restrained behind her back, she had no form of protection as the solid object collided with her stomach…

Gene Hunt had never before, in his entire life, been apprehensive and even slightly embarrassed at entering the station he governed. The authority he usually held, as well as the air of independence seemed to drain from his body after each step, as though a hole from his uselessly battered frame was releasing all substantial liquid used to form the ferocious Manc lion. Eventually, the sound of his crocodile boots could be heard down the main hallway as he neared the entrance to the CID offices. He imagined his next movements: enter through the doors, storm through seemingly in a foul mood - after all, they were not essentially getting anywhere constructive and productive with this case, no closer to making an arrest - enter his office, slam the door, pour himself a glass of whiskey, and then wait for the inevitable entrance of his nosy, arrogant, tenacious, gorgeous Detective Inspector. He stopped himself before his mind was overwhelmed with thoughts of her. Her fluttering eyelids, the way she would taunt him…

Then she was there. In front of him. Detective Inspector Alex Drake - his Bolly. He could tell she was inspecting the purple bruise that had formed overnight, everyone he had passed had done exactly the same.

"What-" She was cut off by Gene, but even before a feeble cover was released from his lips, she knew the truth. Riley. If they had come after her, chances were Gene had too been a target. Her stomach ached. Not only at the sight of Gene's fragile state, but at the bruises that her attackers had left. She was thankful her marks were not quite as visible as his, the few red marks that had appeared on her face that morning had been hidden by foundation; her tired eyes reduced to minimal recognition by the enhancement of eye shadow and mascara. She did not want Gene, of all people, to know that she had been awake all night in fear they may return. Herself, reduced to a feeble, cowering lady resorting in the refuge beneath her duvet covers.

"Pub brawl," he muttered, turning directly away from her.

"Gene!" She called after him.

She found him some minutes later, cabined and constricted within one of the cells. Smoke was rising from his hand, the smell of the disgusting substance filled the room. Gene was sat on the less than comfortable bed, usually for the scum bags they would arrest, leaning against the wall, his legs draped over the side.

He looked so vulnerable.

When he spoke, he didn't raise his head. He knew it was Alex, no one else would disobey his orders and enter the cell. "I asked fer this cell 'cause I thought it'd give me some bloody peace!"

"You can't hide from this, Gene."

"Hide from what?"

His voice wobbled. He was quiet. Too quiet for the man Alex knew.

She walked across, the sound of her heels coming into contact with the stone floor echoing around the cell - invading the silence. She sat beside him, hunched against the wall, bringing her knees to her chest, wincing at the pain such a simple move inflicted. Silence reigned over them, the uncomfortable aspect of this causing Gene to become jumpy. Her head turned. She had never seen him so broken, deflated and defeated.

"Those people need you. We need you out there. You're our Guv."

"Alex, I can't. I just can't."

Her hand instinctively reached down for Gene's. Her soft skin came into contact with his, causing her stomach to flutter; an electric current to surge through her system. "They came to my flat."

This caused Gene's head to rise, he looked into her eyes with the sincerity his heart held for her - the sincerity he would usually hide on a day to day basis. "Did they hurt yer?" When she did not reply, Gene persisted. "Alex, if they laid a finger on yer- If they did anything."

Her tears confirmed his suspicions. His eyes flared: burning, fire, red, danger, anger. All there in a mixed web of protection over Alex. He would have marched out of the cell at that moment, stormed around to the men who had done this to Alex, conquered his fears and beat them to within an inch of their lives, had she not swooped her head down onto his shoulder and closed her eyes. The gentle rest of her curls nestling into his shoulder, the sweet sound of her breathing. Regular, and in normal rhythm with her heart. It fixed him.

'Jesus, Gene. You're going soft.'

A voice in his head. But he didn't care. He didn't care what his conscience thought, or the thoughts that crossed the mind of anyone who happened to walk in here. His arm snaked around her waist, not in the manner he had frequently dreamt of, but in a protective and sturdy embrace which brought comfort to the two of them. He could hear her cries, despite muffled into his shoulder, and his thoughts soon reversed from protection and back towards the anger, and the steam he could hear within his mind - fuming, much like a boiling kettle. When he witnessed Alex Drake flinch, his stomach lurched uncomfortably. Whilst her head raised slightly from his shoulder, his hand gingerly lifted her colourful jumper, revealing her pale stomach and the bruises which haunted her there. He could feel the rage, even as he delicately traced his bare thumb across the mass of purple markings protectively. Her forehead soon took refuge upon his shoulder once more, hiding the torment present within her defeated hazel eyes.

They, those men, had dared lay a finger on Alex. The way she usually walked and strutted through the station with that incredible air of independence had gone; it had been diminished, battered and bruised with no legacy left to stand in less than twenty four hours. The last time he had seen her this vulnerable had been when Tim and Caroline Price had been killed. She had sat in his office that night, accepted his scotch and seemingly drowned sorrows that he could not understand. None of the team were happy, of course. But the effect their death had on Alex, and how she acted as though her life had depended on the outcome caused him to wonder.

It was then he felt her head begin to move that his thoughts were disrupted once more. Her beautiful, captivating hazel eyes were staring wildly up at his own, the ice blue melting as he watched her head rise, their lips nearing.

Then, it was magnetic. The touch of their lips, after two long years of taunt, upon one another's signalled a wave of intent and passion to wash over the both of them. Passion, protection, desire? Neither was willing to pull apart.