A.N. I've been a long time Ashes to Ashes fan but I've never written for it before, I just didn't want to ruin one of my fave shows with any awful writing. But I'm going through another A-t-A phase and I just couldn't help but start on this. I hope I'll finish it.

So let me know what you think! Oh, and of course, I should tell you, in case you didn't already know; I DON'T OWN ASHES TO ASHES!


Life from the Ashes

Chapter 1: Gene Hunt


It was a dark, stary night on a Saturday in late 1983 and Gene Hunt was sat in his darkened corner of his favourite basement boozer in all of London. Despite being so eager for the joys of Italy, Luigi had quickly returned to reopen his restaurant, now with the company of his wife, daughter, son in law and young grandson in tow, all of whom now resided above the basement cafe. It had taken the tough Marietta, the wife of Luigi, many weeks to get used to Gene's brash and crude speech patterns, and the drunken gatherings of the police force that frequented their trattoria.

Gene had silently thanked his lucky stars when the restaurant had reopened, he really didn't want to replace his boozer as well as his car and his D.I. But his new sidekick was a soft pile of southern shit by the name of Robson; he kept on and on about his 'Iphone' and his office and his computer and his car and his tv...he just never shut up.

Why was it always the coma victims that gave him a hard time? First Sam, then Drake, now Robson...and to complete the pattern...the man was, of course, a psychologist! But after months of hard graft Gene believed that the man was starting to show the promise of being a real D.I rather than a pencil pushing, desk jockey.

"Guv...guv, it's Robs' round, you want a beer?" Terry shouted and Gene simply nodded.

"Yeah, yeah..." he nodded, "An' where's me food, Luigi?" he shouted, coming clear of his thoughts. Though he vowed never to forget about the truth again it didn't help to dwell on it for long; he'd just get depressed, but he needed to remember...to do his job properly he needed to remember.

"Still can't believe he come back, guv," Bammo said, "Not complain though," he added and there was a murder of agreement from the others.

"Couldn't get enough of us, could yer, Luigi?" Gene mocked as the Italian set down a full glass of beer for him.

"Si, signore Hunt, of course," replied the long suffering Italian.

"Signore, why must you always torment my father with your English humour?" Adelina, Luigi's daughter asked with a sigh as she put down a plate of food for the D.C.I.

"In the 'ope he migh' learn some'ing," Gene replied with a scowl.

"Well if it hasn't happen now it is unlikely ever to do so," she shot back.

"Hope and pray, Ady, 'ope and pray," he said and she walked away, flinging her hands in the air and rolling her eyes.

Knowing that all these people, with all of their quirks and mannerisms were dead made the world seem a little less real...but no less believable; you could still love here, you could still be hurt, you could still win and lose. But in the end everyone had to move on...He was only here to help the coppers though. Why Luigi came back was beyond him, and Gene doubted he'd ever know. Sometimes things just happened here; that's the way it'd always been and always would be.

"'Ere, guv, guv! Rob reckons he can drink a pint faster than Bammo!" one of the men shouted.

"Well, give the winner a bottle o' B relief," he shouted back still picking at his food.

"Right y'are guv!" they laughed and Gene fell silent again. Ignoring his still, un-eaten food he went to stand outside then lit a cigarette. In the past month he'd lost another of his team, a young P.C by the name of Elizabeth Porter, who'd strangely reminded him of himself, she'd been one of the quickest he'd ever seen to move on. But she'd been brave and strong and a bloody good copper; he'd been sorry to see the kid go. She'd thanked him with a hug and a peck on the cheek, then gone off like all the others.

From outside he could still hear the cheering and laughing of his men, he peeked around the corner and saw the young Eugenio, Luigi's grandson, now sat with the C.I.D company as they played card games and showed the boy tricks.

"Eugenio!" the boy's mother called, "Go to bed! It's late."

"But..." Gene heard the boy protest but he walked away from the trattoria before he could hear anymore. He stalked off to his shining Mercedes and drove through the quiet streets of London.

At least in his beloved C.I.D he didn't have Keats breathing down his neck anymore...at least not yet. The 'man' had vanished and Gene hadn't seen him since...since...

Well...a lot had certainly changed that day. He'd regained his memories about his own death and about this world, seen his car killed, he'd had a kiss from Bolly, lost his 'A Team' and apparently got rid of Keats all in one day. Far too much serious shit for one day. He liked to think he was strong enough now to keep Keats and his like far, far, far away from C.I.D and the people he protected. Which was why he couldn't ever forget again. When he did it gave Keats a chance to take everything and everyone away from him. That bastard had even driven his car! Bastard!

With a deep sigh, Gene pulled up his car outside the police station and marched right up to the dark, silent and vacant room and into his office. With only his desk lamp illuminating the room he saw his reflection in the computer screen and saw his younger self staring back at him, all glassy eyes, skinny cheek bones and bloodied face.

"Piss off," he muttered and poured himself more whiskey. He continued to drink alone at his desk, flicking through files of recent cases and soon, he found himself opening the locked drawer of his desk and took out his old tin box. Inside, along with his old badge which remained burried in the box, he'd placed the I.D badges of Ray, Chris, Shaz, and Bolly - his 'A Team'.

He laid the four of them out on the surface of his desk and stared nostalgically at their printed faces. It may have been an emotional, soft touchy thing to to, but it helped him remember everything. This place made you forget after a while, and he couldn't afford to do that again, no matter how hard things got. He couldn't ever give Keats the upper hand again. It would end up with some poor copper paying the price in hell if he did.

Gene hardly noticed when morning rolled around and C.I.D became a bustling hive of activity. When he heard a knock at his door he stuffed the I.D's back into the box and into the drawer before ordering his D.I in. "What?!" he demanded.

"Report of shots fired at the bank on Lower Haverstock road, guv...there's hostages," D.I Rob Robson reported.

"Show time," Gene muttered and finished his drink, before donning his black coat and storming from the room, his D.I close behind.