{{This fic was inspired by RP events at crowdedhour. Basically, in that game, Alex and Chris were taken by a serial killer/vampire, who tortured and killed Alex in front of Chris and then, subsequently, tortured Chris horribly and killed him, too. Although they were eventually resurrected, they still remember the events and this fic stemmed from that.

takeoffthenoose is used with hesitant permission, and I apologize for any potential slaughter of his characterization. All events are non-binding to muses involved.}}


Sometimes at night he still hears her screaming.

She's been haunting the halls like a ghost, he thinks, and Chris would be more proud of the further development of his inner poet if it hadn't come with such a cost. At night, Shaz cradled in his arms, he hears the click of heels past his room and towards the kitchen. He doesn't have any idea what she's doing wandering about at ungodly hours; drinking, or shagging, or doing whatever it was birds do when they're trying to feel like they're not dead anymore.

He tries to sleep, and just as he drifts off to that comforting darkness is when he hears her screaming. He's not daft enough to think it's real, of course; she's fine and Shaz doesn't hear it, and he knows Shaz doesn't because when he stiffens and sits up, sweating in the dark, she looks at him like he's gone mad. He knows it scares the piss out of her, but he doesn't know a think to say to make it better. Because he thinks he has gone mad, and he thinks even after they get out of this godawful place – if they ever get out – Shaz will probably always look at him like he's stranger.

He's sure that's because he isn't who he was. When he looks in the mirror he feels like he's looking down at a stiff in the morgue. Alex Drake haunts the halls of the castle, and Chris Skelton just haunts himself.

The sound of heels clicks by the door again, as usual, and his body stills. Unwrapping himself gingerly from Shaz's grasp, he gets out of bed, pulling on a pair of worn trousers and a shirt with quiet care, but he's never as stealthy as he wants to be.

“Baby,” Shaz mutters sleepily. “Where you goin', baby?”

“Just need a drink's all. Go back to sleep.”

She moans incoherently, and even as she mutters something, drifts back into slumber.

Chris stands there for a moment, watching her tiny form in the darkness, so delicate and fragile as she breathes a vulnerability into the night.

He wonders what he would do if she were killed. And he thinks about what he would do to the person who had guts enough to kill her.

He finds himself thinks about these things now, because someone did those things to him, once.

Chris is no stranger to torture, but he doesn't much like the idea of being friends with it, either.

**

Alex Drake sits in the kitchen and her eyes shift between a half-filled glass of wine and a half-filled cup of tea.

She has a choice. It's a small, simple choice. But it's enough to remind her she's still in control. She can make a decision. She can still decide the outcome of her life based on logic, based on understanding, maybe even based on wisdom.

She chooses the wine. She always does.

So when Chris wanders in, his clothes in disarray and his eyes bloodshot like he hasn't slept in months, Alex is already drunk. She looks up at him like she can hardly make out his face.

“Chris?”

“Ma'am.” He doesn't sound surprised to see her. He takes a moment to look at her and the wine glass. “Bit late to be on the piss, innit.”

She laughs at him. “I'm always just a bit too late, Chris.”

He busies himself making a cuppa, surprising her by setting a steaming mug in front of her before he takes a seat across from her at the table.

They sit in silence for a while, Chris taking sips of his tea while Alex stares at the collection of cups developing in front of her. She's tempted to close her eyes and pretend they are in Luigi's again; Gene's gruff voice barking through the restaurant, Ray and Chris' gales of laughter ringing her her ears, Shaz's gentle nagging as she pleads with the boys to calm themselves. But what used to be images and vivid memories are just words to her now, and she can't even remember what Chris sounds like when he laughs.

Eventually, she looks up at him.

“How old are you, Chris?”

He gives her a look like he doesn't quite know what she's playing at. “Thirty-two, ma'am. Why?”

She leans forward. What she is about to say is of the utmost importance to her swirling mind. “Because you look older,” she tells him, her tone quiet, conspiratorial.

He stares at her a while. “Okay, ma'am,” he finally says.

There's a logical part of her that knows she should sober up and go to bed, but she doesn't like being sober anymore. Being sober means thinking clearly, and thinking clearly means spending endless hours making sense of non-sense. And Alex doesn't have the strength for that anymore.

Instead, she stares at him, but she avoids looking into his eyes. Last time she looked into those eyes, she was looking at thirty-two year old Chris Skelton.

Alex worries if she looks into his eyes again, he'll remember that time she let him die.

**

There's something about their conversation the night before that sticks with him, itching, like a bug bite, and Chris was never too good at letting things be.

In the morning, Shaz chatters on as she dresses, as if her endless enthusiasm for life would be enough to pull him from this hole of despair he seems trapped in. And Chris thinks if he loved Shaz enough, it would work.

She finally gives up and leaves him to wallow in bed, and he stares up at the ceiling for hours, wishing there was a reason for him to get up. But even his pounding head and the way his muscles ache from disuse isn't enough to persuade him.

Dead men don't walk, after all.

He drifts off to sleep now and again, and is awakened by the echo of Drake's screams. He dreams a little; the flash of a knife, the tear of a ghostly pain through his body. By 2pm is he sweaty and still exhausted, and as he stares at the ceiling and thinks about what Drake had said the night before, he remembers something he thought he had forgotten.

“You love her?”

“Fuck,” Chris spits at the ceiling, as if it were it's fault he had to remember anything that had happened that day. He knows what Drake would say – thinking about it would just let the bastard win or some other kind of psychiatry bullshit. But the Guv won't talk about it, and Shaz barely even knows the whole story, and Chris starts to think that maybe, just maybe, he's the one that's gone off this time.

He always thought Drake was mental, but maybe they were all wrong. Maybe she is the only sane one left.

So Chris gets out of bed. Dead men don't walk, but ghosts do.

**

When the knock sounds on the door, Alex is still in bed. She's not sleeping, of course; she can't remember the last time she actually slept, instead of just fitfully dozing. Chris' eyes keep haunting her sleep, but worse, she's haunted by that feeling of dying.

She misses it. It was as if the world was released around her, and it felt good to be completely and utterly out of control. Alex had made a peace with herself in those moments, and it pisses her off that this bloody castle couldn't even let her keep that.

Stumbling to the door, she pushes matted curls from her face and pulls it open, peering out to see Chris standing in the doorway, a fag hanging from between his fingers.

“Chris? What are you doing here?”

“Hey, Boss,” Chris says, far too casually. He's giving her this sideways look of concern; the same look she's seen people give dying animals next to the road. Like they want to help, but the pain is too much to handle.

They stand in silence for a minute, before Chris takes a puff of his cigarette and looks around. “Um, can I come in?”

“Yeah, okay,” Alex says, pulling the door open enough for him to slip through.

Her usually impeccable room is a mess; she takes some time to clear away a pile of sodden laundry from a chair so Chris can sit down, and she pours them each a glass of scotch from a bottle on the dresser. She lost the cap days ago in the mess, and she knows it probably tastes like dust and sadness.

Chris stares at the scotch like he doesn't quite know what to do with it, and she cradles her glass in her hand, leaning against a bed post as she stares down at him.

“What do you want?” It comes out more coarse than she intended.

“Well, I were thinkin' 'bout all that psychiatry you're always on about,” he begins. She's tempted to correct him, until she realizes she doesn't give a shit. “And then I started thinkin' 'bout what he said while... Ya know, while he were doin' all that to us.”

“Chris, what are you talking about?”

“Well, before he...” Chris' eyes start to rove around the room wildly, and Alex heaves a sigh. “He asked me if I love you, Boss. Why'd you think he'd ask that?”

“He was playing with us, Chris. He's a sick man.”

“I get that, but why ask somethin' like that?”

Alex tilts her head, struggling to find the words to explain it. “It was an attempt to control your emotions. If he knew that you cared for me, regardless of the manner, and he could expose it, it would make us both vulnerable. It's something he could use to his advantage.”

“Yeah, guess that makes sense,” he says, with a tone that says it really doesn't make any sense at all.

She shakes her head and sits on the bed, but still avoids his gaze. “Chris, the last thing either of us need to do is dwell on this.” She hopes Chris isn't in-tune enough to know what a hypocrite she is. “The best thing to do is move on. As long as we keep thinking about what he did or anything he said, he still controls us.”

Chris is the one avoiding her gaze now, and she feels like she's talking to a wall. “I reckoned that's what you'd say.”

She frowns and takes a sip of her scotch, but is doesn't taste like sadness. It tastes like defeat.

Alex stands up again, setting the scotch on a nearby table and, before she can let the small, logical part of herself convince her otherwise, she pulls Chris up from the chair and wraps her arms around him, burying her face in the crook of his neck. He stiffens for a moment, and she realizes she's never hugged him. He probably doesn't know how to respond.

Finally, he wraps his arms around her, cradling her gently. It's been so long since she's touched anyone that she can barely tolerate the feel of him against her, but she finds herself craving it, as if feeling him there could possibly be enough to remind her that being alive could be worth something.

“I'm so sorry,” she tells him, and she's crying, but she doesn't remember how she started to. “I'm so sorry I let him kill you, Chris.”

“Shh, Boss, it's all right, yeah?” Chris says, and it's a stupid thing to say, because nothing is all right about it at all. Alex wants to let him know that, let him know he has every right to hate her for even putting him in this position to begin with. As much as logic would say otherwise, Alex still blames herself for every moment of Chris' suffering.

But she doesn't have time to speak, because Chris' whisper in her ear has turned into a kiss on her neck. She's the one that stiffens this time, because she doesn't know what the hell he is doing, but never in her time at CID had she ever thought what it would be like to have Chris' lips pressed against any part of her body.

What scares her most is that she likes it.

**

Chris has never been any good with birds. Even Shaz is a challenge to him, continually, but he had always thought it was a good thing. It wasn't as if she'd been the first bird he'd been with, but she was the first one that had really mattered.

Until the moment he holds Alex Drake in his arms, and suddenly she's the one that matters. And she's crying, which is shit because it's bad enough talking to a bird, much less one that gets all hysterical. So it seems right to kiss her, just once. Just one kiss to let her know he's still there for her.

And once he does, it seems right to not stop.

He pulls away and kisses her again, this time full on the lips, and she tastes like wine and scotch and tears, but he thinks if he kisses her long enough, maybe she'll stop screaming. Maybe she'll stop haunting his hall. Maybe she'll let him sleep.

Maybe she'll forgive him, if he lets her know how much everything hurts him, too.

It doesn't stop at kissing, because a bird is a bird and Chris is a man, and he knows what he really came to her room for. His hands are running over her body desperately, and they're both pulling at clothes and moaning into each others mouths, and it's so much that Chris can even forget how utterly fucked it is that he wants to shag his boss.

He manages, with difficultly, to undo her blouse, and his hands are moving over her breasts, and he thinks for a moment that Ray was right about those. And before long they are unbuttoning trousers and tossing clothes every which way, and Chris is huffing as he trails kisses across her skin, empowered by the glorious realization that he can feel again, and maybe he can make her feel, too.

They're finally completely naked, Chris' mouth pressed against her breast as he tongues her nipple gently, and Drake is heaving breaths, moaning his name like some cheap prossie and it's sort of nice, making her sound like that. He pulls away and cups her bum, pressing the full length of himself against her, and she's peering at him with this look in her eyes that says she wants him more than anything in the world.

Pushing her onto the bed, Chris climbs over her, using every single trick Shaz taught him to, teasing his fingers gently over her skin and towards her centre and, shit, she's so warm against his skin, he can barely stand the ache that's coursing through every fibre of his being.

Sliding his fingers inside of her, she bucks against him and moans again, and he thrusts his fingers in and out of her quickly, his own breaths puffing almost painfully against his already raw throat. Finally, he moves over her, guiding himself into her with an expertise that makes him feel like he's had her a million times before, and now he's fucking her with everything he's ever had. His whole body hurts and aches and his skin is on fire, and Chris is sure it's not supposed to feel like this. Nothing is supposed to feel this real.

Instinct wins over stamina, and once he's inside of her, Chris doesn't last long. He comes against her with muffled groans, and she's not far behind, her muscles clenching around him as she climaxes, her nails digging into his back as she clings to him desperately. What comes from her mouth sounds like a scream, and when he looks down at her, her eyes are wide, shining with tears and something that looks like fear, and Chris' body trembles uncontrollably.

It's as if he's watching her die all over again.

**

She can't remember if Chris has ever seen her cry, but she can't stop now, her sobs wracking her body as she sits at the head of the bed, and she knows she should stop, for his sake.

He's still undressed, a half-smoked cigarette dangling from his lips as he sits as far away on the bed as he can get from her. She can't blame him, really; he probably thinks she's mad, because she probably is. She doesn't really remember what it feels like to be sane anymore.

“We can't tell anyone,” he states, watching her wipe the tears away from her eyes. Chris has a blank stare on his face, like he's a million miles away. “If Shazza finds out...”

“I know, Chris,” Alex sighs. She swallows her sobs, determined to stop her tears.

“The Guv wouldn't be too happy either, knowin-”

“I know, Chris!”

He shuts up, looking away from her, examining an empty space on the wall as if it would suddenly deliver a message on how to fix what they had broken.

“I'm sorry, ma'am, I didn't mean...”

“Don't apologize,” she hisses. “You didn't do anything wrong.”

“Then why won't you stop cryin'?”

If she had an answer, she would give it to him. But she doesn't. All she has is an empty void that can't be filled by sex, or booze, or trust, or love. It's just empty.

“I think you should go,” she finally replies.

Once he's dressed, she's still sitting in bed, staring intently at her duvet. He pauses at the door before he comes back to the bed, standing next to her and running his fingers through her hair so tenderly that Alex thinks her heart could break, if there were any of it that wasn't broken already.

He leaves then, the door shutting hollowly behind him and echoing through the room. Once she musters the strength, she gets out of bed, pouring herself some scotch in the glass she gave Chris because she can't find her own, and she drinks it in one big gulp.

It's only then that she realizes it's not the scotch that tastes of defeat, it's her mouth.

**

She's stopped haunting the halls. Chris still can't sleep, but her screams are fading, and there are times when he almost doesn't hear them at all. He wonders if that bollocks they always say about time healing all wounds is true, but then he thinks time really just makes you forget what wounds are where.

Shaz never suspects anything, because there isn't anything to suspect. He knows he loves Shaz, and he knows it would kill him to lose her. Or it would kill him again, at least.

At night he holds her, staring up at the ceiling, wishing he still believed there was something beyond it, some greater power that would lead him to a salivation better than the one he has designed for himself. He had died and come back to life, and he still feels as lost as ever. Maybe that's what the sick bastard had wanted all along.

Dying, Chris starts to understand, is the easy part. Living's an entirely different matter.


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Cut for length and graphic sexual situations.
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Muse: Alex Drake (featuring Chris Skelton), Ashes to Ashes
Prompt: None, inspired by OOC conversations
Verse: And open verse based after the events in this thread (WARNING: Thread depicts scenes of graphic violence and torture.
Word Count: 17198