Fic: The Kept Man (35/40), brown cortina, dakfinv
Title: The Kept Man (35/40)
Author: dak
Word Count: 1725 this part; [65,023overall]
Rating: brown cortina
Warnings: angst, sexual situations, swearing
Spoilers: 1.04, 1.05, 1.07, 2.08
Pairing: Sam/Warren, Sam/Gene
Summary: AU. Sam woke up with amnesia when he landed in 1973, able to only remember his name, and ended up in the grasp of Stephen Warren. When he and Gene Hunt finally cross paths it starts a chain of events that will either save Sam or damn him.
A/N: From an idea from talcat given via culf . Please enjoy!
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21 Part 22 Part 23 Part 24 Part 25 Part 26 Part 27 Part 28 Part 29 Part 30 Part 31 Part 32 Part 33 Part 34 Part 35 Part 36 Part 37 Part 38 Part 39 Part 40
Gene hadn’t been able to react in time. Partly because he wasn’t expecting it, partly because Sam was too quick. One second he was standing in the hall, listening to Edwards spew his bile, the next he was on him, ripping him from the arms of the officers and chucking him to the floor. He hadn’t said anything, only held his victim down with his legs and began beating the shit out of him.
Punch after punch after punch. Edwards shouted for help, until he couldn’t shout at all. Everyone was too stunned by the DI’s outburst to do anything at all. Even Gene was frozen for a few seconds. This wasn’t a man, it was pure, choleric fury. Once Gene was finally able to register what was happening, he ran forward and latched himself onto Tyler, earning an elbow to the gut for his troubles. He kept trying to hang on, calling Sam’s name, desperate to calm him, but nothing seemed to reach Tyler’s ears.
Gene was eventually able to hook his arms under Sam’s shoulders and hoist him off Edwards. Ray and another officer dragged the suspect to safety, while Gene kept hold of the struggling Tyler. It was like trying to maintain a grip on a wild, rabid Alsatian. The Guv had no choice but to press his elbow into Sam’s injured side, squeezing the still broken rib.
Sam flinched and fell to his knees. Confident he wouldn’t take off again, Gene loosened his grip and knelt to face Sam, but Sam wasn’t home. Hunt called his name, snapped his fingers, but nothing earned him a response. As more people began to crowd and stare, Gene carefully lifted the limp man to his feet and guided him to his office, after which he was immediately called to a meeting with Rathbone.
Now he was back, and Tyler was finally responsive. He looked down at the trembling man. All he could see was confusion and fear. He crossed his office without a word, practically collapsing in his desk chair. Sam’s eyes followed his every movement. He was waiting. Waiting for his punishment. Waiting to be hollered at, screamed at. Chided, debased, humiliated. Anything Warren would have done to discipline him.
“You probably shouldn’t have done that,” Gene announced in calm seriousness.
Sam looked from Gene to his shredded knuckles. “I’m not sure what I did,” he whispered.
“Let’s just say Charlie Edwards will need to eat through a straw for awhile,” Gene kept his voice low and even.
Sam choked back a sob and dropped his head into his sore hands. “Everyone knows now, don’t they?” His voice was wavering. “Everyone knows I’m Warren’s whore.”
“Were,” Gene sternly corrected. “And not by choice. As for that lot? Right now all they know is Edwards ran his gob at the bloke that killed his boss, and paid for it. Ain’t a man out there that doesn’t think Charlie only got what were comin’ to him.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
Gene wanted to agree with Sam, but couldn’t help remembering every time he’d beaten a suspect, and knew he’d only be a hypocrite if he did. “The Super wants you to take time off, until all this mess with Warren is sorted.”
“I don’t think it’ll ever be,” Sam admitted.
“I’ll make sure it is,” Gene promised. The silence between them filled the room. Sam stared at his stilling hands, while Gene focused his attention on the chip in his desk. Someone accidentally kicked one of the wastepaper bins out in the bullpen. The sudden, piercing noise kicked Gene into action. “PC Cartwright will take you home. She’ll stay, if you want her to.”
“I want to go home,” Sam rubbed his fingers over the new scars on his hands. “All I want to do his go home, but I can’t. I’ll never be free of this place.”
Gene shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Let Cartwright take you back to the flat. I can come round later. Bring us some takeaway.”
Sam heard him, but didn’t respond. Whatever was going on inside his mess of a brain must have been more interesting than anything Gene had to say.
“I’ll get Cartwright,” Gene rose from his desk.
“Beating up the wrong guy,” he thought he heard Sam mutter.
“What?”
There was no answer as Sam fell silent once more.
“I’ll get Cartwright.”
*
There had to be something wrong with his brain. Why else had it cooked up such a horridly realistic labyrinth like this caricature of 1973? If he needed to solve a puzzle to escape his coma confinement, why couldn’t it have been something simple, something less violent. Like being trapped in a four-walled room with a Rubik’s Cube?
Maybe he had seen too much violence as an officer. Maybe all those traumatic instances he refused to discuss had stored themselves in the back of his mind, suddenly given free reign while his body lay useless and immobile in his hospital bed.
There had to be a reason. He couldn’t begin to understand why this was happening unless there was a reason. He had never, and would never, use unnecessary force against a suspect. He preferred the finesse of mind games to the brutality of fists. He looked at his hands. At least he thought that’s what he preferred.
He was still changing. This imaginary world was still changing him and he had to get out. He had to get home before it was too late.
“We’re here, Sam,” Annie said as she pulled the car into a parking spot. “We’re home.”
Oh, but he wasn’t home. He was so far from home, he couldn’t even see the path to get back. Maybe he should have dropped bread crumbs.
“The Guv wanted me to come in with you.”
Sam exited the car, letting Annie do what she pleased. Taking his silence as consent, she followed him up to the flat. He left the door swinging open after he entered, allowing her to follow and close it behind them. Once inside, he immediately entered the bathroom, shutting her out as he slammed the door. He paced frantically a few seconds before collapsing on the toilet and weeping silently.
“Sam?” Annie called through the door. “I...I think you should talk to someone. You’ve been under a lot of stress, with the undercover operation, the amnesia, the...the shooting. Maybe you should get some help.”
Any help he sought would land him with a tight jacket, in a padded room. After everything his mind had already put him through, he wouldn’t put it past himself.
“I have a friend from University. Neil. We did psychology together. He...he practices psychiatry now. I’m sure he’d be willing to come talk to you. To listen to you.”
Seventies psychiatry. Yes, that’s all he needed. First a therapist, then electroshock and lobotomies. Actually, a lobotomy almost sounded like good idea right then.
“I’ll wait here until the Guv arrives, alright? Sam?...Let me know if you need anything.” He heard her back away from the door and wander around the room, before the sound of the radio drowned out her footsteps.
Sam listened, with a brief surge of hope, as the sounds of David Cassidy were drowned out by the words of someone else.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Sam was doing as well as could be expected following the surgery. However, we’re still awaiting the test results on the tumor.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
What are the odds on him making a full recovery?
Beep. Beep. Beep.
He’s still in a very fragile state right now. I’d say it is still possible, but it’s much too soon to make any solid predictions as to his recovery. I think it will be up to Sam. If he stays strong, if he keeps fighting, there’s always hope.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
“Yeah. Sure. Fight,” Sam laughed sardonically, as the tears slowed. “Mind telling me what I’m supposed to be fighting?”
David Cassidy didn’t give him an answer.
“That’s what I thought,” he sighed and closed his eyes, wondering if it was worth it to find the courage to leave the bathroom.
*
Edwards’ mangled face resembled something close to ground up, raw burger meat. One eye was completely swollen shut, his nose was broken and bandaged, and in addition to the multiple red bruises covering his cheeks, when he spoke he revealed at least two missing teeth.
Still, he managed to maintain an aura of smug invulnerability which made Gene want to slap him a few times more. He had decided to do this interrogation alone. No one would see him and he doubted anyone would notice a few more bruises.
“So, Mr. Hunt,” he spoke through swollen lips. “Did the little tart let you fuck ‘im, too?”
No. No one would notice that brutal backhanded slap. Edwards wiped the fresh blood from his lips.
“You are talking about a senior police officer,” Gene snarled.
“Oh, I know. Known longer than you, Mr. Hunt.” Even with his damaged mouth, Edwards could still smirk. “So did Warren. What? You think ‘e din’t know?”
No. Gene hadn’t thought anyone knew, not until they found his transfer papers at the site.
“Not as dumb as I look, Mr. Hunt. Read those papers in Tyler’s car ‘fore I took ‘im in. Why d’you think Warren had so much fun breakin’ ‘im in? He’d had coppers before, but never owned one quite like that. Sam was so willing to learn, too. So eager to be owned by ‘im. How could Warren resist?”
No one would notice a second slap.
“The contents of Warren’s safe. Where are they?”
“You don’ even know what they were, do yeh? Most of it wouldn’t interest you, Mr. Hunt. The stuff that would, why, it’s already in the hands of the police, sir.”
“Who?”
“Most of it meant nowt to anyone but Warren, but there were a few things, a few photographs, I thought the police might find interesting.”
“Who did you give them to?”
“Well, it’s nothing that concerns you, Mr. Hunt. Just a few pretty pictures of Detective Inspector Tyler, or is it Williams, in some interesting positions, I thought might interest that DCI Morgan.”
They would notice the third punch, it having left Edwards unconscious and all. Gene couldn’t particularly bring himself to care.
______
Part 36
Author: dak
Word Count: 1725 this part; [65,023overall]
Rating: brown cortina
Warnings: angst, sexual situations, swearing
Spoilers: 1.04, 1.05, 1.07, 2.08
Pairing: Sam/Warren, Sam/Gene
Summary: AU. Sam woke up with amnesia when he landed in 1973, able to only remember his name, and ended up in the grasp of Stephen Warren. When he and Gene Hunt finally cross paths it starts a chain of events that will either save Sam or damn him.
A/N: From an idea from talcat given via culf . Please enjoy!
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21 Part 22 Part 23 Part 24 Part 25 Part 26 Part 27 Part 28 Part 29 Part 30 Part 31 Part 32 Part 33 Part 34 Part 35 Part 36 Part 37 Part 38 Part 39 Part 40
Gene hadn’t been able to react in time. Partly because he wasn’t expecting it, partly because Sam was too quick. One second he was standing in the hall, listening to Edwards spew his bile, the next he was on him, ripping him from the arms of the officers and chucking him to the floor. He hadn’t said anything, only held his victim down with his legs and began beating the shit out of him.
Punch after punch after punch. Edwards shouted for help, until he couldn’t shout at all. Everyone was too stunned by the DI’s outburst to do anything at all. Even Gene was frozen for a few seconds. This wasn’t a man, it was pure, choleric fury. Once Gene was finally able to register what was happening, he ran forward and latched himself onto Tyler, earning an elbow to the gut for his troubles. He kept trying to hang on, calling Sam’s name, desperate to calm him, but nothing seemed to reach Tyler’s ears.
Gene was eventually able to hook his arms under Sam’s shoulders and hoist him off Edwards. Ray and another officer dragged the suspect to safety, while Gene kept hold of the struggling Tyler. It was like trying to maintain a grip on a wild, rabid Alsatian. The Guv had no choice but to press his elbow into Sam’s injured side, squeezing the still broken rib.
Sam flinched and fell to his knees. Confident he wouldn’t take off again, Gene loosened his grip and knelt to face Sam, but Sam wasn’t home. Hunt called his name, snapped his fingers, but nothing earned him a response. As more people began to crowd and stare, Gene carefully lifted the limp man to his feet and guided him to his office, after which he was immediately called to a meeting with Rathbone.
Now he was back, and Tyler was finally responsive. He looked down at the trembling man. All he could see was confusion and fear. He crossed his office without a word, practically collapsing in his desk chair. Sam’s eyes followed his every movement. He was waiting. Waiting for his punishment. Waiting to be hollered at, screamed at. Chided, debased, humiliated. Anything Warren would have done to discipline him.
“You probably shouldn’t have done that,” Gene announced in calm seriousness.
Sam looked from Gene to his shredded knuckles. “I’m not sure what I did,” he whispered.
“Let’s just say Charlie Edwards will need to eat through a straw for awhile,” Gene kept his voice low and even.
Sam choked back a sob and dropped his head into his sore hands. “Everyone knows now, don’t they?” His voice was wavering. “Everyone knows I’m Warren’s whore.”
“Were,” Gene sternly corrected. “And not by choice. As for that lot? Right now all they know is Edwards ran his gob at the bloke that killed his boss, and paid for it. Ain’t a man out there that doesn’t think Charlie only got what were comin’ to him.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
Gene wanted to agree with Sam, but couldn’t help remembering every time he’d beaten a suspect, and knew he’d only be a hypocrite if he did. “The Super wants you to take time off, until all this mess with Warren is sorted.”
“I don’t think it’ll ever be,” Sam admitted.
“I’ll make sure it is,” Gene promised. The silence between them filled the room. Sam stared at his stilling hands, while Gene focused his attention on the chip in his desk. Someone accidentally kicked one of the wastepaper bins out in the bullpen. The sudden, piercing noise kicked Gene into action. “PC Cartwright will take you home. She’ll stay, if you want her to.”
“I want to go home,” Sam rubbed his fingers over the new scars on his hands. “All I want to do his go home, but I can’t. I’ll never be free of this place.”
Gene shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Let Cartwright take you back to the flat. I can come round later. Bring us some takeaway.”
Sam heard him, but didn’t respond. Whatever was going on inside his mess of a brain must have been more interesting than anything Gene had to say.
“I’ll get Cartwright,” Gene rose from his desk.
“Beating up the wrong guy,” he thought he heard Sam mutter.
“What?”
There was no answer as Sam fell silent once more.
“I’ll get Cartwright.”
*
There had to be something wrong with his brain. Why else had it cooked up such a horridly realistic labyrinth like this caricature of 1973? If he needed to solve a puzzle to escape his coma confinement, why couldn’t it have been something simple, something less violent. Like being trapped in a four-walled room with a Rubik’s Cube?
Maybe he had seen too much violence as an officer. Maybe all those traumatic instances he refused to discuss had stored themselves in the back of his mind, suddenly given free reign while his body lay useless and immobile in his hospital bed.
There had to be a reason. He couldn’t begin to understand why this was happening unless there was a reason. He had never, and would never, use unnecessary force against a suspect. He preferred the finesse of mind games to the brutality of fists. He looked at his hands. At least he thought that’s what he preferred.
He was still changing. This imaginary world was still changing him and he had to get out. He had to get home before it was too late.
“We’re here, Sam,” Annie said as she pulled the car into a parking spot. “We’re home.”
Oh, but he wasn’t home. He was so far from home, he couldn’t even see the path to get back. Maybe he should have dropped bread crumbs.
“The Guv wanted me to come in with you.”
Sam exited the car, letting Annie do what she pleased. Taking his silence as consent, she followed him up to the flat. He left the door swinging open after he entered, allowing her to follow and close it behind them. Once inside, he immediately entered the bathroom, shutting her out as he slammed the door. He paced frantically a few seconds before collapsing on the toilet and weeping silently.
“Sam?” Annie called through the door. “I...I think you should talk to someone. You’ve been under a lot of stress, with the undercover operation, the amnesia, the...the shooting. Maybe you should get some help.”
Any help he sought would land him with a tight jacket, in a padded room. After everything his mind had already put him through, he wouldn’t put it past himself.
“I have a friend from University. Neil. We did psychology together. He...he practices psychiatry now. I’m sure he’d be willing to come talk to you. To listen to you.”
Seventies psychiatry. Yes, that’s all he needed. First a therapist, then electroshock and lobotomies. Actually, a lobotomy almost sounded like good idea right then.
“I’ll wait here until the Guv arrives, alright? Sam?...Let me know if you need anything.” He heard her back away from the door and wander around the room, before the sound of the radio drowned out her footsteps.
Sam listened, with a brief surge of hope, as the sounds of David Cassidy were drowned out by the words of someone else.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Sam was doing as well as could be expected following the surgery. However, we’re still awaiting the test results on the tumor.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
What are the odds on him making a full recovery?
Beep. Beep. Beep.
He’s still in a very fragile state right now. I’d say it is still possible, but it’s much too soon to make any solid predictions as to his recovery. I think it will be up to Sam. If he stays strong, if he keeps fighting, there’s always hope.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
“Yeah. Sure. Fight,” Sam laughed sardonically, as the tears slowed. “Mind telling me what I’m supposed to be fighting?”
David Cassidy didn’t give him an answer.
“That’s what I thought,” he sighed and closed his eyes, wondering if it was worth it to find the courage to leave the bathroom.
*
Edwards’ mangled face resembled something close to ground up, raw burger meat. One eye was completely swollen shut, his nose was broken and bandaged, and in addition to the multiple red bruises covering his cheeks, when he spoke he revealed at least two missing teeth.
Still, he managed to maintain an aura of smug invulnerability which made Gene want to slap him a few times more. He had decided to do this interrogation alone. No one would see him and he doubted anyone would notice a few more bruises.
“So, Mr. Hunt,” he spoke through swollen lips. “Did the little tart let you fuck ‘im, too?”
No. No one would notice that brutal backhanded slap. Edwards wiped the fresh blood from his lips.
“You are talking about a senior police officer,” Gene snarled.
“Oh, I know. Known longer than you, Mr. Hunt.” Even with his damaged mouth, Edwards could still smirk. “So did Warren. What? You think ‘e din’t know?”
No. Gene hadn’t thought anyone knew, not until they found his transfer papers at the site.
“Not as dumb as I look, Mr. Hunt. Read those papers in Tyler’s car ‘fore I took ‘im in. Why d’you think Warren had so much fun breakin’ ‘im in? He’d had coppers before, but never owned one quite like that. Sam was so willing to learn, too. So eager to be owned by ‘im. How could Warren resist?”
No one would notice a second slap.
“The contents of Warren’s safe. Where are they?”
“You don’ even know what they were, do yeh? Most of it wouldn’t interest you, Mr. Hunt. The stuff that would, why, it’s already in the hands of the police, sir.”
“Who?”
“Most of it meant nowt to anyone but Warren, but there were a few things, a few photographs, I thought the police might find interesting.”
“Who did you give them to?”
“Well, it’s nothing that concerns you, Mr. Hunt. Just a few pretty pictures of Detective Inspector Tyler, or is it Williams, in some interesting positions, I thought might interest that DCI Morgan.”
They would notice the third punch, it having left Edwards unconscious and all. Gene couldn’t particularly bring himself to care.
______
Part 36