Fic: Unknown White Male (1/2), very brown Cortina, dak
Title: Unknown White Male (1/2)
Author: dak
Word Count: 4645 (this part)
Rating: the darkest of brown cortina's, without quite being red (yet)
Warnings: angst, sexual situations, slightly non-con
Pairing: Sam/Warren
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. This is how it happened.
A/N: Soooo, yeah. This is the prequel to The Kept Man. You don't have to have read that, to read this, this being a prequel and all, but it may make you feel better about how this one is going to end. (Hint: It ain't good.) I was going to post this all as one part. Then I realized how long it was going to be, and how I shouldn't off-load that much Sam!torture on the comm at once. Not posting it was helping me procrastinate with the other stuff I'm supposed to be writing, and so, well, I decided two parts would do. Hopefully, part 2 should be up within a week. Erm, please enjoy?
Part 2
But her friend is nowhere to be seen...
Charge to two-hundred joules.
...As she walks through her sunken dream...
Clear.
...To the seat with the clearest view...
Beep. Beep.
...And she’s hooked on the silver screen...
Danger.
Metal. Pain.
...as they ask her to focus on...
Someone was in danger.
Dust. Debris.
A woman was in danger.
Leather. Polyester.
...Sailors fighting in the dance hall...
He leapt to his feet. His head was spinning. Everything was spinning. The world was spinning. The world was different. Somehow... different. A woman was in danger. He hadn’t meant for her to get hurt. Was she hurt? Was it his fault? Where was he? Shit. Who was he?
...Take a look at the lawman...
There was a car. Was it his car? Was something hit with the car? He jogged over to it.
...Wonder if he’ll ever know...
Bowie on an 8-Track. That seemed so...old. The woman. Where was the woman?
“Did you not see the signs?”
He fell back onto the ground, startled by the sudden appearance of the archaic policeman. Why did he think he was archaic? He couldn’t be more than fifty.
“Do you remember what happened, sir?”
“I...what...I...” he started, his voice sounding foreign to his own tongue. “She...”
“She, who, sir?” The bobby rounded the car.
“She...someone...” How could he answer when he was asking himself the same question? He clamored to his feet, again, keeping a safe distance between himself and the police officer. His eyes locked on the ground, afraid of what he might see should he look up, he noticed the tyre tracks in the dirt.
On instinct, (whose he didn’t know), he followed the tracks. They had to be from the Bowie car. Had he been driving that car? If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine himself driving a car. Yet, it must have been a separate, distant memory. In that world, everything was blue and gray, while here the world was tan and brown.
He continued to follow the tracks, ignoring the police officer’s shouts. In front of him stood an embankment of twisted steel, rubbish, and dirt. He must have veered off the road, over the embankment, and into the barren space. Where was the woman? He knew there was a woman, and that she was in danger...and that something was hit.
He scrambled up the steel, not careful of his footing, a recklessness that cost him as his shoe caught on a rusted piece of metal at the top of the makeshift hill. He stumbled down face first, rolling the rest of the way, and landing next to her.
“Oh God.” She was dead. Body bruised. “Oh God.” Body broken. “What did I do?” He knew he shouldn’t, (unintelligible words like “SOCO” ran through his mind), but he reached out and touched her body, fingers searching for a pulse they knew didn’t exist. “What did I do?” He whispered again, unable to take his eyes off her lifeless frame. A woman was in danger, because of him. She was dead, because...
“Oi!”
His head snapped up and his eyes were drawn away from the woman, to the bruiser of a man standing on the opposite side of the small trench.
“What the fuck d’yeh think you’re doin’?”
He fell back from her body. “I’m sorry. I-I didn’t mean--”
The bear-like man stormed over, his beefsteak hands on him in an instant, gripping his collar tightly, and lifting him to his feet.
“It was an accident! My car...I think...I didn’t mean to kill her!” He shouted before the first blow could land.
“What?” The Bear Man stared at him blankly, then started to laugh, still holding him tightly.
“This isn’t a joke!” He snarled, hurt more by the man’s callous reaction than his calloused fingers. “A woman is dead!”
“I can see that,” Bear Man smirked. “And who did it?” He asked in a mocking tone.
“I did, you stupid bastard!” He struggled in the hold. “Now get the bloody hell off me so I can go to the police.”
The smirk instantly disappeared and he felt his own body instantly go cold off the look in the other man’s eyes. “Oh, I don’t think we’ll be doin’ that,” he hissed.
“I have to report this! I have to--” The first punch landed heavily on his jaw, but allowed him to escape Bear Man’s grasp. He spun round, dazed, and attempted to crawl back up the way he’d come down. Bear Man grabbed him by the collar and tried pulling him back, so he wriggled out of the jacket and continued up the side of the trench.
His footing failed him again as he slipped on a shifting piece of concrete and fell backwards, any thoughts of escape wiped away as his head met ground.
*
“...what I say, an’ Mister Warren’ll...”
Shifting.
“...but who is...”
Spinning.
“...in the front seat. What’s...”
Changing. Everything was changing.
“Give it here...”
Everything was wrong.
“Says ‘e’s Sam Tyler, on transfer...”
Tyler. Sam Tyler.
“...move the car over...”
Maybe not everything was wrong.
*
As he slowly came round, all he was aware of was the pounding pain emanating from his battered brain, which he knew wasn’t exactly true since he knew the brain couldn’t actually feel pain. What he didn’t know was why he was bothering to correct his mental alliterations.
“Hello, pet.”
So involved he was with his own over-thought thinking, he hadn’t noticed the older, curly haired man standing above him. He sat up straight on the settee where he had been laid out, and immediately concentrated on his sudden surroundings, wondering if he had ever been here before. Unfortunately, the only thing that was familiar to him in the red room was Bear Man, standing smirking with arms crossed in the corner of the room.
“Where am I?”
The man smiled at his confusion. “What’s your name?”
He hesitated, allowing his own curiosity to overwhelm his desire to tell this man nothing. “Sam. Sam Tyler.” The name rolled easily off his tongue, as if he had said it thousands of times before.
“Where are you from, Sam Tyler?” The man prodded gently, his back still straight, hands clasped behind. Sam didn’t answer. “How old are you?” Sam didn’t answer. “What do you do for a living?” Sam didn’t answer. His frustration over not even knowing the answers himself must have been clearly etched upon his face, as the Curly Haired Man revealed a smirk to rival even Bear Man’s. “Well, Samuel, my man here tells me you’ve been causing a bit of trouble.”
“It was an accident,” he argued.
“Are you so certain?”
He wasn’t. He couldn’t remember, so how could he be?
“Maybe you’d been drinking. Maybe you were high. Maybe it gave you a thrill to run down an innocent woman with your car,” Curly’s voice shifted from soothing to spiteful in only a handful of words.
“No. It wasn’t like that.”
“Can you prove it?”
“Why is it any business of yours?” Sam snapped. “Why don’t you just let me go to the police and sort this out?”
The slap stung, burning his cheek and rattling his still aching head. The shock wore off quickly and he leapt to his feet, landing a hard blow of his own to Curly’s jaw before Bear grabbed his arms and pinned him to the floor. He struggled to shake the hold, but with the large man’s weight fully pressing him into the floor, it was useless. He couldn’t even lift his face from the carpet until Curly grabbed onto his hair and yanked his neck backward.
“Now you listen to me, son,” Curly hissed. “That lovely girl you decided to butcher happened to be my daughter,” he yanked Sam’s head back so much harder, Sam thought he could almost hear his neck cracking. “Now as I see it, you have two options. You can either run off to the coppers and try to explain your vicious attack or,” he relaxed his grip slightly. “You can come work for me and we can put this whole messy business behind us.”
“Piss off,” Sam growled. “I’m going to the police."
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so quick to decide, pet. Did I forget to mention?” He leaned in, whispering so close to Sam’s ear, his lips brushed Sam’s skin as they moved. “I own the police, boy, from PC’s to DCI’s, and if I tell them you murdered her, which you did--”
“I didn’t--” Sam interrupted, and Curly’s free hand wrapped itself around his neck, squeezing gently enough to cut off his protests.
“Which you did,” he repeated. “You’ll be lucky if you even make it to trial, though you would make a lovely corpse.” He began to lightly stroke the side of Sam’s neck with his thumb. “Now, I’m going to give you some time to make your final choice. In the meantime...” Curly dropped both his hands and stood. “Charlie?” Sam was yanked to his feet, but still held firmly in ‘Charlie’s’ grasp. “Put him somewhere nice. The spare room?”
“Yes, sir.”
Sam was pulled down the room, but fought to get out one last question. “Who the hell are you?”
Curly smiled, but gave him no answer, and Charlie dragged him away,
*
The spare room was no more than a disused utility closet. Charlie had tossed him inside and locked the door, and Sam had since been left to his own devices. He paced the small space, desperate to think of any memory, but none were forthcoming. Every time he tried, all he came up with was a blank, empty space.
He knew his name, but what else? He couldn’t think of a birth date, of parents, a profession, a favorite food. He didn’t even know what year it was. He did know he killed that girl. The thought made him shudder and sink to his knees. It had been an accident, though, hadn’t it? Still crouched down, he covered his hands with his ears and shut his eyes, willing the memory to return.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
He didn’t know where the sound was coming from, but it was still there when he moved his hands.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Maybe from somewhere else in the building? Yet, it almost sounded like a heart monitor.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Sam?
He leapt up and fell back against the wall. He covered and uncovered his ears, but the sound was gone now. Maybe it was never there to begin with. He sat back down on the cold concrete and refocused his attention on finding memories that weren’t there.
*
At some point, they had taken his watch. He didn’t remember if he owned a watch, but there was an imprint of a watchband fresh on his wrist, so there must have been one there at some point. With no watch, no clock on the wall, he could only assume he’d been locked in that glorified cupboard for hours. How many, he didn’t know.
What he did know was that his head was pounding and his stomach was beginning to cramp. When was the last time he had eaten? Had it been earlier that day? Late last night? Sam sighed and dropped his head in his hands. As far as he was concerned, there was no last night. No day before. No last year. His life had begun when he’d woken up on that hard, barren ground.
Woken up a murderer. No, accident. It had been accident. Accident. Intentional. Either way the dead girl’s crazed father had him locked in a closet. It was not a situation he preferred to be stuck in.
The door clicked open another minute, (another hour?), later, and it was good ol’ Charlie come to greet him.
“Can I go yet?” Sam asked with heavy exasperation.
Charlie only glowered at Sam, then took a step inside and shut the door behind him. Sam scrambled to his feet, backing away as far as he could.
“She were a good girl,” he sneered, and though he seemed serious, Sam couldn’t help but detect something else in his voice. Joy maybe, or was it laughter? “You have to pay for what you did.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Sam pretended to agree. “Let me go to the police, and I’m sure they’ll make me pay.”
Charlie only moved closer. “Coppers have to play by rules. We don’t.”
Sam had prepared himself for the first blow, and the second, but by the third hard smack to the stomach he was doubled over on the dusty floor, gasping for air. Charlie began to kick him, then. The ribs, the shins, the shoulder, anywhere he could get his shoe to land.
Sam wanted to fight back, but he was much too weakened from the rest of the day’s events to put up a proper defense. Instead, he did the only thing he could, and curled up into a tight ball, protecting his chest, protecting his head, and waited for Charlie to finish.
He didn’t have a watch, or a clock, so he didn’t know when the beating stopped. He didn’t know when he passed out, or when he woke up, or when someone began stroking his hair. As the stroking drew him further into consciousness, Sam began to feel every new cut and bruise, and all the pain that came with those bruises. He moaned weakly and tried to sit up, but was gently held down as the stroking continued.
“There, there, pet,” a lilting brogue filled his ears. “No need to get up quite yet.”
He was shifted onto his back, the slight movement making his head spin. Once the world stopped turning, Sam decided to brave reality and cracked open his eyes. Blurry at first, his vision slowly cleared to bring Curly into focus. The man smiled as he fondled Sam’s hair, a vision of disturbing kindness, one that Sam knew he should not trust, but couldn’t help but feel comforted by.
“Feeling better?” Curly asked softly.
“No,” Sam panted through a split lip.
“You will, son,” he smiled and cocked his head. “You will.” Curly’s hand trailed down from Sam’s head to his cheek, and soft fingers ran over his unbruised skin. “Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are?” He whispered.
Sam felt sick.
“You rest, and I’ll bring some food down later.” Curly lowered his hand further, so that it brushed down Sam’s shirt-covered chest, before he stood and walked slowly out of the room.
“Such a beautiful boy,” was the last thing Sam heard before he slipped back into unconsciousness. He didn’t know if it came from Curly or from inside his head.
*
The peace of dreamless sleep was shattered as Sam was shifted to a sitting position from his recumbent spot on the cold floor.
“Sam? Wake up, Samuel.”
He winced as a hand pressed into his damaged side.
“I’ve brought you something to eat.”
“I want to leave,” Sam whispered, teeth clenched against the pain.
“And where would you go? Besides, I don’t think you’re in any state to be walking around, do you?” Curly smiled, and Sam realized the man hadn’t removed his hand from his tender side. “You should eat. Get your strength back.”
“I’m not hungry,” Sam looked away from the tray of food, knees jerking as his bruises were pressed again. Curly’s eyes had gone dark.
“I do not tolerate liars, boy. Do not take advantage of my hospitality.”
“Hospitality? You’ve locked me in a broom cupboard.” Sam expected a slap. Instead Curly leaned in close, whispering into his ear.
“You haven’t earned the right to go anywhere else, pet.” His hand trailed lower, but Sam turned away.
“Get away from me,” he hissed, and Curly dropped his hands, but not the smirk on his face.
“As you wish,” Curly stood, taking the tray of food with him. “Shout if you need anything, and I’m sure Mr. Edwards will be happy to oblige to your request.”
The door was shut and this time he switched off the light as well. Sam sat alone in the darkness, fighting back the pain.
*
One day in darkness, that’s how long it felt. Maybe it was shorter. Maybe it was longer. The rest allowed the pain from the accident and the beating to ease, yet it was quickly being replaced by hunger and thirst. He had tried several times to open the door, but it was securely locked.
Two days in darkness, and the cold began to get to him. He was still in his dirtied clothes from the accident. One thin shirt, and a pair of trousers that had seen better days. He wrapped his arms around himself and paced the room,desperate to keep warm.
Three days in darkness, and it wasn’t the hunger that hurt, it was the thirst. What he wouldn’t do for just one glass of water. He lacked the energy to continue his pacing, and settled for huddling in a corner. He’d get out of this, somehow. Someone out there must have known who he was. Someone must have been looking for him. Someone must care that he was gone.
The fourth day, he knocked on the door, calling out for his captors. He wasn’t answered immediately, but the door was opened some time later. The light from the hall blinded him as soon as it streamed through the doorway. Sam would have fallen back, if he wasn’t already on the floor.
“You asked to see me?” Curly. Sam still couldn’t open his eyes to see him. “My, you are a sight, poor thing. Look like you could use a drink.” The light for the closet was switched on, and Sam heard the door close, blocking out the harsher light from the corridor. Footsteps crossed the room, and Curly kneeled down next to him. “Would like something to drink, Samuel?”
“Yes,” he whispered through cracked lips.
“Yes, what?”
The man couldn’t be serious. Sam decided not to answer. He heard a sigh and then Curly began to walk away. Could he really last another four days without food or water?
“Please,” he called out. The footsteps stopped. “Yes, please, I’d like some water.” Play pretend. Appease the psychopath. He could do that. To survive, he could do that. His eyes adjusting to the light, he watched as Curly strolled back towards him.
“That’s better,” he smiled. “Now, I’ll get you that glass of water, love, but you need to do something for me first. Well, you need to let me do something first.”
“Alright.” Play pretend. Then he could escape.
“Good. Now, sit up straight.”
Sam struggled to reposition himself against the solid wall.
“Stretch out your legs.”
Sam stilled. Survive. Play pretend. Survive. He let his legs fall.
“Very good. Now,” Curly moved closer. “This is the easy part, Sam. You sit there and let me do all the work.” One hand pet his head, while the other unbuttoned his trousers. Sam had the strength to do nothing as his dark jeans were pulled down to his knees. His pants soon followed, and Sam hadn’t thought the room could get any colder. He shuddered.
“I’ll do all the work this time, love. You just relax.” A warm hand wrapped itself around his limp cock. Sam jerked back. “Shh, shh. Easy,” he whispered as the hand began to move up and down, fisting him gently.
Pretend. Play pretend. Survive. He moaned.
“That’s it. Good boy,” Curly encouraged.
Pretend. He felt himself growing hard. Survive.
“You like that, don’t you?” The pace quickened.
Pretend. It was only a hand-job. He must have had a hand-job before.
“You’re such a lovely boy, Samuel.”
Pretend. He was almost there. Let it happen. Survive.
“Will you come for me, pet?”
Pretend. He did. Survive.
“See?” Curly pulled out a handkerchief and began cleaning his hand. “That wasn’t so difficult, now was it? Would you like your water now?”
“Yes, please.” It was all pretend.
“I’ll have Charlie bring it down for you.” Curly stroked his hair and kissed him on the forehead, before moving towards the door.
“Who...who are you?”
Curly turned, still smiling. “I’m Stephen Warren, your new boss. And it’s 1973, by the way. Just after dinner time. And I’m having you,” he added in a low voice, just before leaving Sam alone again.
Play pretend. Survive. He could do that.
With the little energy he had left, he pulled up his pants and trousers, waiting for the water to come.
*
He knew he was supposed to sip the water, but Sam couldn’t help but down the pitcher Edwards had (nearly) dropped at his feet. Water dribbled down his chin, trickling onto his shirt as he struggled to absorb as much as possible into his dehydrated body.
“Finished?” Charlie sneered, apparently not pleased that Sam was receiving a respite from his torture.
“Nearly,” Sam gasped as he poured himself another glass. “I could use something to eat.”
“Mr. Warren said nowt ‘bout you getting food. Now finish up. Let’s go,” Edwards nodded to the door.
“You’re letting me go?”
“Hardly,” Charlie snorted. “Warren wants yeh to have a nice place to sleep tonight.”
Sam looked around his current room. “Well, I can already tell he has exquisite taste.”
“Better watch your tongue, Tyler,” Charlie warned. “I’ve seen ‘im do much worse for much less than what you’ve done. Hurry it up. Got more important things I need to be doing.”
Sam finished his last glass while keeping an eye on Edwards. Wanting to be out of the man’s presence as soon as possible, he stood up too quickly, the blood draining from his head and nearly taking his consciousness with it. He stumbled against the closest metal shelf.
Beep. Beep. Sam? Beep. Beep. He’s slipping into unconsciousness. Sam? Can you hear me? Beep. Beep.
“Let’s go, killer,” Edwards snarled, grabbing Sam by the elbow and dragging him out and down the hall.
“ ‘M not...” Sam mumbled, trying his best to stay on his feet.
“Yes. You are.” They stopped in front of a closed door. “I were there, remember? I saw it happen,” he grinned as he opened the door and chucked Sam inside. “So, ‘less you want to end up in the canal with a nice extra smile, you better keep Mr. Warren happy. If you know what I mean,” Edwards winked and slammed the door.
Sam staggered back into his new confinement. It wasn’t much bigger than the utility closet, but it had a light switch he could control and a proper bed. A bed. Edwards couldn’t have meant...
The hand-job, it had been a one time thing. He wouldn’t do anything else. No nothing else. Someone would find him before then, if there was a then. Someone was looking for him. Someone cared that he was gone.
He didn’t realize he had fallen asleep until he was woken by Edwards chucking chunks of bread at his face. “Eat that. Mr. Warren’ll be in later.”
“To let me go?” Sam gathered the bread into his lap.
“You really don’t get it, do you?” Charlie shook his head.
“I get that what you’re doing is illegal, holding a man against his will.”
“Well, don’t worry about that. Your will, will change soon enough.”
Sam hungrily bit into the meager food as soon as Edwards was gone. He’d just been baiting Sam. Sam would always want to leave. Nothing would ever change that.
*
“Hello, Samuel.”
“Warren.”
“Mister Warren,” he warned as he crossed the room to Sam’s bed.
“Mr. Warren,” Sam corrected himself, though he didn’t know why. It just seemed easier. It did make Warren smile.
“You’re looking a bit better.”
“Food and water tend to do that,” Sam quipped.
“Well, don’t make me punish you again.” Warren sat down on the edge of the bed. “I’ve brought you some proper tea. I hope you like shepherd’s pie.”
Sam didn’t know if he liked shepherd’s pie.
“What’s wrong, pet?” Warren almost sounded concerned.
“Nothing. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I need you to do something for me first.”
Sam instinctively tucked his legs closer to his chest. If Warren noticed, he said nothing.
“I know you must be tired, but it’s very simple. Come here. Don’t be scared.”
“I’m not scared of you,” Sam snapped, and Warren’s smile deepened.
“Good,” he nodded and stood up. “Very good.” He began unbuckling his belt. “Have you ever sucked a man off before, Samuel?”
“I don’t...” Sam stammered. No. Nothing else. He wasn’t going to do anything else.
“A pretty, little mouth like yours must get loads of cock.” The belt was gone. The zip was being pulled down.
“I don’t want to do that.” His voice came out more unsure than he would have liked, but that didn’t matter because he knew he wasn’t going to do this.
“I thought you said you were hungry?” Warren stood there, fully exposed and half-erect before him. “I’m trusting you to do this, Sam,” he smiled, stroking himself. “Can’t you try to trust me?” I’ll get you that nice, hot meal afterwards. Don’t you want that?”
“I want to go home.”
Warren stopped his personal ministrations. “Alright, Sam. We’ll make a deal. You tell me where home is, no lies, and I’ll let you go right now. How does that sound?”
He had to know. He had to know where home was. If he thought hard enough, it would come to him.
“Remember, you can’t lie to me, Samuel.”
Home. He had to know where home was, didn’t he? Sam crawled off the bed and stepped in front of Warren. They stood toe to toe, eye to eye, and Sam opened his mouth. He took a deep breath, opened his mouth, and knelt down at Warren’s feet. He couldn’t remember home, but at least this way he’d get something to eat. He wouldn’t last much longer on bread and water. Survive. He had to survive.
His hands were shaking as he placed them on Warren’s hips. His heart was racing as he tentatively placed the elder man’s penis inside his mouth. It was warm, with an almost salty taste, and Sam fought back the urge to vomit on the spot.
“Don’t be shy.” Warren’s words drifted down from above as he placed a firm hand on the back of Sam’s head, pushing himself in further.
Sam nearly gagged and had to start sucking to prevent himself from choking. Survive. He had to do this to survive.
“A little deeper,” Warren whispered, his voice hitching slightly. Sam wanted to control his own movements, so he did as Warren asked before he could be shoved forward again. He ignored the moans emanating from above, focusing solely on the task. Warren was right. It wasn’t so hard. Suck gently. Hollow his cheeks once or twice. Pull back. Push forward. Forget what was happening. Survive.
He felt Warren still and knew what was to come. Sam tried to pull away, but Warren’s firm hand held his mouth in place as he ejaculated, the sticky sourness coating his tongue and the back of his throat. He swallowed it down quickly, hoping to get rid of it as soon as possible. Already, Sam could feel his stomach reacting fiercely against the mess.
Warren decided to let go, and Sam fell back, supporting himself with the hands which had just been on Warren’s warm hips. “Thank you, Sam,” Warren cooed as he tucked himself away. “I do believe you’ve earned that meal.” He leaned over and ruffled Sam’s hair before leaving him alone in the room, a plate of food following soon after.
The worst part, Sam decided as he tucked into his first real meal in days, was that with each bite, he was discovering that he didn’t much like shepherd’s pie at all.
_________
Part 2