Fic: Gray Matter (2/4), green cortina, dak and culf
Title: Gray Matter (2/4)
Authors: dak and culf
Word Count: 2267 this part, 7405 overall so far
Rating: green cortina
Warnings: angst, a bit of slighly disturbing imagery
Spoilers: set after 2.08
Pairing: Sam/Gene
A/N: So, this fic is becoming longer than I expected. No, that's never happened to me before. Not ever...(Culf! You were supposed to help keep this short!) Oh, and some parts of Richard Hammond's life are blatantly stolen and used here.
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4
He loved cottage pie. Shepherd’s pie, not so much, but cottage pie, it was delicious. He thought he could eat it every day, even if it was the hospital version. The logical part of him knew that he would probably tire of it if he did eat it that often. Then again, there was that one time in the Academy where it had been all he was eating for at least a week, though that had been on a dare.
“Alright, Mr. Tyler. What would you like for tea, today?” The nurse smiled and fluffed his pillows.
“Could I get the cottage pie, please?” He asked politely as he handed back the menu. He saw her face drop briefly before she plastered a smile back on.
“Are you sure? Wouldn’t you like to try something diff...something else? What about the vegetable soup? I hear it’s lovely.”
“Maybe tomorrow. I’d like to stick with the pie, today,” he smiled and scratched his head.
“Alright, sir. If that’s what you’d like,” she replied tersely. “Cottage pie, every bloody day,” she grumbled under her breath. “Going to give himself a vitamin deficiency...”
Sam picked up the new crossword he had by his bed, surprised to see that someone had already begun filling in the answers. He sighed and started on the next clue, wondering what time someone from the station would visit him today. He slowly set the crossword down. When was the last time someone from the station had come to visit?
*
“What would you like this fine evening, mon brave?”
“Whisky, Nelson. Leave the bottle,” Gene grumbled as he thumped down onto a bar stool.
“Sam as last night, then. And the night before that. And the night before that, if I recall,” the barman eyed him carefully.
“Why’d you even bother askin’ then?” he huffed, becoming impatient over his lack of alcohol.
“Sure you wouldn’t like something else to ease your troubles?” Nelson sagely asked, still polishing the glass in his hands.
“My only trouble is that there isn’t a whisky in me hand. Believe you should have no trouble fixin’ that.”
“You been to see Sam, today?” Nelson inquired casually as he slowly retrieved the bottle and a glass.
“Would’ve, if the scum round here weren’t keeping me busier than a prozzie on a sailin’ ship,” he grabbed the bottle out of Nelson’s hand and started pouring himself his first glass.
“When is the last time you saw him?” Nelson asked sternly. Gene declined to answer that question.
“Maybe tomorrow,” he muttered into his tumbler. “Tonight, I’ll stick with this,” he toasted no one and poured the drink down his throat.
“No man should be left on his own,” Nelson commented off-handedly.
“He should at least be privy to some privacy in his own pub,” Gene argued back.
“This is my pub, Mr. Hunt,” Nelson reprimanded him. “And it wouldn’t do to forget that, sir.”
Gene swiped the bottle off the bar and relocated himself to a corner of the pub - the corner he and Sam always sat in together. His and Sam’s corner. He moved to the other side of the room.
*
“What can you remember about the accident, Mr. Tyler?”
“There was an accident?” Sam asked. He honestly didn’t know.
The DS across from him sighed in frustration.
“I told you, DS Turner, with the head trauma he sustained, I don’t know how much he’ll be able to tell you,” the doctor intervened on Sam’s behalf.
“I’m only tryin’ to figure out what happened, Dr. Mitchum,” DS Turner argued.
“I know,” Sam cut in. “I want to help you find the truth. I understand how frustrating it can be when a witness is uncooperative.”
“You’re a DI, aren’t you?” Turner read back through his notes. “Manchester. Lancashire Constabulary.”
“That’s correct,” Sam nodded.
“DS Turner, I need to remind you Mr. Tyler has a short term memory of only ten minutes, at present. You have about another six before you need to start this entire conversation over,” Dr. Mitchum informed them.
“I have what?” Sam asked, turning his attention to the doctor.
“DI Tyler.”
Sam’s head snapped back to the officer. Why did there have to be so much going on around him at once?”
“Do you remember why you came to Blackpool? Were you on holiday?”
“I never take a holiday,” Sam shook his head.
You need some time off.
“DI Tyler?”
Sorry?
“Sorry,” Sam blinked the clouds from his brain.
“Were you pursuing a suspect, maybe? Or following up a lead?”
“Maybe,” he tried to remember. He could picture a club, but he knew it was the wrong club. It was a club Maya had taken him to. A club in Manchester. A club that didn’t even exist yet.
“Were you at The Wave for business or pleasure?”
Summit must be wrong, if you can’t...
“The what?” His palms were sweating.
“Please focus, DI Tyler.”
How could he focus when there were so many moving parts? He was trying to think but there were so many foggy memories to choose from. “Why does it matter?” he moaned, failing to fight a headache.
Why does it matter?
Well, not normal is it. Not for you.
You mean, you think I need time off from you.
Christ! You’re impossible.
“DI Tyler. Can you tell me what happened in that club?”
“I don’t remember any club!” Sam yelled in frustration.
You think I need space? Fine. In fact, why don’t avoid the station as well?
Fine. You’ve got some holiday. Take it.
Oh, so it’s that easy for you to be rid of me. Doesn’t matter if you leave or I leave...
“Just so long as we’re apart,” Sam whispered.
“DI Tyler?”
“Sorry?” Sam looked up to see a lanky fellow in a suit sitting by his bed. “Can I help you?”
The man appeared confused and flustered at the question.
“Sam,” a doctor was standing on his right. “I’m Dr. Mitchum. This is DS Turner from the local police station. He’d like to ask you a few questions about the accident.”
“There was an accident?” His eyes went wide.
“Bloody hell,” the detective rose. “I ain’t got time for this. He remembers anything, you call us.” The man shook his head and left the room.
“Is everyone alright?” Sam asked the doctor.
“Sam. You’re in Blackpool. You were in a building when it collapsed and suffered a major head injury.”
Sam tenderly felt the side of his head as he took in his surroundings.
“You’ve been here for two weeks. Though your short term memory has been improving, it is still very limited. We’ve had this conversation several times.”
He could tell from the rehearsed nature of the doctor’s voice that he was most likely telling the truth.
You need some time.
Time for what? Gene?
Just time, Tyler. Time away.
“Has...have I had any visitors today?” He asked quietly.
“No, Sam,” the doctor sighed. “I’m afraid not. No one’s come to see you for quite some time, actually,” he added cautiously.
Just so long as we’re apart!
“No,” he rested his head back against the pillow. “I guess no one would.”
*
The rain had stopped, if it had ever started. He couldn’t remember. The window was wet, though, so it must have been raining at some point. Dr. Mitchum had told him he could be transferred to a hospital in Manchester soon, if he wanted. He remembered that because he had only been told five minutes ago.
There was a permanent pad of notes next to his bed now, explaining to him what had happened. He couldn’t remember writing them, but it was all in his handwriting, so he believed it. He added new information every time it was told to him. He stared at the scribble “go back to Manchester?,” then looked at the page where he’d been keeping track of visitors. (There was an arrow on the front page to show him the way.) Today, besides nurses and the doctor, there had been no one. Same as yesterday, and the day before when he had assumed he had started keeping track.
He frowned and set the notepad down. He knew he’d like to go back to Manchester, but there was something holding him back. Was it fear? Or anger? Or regret? He couldn’t tell because he couldn’t remember. Some days, Sam Tyler truly hated his brain.
He tapped his fingers on his leg. Something was missing. Someone was missing. If he only thought hard enough...
“I know where to find him,” said a cheery, young voice.
Sam looked to his left to see a small child smiling up at him. She looked familiar but he couldn’t quite place her.
“I’m sorry. Are you lost?” He asked with concern.
“I know who you’re looking for, Sam. I can take you to him, if you like.
“How do you...have you been looking at my chart?” He looked around the room and tried to peek into the hall to find the owner of the child.
“He’s not here. He’s never here, is he? But I know where you can find him. All you have to do is follow me,” she walked so softly, it was almost as if she glided to the door.
“Wait!” He threw back his sheet. “You shouldn’t be wandering round the hospital. Where are you parents?”
She cocked her head to the side. “Sam’s so lost and Sam’s so scared. Sam knows he will never care.”
You need some time, Sam.
Just so long as we’re apart!
“Gene. Do you mean Gene?”
“So much hate and much distrust. He packs that in to every thrust.”
Sam? What’s the problem?
“That is inappropriate language for such a little girl,” Sam scolded, his hands suddenly shaking. Couldn’t her parents come and take her?
“Good-bye Sam and good-bye world. He hates you cry like a little girl,” she sneered.
“Good-bye...is something wrong? Is Gene in danger?” Sam winced as he pulled the IV out of his hand.
She turned and slid out of the room.
“Wait. Take me to him! Wait.” Surprised to find that he was fully dressed, right down to his cuban heels and leather jacket, Sam hobbled after her, leaving the hospital behind.
*
“Guv, there’s this bloke here what wants to see yeh,” Chris mumbled from Hunt’s office doorway.
“Told you to give those charity buskers the boot,” Gene growled, pretending not to be thinking about Sam.
Chris ducked out of the doorway, then popped his head back. “Says he ain’t here for no collection, Guv.”
“Then what is he here for, Christopher?” Gene sighed and leant back, crossing his arms.
Chris disappeared again, then reappeared a second later. “Says he’s a DS from Blackpool, here about that pier thingie,” he ended nervously, not pretending not to be thinking about Sam.
“Send in him,” Gene tensed.
A few seconds later, a tall, lanky man ducked through the doorway and entered the office. “Sir, my name’s DS Turner--”
“What do you want?” Hunt glared, boring his eyes into the Sergeant’s thin face.
“I’m investigating the pier collapse in Blackpool, from a few weeks ago. I’m sure you know of it, seeing’s how one of your officers was there.”
“And?”
“May I?” Turner motioned to the spare chair across from Gene’s desk. Sam’s chair.
“No,” he answered, his gaze unwavering.
Turner nervously readjusted his posture. “Well, sir, I’ve tried to interview DI Tyler as to what happened and why he was there, but his memory’s a bit...” he tried to be respectful.
“He’s a few partridge’s short of a pear tree. Why’s it so important what Tyler remembers?”
“DCI Hunt, DI Tyler wasn’t the only officer injured when that pier fell. One of the bodies recovered has recently been identified as DI Charles Bowman.”
“Take it he’s not one of yours,” Gene leant forward and folded his hands.
“No, sir. And according to his station, he was not cleared for any holiday or undercover operation. There wasn’t any on record reason as to why he should’ve been there. When his superior officer learned of Mr. Tyler’s presence there, he suggested that Tyler may have been to blame for DI Bowman’s...” Turner checked his notes. “’Rogue behavior,’ as he put it.”
“And who would this ‘superior officer’ be? Where’s this Bow-bloke from?”
Turner consulted with his notebook again. “Hyde, sir. He was, until his death, acting Detective Inspector of C-Division in Hyde, under DCI Frank Morgan.”
Gene’s blood had never turned to ice so quickly.
*
He felt like he’d been walking for miles. “How much further is it?” he gasped, grasping his sore side. His fingers felt damp and he hoped he hadn’t pulled his stitches.
“Not much further,” she smiled. “You really must learn to keep up, Sam, or you’ll never reach him in time.”
The ground was damp underneath his feet, the recent heavy rain soaking through his shoes.
“I’m trying but slow down. You’re going too fast,” he wheezed as he tried to jog up to her.
“Not much time, Sam. And he’ll be so disappointed if you don’t come. You didn’t, did you? The last time you let him inside. Poor Sammy. Lost in the forest without any wood,” she giggled and skipped ahead.
“Bitch,” he cursed under his breath, wanting to get closer just to throttle her.
“Hurry Sam, or you’ll be too late!” She beckoned him through the deserted streets and alleyways so that no one would notice the pale man in the hospital gown running through the city in bare feet.
________
Part 3