Fic: Change (1/1), green cortina, dakfinv
Title: Change
Word Count: 2139 words
Rating: green cortina
Warnings: just some mild language and mild angst in this one
Pairings: for the whole series --> implied Sam/Gene, Gene/Cecil
Summary: For Cecil, work just isn't what it used to be.
A/N: This is the 3rd in my LoM/Meat crossovers, which I guess makes this whole thing a series now. Links to the previous to parts are below. This will probably make more sense if you've read at least one of those. Please enjoy! *sighs as the rent boys take over her life*
Three Months
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“Change? Got any change, sir? Any change? Cheers, mate,” Cecil forced a grin as a passing tourist dropped a few pence into the chipped styrofoam cup at his feet. As the cold wind wipped down the street, and pedestrians ran for cover from the oncoming rain, Cecil tightly clutched his worn jacket, and grabbed his cup of change. He dumped his day’s earnings into his hand and stuffed it all into his pocket. The rain had just started to fall as Cecil grabbed the crutches lying next to him. Carefully, he hoisted himself up and hobbled home as the downpour began.
Because of the rain, the squat was absolutely packed. Cecil had to weave his way to the very back corner to find an unoccupied mattress. As he moved to sit, his crutch caught on his neighbor’s elbow, causing Cecil to stumbled face-forward onto the mattress, painfully bumping his broken leg in the process.
“Shit,” he hissed as pain shot up his leg. He grasped at the cast even though he knew it wouldn’t make a difference.
“Shu’up...” muttered someone conscious enough to notice him, and Cecil bit his lip to keep himself quiet. He didn’t need the other “tenants” ganging up and chucking him out. Not tonight. When the pain finally subsided, Cecil lay down and did his best to get comfortable on the flat, stained mattress. Someone had stolen the blanket he’d borrowed from someone else, and Cecil was left with just his jacket and hat to keep him warm. As he shivered himself to sleep, all he could wonder was, why hadn’t he gone to Manchester?
*
“Change? Spare change, miss?” Cecil asked politely, then coughed violently into his sleeve. The rain had gone, but the chill it brought had not. He wiped his runny nose on his sleeve and jingled the cup again. “Any change, sir? What about you, guv’nor, got any change?”
“Get a job,” some business-twat mumbled as he by-passed Cecil to reach the tube station.
“Cheers!” Cecil called after him with a sneer. He hugged his arms round his stomach. His jacket was buttoned tight, but it wasn’t enough to keep him warm. He knew his constant shivering made him look like a junkie, but Cecil hadn’t touched anything like that since Charlie died. If only he could get the passerby’s to believe him.
“Spare some change? Cheers,” he smiled as a young woman dropped some pound coins into his cup. Checking the watch he’d happened to find, his stomach cramped as he realized it was 3 o’clock and he had yet to eat that day. Putting the change in his pocket and grabbing his crutches, Cecil stood and hobbled through the crowds to the nearby McDonald’s.
The restaurant was crowded, but warm, so Cecil didn’t mind waiting in the queue. After awhile, he’d been standing so long his hands had started shaking from the pain in his leg. By the time he reached the counter, he could have collapsed from the effort and the hunger.
“Hiya mate. Could I get a cheeseburger and coke,” he asked as he started counting out his change. The employee didn’t respond. “A cheeseburger and a coke,” Cecil repeated. “I’m bloody starving. Freezing out there, you know?” he tried to be cordial.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I think you should leave,” the young woman spoke firmly.
“Wait. What’d you say?” Cecil clutched his money tightly in his palm.
“You’re upsetting some of the customers. Sir. You smell...I think you should leave,” the employee held her ground.
“I’m upsetting...? Look, mate. I just came in here to get something to eat. I’ll eat outside if you want, but--”
“Please go now. Sir. Before I have to call the police.”
“Fine! Call the police! I ain’t done nothing wrong, you stupid bitch!” he finally lost his temper, waving one crutch in the air. Suddenly, the large manager was grabbing him by the arm, trying to pin his arms behind his back.
“That’s enough, son,” he growled.
“Oi! Get off me!” Cecil shouted and struggled. Unable to keep his balance, his feel slipped out from underneath him. The manager, unwilling to fully support Cecil’s weight, let him fall to the floor. The breath was knocked out of him as his back smacked against the tiles, and his change was thrown everywhere. Customers shrieked and jumped back at the commotion, then inched forward to collect Cecil’s dropped coins for themselves.
Cecil began coughing to get air back in his lungs, but was then unable to stop. There was a constant itch in his lungs which he couldn’t get rid of. He was still coughing when the police arrived, scooped him up, and drove him to the station.
*
The cell was colder than the squat. He tried to curl up on the metal bench, but his broken leg made that impossible. Instead, he sat there with his back to the hard wall, trying desperately not to shiver. It was hours before the Sergeant in charge of cells came to speak with him. He was allowed his crutches and hobbled after the elder man as he was led into an interview room.
“Says here you’re in for causing a public disturbance,” the officer read off a clipboard as he sat down. “Care to tell us about that?”
“Not really, no,” Cecil sneered, coughing into his hand.
“You don’t have much of a choice, son,” he calmly stated.
“Don’t call me ‘son.’ ‘M not your kid,” he coughed again. Before the Sergeant could reprimand him, a lanky fellow in a garish tied burst through the door.
“Oh, erm. Sorry Viv. Din’t realize you were in here,” the fellow smiled.
“ ‘S alright, DS Skelton. Do you need the room?” the Sergeant asked. The supposed detective didn’t answer. He was too busy staring at Cecil. “Chris?”
“What? Oh,” he snapped to attention. “Erm, sorry. Viv, could I have a word, like?” he nodded towards the hall.
“Sure, sir. Wait here,” he ordered Cecil.
“Where d’you think I’m going?” Cecil held up his arms, waving at the thick, concrete walls which surrounded him. He fiddled nervously with the cuffs of his jacket, his agitation increasing each minute he was left alone. Finally, the door opened. “ ‘Bout time,” he huffed. “I’ve got other things to do, you know,” he lied. When he looked up, Cecil was surprised to see not the Sergeant, but the bumbling detective.
“Hiya,” the detective smiled as he sat down. “I’m DS Skelton,” he reached out his hand. Cecil stared at it, then rolled his eyes.
“And suddenly I need a detective, yeah?” he huffed, then coughed. Skelton reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief.
“You don’t look too well,” he said, handing it over. Cecil, never one to turn down a favor, took it.
“What’re you in for?” Skelton asked. That was new. Usually coppers told him why he was locked up.
“Tried to get some lunch. Prick behind the counter wouldn’t serve me. I wouldn’t leave,” he coughed into the hanky.
“Why wouldn’t they serve you?” the confused detective asked.
“Guess she thought I were homeless or something,” Cecil smiled and itched a hand through his unwashed hair.
“Are you?” the detective spoke with concern. The only other person who spoke to him like that had been Gene.
“I might have a bit a trouble paying rent, but I had the money to pay her. I weren’t looking for any handouts,” Cecil snapped, then coughed yet again into the handkerchief. This time, like in the restaurant, he couldn’t stop. The detective hurried around the table and rubbed his back.
“Easy there, Boss. Er, sir. Uhm, what’s your name?” he asked nervously.
“Cecil,” he wheezed. “ ‘Fore you ask, ‘m not telling you the second one. It’s too stupid,” he wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
“ ‘S not...Tyler, is it?” the detective asked, not making eye contact as he sat back down on his side of the table.
“No, but trust me, that’d one be an improvement,” he toyed with the hanky in his hands, and realized he was still shivering. It wasn’t even cold in the interrogation room.
“So, you, erm, you said you had money for the restaurant?” Skelton suddenly went back on topic.
“Yeah.”
“How much?”
“ ‘Bout...three and a half quid,” he shrugged.
“That it?”
“Was enough to eat,” Cecil sighed.
“When is the last time you ate?”
“This some sort of community outreach shite?” Cecil asked, suddenly uncomfortable.
“Erm, look...we’ve got some leftover sandwiches and stuff from an office party. You wouldn’t want any, would yeh?” the detective offered. Cecil’s stomach leapt, but he was determined to remain indifferent.
“Yeah, sure. Why not?” he shrugged.
*
CID wasn’t that busy, so DS Skelton led him to the small kitchen in the back of the office and helped him sit at the small, round table.
“You like turkey?” the detective asked as he fumbled around inside the refrigerator.
“Yeah. ‘S alright,” Cecil mumbled as he picked at the chipped table.
“Want summit to drink?” Skelton asked, his head still in the fridge.
“Sure, man. Whatever,” he coughed into his sleeve, forgetting about the hanky.
“There you are,” he smiled setting down a sandwich and a can of Coke on the table.
“Cheers,” Cecil nodded and immediately grabbed for the food.
“Mind if I...” the detective motioned to the chair across from Cecil. Cecil shrugged, and the man sat down with his own sandwich. If Skelton was talking, Cecil wasn’t listening. His entire purpose was focused on eating the sandwich and ignoring the constant tickle in his lungs. It wasn’t until he glanced up at the cupboard door that he suddenly lost his appetite.
“Who’s that?” he nodded up to the photo. Skelton immediately knew which one he was referring to.
“Oh. That’s the Boss. Er, DI Tyler,” he answered, though that wasn’t the person Cecil had been referring to. “Died a few years back,” he added sadly, looking from Cecil to the picture. “I took that photo for him, when we all went to the Grand National together. ‘Fore we knew...” Skelton trailed off and shook his head.
“And, erm, who’s that there with him?” he asked off-handedly, sipping his Coke.
“That’s the Guv,” Chris beamed. “Gene Hunt. Our DCI. Well, ‘til he retired a few months ago,” he sighed, and Cecil choked on his Coke. He started coughing violently and DS Skelton leapt from his chair to help him. “D...DCI?” Cecil managed to stutter. “He’s a cop?”
“Yeah...” Skelton said warily as he pat Cecil on the back. “You know him?” he asked.
“What? No. Just...he don’t look like a copper, that’s all,” Cecil hastily covered his tracks.
“Were a time, all coppers were like him. Or at least, wanted to be him,” Skelton chuckled and sat back down. “End of an era when the Guv finally left us,” he sighed.
“Ain’t he around? You know, stop by. Keep you in line?” he delicately inquired.
“Did once or twice. Moved back up to Manchester, though. Think he prefers it up North,” DS Skelton shrugged as he bit into his sandwich.
“Oi, Chris!” a gruff voice shouted, and an equally gruff face appeared around the corner. “Need yeh...who’s the nonce?” the copper asked, staring at Cecil.
“Er, no one,” Skelton replied, and Cecil felt slighted, even though he knew it was true. “What you need, Ray?”
“Shaz wants yeh to look at this bloke uniform brought in. See if yeh remember him or summat,” he informed Skelton, still keeping his eyes on Cecil.
“Oh, right. Sure,” he rose from his chair. “Tell her I’ll be right there. Cheers, Ray,” he smiled and the older detective skulked off, sparing Cecil one last glance. “Best escort you out, then,” Skelton grinned sadly at Cecil. “Look, I can clear up this public disturbance mess. Just, try to keep your cool, like, this happens again, alright?” he tried to warn him, but it came across as friendly advice from the grinning detective.
“Yeah. Yeah, sure mate. Thanks for the, uh, food and all,” he shrugged and grabbed his crutches. DS Skelton helped him outside and down the station steps. Before he left, he shook Cecil’s hand, slipping him something from his pocket.
“Get yourself a good bath, summat decent to eat, alright?” he smiled, pat Cecil on the arm, and hurried back into the station. Cecil, somewhat astonished, stared at the money in his hand, then secured it safely in the pocket of his jeans. He hobbled to the nearby Fenchurch Street station, and hurried into the toilets. He took off his cap and ran some warm water through his hair, then washed his face up a bit. Making sure he looked somewhat presentable, Cecil left the gents, and made his way to the ticket counter.