Fic: Bend and Stretch (1/1), green cortina, dakfinv
Title: Bend and Stretch
Author: dak
Word Count: 2649
Rating: green cortina
Warnings: swearing, probably angst, too
Pairings: implied Sam/Gene, Gene/Cecil
Summary: Physio can't fix everything.
A/N: Another LoM/Meat crossover. I should be working on my ficathon fic. Oh well. (How is it I'm writing a rent boy series with almost no smut? I think there's something wrong here.) Please enjoy!
Three Months
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R & R
“Ahhh...shit. I’ve needed to scratch there for six weeks, man,” Cecil grinned as the last bit of plaster was removed, pleased that he could finally itch at his newly freed leg. “Hey, Gene! Check it out,” he called from the edge of the bed as Gene returned to the room with his coffee.
“Hm. Looks a bit peaky,” he commented, noting the skin’s pale coloring.
“Can’t you say anything positive?” Cecil argued, then coughed mucous into the kidney dish in his hand.
“You’ll need a bit of physical therapy. Get the muscles built up,” his doctor interrupted when he had finished examining Ces’ leg. “And I’ve seen your latest chest X-rays. You’ll need plenty of bed rest for a few weeks, but I’d say you’ll be able to be discharged in the next week or so,” the doctor smiled.
“Oh,” Cecil frowned.
“I’m sure it’ll feel great to get out of here and back home, won’t it?” he pat Cecil on the back.
“Yeah. Brilliant,” he replied, his mouth suddenly dry.
“See you tomorrow,” the doctor bid them goodbye, then left the room.
“Fucking brilliant,” Ces sighed, dropping the kidney dish on the tray.
“What? Thought you couldn’t wait to get your arse out of here,” Gene sipped his coffee.
“Yeah. Sure I am,” he rolled his legs on the bed and laid back on the propped-up mattress. “Myra...” he started, then cut himself off. He remained silent, bending and stretching his weak leg, until Gene spoke.
“Who’s Myra?”
“Charlie’s girl,” Cecil replied, looking the other direction. “She were in an accident. When they let her out, she...fuck. Why am I telling you this?” he sneered, crossing his arms. Having Gene here when he was ill, that was fine. He’d been half out of his mind with fever for most of it anyhow. Now he was better, he didn’t need Gene here. He never needed anyone. Except that he did. But, he could never tell anyone that, especially not Gene.
“Why din’t yeh come to Manchester?” Gene asked after the quiet had blanketed the room.
“Er, I did,” Cecil snapped.
“You know what I mean,” Gene said, his voice calm.
“ ‘S none of your business. You said I had a choice, so I made one,” he huffed.
“Hm,” was all Gene said. He finished his coffee and tossed his cup in the bin. Gathering his coat from the back of the chair, he made for the door.
Cecil wasn’t going to stop him. Cecil had no reason to stop him. Gene Hunt was nothing. Just some punter with a guilt complex, and Cecil didn’t need that kind of baggage. He didn’t need Gene. He had plenty of mates he could rely on. Give him some time and he could think of one.
“I ever tell you why I went to the Met? Why I transferred?” Gene inquired as he adjusted the collar on his coat.
“You didn’t even tell me you’re a copper,” Cecil argued, still avoiding eye contact. Gene ignored him.
“I transferred cos Sam didn’t want me to,” he answered his own question. “I thought what we were doing was too dangerous, men with jobs like ours. Prat almost begged me to stay, ‘cept Sam weren’t a man to beg for owt. He saw summit he wanted, he fought hell and high water to get it. Me,” Gene sniffed nonchalantly. “I’d take it, long as it din’t stir up fuss with the status quo.”
“Yeah, Gene,” Cecil laughed bitterly. “You are definitely status quo,” he rolled his eyes.
“You probably don’t remember much of the Seventies, son, but back then the status quo were pints for breakie, backhanders at noon, and punch-ups for tea, with a pack o’ fags in between. And, the status quo definitely did not include shagging your male DI,” Gene corrected Cecil, and finished strapping on his driving gloves. “See, Sam always gave me choices, like I told yeh, and I always knew I’d make the wrong ones even before I went through with ‘em.”
“Then why did you?” Cecil asked.
“Cos I were scared,” Gene answered with certainty. “We lost some good years cos of me. Time we coulda spent... ‘stead of hating each other...” he trailed off, then yanked open the door.
“I don’t know what you want, Gene,” Cecil called out, stopping him. He had to make himself clear. “I don’t know why I came here, or why you keep coming to see me. It’s...it’s fucking weird, man, ain’t it? I mean, I like you and all. You’re a good bloke. But me, I’m just scum. I ain’t nobody. And if I didn’t look like him, don’t think you’d be here...You wouldn’t be here, would you?” he finally asked the question that had been circling his brain since Gene first asked him to Manchester. It nearly hurt, saying it out loud. At least now he could get an honest answer. Now they could be done with this whole...whatever it was.
Gene walked out the door and closed it tightly behind him. Cecil knew what to make of that. He’d been right in his assumptions, just like always. To the Man, he was nothing but a cheap substitute. By having his hole filled, he filled a hole. That’s all rent boys like him ever did.
He stared at his leg the rest of the day, slowly bending and stretching it in the too-silent room.
*
“There you go, Cecil! Just one more,” the perky physical therapist encouraged as he stretched out his leg at the knee, lifting the weights on the machine. Of course she could be cheerful. She wasn’t the one shaking and sweating from so many unnecessary repetitions. He was still ill, wasn’t he? He shouldn’t be subjected to this sort of torture. As soon as his leg was fully extended, he dropped it back and coughed into his hand.
“Great job! You are doing so well today,” she squeezed his shoulder.
“Cheers,” he sighed sarcastically, wondering if he could return to his room.
“Now, there’s just one more exercise I’d like you try before we finish for today,” she told him as she helped him into his wheelchair.
“Oh, come on!” he cried with aggravation. “I can’t do anything else. Me leg’s still shaking over the last shite you made me try. See?” he pointed at the offending limb.
“Cecil...”
“I’m a sick kid! I shouldn’t have to do this stuff,” he whined.
“I know this is difficult. You’ve lost a lot of weight from the pneumonia, and you’re still regaining your strength. All this, it can seem overwhelming, and it’s okay to be scared--”
“I’m not scared,” Cecil snapped.
“I didn’t say--”
“Yeah, you did, and ‘m not, alright? I’m not scared of anything. Okay?” he huffed, wheeling the chair out of her grasp.
“Okay,” she tried to appease him.
“So. What’s this other thing you want me to do?” he asked, staring at the mountains of terrifying exercise equipment.
*
After his session was over, Cecil demanded that he wheel himself to his own room. He was sick of needing to rely on others. It had been two months since he’d arrived in Manchester. And it had been two months of people feeding him, bathing him, and changing him. Two months of not being able to feed himself, bathe himself, or change himself. It had been nice at first, but now, it was too much.
Cecil had always needed to take care of himself, even before he left home. Bad things always happened when he tried to rely on others - his mum, Frank, Myra. It never ended well and Cecil was all too glad to stop trying. No good ever came of it.
His arms were trembling violently by the time he reached his room. He hadn’t realized how weak the pneumonia had made him until he’d started physio two days ago. If being sick was tiring, getting well was exhausting. The crap they were feeding him certainly wasn’t helping.
First, it had been plain broth. Then, soups. Now, they were trying to make him eat boiled chicken, rice, and plain broccoli - no cheese, or butter, even - and it only made him want to vomit. The only decent thing was the pudding, and he only got that once a day.
He entered his room to find his lunch already waiting on his tray table. Bastards. It may have been covered, but it was probably cold by now. If there was anything worse than boiled chicken, it was cold, boiled chicken. He carelessly hoisted himself into the bed and pulled the table across his lap. Bloody physio, making him hungry in the first place.
Cecil reluctantly lifted the lid, only to have his sense assaulted by the most glorious of smells - fast food. He opened the McDonald’s takeaway bag to find a hot, juicy cheeseburger, greasy chips, and a note scribbled on a napkin:
Sam would’ve never eaten this crap. Get your strength back. (And don’t let them nurses see it.)
*
Another day. Another physio session. Another long nap. Fifteen minutes spent bending a knee and stretching a leg shouldn’t be that exhausting, except that it was. Cecil would climb into that warm hospital bed as soon as he could, tuck the sheets around him, then pass out until they woke him for tea. It was the only way he could get through the day.
At least he was coughing less. Chunks of mucous were still being spat into the kidney dish, but now the coughing would wait until he woke. Except, Cecil wasn’t sure he wanted to wake anymore. Today, the doctor had happily informed him that Cecil was going to be discharged on Monday. Today was Friday. Cecil didn’t know what he was going to do come Monday. He knew his discharge had to happen at some point, but now ignoring the inevitable was more difficult since time was drawing short.
Myra had gone to some women’s shelter after they’d released her from hospital. Cecil didn’t think they had anything like that for him, at least not in Manchester. Manchester. Cecil didn’t know anything about Manchester. He knew where the train and police stations were. That was all. He didn’t even know where the hospital was because he’d been unconscious when they’d brought him in.
He might have enough money left for a train ticket, or maybe a bus. A bus would be cheaper, wouldn’t it? He could get back to London. With his leg fixed, he could work again. Tommy had been telling him about this new bloke trying to take Frank’s place. Tommy said he was nicer to his boys; he only took forty percent. It had sounded good. Then, Ces had broken his leg. Not even a nice bloke would take on a crippled rent boy. But, now he was healed...
Cecil purposely ignored the obvious solution. It wasn’t going to happen and he wouldn’t even ask if he could. He hadn’t seen Gene since that other day. He had dropped off that food, which had been nice, but he wasn’t around anymore. Ces knew he had insulted him with that question, but it needed to be asked, even if it meant Cecil would no longer have the ability to stay in Manchester.
He thought of all this while he slept. It invaded even his most pleasant dreams. The worry was getting too much that he couldn’t escape it no matter how he tried. Cecil hated worrying. When he finally relinquished sleep that afternoon, and cracked open his eyes, he noticed the wall clock said 6:30. Shit. The bastards had forgotten to feed him. Whatever. Cecil was becoming too reliant on three meals a day. He’d have to get used to the way things were.
“I asked ‘em not to wake yeh.”
His head turned to the left, and there was Gene - sitting in the chair like he’d never left. Bastard.
“Looked down right awful. Thought it best you sleep.”
“I thought you’d gone,” Cecil yawned and sat up in the bed.
“Had some thinking to do,” Gene told him, handing him another takeaway bag. “Hungry?”
“A bit,” he lied and took the food, finding another cheeseburger and chips. “Cheers.”
“I owe you an answer,” Gene said, leaning back in the chair. Cecil lost his appetite.
“Oh.”
“You...” Gene ran a hand through his long, but thinning, hair. “I do have to remind meself you’re not him. Not too hard when you open your bloody gob. But...just seeing yeh...Course it’s hard,” he admitted.
“Sorry,” Cecil picked at a cooling chip.
“Don’t think you had much choice ‘bout how you look, son. Damn inconvenient though, innit? Least for me,” Gene struggled to laugh. “Thing is...you remind of someone else, too. Someone else I couldn’t...” Gene shook his head. “Never had any kids, Cecil, and with the...things we’ve already done, it’d be wrong for me to try and consider you a son.”
“I’ll fucking say,” Cecil laughed, then quickly stopped as Gene shot him a look. “Sorry.”
“What ‘m trying to say...Policing’s in me blood. I’ve always needed summit to look over. But, Sam’s gone. I’m retired, so I have no team. City’s changed too much. I can’t understand it like I used to. I’ve nowt to do,” he sighed with a laugh. “And for a bloke like me, that kills quicker than any cancer.”
“ ‘M not some project,” Cecil interrupted. “ ‘S what me mum thought. ‘S what Frank thought. Look what happened with them, you know? I can’t live like that. I won’t live like that,” he was mashing the chips under his thumb now.
“That don’t mean you can’t accept help. Nowt wrong with making an honest living, is there? ‘Less you really love whoring.”
“I don’t,” Cecil was quick to reply. “I just...‘S only thing I’ve ever been good at. I can’t do anything else,” he shrugged.
“You can make excuses,” Gene quipped. “But, as I was saying, there’s nowt wrong with accepting help, if you need it...Took me quite a few years, the hard way, to learn that one.”
“What kind of help are we talking about?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe a place to kip ‘til you get on your feet. Can’t find a job living on the streets, can yeh? And speaking of a job, I know a few folks that’re looking for some help, once you’re all healed up,” Gene offered.
He offered. It was there - what Cecil had been afraid to ask for. He could reach out and take it. But, would everything go to shit again? Would Gene tire of him? Chuck him out? And what sort of job would he get? Factory work? Cleaning jobs? Cecil would go mad working at a job like that. And where would he live? Would he be able to pay rent? What happened if he missed a payment? What if he ended right back where he started? Wouldn’t it better to not even try, rather than try and fail?
“Oi,” Gene spoke up. Cecil must have looked as terrified as he felt. “My Sammy were always big on multitasking. Never quite got the handle of it meself. I much prefer to take one thing at time. What about you?”
“Yeah,” Cecil nodded, catching his breath. “Alright. Think I can do that.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Then eat up. Scrawnier than a weasel’s arse, you are,” Gene rose from the chair.
“Where are you going?”
“Got a guest room to sort out,” Gene said. “And the cleaners din’t show this week. Lazy cows...” he grumbled, then strolled out of the room.
Cecil stared at his cold cheeseburger, and was scared shitless. He wasn’t sure what he had just agreed to, but it was terrifying. And somehow, the smile now etched on his face was the most frightening thing of all.