Fic: 5 Times Sam Cried, blue cortina, dakfinv
Title: Five Times Sam Cried
Author: dak
Word Count: 2074 words
Rating: blue cortina
Warnings: angst, some light sexy business
A/N: For
hugglewolf
1.
After months of delay, Sam finally found time to clean out the rest of his belongings from his mother’s house. Ruth had told him again and again that it was not a pressing matter, but Sam felt guilty for using his mother’s home as his own personal storage unit. He was a detective now, with his own flat after all; he should be able to take care of his own things.
Promising to stay for tea after he finished, Sam crawled down into the cellar and began the menial task of picking through old, and often mislabeled, boxes. Three hours into his mind-numbing chore and Sam, dirty and tired from the ungrateful task, stumbled across an unlabeled box in the far corner of the cellar.
Terrified that it might be the illegally obtained porn mags of his youth (having not yet found that box, and knowing it was down there somewhere), Sam crouched down and peeled back the packing tape securing the flaps. Inside the box were not his misplaced magazines, but a stack of men’s clothes. He knew what they were before he even took them from the box.
They were his father’s clothes.
With trembling hands, Sam reached inside and took out the first suit jacket - a brown one - and ran his fingers over the course material. He could still picture his father in that jacket. It was the one he wore at Sam’s fourth birthday party - the party his mum said Dad wouldn’t make. He held it to his nose and breathed in deeply, hoping for a scent of his long-lost father.
Unfortunately, the jacket and it’s owner had been separated for too many years. All Sam inhaled was the smell of dust and cardboard. There was no hint of the man he once knew. Sam removed every piece of clothing from the box, and tried to place each one with a memory. When he was finished, he was sat on the dusty floor, surrounded by the cheapest selection of clothes the late ‘60s and early ‘70s had to offer. They held no more trace of Vic Tyler than Sam felt he, himself, did.
When he hurried upstairs for tea, he blamed the redness of his eyes on the dust and poor lighting of the cellar. He knew his mum didn’t believe him, but she remained quiet nonetheless.
2.
He raced around the flat, searching everywhere - under sofa cushions, in desk drawers, even in the refrigerator. It wasn’t anywhere.
“Sam, it has to be here somewhere,” Maya sighed. “We’ll find it.”
“I’ve looked everywhere, Maya. It’s not here!”
“You don’t have to shout. Now, where’s the last place you saw it?” she asked calmly.
“My pocket. It was in my pocket, exactly where I always put it,” he tapped his foot in frustration.
“Okay. Which pocket? Come on, DCI Tyler. Put your emotions aside and be a detective, not a three-year-old,” she crossed her arms. Sam took a deep breath.
“It...it was in the pocket of my suit jacket. The one I wore to the Constabulary dinner,” he remembered.
“The dinner where you spilled red wine all down your front?”
“Yes,” Sam mumbled.
“So, what did you do with the jacket next?” she asked.
“I...oh shit! I took it to the dry cleaners!” Sam grabbed his keys and ran for the door.
“Sam, wait!” Maya grabbed her purse and ran after him.
Sam drove as fast as he could to the dry cleaners, only to have his heart ripped apart once they arrived. The shop was closed until Monday.
“No!” he whined as he ran to the darkened store front. “Maybe we could call? Tell them it’s a police matter so they’ll open up?” he begged. Maya sighed and placed a tender hand on his shoulder.
“I’m sure they’ll find it and return it when they clean your jacket,” she assured him.
“But...but I can’t wait,” he cried.
“Sam...”
“What if they...I mean, it has Bluetooth capability, and everything.”
“Leave it, Sam. You’re on holiday till next Wednesday anyhow. You don’t need your mobile.”
Sam dropped his head and, with one last glance at the store, walked dejectedly back to the car.
3.
Sam heard the crash before he saw it, or felt it. One minute he and the Guv were interviewing Gordy Banks, and the next there was half a ton of brick and mortar pinning him to the ground. He could move his arms before his vision cleared, and tried to pull himself out. He couldn’t. He was completely trapped from the waist down and attempting to move only caused him intense pain. Pain, he decided, was good. Pain in his legs meant he wasn’t paralyzed, yet.
“Guv?” he called out. “Guv? Gene!” His vision was still blurred from brick dust and a probable head injury. He felt around, trying to locate his Guv. Gene had been standing right next to him. What if...
He felt an unmoving mass next to him and panicked.
“Gene! Gene! Guv, shit! Can you hear me? Gene?” he shook the body, but received no response. “Oh fuck, Gene, no.”
“Here, Sammy! I’m here,” a booming voice sounded from above him. “Had to run to the Cortina, radio for an ambulance, but I’m back.”
“Then, then who...”
“Banks. He’s dead but--”
“Shit,” Sam hissed through the pain, unable to stop panicking.
“But don’t worry ‘bout that Sam. You’re not. You’re alright. You’ll be alright.”
“Guv, I can’t see. I can’t...I can’t see,” he cried, feeling the tears run down his cheeks.
“Is it all black or just blurry?”
“Blurry. ‘S all blurry,” he started slurring his words. He was going into shock. “Shit,” he cursed.
“Had a good knock to your noggin, Tyler. Your eyes’ll clear. Don’t worry.”
He could hear Gene, but he couldn’t see him. What if Gene was lying to make him feel better? What if Gene was just as injured as he was?
“I-I can’t move, Guv. My legs, I can’t...” he stuttered. Suddenly, he felt a soft cushion being a placed under his head and a warm hand grabbing his own, cooling one.
“Calm down, Sammy-boy. Take deep breaths. Back-up and the ambulance will be here in a mo. You’ll be just fine, okay?”
Sam tried to nod, but it hurt his already aching head. He felt fresh tears stream down his cheeks.
“Lie still, Sam. Lie still and talk to me, alright?”
“I dunno wha’ t’say,” Sam mumbled, finding it difficult to stay awake.
“There’s a first,” Gene snorted, and squeezed his hand tighter. “Say anything, Sam. Say the bloody alphabet if you have to. Just don’t fall asleep.”
Don’t fall asleep. He couldn’t fall asleep. He wished he could wipe away the tears.
“ ‘Kay....’kay...A...B-B...C...”
4.
They had both agreed they were ready. Sixteen was plenty old enough to...you know. Sam had wanted to plan out everything. He didn’t want the same surprises that had befallen some of his other mates - like Ryan Parson’s mum accidentally walking in when he and Lily Benson had been...you know. The thought still sent shivers down Sam’s spine, especially when he pictured Mrs. Parson. She wasn’t the most pleasant woman one could ever meet.
They would use his Aunt Heather’s house. She was away on holiday for the week and had given Sam a key so he could come in and water the plants. Amelia had told her parents she was spending the night at Gracie’s, but it hadn’t really mattered what Amelia told her parents. They never seemed to care what she was up to.
Emmy said she wanted candles, so Sam made sure there were some lined up all over the bedroom. She hadn’t said anything about music, but Sam brought his boom box and a few cassettes just in case. He also brought his own sheets. They were going to use Auntie Heather and Uncle Paul’s bed, and Sam couldn’t even imagine doing...you know...on their sheets.
Sam waited nervously for Amelia to arrive. He wondered if he should have worn something nicer than his Man United jersey. At the last second, he splashed on a bit of Uncle Paul’s Old Spice cologne. He hoped Emmy liked Old Spice. He wondered if maybe he shouldn’t have put on anything at all. He didn’t have time to wash it off, though, because suddenly she was knocking on the door.
He quickly let her inside and to the bedroom. She looked beautiful. Her long hair was down, not tied back in its typical ponytail, and she was wearing a pretty, blue sundress Sam had never seen before. He felt like an idiot for wearing his Man United shirt. Emmy didn’t seem to mind though. Once inside the bedroom, he shut the door, lit the candles, switched off the lights, and wondered what to do next.
“Do you have...?” she asked nervously.
“What? Oh. Yeah,” Sam nodded and pulled a box of condoms from the bedside table. He had made sure to practice a few times to make sure he could to do it correctly.
“So, uhm, d’you want to start kissing me, then?” Amelia asked.
“Y-yeah. Okay,” Sam nodded again, sat beside her on the bed, and they began to kiss.
Kissing soon turned to stripping which soon turned to...you know. Sam got the condom fitted on the first try and was quite proud of himself. When they started...you know...he became worried when Emmy winced, but she told him it was fine. She said he was wonderful and that it felt good, so Sam kept going. He wondered if he should say something in return, and quickly began telling her how beautiful she was and how good she felt. It was over very quickly, just like the all boys said it would be, and Emmy fell asleep soon after.
Sam laid awake for hours, unable to get any sleep. He hadn’t known it was going to hurt her. No one had told him that. He had nearly stopped when he saw she’d started crying. He hadn’t wanted her to cry. He wanted her to be happy. He wanted her to like it as much as he had. It hadn’t hurt him. Why had it hurt her?
He hid himself in the bathroom in case she woke up and saw him crying. Boys weren’t supposed to cry after...you know.
5.
They’d lost their prime suspect. Gene had nearly broken Sam’s arm in the fight that followed. They hadn’t spoken to each other since. He’d fully embarrassed himself in front Annie, and she had stopped speaking to him as well. And, on top of all that, the doctors were telling him his condition appeared hopeless. All in all, it had been a pretty miserable excuse for a day.
All Sam wanted to do was return to his crummy, imaginary flat, with a crummy, imaginary bottle of scotch, and drink himself into a crummy, imaginary sleep. A nice alcohol blackout was just what he needed right now. So, he locked his crummy, imaginary door, kicked off his crummy, imaginary boots, and sat at his crummy, imaginary table. He was halfway through the bottle when his crummy, imaginary friend decided to appear.
“Is that really going to help?” she asked from his bed, the clown tucked safely under her arm.
“Actually, it’s doing wonders,” Sam grinned and took another hefty swig.
“Your mummy would be so disappointed,” she tutted.
“Yeah, well, my mummy isn’t here, is she?” he snarled. He took yet another drink, just to spite her.
“She’s so sad that you left her,” she sighed.
“I didn’t leave. I was hit by a car,” he growled.
“How will she cope without her Sammy?”
“Stop it.”
“He’s all she has in the world.”
“I said stop.”
“Maybe she’ll get hit by a car, too.”
“Stop!” he screamed, falling out of his chair just as the door burst open. He propped himself up and saw two to three concerned Gene Hunts staring back at him.
“Came by to offer this,” he held up a bottle. “Looks like you don’t need it.”
Sam looked from Gene, to the empty bed, to the spilled bottle on the floor next to him. Later, he would blame it on the booze, the exhaustion, and the anger. Right then, he collapsed to the crummy, imaginary carpet and cried. Gene sat there and let him, offering a crummy cup of coffee when he was finished.