Fic: Fearless, blue cortina, dakfinv
Title: Fearless
Author: dak
Word Count: 2172 words
Rating: blue cortina
Pairings: implied Sam/Gene, Gene/Cecil
Warnings: crude language
Summary: Cecil has nothing to be scared of.
A/N: This is the 8th in my LoM/Meat crossover series. (Meat was a TV movie which featured John Simm playing a rent boy.) Previous installments can all be found here. Please enjoy!
“Oi! Gene. Need another?”
“Uh? Oh, sure. Cheers.”
Cecil pulled a fresh pint of bitter and carried it over to Gene. The Arms didn’t normally do table service, but Cecil never minded this one exception. He took Gene’s empty glass and plopped the fresh pint on the coaster while Gene continued to stare at the telly.
“Put it on your tab then, eh?” Cecil joked. Nelson never made Gene pay for a drink anymore.
“What?” Gene asked, finally looking away from the screen. “Oh. Right,” he nodded and returned to the telly. Cecil stood there a moment longer, than carried the dirtied glass up to the bar.
“Watches a lot of TV, don’t he?” he asked Nelson as he set the glass on the bar.
“Not the television he’s watching,” the barman sighed as he took the glass and put it in the sink. Cecil looked at Gene then back at his manager.
“Well if he ain’t watching the telly, what the hell is he watching?”
“The brackets,” Nelson replied after a pause, and solemnly wiped down the bar.
“The brackets?” Cecil repeated as he walked back behind the counter. “Why’s he staring at the brackets?”
“Because it was Sam who installed them,” he answered without making eye contact. “Been there since the 70s, when we first put a TV in this place. DI Tyler said they would hold. They’ve held,” Nelson cracked a sad smile, then rung the rag out in the sink. At the mention of the eponymous Sam, Cecil’s mood darkened. It didn’t matter what he did, it always came back to Sam Tyler. No wonder Nelson was avoiding his gaze. At least he’d given him an honest answer.
“Oh, right. The great Sam Tyler,” he sneered, though he was smart enough to keep his voice down. “Bloke was a saint by everyone’s standards, weren’t he?”
“Sam? No,” Nelson laughed. “Sam was oil and the rest of this world was water. No matter how long he stayed, never quite fit in like the rest of ‘em.”
“Why? Cos he were gay?”
“No, son,” Nelson shook his head. “Back then, he should have especially fit in if he were gay.”
“Right. Pitchforks and torches and all that. No wonder Gene misses the ‘old days’ so much.”
“You watch your tongue, young man,” Nelson suddenly dropped his Jamaican accent, switching to stern Mancunian. “You don’t know what it were like for men like them back then. Pray you never you do.”
“So, did you know? When they lived here? Did you know they were...” Cecil trailed off in hopes of concealing their conversation from the customers passing by the bar.
“I’m a publican,” Nelson nodded sagely, but kept the stern tone to his voice. “I know everything.”
“So, do you know about us?” Cecil off-handedly inquired while staring at a very interesting stain on the bar.
“What did I just say?” Nelson huffed.
“Sorry,” Ces smirked, though he lost his grin as soon as he caught sight of Gene again. Of course, Nelson had to notice.
“He ever talk about him?”
Cecil silently thanked his manager for not saying The Name.
“Not much. He’ll tell a story every once in awhile, ‘specially when he’s pissed.”
“He ever talk about you?”
“Every once in awhile. Usually when he’s pissed,” Cecil tried to laugh it off but couldn’t. It always unnerved him how Nelson could strike at the heart of a matter, using only a few words. It was probably why he was such a successful barman.
“You ever talk to him about that?”
“How many years have you known him? You think Gene Hunt actually talks?”
“Given the right circumstances.”
Cecil spun away from the counter and started polishing the back bar.
“He tells me stuff, I listen. I tell him stuff, he listens. Least I think he does. Don’t matter, though, if we talk or not. I know what he is, and he knows what I am.”
“And what is that?”
“None of your business is what that is,” Cecil snapped.
“Hm.”
He could feel Nelson staring at him, his dark eyes boring into his very soul. He kept scrubbing the dusty scotch bottles.
“He’s been happier with you here,” Nelson spoke after a few minutes, the Jamaican accent firmly in place. “That’s mighty clear.”
“Yeah? Why shouldn’t he be?”
“ ‘Happy’ isn’t always an honest emotion.”
Cecil threw down his cloth, but remained facing the back bar.
“I don’t know what you’re getting at mate--”
“You’ve been good for him, Cecil,” Nelson interrupted. “I’ll never deny that. But, I’ve known Mr. Hunt over thirty years. I know how that man’s mind works.”
“With a little whisky-laced mouse on a wheel? Figured that out for meself, mate.”
Cecil, eyes closed, was startled by a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“I don’t worry about him, Ces. I worry about you. You’re a good man. I don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“I’m not that good,” Cecil pulled away. “And I can take care of meself. Always have. Don’t need you to be worrying about me. Whatever he does, I can handle it.”
“You sure?”
Cecil looked at Gene who was still watching the television. No, not the telly. The brackets.
“I’m going to get him the evening edition. Be right back,” Cecil threw down his rag and hurried out of the pub.
He hated when Nelson got like that - all wise elder, father knows best. He didn’t need that. He’d been working at the pub and living with Gene for nearly a year now. Yeah, he hadn’t known Gene as long as Nelson, but that didn’t mean he didn’t understand him.
Cecil knew why Gene became very quiet and moody three certain days of the year - a certain anniversary, a certain birthday, and a different sort of anniversary. He knew why Gene hated it when he saw Cecil smoke. He knew why Gene kept that leather jacket in the back of the closet. He knew why Gene never said his name during sex. He knew why it sometimes hurt Gene just to look at him.
That didn’t mean he had to think on that all the time, because there was so much more to them than that. Cecil wasn’t frightened of a ghost.
Gene always bought him fast food on Thursdays. Gene always forced him to call his mum once a month - let her know he was alright. Gene always picked on him for being an Arsenal supporter. Gene always celebrated his birthday and their anniversary.
No, Cecil wasn’t scared of the past. He wasn’t scared of the way Gene could become withdrawn at the drop of a hat. He wasn’t scared of the way he stared at old photos for hours on end. He wasn’t scared of the way Gene kept phoning an old friend at the station, inquiring about a young DC. He wasn’t the least bit scared of losing him.
So, when he handed Gene his paper, he was uncertain as to why he had removed the page with the picture and story detailing the heroic exploits of one DC Tyler.
Because, Cecil wasn’t scared at all.
*
Four hours later and Cecil never thought he’d long for Mondays. Even just a year and a half ago, Friday had been his favorite day of the week. Friday he’d get himself completely wasted on booze and E, maybe get Myra to go along with him. He’d turn a free trick or two and sneak into the hottest clubs in London. He’d party, drink, and fuck until Sunday rolled round. Frank had always been displeased about his lack of work over the weekend, but as long as he made it up during the week, the old tosser never really cared.
Now, Cecil hated Fridays. With the pub filled to capacity - sometimes blokes waited outside to get in - he and Nelson would be hopping around the bar until the clock struck 11:00. Even after that, it would be 11:30 (or later), before they could herd all the punters out the door and throw on the bolts. He’d stumble home tired, cranky, and miserable, and remain that way until Gene laughed at him, poured him a cuppa, and let him control the TV remote. Sometimes, he wondered why Fridays were so bad.
This Friday was a bit slower than the others and Gene had decided to remain in the pub long past his normal 7pm exit. The Railway Arms was no longer exclusive to coppers, he said, and the damn pricks and slags that Nelson let populate it nowadays were nowhere near as charming as his old station mates. With tonight not as crowded, however, he’d decided to stay and give Cecil a ride home.
It was just gone ten - only an hour to go - when Ces’ next punter stepped up the bar.
“What’s your poison, mate?” he asked cheerfully as he cleared away some glasses.
“Same again.”
“Sorry, man. Been pretty busy tonight. Don’t remember ya. What’d you order last time?”
“Don’t fucking believe this,” the man rolled his eyes.
“ ‘Scuse me?”
“What kind of shite barman are you, can’t remember two pints of Guinness and a Jack and Coke?”
“Two pints and a Jack and Coke it is then,” Cecil grumbled and grabbed some glasses.
“Of Guinness!” the man called after him. “Bring it to our table,” he added and tossed his money on the counter.
Cecil cursed under his breath. He only ever did table service for Gene. He longed to abandon the jerk’s drinks on the counter, but that would only cause more trouble. With blokes like that it was easier to just bring them their order and be done with it. With careful hands, he carried all three glasses to the table, sans tray, and was just two steps a way when a girl bumped into his back, causing him to lose his grip on the drinks. All three went crashing to the floor, the alcohol spreading to the punter’s feet.
“You stupid shit!” he shouted, leaping up. “These shoes are Italian. You have any idea how much they cost?”
He was about to hurl an insult back when he got his first good look at the man. His voice caught in his throat.
“This’ll come out of your salary, you little dipshit!”
“Only if he could afford it, Jake,” one of his drunk buddies joked.
“Might have to a little overtime, won’t you friend?” said the other, also drunk, who mimicked sucking cock before slapping his hand down on the table and belching out a laugh.
Cecil ran off and out the back entrance, ignoring the shouts behind him. He stopped halfway down the alley and slammed his hands against the hard brick wall.
Bastard. Bastard. Bastard.
It wasn’t fucking fair.
He slammed his hands again, then rubbed his fingers over his tear-filled eyes. At this, he kicked over a rubbish bin. He shouldn’t let that bastard get to him. Not him. Not...
“Oi. Cecil. Calm down,” Gene was suddenly there, grasping him by the shoulders, and pulling him into a close embrace. “Don’t worry about that prick, eh?”
“I know. I know. I shouldn’t, but...” he stammered into Gene’s shoulder.
“But what?”
“It were him. It were him, man! Fucking hell. All the fucking boozers in this fucking country and he...he has to come here?”
“You know ‘im, Ces? Who is it?”
Cecil shook his head and pulled away, turning his back on Gene and facing the brick wall. He reached out and ran his fingertips run over the rough brick, letting the course material dig into his skin.
“Cecil. Who?”
“Him.”
“Him, who?”
He knew Gene was rolling his eyes.
“The punter what broke me leg,” he said very, very quietly.
Behind him, he felt Gene become very, very still.
“He don’t recognize me. Course he wouldn’t. ‘M just some two-bit whore,” he scraped his knuckles over the brick, hoping to draw blood. He did. He pressed harder, and harder, until Gene drew his hand away. He didn’t force Ces to turn around, but wrapped his arms around his shoulders, and drew him back tight against his warm body.
“No you’re not,” he whispered into his ear. “So don’t ever think it. He’s the bastard here, Cecil. Not you. And that useless fuck has made a very big mistake. He’s come into my boozer, and he’s hurt one of my men. No one hurts one of Gene Genie’s men.” He kissed Cecil on the side of his cheek and drew back. “Wait here.”
Fifteen minutes, and a few shouts later, Nelson came out and said Cecil could return to the pub. When he reentered the smoky den, it was nearly empty except for a few customers Cecil knew were ex-coppers. The spilt and broken glasses were all cleaned up, and some smears of blood were left in their place. Cecil looked to Gene’s corner, where the old man nodded and winked.
Cecil wasn’t scared at all.