Ficathon: Life is Strange, dakfinv, green cortina
Title: Life Is Strange
Author: dak
Word Count: 5056 words
Rating: green cortina
Warnings: drug use
Pairing: Sam/Gene
Summary: Sam. Fanboys. Hard.
A/N: For the 2008 Ficathon. My prompts were - Sam/Gene, T. Rex concert, accidental drug use. (Title taken from a T. Rex song.)
He walked solemnly towards the cell door, his dirtied white loafers pounding with what he hoped was an ominous thud as he stepped closer to door number four. He slid back the small grate and peered through the window. His captive was sat on the cold bench, head slouched between his knees as if he were going to be sick. He wondered if they should take him to hospital. After his brief observation, he closed the grate and flung back the heavy door. Sauntering inside, he stuffed his hands deep in his pockets, and cleared his throat. The prisoner didn’t raise his head, or indeed make any acknowledgement towards his captor’s presence.
Hunt took a deep breath, and spoke.
“Mr. Bolan has kindly agreed not to press charges,” Gene informed him. At this, Sam lifted his head - his wide eyes still cloudy, skin still pale.
“Guv...Gene, I can explain,” he started weakly, swaying as he spoke.
“Don’t need to, Dorothy. I was there. Remember?” Hunt looked him up and down as Tyler’s wobbly head barely maintained eye contact. “No, yeh probably don’t,” he sighed.
“He’s mad at me, isn’t he?” Sam cringed.
“Who? Marc Bolan? Course he is you daft...yeh nearly...” Gene shook his head in anger, unable to finish his sentence. “It’s over, Sam. Let’s get you home.” He reached out his hand and Sam took it. His DI’s skin was still clammy and cold. As Sam started to rise, he was unable to maintain his balance and sunk to his knees. Gene grabbed him by his elbows and helped him back to the bench. Tyler clung to him, and it wasn’t long before he was sobbing into the DCI’s crotch.
“Sam,” he rolled his eyes, but Tyler continued crying. “Do yeh need to go to hospital?” he asked. Sam sniffled and tilted back his head, looking up at Gene with a deep sadness in his eyes.
“He was my favorite musician. And now...now he hates me,” Sam started crying again and dropped his head, still clutching Gene’s coat.
“Oh for chrissakes,” Hunt grumbled and stepped backwards, trying to free himself from Tyler’s grasp. He only managed to pull Sam forward and onto the floor. “Okay, okay,” he grabbed Tyler by the arm and hoisted him up. “Home. I’m takin’ you home, Gladys.”
Sam obediently allowed himself to be shoved forward and out of the cell.
“Can I say I’m sorry?” he asked, tears trickling down his cheeks.
“Bloody hell, Tyler. I just barely got you off a kidnapping charge!” Gene shouted in exasperation.
“So, that’s a no then?” Sam asked.
“Move. Now,” Hunt ordered and shoved Sam forward. “And no more drugs for you. Ever. Christ but you’re wonky when you’re bladdered.”
12 Hours Earlier...
“Chris, I need those statements from the Wright case, pronto,” Sam ordered, marching into CID as he read from his notepad.
“Wilco, Boss.”
“DS Carling, a woman just came in claiming she was assaulted on her way home from work. She’s in canteen. I need you to conduct the interview.”
“She a looker?” the Sergeant asked, not rising from his chair.
“Saw ‘er when she came in, Ray. Gorgeous bird,” Chris smiled.
“Nice tits?”
“Enough. Ray, go now,” Sam spat.
“Sure thing, Boss,” Carling rolled his eyes.
“Annie, I need...Chris, where’s Annie?”
“Guv sent her and Vince out on a shout ‘bout fifteen minutes ago,” Skelton replied, popping a fresh piece of Juicy Fruit into his mouth.
“Nice of him to tell me. Where is Hunt now? Taking his afternoon nap or eating his third breakfast?” Sam snapped his notepad shut.
“Think he’s in his office.”
“Nap it is, then,” Sam sighed and stormed into the lair, slamming the door hard enough to take it off its hinges, and loud enough to startle Gene awake. The Guv coughed and jolted at the sound, his daily newspaper sliding off his face and onto the floor.
“Nice to see you working hard,” Tyler greeted him as Hunt swung his legs off his desk.
“If you would let me sleep at night, ‘stead of begging for more o’ the Gene Genie, I might not need to kip here,” Gene snorted, lighting a cigarette.
“Very work appropriate,” Sam griped, going through the files on Hunt’s desk.
“You’d be blushing now if you weren’t in such a foul mood. What’s got up your jacksie today? Gwen all out of treacle?” he purposely flicked ash onto Sam’s hand.
“For your information, there has been nothing ‘up my jacksie’ since last night. A fact you should already be well aware of, Guv,” Sam quipped, pulling his hand back and dusting it off with a disgusted expression.
“What’s the matter then? Ain’t right for a bloke to be cross on his birthday.”
“It’s not my birthday,” Sam stated with some confusion as he grabbed the file he’d been searching for.
“Yes, it is.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Yes. It. Is.”
“No. It’s. Not.”
Gene sighed, rose from his chair, and left the office. Sam ignored the Guv’s actions until the man returned with Tyler’s personnel folder in hand.
“Tyler, Sam.”
“Oh, so you can read.”
“Date of birth: 7 September 1936.”
“Close enough,” Sam sighed, “but it’s not the 7th.”
“Yes it is.”
“No, it’s...” Tyler shook his head. “I don’t have time for this.”
Gene grabbed Sam by the arm and dragged him to the calendar on the wall. Sam averted his eyes from the picture of the naked woman and focused on the dates.
“Yesterday was the 6th. The 6th was a Thursday. Every Thursday I have me darts match. Last night, I had me darts match, stumbled over - pissed - to your mangy flat and shagged you senseless.”
“I thought yesterday was Wednesday,” Sam stated thoughtfully, trying to remember.
“Maybe if yeh slept once in awhile, the days wouldn’t all run together,” Gene let go Tyler’s arm and walked back to his desk. “Still,” he sighed, dropping Sam’s file on top of the latest Just Jugs, “if you say it’s not your birthday, guess you don’t get your present then.”
“Wait. You actually bought me a gift?”
“Well, of course. The Guv’nor always gets birthday presents for his team. Why, just last April I got Ray a year’s subscription to our country’s finest magazine,” he pulled out the copy of Just Jugs and tossed it at Sam.
“I always wondered where his impressive literary materials came from,” Sam chucked the nudie mag into the bin.
“And last year DC Skelton was honored with a fine bottle of single malt.”
“Which I’m sure you helped him consume.”
“Naturally,” Gene nodded.
“Then I await my gift with great anticipation,” Sam stated sarcastically.
“You’re me DI, Sammy-boy. I’d only ever get you the best,” Gene smiled, a true wolf’s grin.
“Let me guess. A darts board I’ll never use? Or, wait. A year’s supply of bacon butties which I’ll never eat?”
“Don’t have to get all snippy, Gladys. Just trying to do something nice,” Gene sighed as he reached into his desk drawer, pulled out an envelope, and tossed it at Sam.
“Good things come in small packages?” Sam asked, staring at the thin envelope.
“Like I said, you don’t want it, I’ll be happy to return it and leave you with nowt,” Gene crossed his arms. Sam carefully tore open his gift, reached inside, and examined the contents.
“Guv?” he asked, breathlessly.
“Yes?” he smiled.
“Gene...these are...they’re...” Sam’s mouth had gone dry.
“Yes?”
“These are tickets to see T. Rex.”
“Are they?” Gene peered over his desk. “Hm, thought they were for Roger Whittaker.”
“You...you can’t get these tickets. They’re sold out. I’ve been trying for weeks and couldn’t even get close. It’s impossible. You don’t even like T. Rex. You hate T. Rex. But you got the tickets. How did you get the tickets?” Sam babbled.
“Never underestimate the powers of the Gene Genie, Sammy-boy.”
“I don’t believe it. I really don’t believe it. It’s impossible. It’s amazing!” Sam’s face split into a childlike grin.
“How can you not believe it? Got the tickets right there in your hands, don’t yeh?”
“Hang on. These are for tonight. I’m supposed to work tonight. If I don’t cover my shift...”
“Easy, Gladys. Already got Geoff to cover for yeh.”
“I don’t believe it. I...I’m going to see T. Rex in concert! I’ve been dying to see them since...since a long time, but it was impossible, then...” Sam trailed off. “Guess you wouldn’t want to come?”
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, you always complain that this music is all noise. Can’t imagine you’d be happy sitting through a whole concert.”
“I don’t know, Tyler. Maybe you need to see those blokes live to appreciate ‘em.”
“So, it’s a date, then?”
“Careful. Term’s not very work appropriate is it?”
“I’ll pick you up at seven,” Sam grinned, and walked out of the office singing. “Friends say it’s fine. Friends say it’s good. Everybody says it’s just like Robin Hood...”
*
“Telegram Sam, you’re my man. Telegram Sam, you’re my main. Oh, ooh...Bobby’s alright. Bobby’s...”
“Are you alright, Sam?”
Sam nicked his chin on the razor as her voice bubble up behind him. She was sitting on the bed with her head cocked to one side. The low drone of the television signal filled the space between them.
“I’m doing great, thanks,” he smiled to spite her. Today had actually been going relatively well, at least since Gene had given him the tickets. Not even she could ruin his rare pleasant mood.
“Are you sure?” she asked. “You have so much work to do. Wouldn’t it be better if you stayed in?”
“Don’t tell me you’re jealous?” Sam laughed. “Wasn’t it you who said I couldn’t be lonely all the time?”
“Would you rather spend your time with him then at home where you belong?”
“If I’m going to be stuck here, I might as well enjoy my birthday.”
“You’re growing so old, aren’t you Sam? All your bones and muscles deteriorating. Maybe you should stay sleeping. It might be more painful to wake.”
Sam slammed the bathroom door shut and sat up on the tiled floor. Disoriented, he stared around the darkened room as he braced his hand against the bathtub and pulled himself up. Leaning over the sink, he placed a hand at the back of his throbbing head. His fingers were damp with blood as soon as he drew them away. Unclothed and unshaven, he realized he must have slipped on the floor when exiting the shower.
“Good job, Sam. Put your coma in a coma,” he sighed, grabbing a fresh towel and drying himself off. He caught a glance of his sour face as he passed by the mirror. He stopped and straightened up.
“No. Happy. Be happy. It’s all in your head and a result of crossed brainwaves and excess medication, but it is your birthday. It is your birthday and you,” he pointed to himself in the mirror, “you are going to see T. Rex in concert, and you are going to enjoy yourself. Okay? Okay,” he nodded and finally left the bathroom.
*
The pub was dark, smoky, and loud - exactly the way Gene liked it. Chris was making a foolish attempt at beating Ray at darts while Phyllis and Cartwright were in the corner exchanging various ball-busting techniques, no doubt. Gene sat at the bar waiting for his DI. Though Hunt had ordered him straight to the Arms after their shift, Tyler had insisted he go back to his flat and clean up before they headed to the concert.
And clean up he had. As the door creaked open and the breeze blew in, there stood Sam in a garish purple shirt (neatly pressed, of course), and unsurprisingly tight trousers.
“Is that what took so long?” Gene snorted as Sam strolled up to the bar.
“I had to shower,” Sam retorted, nervously patting down his hair.
“What’s up with you?” he asked, sipping his whiskey. Sam quickly dropped his hands and mumbled. “Didn’t quite catch that, Dorothy.”
“Last time he made fun of my hair,” he pouted, ordering a drink from Nelson.
“Who?”
“Marc Bolan.”
“Again I say, who?”
“The lead singer of the bad we’re seeing tonight? I saw him at the Warren once. He made fun of my hair. Why didn’t you tell me about the concert sooner? I could’ve had time to grow it out,” he sighed.
“You’re worried ‘bout what some drug-addled pop singer, whom you won’t even meet, is going to say?” Gene rolled his eyes. “Never worry about what I say.”
“He is not drug-addled,” Sam snapped. “Okay. He is. But he’s going to get clean.”
“Hm.”
“He is!”
“Are you done telling me what Mr. Bowler--”
“Bolan.”
“--is going to say, or can you finish your drink like a big boy so we can get this music mangling over with?”
Sam glowered at Gene, tossed back his whiskey, and stormed out the door. Gene sighed and followed, digging his keys from his pocket along the way.
“Arse looks good in them trousers, by the way,” he commented as Sam waited impatiently by the Cortina.
“I didn’t wear them for you,” he hissed.
“Are you going to be sulky all night?”
“Sorry,” Sam apologized as they climbed into the car. “Happy coma. Happy coma,” he muttered to himself.
“What was that?”
“I said happy birthday. I’m going to have a happy birthday. I...haven’t had one in awhile, but this year will be different.”
“Good,” Gene nodded as he lit a fag and started the car.
“By the way, I did wear the trousers for you. Thought I’d give you something nice to look act, if you were bored at the concert.”
“You’re the one supposed to be unwrapping gifts tonight, Sammy-boy,” Gene leered.
“To give is to receive,” Sam smirked. “And I do expect both.”
*
The auditorium was a pounding, pulsing, mass of bodies. The lights were low, emotions were high, and sweat was everywhere. For Gene’s sake, Sam stuck close to the bar in the back - the only place where there was a bit of space. He didn’t need a broken elbow from a 70s most pit, anyhow.
But, when the lights exploded and Marc Bolan took center stage, he couldn’t help but surge forward with the rest of the crowd. Shouting the lyrics to “Get It On” with fellow fans and his musical hero himself was extraordinarily better than singing along to his scratched LP while Maya bugged him to turn down the volume.
So euphoric was he after the first set, that Sam failed to recognize the drink he grabbed was not his own.
*
It was loud. It was crowded. It was disgustingly warm. But, it was making Sam happy, so he decided to put up with it. But, he certainly expected the bastard to pay him back in kind when the Gene Genie’s own birthday rolled around, and he wasn’t referring to a live performance by Roger Whittaker.
Gene kept himself glued to the bar. As long as he remained pissed and Sam remained happy, he would just make it through the night. Sam had stayed close at the beginning, but as the concert progressed, he slowly integrated himself into the crowd. Gene barely saw him now, but every once in a while he’d notice a flash of purple and know that Sam was still there.
The concert was nearly over (he hoped), when he saw Sam’s slim body pushing through the crowd and heading back to the bar. His DI looked sweaty, wan, and nervous. Nothing out of the ordinary then. As soon as Tyler spotted Gene, he ran at him and grabbed him by the sleeve, yanking him towards the door.
“We have to go!” he shouted over the raucous crowd.
“Past your bedtime is it?” Gene quipped as he nursed his drink. Sam pulled Hunt’s arm so hard, the scotch leapt from the glass and settled on his shirt.
“Now,” Sam ordered and hurried him out of the auditorium before Gene could protest the loss of his beverage.
“What the bloody hell’s crawled under your skin, Gladys? Thought you were enjoying yourself,” Gene huffed as he used a handkerchief to dry his shirt. He was secretly pleased to be out of the stuffy hall and in the cool air, but the loss of a good drink had to be answered for.
Sam bounced nervously from foot to foot, scrubbing his fingers through his hair, and rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. Where Gene was constantly still, Sam was constantly in motion.
“They’re going to kill him,” Sam blurted out as fast as his lips could move.
“Who’s going to kill what?” Gene asked, planting his hands on his hips. If Sam Tyler were ever to give him a straight answer, Gene believed he’d drop dead from the shock. Sam leaned close and whispered conspiratorially.
“They,” he pointed to the hall entrance way, “want to kill Marc Bolan,” he said with great certainty. “Except they won’t. He doesn’t die until 1977. But even then it’s an accident. But what if they do? Kill him? What if history changes because I was here and I wasn’t supposed to be and the whole course of the future is changed? What if this is all my fault? But what if I’m supposed to save him anyway? What if, by saving him, I save myself?” Sam paused, not for breath but for thought. “I think we should save him,” he decided.
Gene calmly took Sam by the shoulders and guided him towards a lamp post. Grabbing him by the chin and tilting his head back, Gene carefully examined his eyes. Sighing, he let go of Sam’s head and crossed his arms.
“What did you take?”
“Huh? Wait, you mean drugs? I haven’t taken drugs. I’d never take drugs. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to stop a group of rabid assassins from executing Marc Bolan four years before he’s supposed to die,” Sam turned to leave, but Gene grabbed his arm and pulled him back.
“Your pupils are the size of saucers, you’re sweating more than a devil in church, and you’re more paranoid than a bull in a butcher’s. You know I won’t report you, Sammy. I just need to know what you took.”
Sam’s face had gone completely red and Gene struggled not to laugh at this drug-induced confusion.
“Well?” Sam huffed.
“Well? That one o’ them new pills from the South?”
“Are you going to help me or not?”
“Tyler, the only help you need is a cold shower and a long rest.”
“That’s all I needed to know,” Sam nodded, and he punched Gene in the jaw. He was so taken aback by the hit (and a bit slow from the alcohol), that Hunt was unable to block the second punch, this one to the gut, or catch Sam’s arm before the berk had him handcuffed to a nearby sign post.
“What the...Tyler!” Gene snarled as he pulled at the restraint.
“I’ll come back after I save him,” Sam smiled then kissed Gene on top of his head while he reached into his Guv’s coat pocket.
“You’ll unlock these right now is what you’ll do, Tyler. Tyler. Sam!” Gene shouted at him, but it was no use. Sam simply jogged off into the night, taking the keys to the handcuffs, and the Cortina, with him.
*
The whispers were coming from every direction. These weren’t like the ones from the future and he didn’t know why no one else could hear them. Maybe being from the future had left him with a keen sense of hearing. Whatever it was, he could hear them, and he knew what they were saying. They were going to kill Marc Bolan. He didn’t know why. He didn’t need to know why. That didn’t matter. What mattered was saving him. Saving Marc Bolan. Saving his hero.
Sam peaked into the auditorium and saw the band taking their last bows. He wondered if Steve Currie or Bill Legend’s lives were also at risk, but as he became hypnotized by Bolan’s glorious curls swinging side to side, he decided it didn’t matter if they were. Ducking into the corridor, Sam decided it would be best if he waited outside the stage door.
Hurrying outside, he ran to the back of the building, heartbroken to see it already swarmed by fans. Any one of them could be the killer. Sam would not be able to get close enough to warn Bolan before the inevitable happened. If the stage door wasn’t an option, he’d have to reach him before then. He snuck back in the building - Gene’s shouts echoing through the nearly silent night - and bypassed the auditorium.
Sam had visited the Free Trade Hall once before in 1991, before it was converted into a Radisson Hotel. He could only hope the halls remained the same between then and now. Or now and then. Of course, it was hard to maintain a sense of direction when the walls kept changing shape and color. Sam closed his eyes, shook his head, and found himself standing inside a rainforest.
“Shit,” he cursed. He immediately stopped running, closed his eyes, shook his head, and found himself underwater. Although it was fascinating breathing underwater, and the little Nemo fish was quite friendly, surrounded by Technicolor coral was not where he needed to be. So, Sam closed his eyes, shook his head, and found himself standing inside Tom Baker’s TARDIS.
“This’ll have to do,” he sighed, and ran past the time vortex manipulator.
*
“Bloody...tripping...nutter...fairy...Last...bloody...time...I do...summat nice...for...that...berk,” Gene carefully maneuvered the bent paperclip, struggling to pick the lock on Tyler’s handcuffs. Various concert-goers had started leaving the building. Unfortunately, the ones that weren’t too drunk or high to notice him merely laughed and went on their way.
But, he almost had it now. Just a few more twists and he’d be free. One more click and he’d get up, track down that tosser, and give him the kind of reaming Sam wouldn’t look forward to again.
Two drunken birds stumbled on the pavement and knocked into Gene’s hand, sending the paperclip skittering into the darkness.
“Oh. Sorry Guv’nor,” they giggled and clip-clopped into the night on their unsteady high heels.
“You’re bloody joking,” Gene sighed and futilely tugged at his metal restraint.
*
He had just passed the walk-in wardrobe when he found The Doctor making tea in the kitchen.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” he sighed with relief. “We have to go. You’re in grave danger.”
“Relax, Sarah Jane,” the Doctor smiled. “Care for a cuppa?”
“What? I’m not...” Sam looked down to find himself dressed in a short-sleeved collared shirt, tight-fitting vest, and jean shorts. “Oh.”
“Sugar?”
“Uhhh...”
“You look higher than a kite, mate,” the Doctor smiled as he handed over the tea.
“We...we have to go,” Sam stuttered, taking a sip of the tea and realizing the tea wasn’t liquid but smoke. It filled his nostrils and made him light-handed. He quickly handed it back.
“Go where?” the Doctor smiled again as he sipped from the same mug. And suddenly Sarah Jane couldn’t remember what had been so pressing. She stood there dumbfounded while the Doctor continued to smile. “Well, man, it was nice to see you, but I--”
“The Daleks!” she shouted, suddenly remembering. “We have to hurry. They’re after you!”
The Doctor regarded her oddly, then screwed that same smile on his face as he tied his scarf tight around his neck.
“Don’t worry. They won’t get me.”
“But they’ve found a way to infiltrate the TARDIS. We have to get out now!”
“Chill man. We’re cool.”
“I’m sorry, Doctor. But if you won’t save us, I will.”
And Sarah Jane grabbed the nearest lamp and bumped the Doctor gently on the head.
*
Gene’s wrist had gone raw from the amount of tugging and twisting he’d put it through. He’d searched his pockets desperately, but found no other paperclip, tie pin, or bird’s hair clip to pick at the lock. He was just contemplating gnawing off his own wrist when the familiar patter of comfortable shoes came strolling towards him.
“Guv? Guv, is that you?”
Into the light appeared Phyllis, her craggy face and tight bun backlit by the orange glow of the lamp post.
“Not one word, Sergeant Dobbs,” Hunt warned. “But, you wouldn’t happen to have a pair of keys on you, would you luv?”
“How in blazes did you end up down here?” she sighed and crouched beside him, digging into her pocket.
“DI Tyler and I had a slight disagreement.”
“See he won the argument, then,” she grinned, producing a key from her pocket.
“It’s not over yet,” Gene growled. “Now hurry up with them locks.”
“You best make sure I get paid overtime for this, sir.”
“Need to pay off the rent boys, eh Phyllis?”
“Still owe you five quid, don’t I?”
The key clicked and Gene’s aching wrist was soon free.
“Consider us even,” he said, and rose from the pavement, rubbing his wrist. “What’s a classy bird like you doing here anyhow?”
“I live here,” she grimaced, nodding to the block of flats across the road. “You came here for last year’s Christmas party, remember?”
“Would you be insulted if I said no?”
“Yes.”
“No. Now run along home, DS Dobbs, ‘fore things kick off.”
“By ‘kick off’ would you be referring to DI Tyler stuffing a man in the boot of the Cortina?” Phyllis nodded over Gene’s shoulder. Hunt’s head whipped around to see his Detective Inspector doing just that.
“Bloody hell...TYLER!” Gene screamed and ran over to his car. Sam turned and dropped the man to the ground.
“Shit!” Sam grabbed the long-haired bloke and tried pushing him into the backseat.
“Sam! What’re you doing?”
Gene heard the man groan as he slowly regained consciousness.
“Don’t worry, Doctor. I’ll protect you!” With the man half-in, half-out of the car, Sam spun on the approaching Gene, and threatened him with a pen. “Whiiiiiirrrrr!” Sam hummed. Gene stopped in his tracks.
“What’s that supposed to be?”
“Sonic screwdriver. I’ve set it to a deltoid frequency which should disrupt your laser beam and prevent extermination,” Sam explained, his clammy skin glowing in the dark night. “Whiiiiiiirrrrr!”
“What did he take?” Phyllis asked, stepping next to Gene.
“Shit! There’s another one. Doctor what do we do?”
The man, who Gene know recognized as that damn, girly singer, groaned loudly.
“Don’t know. Think he was slipped summat in that brothel.”
Sam’s hand was visibly shaking as he pointed the pen from Gene to Phyllis. His breath was hitching often and he was having trouble breathing. His eyes - pupils already dilated - were swimming in and out of focus.
“Looks like acid to me, Guv.”
“Whatever it is, he’s having a bad trip of it,” Gene sighed. “Alright, Sammy-boy. Let’s calm down.”
“Don’t step any closer!”
“We just want to talk,” Gene took a step forward.
“I’m warning you!”
“Wha’s goin’ on, man?” the singer mumbled, leaning out of the car and rubbing his head. His voice distracted Sam just long enough for Gene to rush forward and punch his deputy in the face. Sam fell backwards and banged his head on the ground, knocking him out.
“Not the birthday thumping I had in mind, Sammy,” Gene whispered as he leaned down to check on him.
By this time, a small crowd had started to gather. Bystanders - mostly T. Rex fans - soon realized who was sitting in the car, and the gasps and murmurs were quickly becoming shouts and accusations.
“Should I call it in, DCI Hunt?” Phyllis asked, already moving towards the car radio.
Gene looked from the wide-eyed crowd, to his unconscious DI, to the angry rock star climbing out of his car.
“Guess you better, Phyllis. Guess you better.”
*
“Can I say I’m sorry?” he asked, tears trickling down his cheeks.
“Bloody hell, Tyler. I just barely got you off a kidnapping charge!” Gene shouted in exasperation.
“So, that’s a no then?” Sam asked.
“Move. Now,” Hunt ordered and shoved Sam forward. “And no more drugs for you. Ever. Christ, but you’re wonky when you’re bladdered.”
Gene had to grab Sam by the collar in order to steer him safely outside and into the waiting Cortina. Dawn was just breaking and if Sam were more sober and less humiliated, he would have appreciated the beauty of the early morning. Instead, he focused on the shamed look on Gene’s face and the sickening feeling in his gut. He remained silent on the drive home, afraid of digging himself even deeper, and said nothing when Gene pulled up to his own home, rather than Sam’s flat.
He obediently followed his Guv inside, swaying as the pavement decided to ripple under his feet. He stopped halfway to the door and closed his eyes, willing the sounds of Hawkwind to dissipate. Something that felt both cold and warm took him by the arm and pulled him forward through the fog. Sam didn’t open his eyes until his body sunk into the soft, marshmallow couch. As he refocused his brain, the couch became firmer underneath him and Gene’s face became clearer before him.
“I didn’t...” he tried to explain, but couldn’t find the right words. His tongue felt too big for his mouth.
“I know. For a smart copper, you’re a daft bloke more’n half the time,” Gene sighed and ran a soothing a hand through Sam’s hair. Sam leaned into it, desperate for a touch he knew was real.
“At least it’s a birthday I won’t forget.”
“I was hoping it’d be memorable. For other reasons, of course.”
“And what might those be?”
“Well, ‘s not your birthday anymore, is it?”
“It’s still yesterday somewhere, Guv.”
“Then we best hurry ‘fore it’s tomorrow.”
Gene hoisted Sam off the couch and bundled him to the stairs, shedding a few pieces of clothes in the process. As Gene nibbled at his neck, Sam closed his eyes, shook his head, and found himself back inside the TARDIS.
“Uhm, Gene?”
“What is it, Tyler?”
“Is it alright if I call you Doctor?”