Fic: That Discussion (1/1), white cortina, dakfinv
Title: That Discussion
Author: dak
Word Count: 1658
Rating: white cortina
Warnings: none!
Summary: Sam really doesn't want a big fuss. So why do people keep bringing it up?
A/N: Another happy!Sam prompt. This one is for ilovedoyle who wanted some form of birthday fic. Please enjoy!
“I don’t want any big signs. No ‘Tyler, You Poofter,’ or anything like that.”
“Sam, you can’t plan your own party,” Annie giggled, then sipped her tea.
“And if it’s just going to be a piss-up in CID, I’d rather not have one at all. We have to maintain some level of professionalism in the station, even in this Neolithic age.” Sam stabbed his roast beef with his fork.
“Neolithic?” Annie repeated, eyebrows raised.
“Remember Geoff’s birthday last month? The whole department was trapped under a pile of empty whiskey bottles, Party Sevens, and stale cake for a week. I couldn’t find a file without having it covered in crusted icing.”
“The Guv is very...particular about how he celebrates birthdays,” Annie said. “He likes making a big to-do.”
“Well, if that’s all mine’ll be, I don’t want it.”
“Oh, Sam. You can’t mean that.”
“I do,” Sam assured her, cutting another piece of beef. “I wasn’t in the habit of celebrating my birthday back in...Hyde. I don’t see why I should do any differently this year.”
“The Guv always celebrates everyone’s birthday, that’s why. He even said we’ll have one for me later this year, since I’m a detective now,” Annie grinned proudly.
“Hunt just wants any excuse to get absolutely bladdered.” Sam rolled his eyes, then noticed Annie’s narrowed ones. “Er, sorry. You do deserve to have a big party. For your birthday. For me...” He shrugged his shoulders and finished his last piece of beef before wiping his mouth with his napkin. “I’d rather not make a big fuss. Just another year after all, isn’t it?”
“The Guv won’t like it.”
“Tell him he can still drink all he wants. I just won’t be there to witness it.” He grabbed his tray and rose from the canteen table. “And, I’ll be the only one without a hangover in the morning. That’ll be the best birthday gift of all.” He smiled and returned his tray, hoping he wouldn’t have to have that discussion again.
*
“Me mum said you could come round for tea, like. Make a roast. Or, if you don’t like that, could do some bangers or mash. Or, erm, what do you like, Boss?”
“It’s alright, Chris.” Sam reached for a pen and began filling out the Higgins report.
“Okay,” Chris nodded and turned away, then spun right back around. “Erm, what’s alright? The roast or the...”
“I meant, your mum doesn’t have to cook for me.”
“Oh. So you’ve made birthday plans, then.”
“No, Chris, I haven’t.” Sam sighed heavily, keeping the pen pinched in one hand while he pinched the bridge of his nose with the other.
“Oh. Well, it’s no bother, really. Said she’d like to do summat nice for you, so you won’t be all lonely on your birthday.”
“How does your mother know I’m lonely?” Sam asked, lifting his head. “I mean, why would she think I’m lonely?” He quickly corrected.
“Erm, well, she knows you’ve no family round here. Thought you might like a nice home cooked meal, is all.” Chris shrugged.
“That’s very...sweet of her, Chris. But I’m fine. My birthday will be fine. Thank you.” He smiled and returned to his report, hoping he wouldn’t have to have that discussion again.
*
“Stripper.”
“Pardon?”
“Should get yourself a nice stripper, Boss.” Ray grinned, chomping his gum.
“No.” Sam declared, helping himself to a cuppa from the tea cart.
“There’s this nice, leggy brunette over at the Dark Horse.”
“No.”
“Tits like...like watermelons.” Ray held out his hands, cupping the imaginary breasts.
“Watermelons?” Sam asked skeptically, returning the teapot to the cart.
“Aye,” Ray grinned, still holding out his hands, still chomping his gum.
“No.”
“Well, since that don’t suit you, sure we could find a nice rent boy down on Canal Street.”
Sam turned on his heel and returned to his desk, hoping he would never, ever, absolutely not have to have that discussion again.
*
“And I want the Higgins report by...”
Sam set the file on Gene’s desk before his Guv could finish the sentence.
“Anything else?” He asked.
“Nope.” Gene reached into his pocket and pulled out his Marlboro’s.
“Right,” Sam nodded and waited. Gene said nothing, simply lit his fag. “So, there’s nothing else you want discuss?”
“Nope.”
“About tomorrow, or...”
“Nope.”
“Okay. See you tomorrow, then.” Sam cautiously finished the conversation.
“Tomorrow.” Gene sucked on the end of the cigarette.
Sam nodded, and left the office. He returned to his flat, glad that he didn’t have to have that discussion, again.
*
Now, there was a perfectly good reason why Sam did not want to have that particular discussion, and it would surprise his coworkers to know that it wasn’t because he was an emotionless, boring ponce. Sam was, in fact, afraid of having a big birthday celebration because the last time he’d had a big birthday celebration, he’d turned into a complete arse.
It had been right before Glen Fletcher had appointed him DCI. Maya had planned a raucous celebration at their local, inviting the few friends Sam had and several coworkers as well. In what turned into an embarrassing night involving not only broken whiskey bottles, much too much stripping, and a flaming duck, but also included Sam drunkenly admitting to the timid new receptionist how much he wished his father could see him now, all grown up, and why did his childhood have to be so miserable, Sam vowed to never - ever - make a big to-do over his birthday, again. Ever.
Of course, he couldn’t divulge this information to anyone in CID, even Annie, else it somehow come back to haunt him even though, it being 1973, it technically hadn’t happened yet. Still, he would not take the chance.
Despite his great attempts to refuse any birthday celebrations, when he walked into CID that fateful day, Sam entered cautiously. No one ever listened to him about anything, so why would they listen now, in regards to his own birthday preferences?
Taking a deep breath, he pushed through the double doors of CID. To his relief, there were no large banners, no balloons, no streamers. No one even looked up from their desk. More relaxed, Sam walked to his desk and began his day.
*
The day passed with relative ease, the only sign something was different when Gwen served him extra custard with his treacle. No one made any grand speeches. He wasn’t bombarded by tawdry gifts of porn mags he’d never read and cigars he’d (probably) never smoke. In fact, no one said anything at all. No pats on the back. No well wishes. Nothing.
Which was the way he’d wanted things after all.
He was just about to head off to his flat, somehow knowing that the test card girl and her taunts would be in fine form tonight, when Gene clapped a hand on his leather clad back.
“Pub.”
“I was going home to...”
“That wasn’t a question, Tyler. That was an order.”
“Guv, I’d rather...”
“You didn’t want a party - fine. But I’m at least buying you a drink on this, your specialist of days.”
“I think you mean most special. And it really isn’t...”
“And, if you’re lucky, Dorothy, I’ll allow you the privilege of buying me a pint and whiskey chaser.”
Gene did not release the grip on Sam’s shoulder until Sam rolled his eyes and acquiesced.
“Alright. But just one drink. Then I’m off.”
“Lovely. Come on then.” Gene swaggered out of the office, Sam following dutifully in his wake.
*
He was terrified they’d rigged up some sort of surprise party. He was convinced they’d spent the whole day making him feel comfortable then - wham! As soon as he entered the pub he would be surrounded by fuss and mess and god knew what. He just wanted the day to pass peacefully. Was it so much to ask?
Sam’s fears were relieved, however, the minute he stepped foot in the Arms. His presence, and the Guv’s, were acknowledged just as they always were, the only change being that Nelson gave Sam his first drink on the house.
DI and DCI settled into a quiet corner and sipped their drinks, chatting amicably. It wasn’t difficult for Gene to talk Sam into another round, and he did buy the drinks as promised.
As the night went on, the various members of CID gradually came over to wish their DI a very happy birthday, some leaving a drink, others - like Chris and Annie - leaving small, wrapped packages. Even Ray stopped by with a pint for his Boss, nearly dropping it on the table with a grunt that could have been interpreted as either “Happy Birthday” or “You stupid twonk.”
The night grew long, the pub stayed warm, and Gene and Sam worked their way through every topic of conversation imaginable. They laughed as Chris fumbled with darts, placed bets on whether the barmaid would really give in to Ray’s advances, and debated the greatness of Roger Whitaker versus David Bowie.
Eventually, the conversation reached a natural silence, and Sam leaned back and gazed at the now quiet pub.
“So, then, it were alright?” Gene broke the silence.
“Hm?” Sam had been lost in a haze of warm contentment and barely heard Gene’s question.
“Your birthday. Said you didn’t want a big fuss. So, it were alright, this?”
Sam took a deep breath and stared at the empty glasses surrounding them, stared at Annie trying to keep a drunken Chris conscious, stared at Ray getting slapped by the barmaid, stared at the small scattering of books and records he’d received as gifts. He turned to Gene and smiled.
“Best birthday I’ve had in years, Guv. Cheers.” He raised his glass.
“Cheers.” Gene did the same.
They finished their drinks and Sam settled in for another round. He supposed it wouldn’t be so bad being hungover in the morning.
Author: dak
Word Count: 1658
Rating: white cortina
Warnings: none!
Summary: Sam really doesn't want a big fuss. So why do people keep bringing it up?
A/N: Another happy!Sam prompt. This one is for ilovedoyle who wanted some form of birthday fic. Please enjoy!
“I don’t want any big signs. No ‘Tyler, You Poofter,’ or anything like that.”
“Sam, you can’t plan your own party,” Annie giggled, then sipped her tea.
“And if it’s just going to be a piss-up in CID, I’d rather not have one at all. We have to maintain some level of professionalism in the station, even in this Neolithic age.” Sam stabbed his roast beef with his fork.
“Neolithic?” Annie repeated, eyebrows raised.
“Remember Geoff’s birthday last month? The whole department was trapped under a pile of empty whiskey bottles, Party Sevens, and stale cake for a week. I couldn’t find a file without having it covered in crusted icing.”
“The Guv is very...particular about how he celebrates birthdays,” Annie said. “He likes making a big to-do.”
“Well, if that’s all mine’ll be, I don’t want it.”
“Oh, Sam. You can’t mean that.”
“I do,” Sam assured her, cutting another piece of beef. “I wasn’t in the habit of celebrating my birthday back in...Hyde. I don’t see why I should do any differently this year.”
“The Guv always celebrates everyone’s birthday, that’s why. He even said we’ll have one for me later this year, since I’m a detective now,” Annie grinned proudly.
“Hunt just wants any excuse to get absolutely bladdered.” Sam rolled his eyes, then noticed Annie’s narrowed ones. “Er, sorry. You do deserve to have a big party. For your birthday. For me...” He shrugged his shoulders and finished his last piece of beef before wiping his mouth with his napkin. “I’d rather not make a big fuss. Just another year after all, isn’t it?”
“The Guv won’t like it.”
“Tell him he can still drink all he wants. I just won’t be there to witness it.” He grabbed his tray and rose from the canteen table. “And, I’ll be the only one without a hangover in the morning. That’ll be the best birthday gift of all.” He smiled and returned his tray, hoping he wouldn’t have to have that discussion again.
*
“Me mum said you could come round for tea, like. Make a roast. Or, if you don’t like that, could do some bangers or mash. Or, erm, what do you like, Boss?”
“It’s alright, Chris.” Sam reached for a pen and began filling out the Higgins report.
“Okay,” Chris nodded and turned away, then spun right back around. “Erm, what’s alright? The roast or the...”
“I meant, your mum doesn’t have to cook for me.”
“Oh. So you’ve made birthday plans, then.”
“No, Chris, I haven’t.” Sam sighed heavily, keeping the pen pinched in one hand while he pinched the bridge of his nose with the other.
“Oh. Well, it’s no bother, really. Said she’d like to do summat nice for you, so you won’t be all lonely on your birthday.”
“How does your mother know I’m lonely?” Sam asked, lifting his head. “I mean, why would she think I’m lonely?” He quickly corrected.
“Erm, well, she knows you’ve no family round here. Thought you might like a nice home cooked meal, is all.” Chris shrugged.
“That’s very...sweet of her, Chris. But I’m fine. My birthday will be fine. Thank you.” He smiled and returned to his report, hoping he wouldn’t have to have that discussion again.
*
“Stripper.”
“Pardon?”
“Should get yourself a nice stripper, Boss.” Ray grinned, chomping his gum.
“No.” Sam declared, helping himself to a cuppa from the tea cart.
“There’s this nice, leggy brunette over at the Dark Horse.”
“No.”
“Tits like...like watermelons.” Ray held out his hands, cupping the imaginary breasts.
“Watermelons?” Sam asked skeptically, returning the teapot to the cart.
“Aye,” Ray grinned, still holding out his hands, still chomping his gum.
“No.”
“Well, since that don’t suit you, sure we could find a nice rent boy down on Canal Street.”
Sam turned on his heel and returned to his desk, hoping he would never, ever, absolutely not have to have that discussion again.
*
“And I want the Higgins report by...”
Sam set the file on Gene’s desk before his Guv could finish the sentence.
“Anything else?” He asked.
“Nope.” Gene reached into his pocket and pulled out his Marlboro’s.
“Right,” Sam nodded and waited. Gene said nothing, simply lit his fag. “So, there’s nothing else you want discuss?”
“Nope.”
“About tomorrow, or...”
“Nope.”
“Okay. See you tomorrow, then.” Sam cautiously finished the conversation.
“Tomorrow.” Gene sucked on the end of the cigarette.
Sam nodded, and left the office. He returned to his flat, glad that he didn’t have to have that discussion, again.
*
Now, there was a perfectly good reason why Sam did not want to have that particular discussion, and it would surprise his coworkers to know that it wasn’t because he was an emotionless, boring ponce. Sam was, in fact, afraid of having a big birthday celebration because the last time he’d had a big birthday celebration, he’d turned into a complete arse.
It had been right before Glen Fletcher had appointed him DCI. Maya had planned a raucous celebration at their local, inviting the few friends Sam had and several coworkers as well. In what turned into an embarrassing night involving not only broken whiskey bottles, much too much stripping, and a flaming duck, but also included Sam drunkenly admitting to the timid new receptionist how much he wished his father could see him now, all grown up, and why did his childhood have to be so miserable, Sam vowed to never - ever - make a big to-do over his birthday, again. Ever.
Of course, he couldn’t divulge this information to anyone in CID, even Annie, else it somehow come back to haunt him even though, it being 1973, it technically hadn’t happened yet. Still, he would not take the chance.
Despite his great attempts to refuse any birthday celebrations, when he walked into CID that fateful day, Sam entered cautiously. No one ever listened to him about anything, so why would they listen now, in regards to his own birthday preferences?
Taking a deep breath, he pushed through the double doors of CID. To his relief, there were no large banners, no balloons, no streamers. No one even looked up from their desk. More relaxed, Sam walked to his desk and began his day.
*
The day passed with relative ease, the only sign something was different when Gwen served him extra custard with his treacle. No one made any grand speeches. He wasn’t bombarded by tawdry gifts of porn mags he’d never read and cigars he’d (probably) never smoke. In fact, no one said anything at all. No pats on the back. No well wishes. Nothing.
Which was the way he’d wanted things after all.
He was just about to head off to his flat, somehow knowing that the test card girl and her taunts would be in fine form tonight, when Gene clapped a hand on his leather clad back.
“Pub.”
“I was going home to...”
“That wasn’t a question, Tyler. That was an order.”
“Guv, I’d rather...”
“You didn’t want a party - fine. But I’m at least buying you a drink on this, your specialist of days.”
“I think you mean most special. And it really isn’t...”
“And, if you’re lucky, Dorothy, I’ll allow you the privilege of buying me a pint and whiskey chaser.”
Gene did not release the grip on Sam’s shoulder until Sam rolled his eyes and acquiesced.
“Alright. But just one drink. Then I’m off.”
“Lovely. Come on then.” Gene swaggered out of the office, Sam following dutifully in his wake.
*
He was terrified they’d rigged up some sort of surprise party. He was convinced they’d spent the whole day making him feel comfortable then - wham! As soon as he entered the pub he would be surrounded by fuss and mess and god knew what. He just wanted the day to pass peacefully. Was it so much to ask?
Sam’s fears were relieved, however, the minute he stepped foot in the Arms. His presence, and the Guv’s, were acknowledged just as they always were, the only change being that Nelson gave Sam his first drink on the house.
DI and DCI settled into a quiet corner and sipped their drinks, chatting amicably. It wasn’t difficult for Gene to talk Sam into another round, and he did buy the drinks as promised.
As the night went on, the various members of CID gradually came over to wish their DI a very happy birthday, some leaving a drink, others - like Chris and Annie - leaving small, wrapped packages. Even Ray stopped by with a pint for his Boss, nearly dropping it on the table with a grunt that could have been interpreted as either “Happy Birthday” or “You stupid twonk.”
The night grew long, the pub stayed warm, and Gene and Sam worked their way through every topic of conversation imaginable. They laughed as Chris fumbled with darts, placed bets on whether the barmaid would really give in to Ray’s advances, and debated the greatness of Roger Whitaker versus David Bowie.
Eventually, the conversation reached a natural silence, and Sam leaned back and gazed at the now quiet pub.
“So, then, it were alright?” Gene broke the silence.
“Hm?” Sam had been lost in a haze of warm contentment and barely heard Gene’s question.
“Your birthday. Said you didn’t want a big fuss. So, it were alright, this?”
Sam took a deep breath and stared at the empty glasses surrounding them, stared at Annie trying to keep a drunken Chris conscious, stared at Ray getting slapped by the barmaid, stared at the small scattering of books and records he’d received as gifts. He turned to Gene and smiled.
“Best birthday I’ve had in years, Guv. Cheers.” He raised his glass.
“Cheers.” Gene did the same.
They finished their drinks and Sam settled in for another round. He supposed it wouldn’t be so bad being hungover in the morning.