Fic: 5 Times Sam's Arse Was Grabbed Anonymously, green cortina, dakfinv
Title: 5 Times Sam's Arse Was Grabbed Anonymously
Author: dak
Word Count: 1643
Rating: green cortina
Warnings: none (no, not even angst!)
Summary: Does what it says on the tin.
A/N: For lunadeath02 who requested the prompt.
1)
Once Glen had handed him his new warrant card, the realization that he was now a DCI did not sink in until the party afterwards at the Lamb and Flag. Sam was not one who often went out for drinks after work, but it was a Friday and he did just make Chief Inspector. Glen had also said something about drinking being a good team building exercise.
“Drinking as team building?” Sam had laughed. “Someone’s Seventies cop roots are showing.”
Nonetheless, here he was leaning against a sticky counter top, chatting amicably with a young DC while sipping a half-pint of lager shandy. The conversation had recently broached the subject of retrieving degraded DNA from corpses with high levels of decomposition, when Sam distinctly felt a warm hand grab and cup the left cheek of his buttocks. It disappeared as soon as it arrived, but Sam turned round anyway.
His eyes quickly scanned the immediate area, but no obvious culprit was visible. Disregarding the event, he returned his attention to the DC, but not two minutes later the hand returned. Sam snapped round again, but the offending hand and its body were nowhere to be seen. Flustered, he spun a full three hundred sixty degrees trying to get a better look at the crowd.
“Is there a problem, DCI Tyler?”
Sam looked at the woman standing behind him.
“Did you see...”
“See what?”
“Erm, nothing. Nothing, sorry. It’s Maya, isn’t it?” He asked her, hesitantly grabbing his half-pint.
“That’s right. DS Roy. Just transferred to CID last week. Oh, Chief Inspector, while I have your attention, I was wondering if I could speak to you about a case I’m working on.”
“Sure. Absolutely.”
“Brilliant,” she smiled, and Sam couldn’t help but smile back. “Why don’t you snatch that booth over there and I’ll get you a fresh drink.”
Though Sam was fine with his shandy, he nodded and did as she requested, all the while wondering which punter had belonged to that hand.
2)
Carbon paper was the absolute worst bloody invention in the history of mankind. It crumpled, it ripped, and it got all over his polyester shirts which didn’t need any help looking awful. Cursing for the umpteenth time, Sam crumpled up the report, tossed it in the garbage, and started anew.
He had remained at the station late last night and arrived early this morning all with the intention of finishing the blasted thing, but the office supplies were having other ideas. When the blasted paper tore again, Sam decided, after chucking his pen across the room, that a nice cup of tea might soothe his nerves.
He headed down to the canteen, ordered his cuppa, and took a seat at a back table. The tea was warm in his hands and the smell of peppermint relaxed his muscles. He thought he’d asked for English Breakfast, but the peppermint seemed to be exactly what he needed.
His eyes drifted shut, his head tilted forward, and two fingers pinched his arse. Sam startled awake to see that he’d been slipping out of the chair.
“You need a good night’s rest, luv.”
Sam looked over to see Gwen wiping down a nearby table.
“No one kips in them chairs less they’re plenty knackered.”
“Erm, right,” Sam collected himself and picked up his cup. “Thanks for the tea, Gwen.”
“Oh, anything for you, DI Tyler.”
As Sam left the canteen he knew he’d only dreamed the pinch, yet he thought he saw the old woman wink.
3)
Was there anything worse than school trips? Forced out into public areas in one’s school uniform after having just turned seventeen was not Sam’s idea of a good time. The trip to the local art museum did promise to be educational, but Sam was too worried about being spotted in his gray trousers and short red tie by the girls from the polytechnic to enjoy himself as he perused the various works of art. A few months and he’d be done with school, could burn his school clothes, and enjoy his gap year.
Sam and his class had just stepped into a new exhibition room when his worst fear was realized. There was a gaggle of college girls standing in the corner holding sketchbooks. His group made a loud racket as they entered, causing the girls to immediately spot Sam and his schoolmates. As they pointed and giggled, Sam did his best to hide his face.
Taking a turn about the room, Sam immediately felt someone pinch his arse. He leapt in the air and his slick black shoes nearly slipped on the waxed floor as he landed. His mate, Charlie, asked what was the matter, but Sam simply blushed and shrugged him off. He dared a peek at the girls, but they were all staring intently at their sketchbooks.
As their teacher stopped them at the last painting in the room, Sam felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see one of the older girls standing there. She slipped a piece of paper into his hand.
“I’ve always liked a man in uniform,” she smiled slyly, then hurried back to her giggling group. Sam glanced at the paper and, seeing a name and phone number, smiled.
Sliding the paper into his pocket, he straightened his tie and wondered if he had to wait a whole year before joining the academy and getting himself one of those sleek PC uniforms.
4)
He didn’t need any help getting changed. He could dress himself, he was certain, yet here were three nurses and Annie puttering about the room, laying out his clothes, and ordering him to remain still.
“Really, sir,” Annie sighed. “You were stabbed twice. You might be allowed home, but we can’t have you pulling your stitches. Now hold still.”
Knowing from childhood experience that there was no use arguing with a group of strong-minded women, Sam sighed and let them get on with it. Grateful he was already wearing underpants and that bandages were covering most of his chest, Sam tried to relax as they untied his hospital gown and slipped it off.
They carefully pulled a vest over his head then helped him into the blue shirt Annie had brought from his flat. After that was buttoned, he was ordered to stand carefully as they pulled up his trousers. As they did so, Sam was surprised to feel a warm hand caress his backside.
“Erm...” he started and looked behind him where Annie and one of the nurses were standing. “Did you...”
“Did I what, sir?” Annie asked, completely absorbed in her work.
“Never mind. Not important,” Sam sighed and let the women finish their work. No, it was no use arguing with strong-minded women.
5)
As he put in a round of drinks, the realization that he was a DI finally sunk in. He’d worked his entire career to become a DCI and being demoted for no other reason than getting hit by a car and waking up in a different decade had irked him to no end.
For weeks he’d been angry with Gene for no other reason except that he felt Hunt had stolen his title. Forget the excessive smoking, drinking, and racist comments, it was hearing Gene referred to as DCI that truly aggravated him.
Today, however, today none of that mattered because they had worked as a true team, titles be damned. Solving the case, bringing in Myles, and rescuing his hostage - policing in 1973 hadn’t felt that good since he and Gene had dragged Warren out of his club in cuffs all those months ago. Even Ray had contributed significantly on this one, using his brain instead of his fists, to Sam’s pleasant surprise.
So, as Nelson began placing the drinks on the tray, Sam was content to participate in a little team building to celebrate a successful day. The trusty barman was pulling the last drink - Sam’s own pint of ale - when he felt a large hand grab his arse. He turned quickly but saw no one suspicious. The whole team was milling about behind him, chatting amicably and finishing off their last pints.
Nelson placed the final drink on the tray and Sam carefully carried the round back to their table. As soon as he set down the tray, he felt the same hand pat his arse again. His reflexes slowed by the alcohol, by the time he turned round the entire team was behind him reaching out to the table to collect their drinks.
When both the drinks and the crowd had dissipated, only Sam, Gene, and their beers were left at the table.
“Well, Gladys. Another successful day thanks to yours truly.”
“Yes, Guv. If it weren’t for your sheer brilliance alone, we’d never have been able to bring Myles down.”
“That comment, my little deputy, sounded a bit like sarcasm.”
“Well, brilliant observation then as sarcasm is what I’d intended.”
“Are you saying it wasn’t your DCI that saved the day?”
“I’m saying it was a team effort, one I was proud to be a part of.”
“Careful, Sammy. Starting to sound as if you like it here.”
“Course not, Guv. Just the alcohol talking. After all, I did want to discuss with you the implementation of a better filing system.”
“Think I’ll need to sit down for this,” Gene rolled his eyes and motioned to the booth in the corner. Sam grinned and began walking, but stopped when he felt a hand grab his behind yet again. He looked behind but Gene had one hand on his drink and the other in his trouser pocket.
“What is it now, Marjorie?”
Sam looked away then back at Gene.
“Erm, nothing,” he shook his head and continued to the booth, though he swore he could sense Gene grinning.
Author: dak
Word Count: 1643
Rating: green cortina
Warnings: none (no, not even angst!)
Summary: Does what it says on the tin.
A/N: For lunadeath02 who requested the prompt.
1)
Once Glen had handed him his new warrant card, the realization that he was now a DCI did not sink in until the party afterwards at the Lamb and Flag. Sam was not one who often went out for drinks after work, but it was a Friday and he did just make Chief Inspector. Glen had also said something about drinking being a good team building exercise.
“Drinking as team building?” Sam had laughed. “Someone’s Seventies cop roots are showing.”
Nonetheless, here he was leaning against a sticky counter top, chatting amicably with a young DC while sipping a half-pint of lager shandy. The conversation had recently broached the subject of retrieving degraded DNA from corpses with high levels of decomposition, when Sam distinctly felt a warm hand grab and cup the left cheek of his buttocks. It disappeared as soon as it arrived, but Sam turned round anyway.
His eyes quickly scanned the immediate area, but no obvious culprit was visible. Disregarding the event, he returned his attention to the DC, but not two minutes later the hand returned. Sam snapped round again, but the offending hand and its body were nowhere to be seen. Flustered, he spun a full three hundred sixty degrees trying to get a better look at the crowd.
“Is there a problem, DCI Tyler?”
Sam looked at the woman standing behind him.
“Did you see...”
“See what?”
“Erm, nothing. Nothing, sorry. It’s Maya, isn’t it?” He asked her, hesitantly grabbing his half-pint.
“That’s right. DS Roy. Just transferred to CID last week. Oh, Chief Inspector, while I have your attention, I was wondering if I could speak to you about a case I’m working on.”
“Sure. Absolutely.”
“Brilliant,” she smiled, and Sam couldn’t help but smile back. “Why don’t you snatch that booth over there and I’ll get you a fresh drink.”
Though Sam was fine with his shandy, he nodded and did as she requested, all the while wondering which punter had belonged to that hand.
2)
Carbon paper was the absolute worst bloody invention in the history of mankind. It crumpled, it ripped, and it got all over his polyester shirts which didn’t need any help looking awful. Cursing for the umpteenth time, Sam crumpled up the report, tossed it in the garbage, and started anew.
He had remained at the station late last night and arrived early this morning all with the intention of finishing the blasted thing, but the office supplies were having other ideas. When the blasted paper tore again, Sam decided, after chucking his pen across the room, that a nice cup of tea might soothe his nerves.
He headed down to the canteen, ordered his cuppa, and took a seat at a back table. The tea was warm in his hands and the smell of peppermint relaxed his muscles. He thought he’d asked for English Breakfast, but the peppermint seemed to be exactly what he needed.
His eyes drifted shut, his head tilted forward, and two fingers pinched his arse. Sam startled awake to see that he’d been slipping out of the chair.
“You need a good night’s rest, luv.”
Sam looked over to see Gwen wiping down a nearby table.
“No one kips in them chairs less they’re plenty knackered.”
“Erm, right,” Sam collected himself and picked up his cup. “Thanks for the tea, Gwen.”
“Oh, anything for you, DI Tyler.”
As Sam left the canteen he knew he’d only dreamed the pinch, yet he thought he saw the old woman wink.
3)
Was there anything worse than school trips? Forced out into public areas in one’s school uniform after having just turned seventeen was not Sam’s idea of a good time. The trip to the local art museum did promise to be educational, but Sam was too worried about being spotted in his gray trousers and short red tie by the girls from the polytechnic to enjoy himself as he perused the various works of art. A few months and he’d be done with school, could burn his school clothes, and enjoy his gap year.
Sam and his class had just stepped into a new exhibition room when his worst fear was realized. There was a gaggle of college girls standing in the corner holding sketchbooks. His group made a loud racket as they entered, causing the girls to immediately spot Sam and his schoolmates. As they pointed and giggled, Sam did his best to hide his face.
Taking a turn about the room, Sam immediately felt someone pinch his arse. He leapt in the air and his slick black shoes nearly slipped on the waxed floor as he landed. His mate, Charlie, asked what was the matter, but Sam simply blushed and shrugged him off. He dared a peek at the girls, but they were all staring intently at their sketchbooks.
As their teacher stopped them at the last painting in the room, Sam felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to see one of the older girls standing there. She slipped a piece of paper into his hand.
“I’ve always liked a man in uniform,” she smiled slyly, then hurried back to her giggling group. Sam glanced at the paper and, seeing a name and phone number, smiled.
Sliding the paper into his pocket, he straightened his tie and wondered if he had to wait a whole year before joining the academy and getting himself one of those sleek PC uniforms.
4)
He didn’t need any help getting changed. He could dress himself, he was certain, yet here were three nurses and Annie puttering about the room, laying out his clothes, and ordering him to remain still.
“Really, sir,” Annie sighed. “You were stabbed twice. You might be allowed home, but we can’t have you pulling your stitches. Now hold still.”
Knowing from childhood experience that there was no use arguing with a group of strong-minded women, Sam sighed and let them get on with it. Grateful he was already wearing underpants and that bandages were covering most of his chest, Sam tried to relax as they untied his hospital gown and slipped it off.
They carefully pulled a vest over his head then helped him into the blue shirt Annie had brought from his flat. After that was buttoned, he was ordered to stand carefully as they pulled up his trousers. As they did so, Sam was surprised to feel a warm hand caress his backside.
“Erm...” he started and looked behind him where Annie and one of the nurses were standing. “Did you...”
“Did I what, sir?” Annie asked, completely absorbed in her work.
“Never mind. Not important,” Sam sighed and let the women finish their work. No, it was no use arguing with strong-minded women.
5)
As he put in a round of drinks, the realization that he was a DI finally sunk in. He’d worked his entire career to become a DCI and being demoted for no other reason than getting hit by a car and waking up in a different decade had irked him to no end.
For weeks he’d been angry with Gene for no other reason except that he felt Hunt had stolen his title. Forget the excessive smoking, drinking, and racist comments, it was hearing Gene referred to as DCI that truly aggravated him.
Today, however, today none of that mattered because they had worked as a true team, titles be damned. Solving the case, bringing in Myles, and rescuing his hostage - policing in 1973 hadn’t felt that good since he and Gene had dragged Warren out of his club in cuffs all those months ago. Even Ray had contributed significantly on this one, using his brain instead of his fists, to Sam’s pleasant surprise.
So, as Nelson began placing the drinks on the tray, Sam was content to participate in a little team building to celebrate a successful day. The trusty barman was pulling the last drink - Sam’s own pint of ale - when he felt a large hand grab his arse. He turned quickly but saw no one suspicious. The whole team was milling about behind him, chatting amicably and finishing off their last pints.
Nelson placed the final drink on the tray and Sam carefully carried the round back to their table. As soon as he set down the tray, he felt the same hand pat his arse again. His reflexes slowed by the alcohol, by the time he turned round the entire team was behind him reaching out to the table to collect their drinks.
When both the drinks and the crowd had dissipated, only Sam, Gene, and their beers were left at the table.
“Well, Gladys. Another successful day thanks to yours truly.”
“Yes, Guv. If it weren’t for your sheer brilliance alone, we’d never have been able to bring Myles down.”
“That comment, my little deputy, sounded a bit like sarcasm.”
“Well, brilliant observation then as sarcasm is what I’d intended.”
“Are you saying it wasn’t your DCI that saved the day?”
“I’m saying it was a team effort, one I was proud to be a part of.”
“Careful, Sammy. Starting to sound as if you like it here.”
“Course not, Guv. Just the alcohol talking. After all, I did want to discuss with you the implementation of a better filing system.”
“Think I’ll need to sit down for this,” Gene rolled his eyes and motioned to the booth in the corner. Sam grinned and began walking, but stopped when he felt a hand grab his behind yet again. He looked behind but Gene had one hand on his drink and the other in his trouser pocket.
“What is it now, Marjorie?”
Sam looked away then back at Gene.
“Erm, nothing,” he shook his head and continued to the booth, though he swore he could sense Gene grinning.