Fic: To Be a Good DI (1/1), blue cortina, sam/gene, dakfinv
Title: To Be A Good DI
Author: dak
Word Count: 5779
Rating: blue cortina
Warnings: angst, severe bodily harm
Pairing: Sam/Gene
Summary: Harry Woolf needs to speak to Sam one more time, to teach him about being a good DI.
A/N: For culf , the reason why many fics like this exist, even if they shouldn't.
Edit: The big ball of text is fixed now. *fingers crossed*
There was only one piece left to hang, and then the decorations would be complete. Nelson handed the garland up to Sam.
"Careful, mon brave," Nelson warned as Sam balanced on the edge of the back bar.
"Don't worry. I have it," Sam assured him as he carefully lifted the fake green pine needles above his head. Sam shifted his feet to get a better handle on the writhing accoutrement, balancing heavily on his left leg.
"DI Tyler..."
"Nearly there..." Sam stretched his body, standing up on his tip toes.
"Sam..."
"I have it..." He removed the nail from his mouth and pinned the garland in place with one hand. "Hand me the hammer." He lowered his right hand and motioned to the tool beside his feet on the narrow ledge. Nelson pressed it into his hand. "Alright... almost there..." he grinned and lifted the hammer above his head, poising it for the first blow.
*
Sam's eyes shot open as the fist came in contact with his face. As his vision cleared, he took stock of the room in which he suddenly found himself. He appeared to be inside a cavernous warehouse. There were windows on the walls either side of him, but they were a distance away and covered in a thick layer of grime. He listened carefully and thought he could hear water lapping outside. It was possible he was down at the quays, then, he decided. He would have walked outside to check, except that he was tied to a chair.
As he focused his eyes in front of him, he noticed a man standing there a few feet away, the one who had most likely delivered the wakening blow. He couldn’t quite make out his face, but his body language and dress were unfamiliar.
"What do you want?" Sam called out.
The man said nothing.
"Why have you brought me here?"
The man remained silent.
"You do know who I am,” Sam warned.
The man's lips curled into a sick smile.
"I thought so. Why else would you have dragged me from my bed in the middle of the night," he sighed and rolled his eyes.
The man ignored him.
"Well, I'm awake. Aren't you going to tell me why I’m here?"
No answer.
"If you can't talk to me, this situation will go nowhere. At least tell me what you want."
Still nothing. Sam narrowed his eyes.
"No? Then can you untie me from this chair?"
The man held his enigmatic grin.
"Thought not."
Sam was about to change tactics when another voice sounded from behind.
"He can't tell you why you're here, DI Tyler, because he doesn't know."
Sam felt his heart stop.
*
Sam's arms were grabbed and he was hoisted back to his feet. His heart was leaping out of his chest, and it took him a moment to regain his bearings. When he did, he realized Gene was laughing at him.
"It's not funny," he grumbled, smoothing out his shirt.
"Course it is. You nearly went tits up off Nelson's bar while hanging a bit o' Christmas sparkle."
"Emphasis on nearly."
"Good thing the Gene Genie was there to save your pretty arse from crashing to the ground. Isn't that right Nelson?" Gene smiled as the barman handed him a large whisky.
Sam rolled his eyes.
"What?" Gene asked, immediately tossing back the drink.
"The party doesn't start for another half hour."
"So? Already after four o'clock. Held out this long, haven't I?"
"He makes a fair point," Nelson agreed, sweeping up the bits of green that had already fallen off the fake garland and onto his otherwise clean floor.
"You're not helping," Sam sighed, limping forward and grabbing the hammer off the floor, then returning it to Nelson's toolbox.
"Oh, lighten up, Sammy-boy. Tis the season to be happy, and all that bollocks," Gene pat Sam on the back. Sam felt the warm fingers linger there, then relaxed into the touch as Gene's hand traced its way down his back before reluctantly pulling away.
*
Sam waited for another blow, but the goon stood firm while his master entered the room. To feel any relief upon knowing the familiar identity of his captor would not serve him well in this situation, he realized. He may have once looked upon this man with respect, and possibly pity, but now Sam knew how ruthless he could be. He could not be allowed to feel comfortable in this situation.
"Superintendant Woolf."
"Oh, it's only Harry now," he smiled, shuffling into Sam's peripheral vision. "You saw to that."
"I was only doing my job," Sam replied, immediately defensive.
"Now, now. Let's not start old arguments," Woolf laughed, a dark sound which soon devolved into a deep, hacking cough.
"How's the cancer?" Sam decided to ask. It may have been a cruel thing to say, but Sam wasn't feeling particularly pleasant after being kidnapped and restrained. Harry Woolf was standing directly in front of him by the time the coughing fit ceased.
"Leave us," he ordered his man, and the tall figure strolled out of the room without a word.
"Hired help?" Sam inquired, twisting his wrists in their restraints.
"'Fraid I'm not as strong as I once was," Woolf sighed, dragging over a chair. It was then Sam noticed the elder man's hands trembling.
*
Sam winced as Chris tripped over the bar stool. As far as impressing the barmaid went, DC Skelton was not doing the greatest of jobs. He felt for the poor, young detective as he stammered to collect himself, shaking from embarrassment while the object of his affection turned up her nose and walked to the other end of the bar.
"Don't feel too bad for him," Gene belched. "What I hear that girl's a right tart."
"Should you be saying that about one of Nelson's staff?" Sam asked, sitting back in his chair. "And how did you know what I was thinking anyhow?"
"One - cos I always know what you're thinking. And, two, yes. Or is that one, yes, and two cos I always know what you're thinking?" Gene mumbled to himself, leaning back against his chair, and also into Sam's shoulder.
"You're pissed," Sam smiled, adjusting his own body to maximize the minimal contact.
"Not quite, Gladys, but I'm getting there."
"Shame," Sam sighed, twirling his glass of tonic water.
"What? That Chris won't be getting in some tart's knickers on this fine Christmas Eve?"
"No. Well, yes, for him. What I meant, though, was, if you drink anymore, looks like I'll have to drive you home. Again." Sam looked at Gene and smiled.
"What a pity. Nelson! 'Nother round!" Gene left to get the drinks, leaving Sam alone at their table. He took a deep breath, listening to the cheerful sounds of the pub. If he closed his eyes, he almost felt normal.
*
He sat across from Sam, a tattered coat round his body and a flask shaking in his hand. Sam held his tongue, wondering where this game was going. If there was one thing about Harry Woolf - one thing Sam knew for certain - it was that former Superintendant Woolf always had a plan. He would have to wait and see what it was. Unfortunately, Harry was no longer speaking.
"Go on then," Sam urged in a quiet, patient voice. "Tell us what this is about."
Harry said nothing, keeping as silent as his now-gone goon.
"You're upset. I know. You're upset with me because you think I should've let the matter drop. I shouldn't have brought it to Gene's attention."
At the mention of the DCI's name, Harry allowed himself a brief smile.
"I should've played the game," he lied. Sam knew he had done the right thing. Given a second choice, he would've done the same all over again. Yet, if he pretended to admit otherwise, it might be the only thing that got him out of this situation.
"It's not all about you, lad," Harry sighed, untwisting the cap off his flask and swallowing down a hefty gulp. Harry held the flask out to Sam.
"No, thank you."
"Go on, son. It won't kill you."
Sam swallowed nervously as Harry rose from his chair and forced the flask to Sam's lips. He drank as little as he could, shocked at what he was tasting.
*
Sam's body was slammed into the wall, his head pounding as it bounced off the plaster. Gene pulled him back, wrapping his arms around his body and pressing his own lips to Sam's. Sam moaned his approval as he tasted whisky mixed with sweets, allowing his body to become pliant as Gene's fingers and tongue did their work. Tonight, he didn't feel like fighting.
*
Sam drank it down until it was pulled away, otherwise it would have dripped all down his face and shirt. If there was one thing worse than being tied to a chair, it was being wet and tied to chair. Woolf took another drink for himself before twisting the cap back on.
"Green tea and honey," Harry smiled. "Only thing what soothes my throat these days, when I have one of those coughing spells," he explained in a raspy voice.
"Still with a hint of whisky," Sam noted.
"What I kept in here for years," Woolf sighed. "Some smells you can't ever get out." He slipped the flask into his pocket.
"Why did you bring me here?" Sam asked, keeping his voice kind. The man was obviously distraught, his shaking fingers barely able to grasp anything. Even in the poor light, Sam could see Harry's color wasn't right.
"Did you hear they let me out?" Harry asked, ignoring Sam's question. "One month left the doctors say. Mercy release, they told the judge. Save the country some money. Kick me out of jail, since I'm dead anyway." He started hacking again, struggling to pull out a handkerchief and place it over his mouth.
"I hadn't heard," Sam replied when Harry's coughs had eased. "Gene might've. But he didn't tell me. You should spend this time with your family."
Woolf's eyes darkened as he twisted the now-damp handkerchief in his hands.
"You think I have any family left after that mess?"
"I'm sorry. I didn't..."
"No one, Sam. That trial left me with no one. And nothing."
"I thought Gene..."
"Gene gives me money because he pities me. Like feeding scraps to a mangy dog. You don't really care for it, you just don't want to see it suffer anymore than it already has."
"He doesn't see it..."
"You have no idea how he sees it, boy, or what it's like so don't try that empathetic crap on me. I may be a used-up, broken-down copper, but I'm no idiot." Harry pulled his body out of the chair and shuffled out of sight, leaving Sam there alone. Sam held his breath as he waited for Harry’s next move.
*
Sam held still as the fingers traced their way down his body, electrifying his nerves. He closed his eyes and gave in to the sensations.
"Gene..." he whispered, feeling the smile on his lips. The warmer body pressed into his, enveloping him and taking hold of him. This was what he wanted tonight. This was how he wanted to feel. Warm, loved, protected. He felt Gene grab his legs, to wrap them around his waist. Sam cried out in pain.
*
It had only been five minutes before the sounds returned, the slow shuffle of feet slipping into the cold room. He listened quietly as something was set down behind his chair, and Harry continued his solemn march, taking up residence in his own seat once again.
"Gene's quite fond of you," he stated simply.
"He's fond of all his men. His team."
"True. But you're his DI. You're the special one." Harry leaned forward in his chair, resting his hands in between his knees. "There's a bond that exists between DI and DCI. I'm sure you've felt it. A certain rapport that's not there between other ranks. Others may see it, true, but unless they've experienced it..." Harry trailed off with a shake of the head. "You and Gene have that bond. Gene and I had that bond."
"You still do. He still cares about you. You were his mentor, his..."
"I was what I was, DI Tyler. Now I am what I am. And what I am is nothing Gene wants a part of," he spat with disgust. "Maybe that is my own fault. Maybe I shouldn't have tried to go after Malone like I did." Harry paused, as if a tickle was starting in his chest. He pulled out his hip flask and drank down a gulp. "But maybe Gene should have respected that bond."
He was staring at his hands. Sam wasn't sure what Harry was planning, but behind him he smelled petrol. In the back part of his brain, the battle between fight versus flight was taking hold.
* S
am shoved Gene away.
"Get off me!" He hissed.
"Sam..."
Sam hobbled away, gasping for breath and ignoring Gene's attempts at comfort. He found himself in the kitchen, leaning on the round table for support.
"I'm sorry," Gene mumbled, following him.
"You should have thought of that before..." Sam hissed again, the pain searing him from the inside out.
"Look..."
"You know you have to be careful! Why must you always swing me around like the brain-stunted caveman you are?"
Sam took a deep breath in and let it out, slow and shaky. His hands were trembling and he gripped the table harder, desperate for them to stop. The air around him fell still and he knew it was because Gene was afraid of setting him off. It was better to let the silence take hold.
*
The room had fallen deathly still. Sam knew continuing a conversation with Woolf would be the only way to prevent the inevitable. The inevitable what, he had no idea, but every gut instinct he had was screaming at him that it wouldn't be good.
"It was my fault, Harry," Sam tried to appease him. "I was the one who pushed Gene. I..."
"You were just doing your job, lad," Harry smiled. "By the ruddy old book. Truth be told, the department needs more men like you. Willing to work the hard way. Not take the easy road. Only way we'll get the scum off the streets." Harry was staring at the floor as if debating his next move. Sam knew Woolf would have had this entire situation planned - he was too good not to - which meant if he was debating, he was suddenly unsure. Sam's methods were working.
"Then, perhaps you should be talking to Gene? You could leave me here. Send your man to get him. We could all sit down, like adults, and talk about this." Sam continued to pull at the ropes holding him, but they were tied tight.
"Did Gene tell you about the time I took a bullet for him?" Harry asked, his voice tired and hoarse.
"He's never mentioned it. But he never talks about anything from his past."
"He had just made DI. Still weren't sure if I'd made the right choice, but he was the best the station had to offer. It was either Gene or someone from the outside. I wanted to keep with me own boys. Men I'd watch grow up in the force. Men I could trust. It was only our second or third case together as DCI and DI. He'd been trying hard to please me the whole week." Harry took a deep breath which sent him into another coughing fit.
Sam took the time to look for exits. Not that he could get out of the chair, but if he did somehow manage, he'd need a place to go. Unfortunately, there were none that he could see before him, and he could only twist his head so far behind. When he turned back around, Woolf was staring at him, examining him.
"We got a shout about a post office blag. Routine, I thought. Seemed like there was one every week. We all loaded ourselves into the police van. Headed over to the scene. Were only two blaggards there when we arrived, each holding a hostage and a pistol. We started talking, of course, tried to get them to see the error of their ways. Stubborn blokes they were. And stupid. Always a bad combination, isn't it?"
Sam nodded in agreement.
"Only took a second. Not enough time for me to register what was happening. But I reacted instinctively. Saw the moment that bastard shifted the gun from the woman in his arms and turned it towards my DI. I leapt just before the shot went off. Pushed him out of the way. The slug hit me in the shoulder. Through and through. No serious damage. But, would've hit him straight in the chest."
“You’re a good man, Harry,” Sam tried to smile. He needed Woolf to believe he was on his side.
"No," Harry snapped. "That's not what a good man does. It’s what a good DCI does. But a great DCI shouldn’t have to. His men should be throwing themselves in front of bullets for him, especially his DI because that’s what a good DI does. A good DI protects his guv. Keeps him safe. Takes the bullet."
Woolf rose from the chair and hobbled towards Sam.
“Gene should have taken the bullet for me. Not planted another in my leg,” Harry muttered and took a few steps behind Sam's chair.
He returned, holding a shaking container in his hand. Out of breath, he dropped it at Sam's feet. A few drops of petrol spilled off the top and onto Sam's shoe.
*
He focused his breathing, using the methods the doctors taught him and willed the pain away. It wasn't completely working, though, and he still felt every nerve ending's muffled screams.
"You need summat?" Gene asked quietly and Sam knew it was from fear of retaliation.
"No. Yes. Some water. Please," Sam said, struggling with his anger. He didn't want to blow this all out of proportion. Not again. "And one of the...pain pills," he added with embarrassment. He eased himself into the chair as Gene fetched him a glass and a tablet.
"Haven't needed one of them in awhile. The whole week, I think," Gene stated as he set the items in front of Sam. "Guess that means you're improving, eh?"
Sam admired his uncharacteristic optimism. If only he could feel the same.
"Yeah. Think so." He downed the pill then tossed back the water. It would take at least a half hour for the medicine to kick in. He would need to control himself until then. "I should have warned you to be careful."
"I know."
"I forgot...we should have planned it better, to ensure it wouldn’t happen."
"I know."
Gene's easy acceptance of the situation, of Sam's action, made him cringe. He should be angry with Sam for using him as an emotional punching bag. He never was. Sam knew it was because Gene thought him too weak to handle any real confrontation, and maybe that was the truth.
The thought of that possibility caused the bile to rise in this throat. Sam swallowed it back down with a cough and silently cursed his own ineptitude.
*
Sam shuddered as Woolf went into another coughing fit. The smell of the petrol burned his nostrils and his lungs were fairing no better. Woolf was weak, very weak. It was obvious. If Sam managed to escape, Harry would not be able to stop him, and surely he could handle one hired goon. The only problem with that plan was the escape part.
Sam tugged at his restraints, pulling harder as Woolf hacked and coughed. Nearly there, he thought, as he felt his wrist gain an extra bit of movement. He pulled harder. Someone pistol-whipped him from behind. He didn't lose consciousness, but lost control of his limbs. His body remained limp as someone yanked his arms back and retied them, tighter than before.
"Thank you, Edgar," Woolf rasped, wiping sputum off his chin with the dirty handkerchief. "Valiant effort, DI Tyler," Harry smiled, patting him on the knee. "But there will be no escape for you today, I'm afraid."
Sam was still clearing his head when he felt the first splatter of the cold liquid on his thigh. The strong smell of petrol caused his head to lurch back and he gasped for air, his mind suddenly clear.
"What's killing me going to prove, Harry? You think Gene will forgive you if you kill me? You said it's not my fault, so why are you doing this?"
"You're right, Tyler. Killing you would do me no good. Which is why that's not what I'm going to do."
Harry’s breathing stuttered as he struggled with the effort of lifting the petrol can. The cancer was doing it’s job, Sam thought, but not fast enough to do him any good.
*
Sam's breathing shuddered as the pain finally began to subside. The pills were doing their job, he thought bitterly.
"Better?"
"Just peachy," he sneered, already feeling disgusted with himself.
"They gave you those to help you."
"It's been long enough. I shouldn't need them anymore."
"So what if you do? Nerves still growing back, aren’t they?" Gene shrugged and lit a cigarette. Sam's eyes locked on the burning flame of the lighter.
"I'm going to bed," he whispered, able to look away only when the lighter clicked shut and the fire extinguished. "Alone," he added as he dragged his body away from the table. He made his way up to the oft-used guest room and laid carefully down on the dirty sheets of the unmade bed.
*
The petrol was dumped over his leg, seeping into his trousers. Thank God he had fallen asleep in his jeans, again, Sam thought. At least they would provide him with a bit more protection than his thin pajama bottoms, wouldn’t they?
Harry's hands continued to release the chemical in slow, stunted movements. Sam tried to kick out at him, but Woolf stood far enough away that Sam's movements meant nothing.
"I'm disappointed in Gene. He should've stayed with me to the bitter end. Was his duty, after all. Instead he threw me to the dogs. Now, he has to pay the price. You're a good DI, Sam. Saw it for myself. As a good DI, you want to take the bullet for Gene, don't you? Course you do." Woolf reached into his pocket and withdrew a book of matches.
Sam instinctively recoiled, eyes locked on the object Harry was holding.
"This will teach the both of you. It will teach Gene to remember what loyalty is, and it will teach you how foolish that loyalty can be."
Sam’s eyes snapped shut as Woolf struck a match.
*
The room was completely dark, yet Sam could not sleep. He lay on top of the sheets, staring at the blank ceiling. The pain had subsided but the memories were still fresh, that horrible night still burned into his memory, like the scars burned into his body. Sam laughed at the morbid metaphor.
"Find summat funny?" Gene was standing in the doorway. He hadn't bothered to turn on the upstairs lights. For that, Sam was grateful.
He closed his eyes. There was nothing to see anyway.
"You were doing good today," Gene mentioned. Sam could tell from the position of his voice that Gene was still in the doorway. "Smiling and all. Almost normal."
"It's been known to happen," Sam finally responded.
"Not lately."
"Thought I should make an effort for Christmas."
"Think one well behaved night will keep the coal out of your stocking?" Gene joked, but it fell flat. Sam didn't want to think about coal. "Right, well, off to bed then. See you in the morning. Chris's mum's bringing round a roast. Said she didn't think it right two fine bachelors like ourselves should do without. Means you, by the way. Said I invited you over. Right, well..."
He heard the footsteps walking away. Sam kept his eyes shut and listened.
*
Sam closed his eyes and waited. There was nothing.
He cracked them open to see Woolf throw a broken match to the ground. The disgraced Superintendant ripped another from the book and tried to light it, but his shaking hands would not let him. Woolf cursed to himself, apparently done with his monologues and disjointed remarks on modern policing.
Sam squirmed in the chair, pulling harder and harder at the ropes binding him while Harry fought with the matches. He could feel the petrol against his skin, dripping down his thigh.
Harry struck another match. It broke. He threw it to the ground.
Sam twisted his wrists, winding and unwinding them to try and gain some release. Woolf was insane. There would be no negotiating with him now.
Harry struck another match. It broke. He threw it across the room.
"These damn hands," he hissed, closing his eyes.
Sam was pulling so hard now, the chair was lifting off the ground, inching him backwards. He felt the rope slipping. If he only had a little more time.
Harry struck another match. It lit. "I really am very sorry about this, DI Tyler."
The tiny flame was tossed onto Sam's leg. The world turned orange.
*
Sam had stared at the black ceiling for several hours before deciding he wasn't going to sleep tonight. Instead, he dragged his aching limbs down the stairs and into the kitchen. The whisky was kept on the counter now, in easy reach for all. His tumbler from yesterday sat beside it. He grabbed it. It was easier than reaching for a new glass.
With a healthy amount poured, he limped to the table and sat, unconsciously rubbing his good leg. The doctors had told him to stay away from alcohol and caffeine, that it could cause the scar to itch. Sam thought it would take a lot of alcohol to make a scar that ran from his knee cap to abdomen itch completely. It wasn’t until his fourth glass that he decided drinking had been a bad idea.
He usually didn’t drink until the itch began to burn, he usually knew well enough to stop before then. He hadn’t tonight. He took another pill then, abandoning the glass on the table, hobbled up the staircase and into Gene's room. It wasn't until he sat on the bed that Gene realized he was there. Though his back was turned, Sam felt him roll towards him.
"I'm sorry," Sam muttered, running his hand through his hair.
"Been drinking again?" Gene mumbled, still half-asleep. "Only 'pologize when you've been drinking."
"Today was a good day. With everything going on, I hadn't thought about it at all."
"Good. Shouldn't be. Don't want to dwell on that shite. Going to sleep now?" Gene began to roll away. Sam grabbed him by the arm.
"I don't want Harry to have been right."
It was the first time he had mentioned That Name since they had found him. Why he hadn’t tried to discuss this before, Sam wasn’t sure. He never thought clearly about the incident. He was never certain he wanted to. Why should he try to make sense of what had happened?
*
Nothing made sense. The world was focused around pain and the steady hiss of a respirator, but Sam had not heard a respirator for some time, not since he decided to stay. He tried not to breath because breathing caused more pain. He would let the respirator breath for him.
Time was a lost cause. He could not tell how long he had been here before the pain or how long he had been here with the pain. There was not a time before the pain, his brain was certain. He had a vague recollection of something being thrown across his lap, of a low, raspy voice whispering "I'm sorry" or had it been "thank you?" The blanket had stopped the fire, but the pain had only just begun.
It wasn't just the pain - the feel of his thigh burning - it was the smell that was nauseating. He could smell the flesh burning, smell it mixing with his black cords. He dared not move. If he moved, it heightened the smell, and it heightened the pain. He could only sit there. Sit there and wait. Wait for someone to come to his rescue. How pathetic, one small part of his brain thought, the small part that was still capable of registering anything but the pain.
Pathetic or not, Sam would have to wait. He slumped over in the chair. Only unconsciousness could dull the pain.
*
Sam had released Gene's arm, but remained on his small corner of the bed, sitting and facing the door. He was afraid to move, now that the pain had subsided. He didn’t want to bring it on again. Gene had inched no closer, but from his breathing, Sam could tell he was lying on his back. He didn't know what else to say.
"You know I don't care about the scar, don't you?" Gene asked. Sam took a shaky breath.
"It's not that. It's...it hasn't fully healed, yet. I'm sure once it's healed, the pain will stop. I'm sure."
"Then what keeps bothering you, Sam? Harry's dead. You're alive. Ain't that enough?"
Sam leaned forward, making sure to put no pressure on his right leg.
"He never meant to kill me," Sam whispered, too low for Gene to hear. Gene rolled towards him, again, finally bringing himself closer. "It's been months. The damn thing itches like mad and I have to wear that bloody compression stocking twenty-three hours a day. None of the creams are working. Only narcotic pain medications help and, yes, they ease the pain, but they make me tired and nauseous, which is one of the reasons I still need to be on desk duty, instead of out there on the street with you. I'm useless, but that's my issue, and I need to deal with it on my own, instead of taking it out on you."
He felt Gene push himself into a sitting position. "Jesus, Sam. You're not...Christ, way we found you, I'm just glad you're still breathing. Wouldn't care if you were hooked up to a ruddy machine, yet, long as you were alive."
"I know. I know what you're saying..."
"Then stop with the bloody pity party!"
"Easy for you to say, isn't it? You weren't there. You weren't the one who had his leg covered in petrol. Who had to sit there while Harry Woolf lit match after match."
"And you were. What of it? If it were anyone else, they'd have to deal with it all the same."
"Woolf didn't want anyone else! He wanted me. And he wanted me because he wanted me to blame you, and that's exactly what I'm doing and I can't stop myself from doing it. Don't you get it Gene? He's still trying to destroy me. Doesn't matter that he's dead. I'm thinking exactly what he wanted me to think. He's a cancer inside my brain, Gene. I can't stop him. I relive the kidnapping every single day. I’ll never be rid of it. It’s always in there,” he pointed to his head, “eating away at me bit by bit.”
Gene was beside him now, sitting upright on the bed, legs over the side mirroring Sam's, minus the scars.
"Every time you take a pill, I think of Harry. Every time I see you limp, I think of Harry. Every time you wince, every time you pull on that compress-whatsit, or sit from the pain...Every bloody time I leave you in CID when I go out on a shout, I think of Harry. He didn't do this to just you, Sam. He did it to both of us. God knows what sick thoughts were running through his head at the end, what he thought this would prove, but I'll tell you what it means Sam and it means nought. Every day you take a step out that door, every day you help Chris at the station, every day we lock the scum away - whether you're beside me or not - we're proving Harry wrong. I will not let him destroy this, Sam. I've worked too bloody hard for it. And if that means some days I need to drag you kicking and screaming along with me, I'll do it, dammit. He will not win this fight. Don't you dare let him."
"I'm trying, Guv. I'm trying to ignore it, but..."
Gene reached out and grabbed Sam's wrist, gently pulling him closer.
"Don't ignore it, Sam. Just don't give in."
"How am I supposed to do that?"
"Well, you can start by having a Happy bloody Christmas." Gene wrapped his arms around Sam’s shoulders and gently laid him down. “But first, you need to get a good, ruddy night’s sleep.”
Sam’s head was placed on the pillow, Gene’s body wrapped protectively around his. Tomorrow he would keep trying, for Gene, if nothing else.
*
The sounds of the heart monitor eased him in and out of sleep. He often felt a hand entwined with his but whose he did not know. What he did know was that waking meant pain and pain was bad, and so he would fall back asleep. He could remember what had happened, to a point. He knew the damage would be bad, that it would take forever and a day to heal a burn as bad as the one he'd received.
Why should he deal with that now when he was safe and sound in hospital with cool sheets and a soothing monitor and someone gently massaging his hand? He had no worries here, at least not until he woke up. When he woke, there would be too many things to deal with - too many wounds, too many thoughts, too many fears.
For now he would remain laid out in bed, resting comfortably with nary a care in the world. He would confront his demons eventually, but not today. Probably not tomorrow. He would let them sit - to fester or to heal he knew not which - until forced to confront them. Perhaps in a few months.
Maybe as far as Christmas. Christmas was a good long way away.
Author: dak
Word Count: 5779
Rating: blue cortina
Warnings: angst, severe bodily harm
Pairing: Sam/Gene
Summary: Harry Woolf needs to speak to Sam one more time, to teach him about being a good DI.
A/N: For culf , the reason why many fics like this exist, even if they shouldn't.
Edit: The big ball of text is fixed now. *fingers crossed*
There was only one piece left to hang, and then the decorations would be complete. Nelson handed the garland up to Sam.
"Careful, mon brave," Nelson warned as Sam balanced on the edge of the back bar.
"Don't worry. I have it," Sam assured him as he carefully lifted the fake green pine needles above his head. Sam shifted his feet to get a better handle on the writhing accoutrement, balancing heavily on his left leg.
"DI Tyler..."
"Nearly there..." Sam stretched his body, standing up on his tip toes.
"Sam..."
"I have it..." He removed the nail from his mouth and pinned the garland in place with one hand. "Hand me the hammer." He lowered his right hand and motioned to the tool beside his feet on the narrow ledge. Nelson pressed it into his hand. "Alright... almost there..." he grinned and lifted the hammer above his head, poising it for the first blow.
*
Sam's eyes shot open as the fist came in contact with his face. As his vision cleared, he took stock of the room in which he suddenly found himself. He appeared to be inside a cavernous warehouse. There were windows on the walls either side of him, but they were a distance away and covered in a thick layer of grime. He listened carefully and thought he could hear water lapping outside. It was possible he was down at the quays, then, he decided. He would have walked outside to check, except that he was tied to a chair.
As he focused his eyes in front of him, he noticed a man standing there a few feet away, the one who had most likely delivered the wakening blow. He couldn’t quite make out his face, but his body language and dress were unfamiliar.
"What do you want?" Sam called out.
The man said nothing.
"Why have you brought me here?"
The man remained silent.
"You do know who I am,” Sam warned.
The man's lips curled into a sick smile.
"I thought so. Why else would you have dragged me from my bed in the middle of the night," he sighed and rolled his eyes.
The man ignored him.
"Well, I'm awake. Aren't you going to tell me why I’m here?"
No answer.
"If you can't talk to me, this situation will go nowhere. At least tell me what you want."
Still nothing. Sam narrowed his eyes.
"No? Then can you untie me from this chair?"
The man held his enigmatic grin.
"Thought not."
Sam was about to change tactics when another voice sounded from behind.
"He can't tell you why you're here, DI Tyler, because he doesn't know."
Sam felt his heart stop.
*
Sam's arms were grabbed and he was hoisted back to his feet. His heart was leaping out of his chest, and it took him a moment to regain his bearings. When he did, he realized Gene was laughing at him.
"It's not funny," he grumbled, smoothing out his shirt.
"Course it is. You nearly went tits up off Nelson's bar while hanging a bit o' Christmas sparkle."
"Emphasis on nearly."
"Good thing the Gene Genie was there to save your pretty arse from crashing to the ground. Isn't that right Nelson?" Gene smiled as the barman handed him a large whisky.
Sam rolled his eyes.
"What?" Gene asked, immediately tossing back the drink.
"The party doesn't start for another half hour."
"So? Already after four o'clock. Held out this long, haven't I?"
"He makes a fair point," Nelson agreed, sweeping up the bits of green that had already fallen off the fake garland and onto his otherwise clean floor.
"You're not helping," Sam sighed, limping forward and grabbing the hammer off the floor, then returning it to Nelson's toolbox.
"Oh, lighten up, Sammy-boy. Tis the season to be happy, and all that bollocks," Gene pat Sam on the back. Sam felt the warm fingers linger there, then relaxed into the touch as Gene's hand traced its way down his back before reluctantly pulling away.
*
Sam waited for another blow, but the goon stood firm while his master entered the room. To feel any relief upon knowing the familiar identity of his captor would not serve him well in this situation, he realized. He may have once looked upon this man with respect, and possibly pity, but now Sam knew how ruthless he could be. He could not be allowed to feel comfortable in this situation.
"Superintendant Woolf."
"Oh, it's only Harry now," he smiled, shuffling into Sam's peripheral vision. "You saw to that."
"I was only doing my job," Sam replied, immediately defensive.
"Now, now. Let's not start old arguments," Woolf laughed, a dark sound which soon devolved into a deep, hacking cough.
"How's the cancer?" Sam decided to ask. It may have been a cruel thing to say, but Sam wasn't feeling particularly pleasant after being kidnapped and restrained. Harry Woolf was standing directly in front of him by the time the coughing fit ceased.
"Leave us," he ordered his man, and the tall figure strolled out of the room without a word.
"Hired help?" Sam inquired, twisting his wrists in their restraints.
"'Fraid I'm not as strong as I once was," Woolf sighed, dragging over a chair. It was then Sam noticed the elder man's hands trembling.
*
Sam winced as Chris tripped over the bar stool. As far as impressing the barmaid went, DC Skelton was not doing the greatest of jobs. He felt for the poor, young detective as he stammered to collect himself, shaking from embarrassment while the object of his affection turned up her nose and walked to the other end of the bar.
"Don't feel too bad for him," Gene belched. "What I hear that girl's a right tart."
"Should you be saying that about one of Nelson's staff?" Sam asked, sitting back in his chair. "And how did you know what I was thinking anyhow?"
"One - cos I always know what you're thinking. And, two, yes. Or is that one, yes, and two cos I always know what you're thinking?" Gene mumbled to himself, leaning back against his chair, and also into Sam's shoulder.
"You're pissed," Sam smiled, adjusting his own body to maximize the minimal contact.
"Not quite, Gladys, but I'm getting there."
"Shame," Sam sighed, twirling his glass of tonic water.
"What? That Chris won't be getting in some tart's knickers on this fine Christmas Eve?"
"No. Well, yes, for him. What I meant, though, was, if you drink anymore, looks like I'll have to drive you home. Again." Sam looked at Gene and smiled.
"What a pity. Nelson! 'Nother round!" Gene left to get the drinks, leaving Sam alone at their table. He took a deep breath, listening to the cheerful sounds of the pub. If he closed his eyes, he almost felt normal.
*
He sat across from Sam, a tattered coat round his body and a flask shaking in his hand. Sam held his tongue, wondering where this game was going. If there was one thing about Harry Woolf - one thing Sam knew for certain - it was that former Superintendant Woolf always had a plan. He would have to wait and see what it was. Unfortunately, Harry was no longer speaking.
"Go on then," Sam urged in a quiet, patient voice. "Tell us what this is about."
Harry said nothing, keeping as silent as his now-gone goon.
"You're upset. I know. You're upset with me because you think I should've let the matter drop. I shouldn't have brought it to Gene's attention."
At the mention of the DCI's name, Harry allowed himself a brief smile.
"I should've played the game," he lied. Sam knew he had done the right thing. Given a second choice, he would've done the same all over again. Yet, if he pretended to admit otherwise, it might be the only thing that got him out of this situation.
"It's not all about you, lad," Harry sighed, untwisting the cap off his flask and swallowing down a hefty gulp. Harry held the flask out to Sam.
"No, thank you."
"Go on, son. It won't kill you."
Sam swallowed nervously as Harry rose from his chair and forced the flask to Sam's lips. He drank as little as he could, shocked at what he was tasting.
*
Sam's body was slammed into the wall, his head pounding as it bounced off the plaster. Gene pulled him back, wrapping his arms around his body and pressing his own lips to Sam's. Sam moaned his approval as he tasted whisky mixed with sweets, allowing his body to become pliant as Gene's fingers and tongue did their work. Tonight, he didn't feel like fighting.
*
Sam drank it down until it was pulled away, otherwise it would have dripped all down his face and shirt. If there was one thing worse than being tied to a chair, it was being wet and tied to chair. Woolf took another drink for himself before twisting the cap back on.
"Green tea and honey," Harry smiled. "Only thing what soothes my throat these days, when I have one of those coughing spells," he explained in a raspy voice.
"Still with a hint of whisky," Sam noted.
"What I kept in here for years," Woolf sighed. "Some smells you can't ever get out." He slipped the flask into his pocket.
"Why did you bring me here?" Sam asked, keeping his voice kind. The man was obviously distraught, his shaking fingers barely able to grasp anything. Even in the poor light, Sam could see Harry's color wasn't right.
"Did you hear they let me out?" Harry asked, ignoring Sam's question. "One month left the doctors say. Mercy release, they told the judge. Save the country some money. Kick me out of jail, since I'm dead anyway." He started hacking again, struggling to pull out a handkerchief and place it over his mouth.
"I hadn't heard," Sam replied when Harry's coughs had eased. "Gene might've. But he didn't tell me. You should spend this time with your family."
Woolf's eyes darkened as he twisted the now-damp handkerchief in his hands.
"You think I have any family left after that mess?"
"I'm sorry. I didn't..."
"No one, Sam. That trial left me with no one. And nothing."
"I thought Gene..."
"Gene gives me money because he pities me. Like feeding scraps to a mangy dog. You don't really care for it, you just don't want to see it suffer anymore than it already has."
"He doesn't see it..."
"You have no idea how he sees it, boy, or what it's like so don't try that empathetic crap on me. I may be a used-up, broken-down copper, but I'm no idiot." Harry pulled his body out of the chair and shuffled out of sight, leaving Sam there alone. Sam held his breath as he waited for Harry’s next move.
*
Sam held still as the fingers traced their way down his body, electrifying his nerves. He closed his eyes and gave in to the sensations.
"Gene..." he whispered, feeling the smile on his lips. The warmer body pressed into his, enveloping him and taking hold of him. This was what he wanted tonight. This was how he wanted to feel. Warm, loved, protected. He felt Gene grab his legs, to wrap them around his waist. Sam cried out in pain.
*
It had only been five minutes before the sounds returned, the slow shuffle of feet slipping into the cold room. He listened quietly as something was set down behind his chair, and Harry continued his solemn march, taking up residence in his own seat once again.
"Gene's quite fond of you," he stated simply.
"He's fond of all his men. His team."
"True. But you're his DI. You're the special one." Harry leaned forward in his chair, resting his hands in between his knees. "There's a bond that exists between DI and DCI. I'm sure you've felt it. A certain rapport that's not there between other ranks. Others may see it, true, but unless they've experienced it..." Harry trailed off with a shake of the head. "You and Gene have that bond. Gene and I had that bond."
"You still do. He still cares about you. You were his mentor, his..."
"I was what I was, DI Tyler. Now I am what I am. And what I am is nothing Gene wants a part of," he spat with disgust. "Maybe that is my own fault. Maybe I shouldn't have tried to go after Malone like I did." Harry paused, as if a tickle was starting in his chest. He pulled out his hip flask and drank down a gulp. "But maybe Gene should have respected that bond."
He was staring at his hands. Sam wasn't sure what Harry was planning, but behind him he smelled petrol. In the back part of his brain, the battle between fight versus flight was taking hold.
* S
am shoved Gene away.
"Get off me!" He hissed.
"Sam..."
Sam hobbled away, gasping for breath and ignoring Gene's attempts at comfort. He found himself in the kitchen, leaning on the round table for support.
"I'm sorry," Gene mumbled, following him.
"You should have thought of that before..." Sam hissed again, the pain searing him from the inside out.
"Look..."
"You know you have to be careful! Why must you always swing me around like the brain-stunted caveman you are?"
Sam took a deep breath in and let it out, slow and shaky. His hands were trembling and he gripped the table harder, desperate for them to stop. The air around him fell still and he knew it was because Gene was afraid of setting him off. It was better to let the silence take hold.
*
The room had fallen deathly still. Sam knew continuing a conversation with Woolf would be the only way to prevent the inevitable. The inevitable what, he had no idea, but every gut instinct he had was screaming at him that it wouldn't be good.
"It was my fault, Harry," Sam tried to appease him. "I was the one who pushed Gene. I..."
"You were just doing your job, lad," Harry smiled. "By the ruddy old book. Truth be told, the department needs more men like you. Willing to work the hard way. Not take the easy road. Only way we'll get the scum off the streets." Harry was staring at the floor as if debating his next move. Sam knew Woolf would have had this entire situation planned - he was too good not to - which meant if he was debating, he was suddenly unsure. Sam's methods were working.
"Then, perhaps you should be talking to Gene? You could leave me here. Send your man to get him. We could all sit down, like adults, and talk about this." Sam continued to pull at the ropes holding him, but they were tied tight.
"Did Gene tell you about the time I took a bullet for him?" Harry asked, his voice tired and hoarse.
"He's never mentioned it. But he never talks about anything from his past."
"He had just made DI. Still weren't sure if I'd made the right choice, but he was the best the station had to offer. It was either Gene or someone from the outside. I wanted to keep with me own boys. Men I'd watch grow up in the force. Men I could trust. It was only our second or third case together as DCI and DI. He'd been trying hard to please me the whole week." Harry took a deep breath which sent him into another coughing fit.
Sam took the time to look for exits. Not that he could get out of the chair, but if he did somehow manage, he'd need a place to go. Unfortunately, there were none that he could see before him, and he could only twist his head so far behind. When he turned back around, Woolf was staring at him, examining him.
"We got a shout about a post office blag. Routine, I thought. Seemed like there was one every week. We all loaded ourselves into the police van. Headed over to the scene. Were only two blaggards there when we arrived, each holding a hostage and a pistol. We started talking, of course, tried to get them to see the error of their ways. Stubborn blokes they were. And stupid. Always a bad combination, isn't it?"
Sam nodded in agreement.
"Only took a second. Not enough time for me to register what was happening. But I reacted instinctively. Saw the moment that bastard shifted the gun from the woman in his arms and turned it towards my DI. I leapt just before the shot went off. Pushed him out of the way. The slug hit me in the shoulder. Through and through. No serious damage. But, would've hit him straight in the chest."
“You’re a good man, Harry,” Sam tried to smile. He needed Woolf to believe he was on his side.
"No," Harry snapped. "That's not what a good man does. It’s what a good DCI does. But a great DCI shouldn’t have to. His men should be throwing themselves in front of bullets for him, especially his DI because that’s what a good DI does. A good DI protects his guv. Keeps him safe. Takes the bullet."
Woolf rose from the chair and hobbled towards Sam.
“Gene should have taken the bullet for me. Not planted another in my leg,” Harry muttered and took a few steps behind Sam's chair.
He returned, holding a shaking container in his hand. Out of breath, he dropped it at Sam's feet. A few drops of petrol spilled off the top and onto Sam's shoe.
*
He focused his breathing, using the methods the doctors taught him and willed the pain away. It wasn't completely working, though, and he still felt every nerve ending's muffled screams.
"You need summat?" Gene asked quietly and Sam knew it was from fear of retaliation.
"No. Yes. Some water. Please," Sam said, struggling with his anger. He didn't want to blow this all out of proportion. Not again. "And one of the...pain pills," he added with embarrassment. He eased himself into the chair as Gene fetched him a glass and a tablet.
"Haven't needed one of them in awhile. The whole week, I think," Gene stated as he set the items in front of Sam. "Guess that means you're improving, eh?"
Sam admired his uncharacteristic optimism. If only he could feel the same.
"Yeah. Think so." He downed the pill then tossed back the water. It would take at least a half hour for the medicine to kick in. He would need to control himself until then. "I should have warned you to be careful."
"I know."
"I forgot...we should have planned it better, to ensure it wouldn’t happen."
"I know."
Gene's easy acceptance of the situation, of Sam's action, made him cringe. He should be angry with Sam for using him as an emotional punching bag. He never was. Sam knew it was because Gene thought him too weak to handle any real confrontation, and maybe that was the truth.
The thought of that possibility caused the bile to rise in this throat. Sam swallowed it back down with a cough and silently cursed his own ineptitude.
*
Sam shuddered as Woolf went into another coughing fit. The smell of the petrol burned his nostrils and his lungs were fairing no better. Woolf was weak, very weak. It was obvious. If Sam managed to escape, Harry would not be able to stop him, and surely he could handle one hired goon. The only problem with that plan was the escape part.
Sam tugged at his restraints, pulling harder as Woolf hacked and coughed. Nearly there, he thought, as he felt his wrist gain an extra bit of movement. He pulled harder. Someone pistol-whipped him from behind. He didn't lose consciousness, but lost control of his limbs. His body remained limp as someone yanked his arms back and retied them, tighter than before.
"Thank you, Edgar," Woolf rasped, wiping sputum off his chin with the dirty handkerchief. "Valiant effort, DI Tyler," Harry smiled, patting him on the knee. "But there will be no escape for you today, I'm afraid."
Sam was still clearing his head when he felt the first splatter of the cold liquid on his thigh. The strong smell of petrol caused his head to lurch back and he gasped for air, his mind suddenly clear.
"What's killing me going to prove, Harry? You think Gene will forgive you if you kill me? You said it's not my fault, so why are you doing this?"
"You're right, Tyler. Killing you would do me no good. Which is why that's not what I'm going to do."
Harry’s breathing stuttered as he struggled with the effort of lifting the petrol can. The cancer was doing it’s job, Sam thought, but not fast enough to do him any good.
*
Sam's breathing shuddered as the pain finally began to subside. The pills were doing their job, he thought bitterly.
"Better?"
"Just peachy," he sneered, already feeling disgusted with himself.
"They gave you those to help you."
"It's been long enough. I shouldn't need them anymore."
"So what if you do? Nerves still growing back, aren’t they?" Gene shrugged and lit a cigarette. Sam's eyes locked on the burning flame of the lighter.
"I'm going to bed," he whispered, able to look away only when the lighter clicked shut and the fire extinguished. "Alone," he added as he dragged his body away from the table. He made his way up to the oft-used guest room and laid carefully down on the dirty sheets of the unmade bed.
*
The petrol was dumped over his leg, seeping into his trousers. Thank God he had fallen asleep in his jeans, again, Sam thought. At least they would provide him with a bit more protection than his thin pajama bottoms, wouldn’t they?
Harry's hands continued to release the chemical in slow, stunted movements. Sam tried to kick out at him, but Woolf stood far enough away that Sam's movements meant nothing.
"I'm disappointed in Gene. He should've stayed with me to the bitter end. Was his duty, after all. Instead he threw me to the dogs. Now, he has to pay the price. You're a good DI, Sam. Saw it for myself. As a good DI, you want to take the bullet for Gene, don't you? Course you do." Woolf reached into his pocket and withdrew a book of matches.
Sam instinctively recoiled, eyes locked on the object Harry was holding.
"This will teach the both of you. It will teach Gene to remember what loyalty is, and it will teach you how foolish that loyalty can be."
Sam’s eyes snapped shut as Woolf struck a match.
*
The room was completely dark, yet Sam could not sleep. He lay on top of the sheets, staring at the blank ceiling. The pain had subsided but the memories were still fresh, that horrible night still burned into his memory, like the scars burned into his body. Sam laughed at the morbid metaphor.
"Find summat funny?" Gene was standing in the doorway. He hadn't bothered to turn on the upstairs lights. For that, Sam was grateful.
He closed his eyes. There was nothing to see anyway.
"You were doing good today," Gene mentioned. Sam could tell from the position of his voice that Gene was still in the doorway. "Smiling and all. Almost normal."
"It's been known to happen," Sam finally responded.
"Not lately."
"Thought I should make an effort for Christmas."
"Think one well behaved night will keep the coal out of your stocking?" Gene joked, but it fell flat. Sam didn't want to think about coal. "Right, well, off to bed then. See you in the morning. Chris's mum's bringing round a roast. Said she didn't think it right two fine bachelors like ourselves should do without. Means you, by the way. Said I invited you over. Right, well..."
He heard the footsteps walking away. Sam kept his eyes shut and listened.
*
Sam closed his eyes and waited. There was nothing.
He cracked them open to see Woolf throw a broken match to the ground. The disgraced Superintendant ripped another from the book and tried to light it, but his shaking hands would not let him. Woolf cursed to himself, apparently done with his monologues and disjointed remarks on modern policing.
Sam squirmed in the chair, pulling harder and harder at the ropes binding him while Harry fought with the matches. He could feel the petrol against his skin, dripping down his thigh.
Harry struck another match. It broke. He threw it to the ground.
Sam twisted his wrists, winding and unwinding them to try and gain some release. Woolf was insane. There would be no negotiating with him now.
Harry struck another match. It broke. He threw it across the room.
"These damn hands," he hissed, closing his eyes.
Sam was pulling so hard now, the chair was lifting off the ground, inching him backwards. He felt the rope slipping. If he only had a little more time.
Harry struck another match. It lit. "I really am very sorry about this, DI Tyler."
The tiny flame was tossed onto Sam's leg. The world turned orange.
*
Sam had stared at the black ceiling for several hours before deciding he wasn't going to sleep tonight. Instead, he dragged his aching limbs down the stairs and into the kitchen. The whisky was kept on the counter now, in easy reach for all. His tumbler from yesterday sat beside it. He grabbed it. It was easier than reaching for a new glass.
With a healthy amount poured, he limped to the table and sat, unconsciously rubbing his good leg. The doctors had told him to stay away from alcohol and caffeine, that it could cause the scar to itch. Sam thought it would take a lot of alcohol to make a scar that ran from his knee cap to abdomen itch completely. It wasn’t until his fourth glass that he decided drinking had been a bad idea.
He usually didn’t drink until the itch began to burn, he usually knew well enough to stop before then. He hadn’t tonight. He took another pill then, abandoning the glass on the table, hobbled up the staircase and into Gene's room. It wasn't until he sat on the bed that Gene realized he was there. Though his back was turned, Sam felt him roll towards him.
"I'm sorry," Sam muttered, running his hand through his hair.
"Been drinking again?" Gene mumbled, still half-asleep. "Only 'pologize when you've been drinking."
"Today was a good day. With everything going on, I hadn't thought about it at all."
"Good. Shouldn't be. Don't want to dwell on that shite. Going to sleep now?" Gene began to roll away. Sam grabbed him by the arm.
"I don't want Harry to have been right."
It was the first time he had mentioned That Name since they had found him. Why he hadn’t tried to discuss this before, Sam wasn’t sure. He never thought clearly about the incident. He was never certain he wanted to. Why should he try to make sense of what had happened?
*
Nothing made sense. The world was focused around pain and the steady hiss of a respirator, but Sam had not heard a respirator for some time, not since he decided to stay. He tried not to breath because breathing caused more pain. He would let the respirator breath for him.
Time was a lost cause. He could not tell how long he had been here before the pain or how long he had been here with the pain. There was not a time before the pain, his brain was certain. He had a vague recollection of something being thrown across his lap, of a low, raspy voice whispering "I'm sorry" or had it been "thank you?" The blanket had stopped the fire, but the pain had only just begun.
It wasn't just the pain - the feel of his thigh burning - it was the smell that was nauseating. He could smell the flesh burning, smell it mixing with his black cords. He dared not move. If he moved, it heightened the smell, and it heightened the pain. He could only sit there. Sit there and wait. Wait for someone to come to his rescue. How pathetic, one small part of his brain thought, the small part that was still capable of registering anything but the pain.
Pathetic or not, Sam would have to wait. He slumped over in the chair. Only unconsciousness could dull the pain.
*
Sam had released Gene's arm, but remained on his small corner of the bed, sitting and facing the door. He was afraid to move, now that the pain had subsided. He didn’t want to bring it on again. Gene had inched no closer, but from his breathing, Sam could tell he was lying on his back. He didn't know what else to say.
"You know I don't care about the scar, don't you?" Gene asked. Sam took a shaky breath.
"It's not that. It's...it hasn't fully healed, yet. I'm sure once it's healed, the pain will stop. I'm sure."
"Then what keeps bothering you, Sam? Harry's dead. You're alive. Ain't that enough?"
Sam leaned forward, making sure to put no pressure on his right leg.
"He never meant to kill me," Sam whispered, too low for Gene to hear. Gene rolled towards him, again, finally bringing himself closer. "It's been months. The damn thing itches like mad and I have to wear that bloody compression stocking twenty-three hours a day. None of the creams are working. Only narcotic pain medications help and, yes, they ease the pain, but they make me tired and nauseous, which is one of the reasons I still need to be on desk duty, instead of out there on the street with you. I'm useless, but that's my issue, and I need to deal with it on my own, instead of taking it out on you."
He felt Gene push himself into a sitting position. "Jesus, Sam. You're not...Christ, way we found you, I'm just glad you're still breathing. Wouldn't care if you were hooked up to a ruddy machine, yet, long as you were alive."
"I know. I know what you're saying..."
"Then stop with the bloody pity party!"
"Easy for you to say, isn't it? You weren't there. You weren't the one who had his leg covered in petrol. Who had to sit there while Harry Woolf lit match after match."
"And you were. What of it? If it were anyone else, they'd have to deal with it all the same."
"Woolf didn't want anyone else! He wanted me. And he wanted me because he wanted me to blame you, and that's exactly what I'm doing and I can't stop myself from doing it. Don't you get it Gene? He's still trying to destroy me. Doesn't matter that he's dead. I'm thinking exactly what he wanted me to think. He's a cancer inside my brain, Gene. I can't stop him. I relive the kidnapping every single day. I’ll never be rid of it. It’s always in there,” he pointed to his head, “eating away at me bit by bit.”
Gene was beside him now, sitting upright on the bed, legs over the side mirroring Sam's, minus the scars.
"Every time you take a pill, I think of Harry. Every time I see you limp, I think of Harry. Every time you wince, every time you pull on that compress-whatsit, or sit from the pain...Every bloody time I leave you in CID when I go out on a shout, I think of Harry. He didn't do this to just you, Sam. He did it to both of us. God knows what sick thoughts were running through his head at the end, what he thought this would prove, but I'll tell you what it means Sam and it means nought. Every day you take a step out that door, every day you help Chris at the station, every day we lock the scum away - whether you're beside me or not - we're proving Harry wrong. I will not let him destroy this, Sam. I've worked too bloody hard for it. And if that means some days I need to drag you kicking and screaming along with me, I'll do it, dammit. He will not win this fight. Don't you dare let him."
"I'm trying, Guv. I'm trying to ignore it, but..."
Gene reached out and grabbed Sam's wrist, gently pulling him closer.
"Don't ignore it, Sam. Just don't give in."
"How am I supposed to do that?"
"Well, you can start by having a Happy bloody Christmas." Gene wrapped his arms around Sam’s shoulders and gently laid him down. “But first, you need to get a good, ruddy night’s sleep.”
Sam’s head was placed on the pillow, Gene’s body wrapped protectively around his. Tomorrow he would keep trying, for Gene, if nothing else.
*
The sounds of the heart monitor eased him in and out of sleep. He often felt a hand entwined with his but whose he did not know. What he did know was that waking meant pain and pain was bad, and so he would fall back asleep. He could remember what had happened, to a point. He knew the damage would be bad, that it would take forever and a day to heal a burn as bad as the one he'd received.
Why should he deal with that now when he was safe and sound in hospital with cool sheets and a soothing monitor and someone gently massaging his hand? He had no worries here, at least not until he woke up. When he woke, there would be too many things to deal with - too many wounds, too many thoughts, too many fears.
For now he would remain laid out in bed, resting comfortably with nary a care in the world. He would confront his demons eventually, but not today. Probably not tomorrow. He would let them sit - to fester or to heal he knew not which - until forced to confront them. Perhaps in a few months.
Maybe as far as Christmas. Christmas was a good long way away.