Fic: Sounds Crashing into Silence (1/1), dakfinv, green cortina, gen
Title: Sounds Crashing into Silence
Author: dak
Word Count: 2365
Rating: green cortina
Warnings: mild angst and swearing
Summary: Sam listens careful to the noises around him. There are certain things he doesn't want to hear.
Sam tap-tap-tapped his pen against the desk. He took a deep breath and tap-tap-tapped again. Normally, the noise would be bother Gene, Ray, Chris, someone by now, but there was no one to bother. All had left for the day. All except Sam.
Tap-tap-tap went his pen. Silence was his answer. Sam lifted his gaze from the report he hadn’t been reading. The office was empty save him. Though all the desks were in their typical chaotic states, they were still, as if everyone had rushed out in the middle of their chores. Which they had. Everyone except Sam, of course.
Sam tapped his fingers instead of his pen. It made no difference. He knew they’d gone straight to the pub. He had no doubts about that. He looked at the clock. Nearly nine o’clock. Maya would have chastised him for staying so late, again, when there was no juicy homicide to be bothered with. No active cases at all, actually. Manchester had been quiet this week.
Sam tapped the pen against his notebook. It made a different sound. Still no answer. Maya couldn’t chastise him tonight, though. She wasn’t even born yet. And what was his other option? Back to the flat. Stay at the station, bored, or go to the flat, bored. Not much of a choice either way, if he was honest. At least by staying at the station he could lie to himself and say he was getting work done.
Sam rolled the pen across his desk. His left hand didn’t catch it in time and it clattered to the ground. Sam sighed, he might as well leave now. By the time he got to his flat, it was possible he could trick his mind into falling asleep.
Sam reached for the pen, but it had rolled too far. He’d leave it there until morning. It was cold in the office so he was already wearing his jacket. He checked his pocket. The keys were there. He took one last look round the office. Chris’s full cuppa was still on his desk, cold. Well, they’d all run out when they got the call, hadn’t they? Guv hadn’t given them time to clean. Chris would have to take care of it in the morning. If they’d come back before going to the pub, Chris could have cleaned it this evening. But they hadn’t.
Sam reached beside him and grabbed the crutches. They clacked against each other. Sam hated the sound. He got a careful grip on them and hoisted himself to his feet. His foot. Careful not to bump the bulky cast, Sam hobbled to the swinging doors. He’d left his desk light on, but couldn’t let go to switch if off. On it would stay.
Sam’s right foot kicked the pen as he moved. He looked down. The pen was on the floor, far down on the floor. Maybe the cleaners would pick it up for him. Maybe not. He dragged himself past the frozen desks, through the swinging doors.
Step-clack-clack, step-clack-clack echoed in the empty hall as he moved towards the lift. Step-clack-clack. Step-clack-clack. Getting in the lift was the easy part. It was automated. In the lift, Sam could pretend the building was handicap accessible. When he arrived in the lobby, he could already feel the steps outside, mocking him.
Sam step-clack-clacked to the counter and asked the desk sergeant for a patrol car to drive him home. It wasn’t Phyllis. Phyllis was at the pub with Gene, Ray, and Chris. The desk sergeant said, “no worries, sir.” The desk sergeant wasn’t Phyllis. Phyllis might have said no.
Sam step-clack-clacked out the door and to the top of the stairs. He looked. It was a long way down. Sam took a breath. He had to be careful else he’d slip and go tumbling all the way down. That would be awful. Falling down, down, down the hard stairs. Maybe breaking his other leg. Wouldn’t that be just awful? Yes, he had to be careful. Sam balanced himself and step by clack-clack step made his way down the concrete stares. Careful step, careful clack, careful clack, careful step.
Sam’s arms were shaking by the time he reached the bottom. He had good upper body strength, but the stairs had been hard work. He wasn’t back to full strength, either. Sam waited for the patrol car to drive round. Perhaps he should’ve stayed in hospital another day, or at home. The car pulled up and Sam climbed into the backseat. He couldn’t go home, though, only to the flat.
The car went bump-bump-bump over the various potholes in the shoddy streets leading to his flat. Sam believed the holes had been made by Hitler himself thirty years ago, and still hadn’t been fixed by the great Manchester roadworks. Each bump rattled his leg, his cast. Sam took a deep breath. The officer let him out at his building, then continued on his merry way. Sam looked at the dark, hollow building and step-clack-clacked his way inside for another restless night.
*
When Sam woke, he couldn’t move. His back. It had seized up again. He tried shifting his right leg - his good leg. He felt the pain scream up to his shoulder and down to his toes and decided to stay still. The morning light - or was it afternoon? - illuminated the pill bottles on his small table. One of those bottles had his pain medication. Of course, the bottles did him no good being over on the table like they were.
Sam stared at the ceiling, head flat against the mattress as his only pillow poorly propped his cast, his leg. He thought his back would feel better if he got up and moved around. Yet, he couldn’t get up, let alone move around, until he felt better. Sam couldn’t remember the last time he’d read any Joseph Heller.
He lay on his back for a few hours, maybe a few minutes, still not feeling any better, when there was a knock at his door.
“You dead in there?” It was Gene.
“Not yet,” Sam answered. His mouth was dry. Sticky. He hadn’t had his morning orange juice, yet. Probably because he couldn’t get out of the bed.
“Going to open the door, then?” Gene again.
“Can’t.” Sam closed his eyes and waited for the bang-snap of the door.
Gene clicked it open with a key instead. Sam forgot he had a key.
“Morning,” Gene said, standing over him.
“Morning,” Sam replied. Gene kept staring.
“Thought you were coming into work today.”
“So did I.”
“Leg hurt?”
“Oh, the leg’s fine. Just can’t move owt else.”
“Hm.” Gene looked him up and down. “Want a hand?”
“Not really.”
“Going to lie there all day?”
“I was thinking about it.”
“Right.” Gene leaned over him and weaved an arm behind his shoulders. “Tell me if it hurts.”
Gene lifted Sam up and it hurt, shit it hurt, but Sam didn’t say it hurt. Instead, he winced and panted and sweat and bit his tongue. One arm still behind Sam’s shoulders, Gene used his other to move Sam’s legs over the side of the bed, so Sam was positioned to sit on the side edge.
“How’s that?” Gene asked.
“Ugh,” was Sam’s reply, but it did feel better. Slightly. Catch twenty-two’s had nothing on Gene Hunt. Sam leaned over as best he could, stretching out his tight muscles. There was a rattle beside him and Sam looked to his right. Gene had tossed his pill bottle onto the bed.
“Cheers,” Sam said, shaking out two from the bottle and dry swallowing them. They scratched his throat on the way down.
“You don’t have to come in today. Just out of hospital. Worth a day or two off,” Gene said. He was standing by the table, hands in his coat pockets, his voice the only sound.
“And what am I supposed to do here?” Sam rasped and coughed. He knew he should have waited and taken the pills with water. He had been too desperate for relief.
“Rest,” Gene answered. Sam picked at the thin duvet underneath his legs.
“I can’t. I start...thinking.”
“You’re always thinking.”
“I want to go to work.”
“Then you better start moving.”
Gene was right. Of course he was right. Sam decided against a shower - couldn’t get the cast wet anyway, could he? - yet nearly forty minutes passed by the time he was dressed and ready to go. The pills had kicked in and provided him with some relieving warmth. He’d skipped breakfast, too, so there was a pleasant light-headed feeling on top of that. If Gene noticed any unusual reaction, he didn’t say.
Sam leaned on his crutches as Gene made sure the front passenger seat was slid back as far as it could go. There was a harsh click as the seat locked into place. Sam hobbled into the Cortina, Gene standing near just in case he decided to go arse over tit onto the pavement. This was a distinct possibility, Sam knew.
Safely inside the car, Sam closed his eyes and tried to focus on the warmth rather than the pain. He waited for Gene to start the engine. He hadn’t yet. Sam opened his eyes. Gene was staring at him.
“What?” Sam asked. He saw Gene’s eyes flash to Sam’s unbuckled seat belt, then back to the windshield.
“Nothing.” Gene started the car and drove off.
Sam closed his eyes again and listened as they hurtled through the broken streets. He listened and did his best not to think. He felt the car going faster. There was sweat on his upper lip. The car whipped around corners. Sam gripped the door tightly. The car was tipping, spinning, sliding out of control. Sam had trouble breathing. He felt it. The car was tumbling. They were crashing. They were...
“Tyler.”
Sam opened his eyes. They were parked outside the station. Sam was panting. His knuckles were white - fingers locked around the door handle. There was sweat dotted all over his face.
“Oh. Right.” He released his hand from the door, stretched his fingers, then opened the door. Gene reached across him and closed it. Sam let his hand drop.
“When’s the last time you saw her?” Gene asked. The words, meant to be gentle, felt sharp to Sam’s ears. They cut into him causing pain two pills weren’t equipped to handle. Maybe the whole bottle, but not just two.
“I haven’t,” he said. He couldn’t lie to Gene. Not about this. “I meant...when I was released, but...I couldn’t.” He was staring at his hands. He wanted to press them to his chest, close up the holes Gene’s question had left in him. He knew it wouldn’t do any good.
“She’s awake now. Woke up yesterday.”
“I know. I was at my desk when you got the call.”
“You could’ve come with us.”
Sam stared at his hands. The cuts and bruises were healing. They were the superficial ones.
“She wants to see you,” Gene said.
Sam felt it again. The car spinning and tumbling. Annie screaming.
“She’s not mad at you.”
“She should be. It was my fault,” Sam whispered.
“It was an accident.”
“I was driving!” He scratched his throat by shouting. He felt it tearing. It made it hurt to breathe and swallow. Gene had leaned in closer. Sam hadn’t noticed. He pressed his head against the seat and his palms into his eyes.
“Were you drinking?” Gene asked.
“No.”
“Were you on drugs?”
“No.”
“Did you get in the car and say, ‘Oh what a lovely day for a crash?’”
“No.”
“Then it was an accident.”
“I was fiddling with the radio.”
“So? If you’d been fiddling with yourself then I might be angry. And a little impressed.”
“I should’ve been paying attention to the road. But I heard...I thought...” Sam didn’t want to say he’d heard his mum. Sam didn’t want to say any of the things he heard on the radio or the telly or on the phone or in his head. He didn’t want to hear any of those things. Not anymore. Not after this. He only wanted to hear normal things from now on, the normal sounds normal people normally hear. Sounds that were rooted in reality, or at least this reality.
“It was an accident, Sam. No one’s blaming you.”
Sam dropped his hands. There were dots in front of his eyes. In those dots he saw Annie’s face - unconscious and bloody. He blinked them away. A few remained. He heard Gene breathing. He shifted in his seat, heard the squeak of leather against leather, his jacket against the upholstery.
“We’ll go and see her after work,” Gene said. “You’ll feel better once you can make doe-eyes at her again.”
Sam couldn’t hear them, but he felt the tears run down his cheeks. He waited to hear Gene’s laugh, waited to hear the next nancy-poofter-girl comment.
“Here,” Gene pressed a handkerchief into his palm. “Get yourself cleaned up, then we’ll head inside. Okay?” Gene sounded gruff but not annoyed.
“Yes, Guv.” Sam wiped the drying tears from his face. He assumed the handkerchief was clean. He hadn’t checked. He didn’t want to ask now. Finished, he handed it back to Gene. He heard the soft cotton crumple as Gene stuffed the cloth into his pocket.
“You’re both alive, and not much worse for wear. That’s what you should be thinking about.”
“Yes, Guv.”
“I mean it, Sam. You hear me?”
“Yes, Gene. I hear you.”
From the corner of his eye, Sam saw Gene nod in satisfaction before opening his door and hopping out of the car. He came around the side and helped Sam out of the low seat. Sam balanced on his crutches and hobbled step by clack-clack step towards the building. At the bottom of the steps, he looked up and sighed.
“Chop chop, Gladys,” Gene called, halfway up already. “Going to wait till they build you a ramp or what?”
“Perish the thought, Guv,” Sam replied and, step by treacherous step, he pulled himself back to the top.
Author: dak
Word Count: 2365
Rating: green cortina
Warnings: mild angst and swearing
Summary: Sam listens careful to the noises around him. There are certain things he doesn't want to hear.
Sam tap-tap-tapped his pen against the desk. He took a deep breath and tap-tap-tapped again. Normally, the noise would be bother Gene, Ray, Chris, someone by now, but there was no one to bother. All had left for the day. All except Sam.
Tap-tap-tap went his pen. Silence was his answer. Sam lifted his gaze from the report he hadn’t been reading. The office was empty save him. Though all the desks were in their typical chaotic states, they were still, as if everyone had rushed out in the middle of their chores. Which they had. Everyone except Sam, of course.
Sam tapped his fingers instead of his pen. It made no difference. He knew they’d gone straight to the pub. He had no doubts about that. He looked at the clock. Nearly nine o’clock. Maya would have chastised him for staying so late, again, when there was no juicy homicide to be bothered with. No active cases at all, actually. Manchester had been quiet this week.
Sam tapped the pen against his notebook. It made a different sound. Still no answer. Maya couldn’t chastise him tonight, though. She wasn’t even born yet. And what was his other option? Back to the flat. Stay at the station, bored, or go to the flat, bored. Not much of a choice either way, if he was honest. At least by staying at the station he could lie to himself and say he was getting work done.
Sam rolled the pen across his desk. His left hand didn’t catch it in time and it clattered to the ground. Sam sighed, he might as well leave now. By the time he got to his flat, it was possible he could trick his mind into falling asleep.
Sam reached for the pen, but it had rolled too far. He’d leave it there until morning. It was cold in the office so he was already wearing his jacket. He checked his pocket. The keys were there. He took one last look round the office. Chris’s full cuppa was still on his desk, cold. Well, they’d all run out when they got the call, hadn’t they? Guv hadn’t given them time to clean. Chris would have to take care of it in the morning. If they’d come back before going to the pub, Chris could have cleaned it this evening. But they hadn’t.
Sam reached beside him and grabbed the crutches. They clacked against each other. Sam hated the sound. He got a careful grip on them and hoisted himself to his feet. His foot. Careful not to bump the bulky cast, Sam hobbled to the swinging doors. He’d left his desk light on, but couldn’t let go to switch if off. On it would stay.
Sam’s right foot kicked the pen as he moved. He looked down. The pen was on the floor, far down on the floor. Maybe the cleaners would pick it up for him. Maybe not. He dragged himself past the frozen desks, through the swinging doors.
Step-clack-clack, step-clack-clack echoed in the empty hall as he moved towards the lift. Step-clack-clack. Step-clack-clack. Getting in the lift was the easy part. It was automated. In the lift, Sam could pretend the building was handicap accessible. When he arrived in the lobby, he could already feel the steps outside, mocking him.
Sam step-clack-clacked to the counter and asked the desk sergeant for a patrol car to drive him home. It wasn’t Phyllis. Phyllis was at the pub with Gene, Ray, and Chris. The desk sergeant said, “no worries, sir.” The desk sergeant wasn’t Phyllis. Phyllis might have said no.
Sam step-clack-clacked out the door and to the top of the stairs. He looked. It was a long way down. Sam took a breath. He had to be careful else he’d slip and go tumbling all the way down. That would be awful. Falling down, down, down the hard stairs. Maybe breaking his other leg. Wouldn’t that be just awful? Yes, he had to be careful. Sam balanced himself and step by clack-clack step made his way down the concrete stares. Careful step, careful clack, careful clack, careful step.
Sam’s arms were shaking by the time he reached the bottom. He had good upper body strength, but the stairs had been hard work. He wasn’t back to full strength, either. Sam waited for the patrol car to drive round. Perhaps he should’ve stayed in hospital another day, or at home. The car pulled up and Sam climbed into the backseat. He couldn’t go home, though, only to the flat.
The car went bump-bump-bump over the various potholes in the shoddy streets leading to his flat. Sam believed the holes had been made by Hitler himself thirty years ago, and still hadn’t been fixed by the great Manchester roadworks. Each bump rattled his leg, his cast. Sam took a deep breath. The officer let him out at his building, then continued on his merry way. Sam looked at the dark, hollow building and step-clack-clacked his way inside for another restless night.
*
When Sam woke, he couldn’t move. His back. It had seized up again. He tried shifting his right leg - his good leg. He felt the pain scream up to his shoulder and down to his toes and decided to stay still. The morning light - or was it afternoon? - illuminated the pill bottles on his small table. One of those bottles had his pain medication. Of course, the bottles did him no good being over on the table like they were.
Sam stared at the ceiling, head flat against the mattress as his only pillow poorly propped his cast, his leg. He thought his back would feel better if he got up and moved around. Yet, he couldn’t get up, let alone move around, until he felt better. Sam couldn’t remember the last time he’d read any Joseph Heller.
He lay on his back for a few hours, maybe a few minutes, still not feeling any better, when there was a knock at his door.
“You dead in there?” It was Gene.
“Not yet,” Sam answered. His mouth was dry. Sticky. He hadn’t had his morning orange juice, yet. Probably because he couldn’t get out of the bed.
“Going to open the door, then?” Gene again.
“Can’t.” Sam closed his eyes and waited for the bang-snap of the door.
Gene clicked it open with a key instead. Sam forgot he had a key.
“Morning,” Gene said, standing over him.
“Morning,” Sam replied. Gene kept staring.
“Thought you were coming into work today.”
“So did I.”
“Leg hurt?”
“Oh, the leg’s fine. Just can’t move owt else.”
“Hm.” Gene looked him up and down. “Want a hand?”
“Not really.”
“Going to lie there all day?”
“I was thinking about it.”
“Right.” Gene leaned over him and weaved an arm behind his shoulders. “Tell me if it hurts.”
Gene lifted Sam up and it hurt, shit it hurt, but Sam didn’t say it hurt. Instead, he winced and panted and sweat and bit his tongue. One arm still behind Sam’s shoulders, Gene used his other to move Sam’s legs over the side of the bed, so Sam was positioned to sit on the side edge.
“How’s that?” Gene asked.
“Ugh,” was Sam’s reply, but it did feel better. Slightly. Catch twenty-two’s had nothing on Gene Hunt. Sam leaned over as best he could, stretching out his tight muscles. There was a rattle beside him and Sam looked to his right. Gene had tossed his pill bottle onto the bed.
“Cheers,” Sam said, shaking out two from the bottle and dry swallowing them. They scratched his throat on the way down.
“You don’t have to come in today. Just out of hospital. Worth a day or two off,” Gene said. He was standing by the table, hands in his coat pockets, his voice the only sound.
“And what am I supposed to do here?” Sam rasped and coughed. He knew he should have waited and taken the pills with water. He had been too desperate for relief.
“Rest,” Gene answered. Sam picked at the thin duvet underneath his legs.
“I can’t. I start...thinking.”
“You’re always thinking.”
“I want to go to work.”
“Then you better start moving.”
Gene was right. Of course he was right. Sam decided against a shower - couldn’t get the cast wet anyway, could he? - yet nearly forty minutes passed by the time he was dressed and ready to go. The pills had kicked in and provided him with some relieving warmth. He’d skipped breakfast, too, so there was a pleasant light-headed feeling on top of that. If Gene noticed any unusual reaction, he didn’t say.
Sam leaned on his crutches as Gene made sure the front passenger seat was slid back as far as it could go. There was a harsh click as the seat locked into place. Sam hobbled into the Cortina, Gene standing near just in case he decided to go arse over tit onto the pavement. This was a distinct possibility, Sam knew.
Safely inside the car, Sam closed his eyes and tried to focus on the warmth rather than the pain. He waited for Gene to start the engine. He hadn’t yet. Sam opened his eyes. Gene was staring at him.
“What?” Sam asked. He saw Gene’s eyes flash to Sam’s unbuckled seat belt, then back to the windshield.
“Nothing.” Gene started the car and drove off.
Sam closed his eyes again and listened as they hurtled through the broken streets. He listened and did his best not to think. He felt the car going faster. There was sweat on his upper lip. The car whipped around corners. Sam gripped the door tightly. The car was tipping, spinning, sliding out of control. Sam had trouble breathing. He felt it. The car was tumbling. They were crashing. They were...
“Tyler.”
Sam opened his eyes. They were parked outside the station. Sam was panting. His knuckles were white - fingers locked around the door handle. There was sweat dotted all over his face.
“Oh. Right.” He released his hand from the door, stretched his fingers, then opened the door. Gene reached across him and closed it. Sam let his hand drop.
“When’s the last time you saw her?” Gene asked. The words, meant to be gentle, felt sharp to Sam’s ears. They cut into him causing pain two pills weren’t equipped to handle. Maybe the whole bottle, but not just two.
“I haven’t,” he said. He couldn’t lie to Gene. Not about this. “I meant...when I was released, but...I couldn’t.” He was staring at his hands. He wanted to press them to his chest, close up the holes Gene’s question had left in him. He knew it wouldn’t do any good.
“She’s awake now. Woke up yesterday.”
“I know. I was at my desk when you got the call.”
“You could’ve come with us.”
Sam stared at his hands. The cuts and bruises were healing. They were the superficial ones.
“She wants to see you,” Gene said.
Sam felt it again. The car spinning and tumbling. Annie screaming.
“She’s not mad at you.”
“She should be. It was my fault,” Sam whispered.
“It was an accident.”
“I was driving!” He scratched his throat by shouting. He felt it tearing. It made it hurt to breathe and swallow. Gene had leaned in closer. Sam hadn’t noticed. He pressed his head against the seat and his palms into his eyes.
“Were you drinking?” Gene asked.
“No.”
“Were you on drugs?”
“No.”
“Did you get in the car and say, ‘Oh what a lovely day for a crash?’”
“No.”
“Then it was an accident.”
“I was fiddling with the radio.”
“So? If you’d been fiddling with yourself then I might be angry. And a little impressed.”
“I should’ve been paying attention to the road. But I heard...I thought...” Sam didn’t want to say he’d heard his mum. Sam didn’t want to say any of the things he heard on the radio or the telly or on the phone or in his head. He didn’t want to hear any of those things. Not anymore. Not after this. He only wanted to hear normal things from now on, the normal sounds normal people normally hear. Sounds that were rooted in reality, or at least this reality.
“It was an accident, Sam. No one’s blaming you.”
Sam dropped his hands. There were dots in front of his eyes. In those dots he saw Annie’s face - unconscious and bloody. He blinked them away. A few remained. He heard Gene breathing. He shifted in his seat, heard the squeak of leather against leather, his jacket against the upholstery.
“We’ll go and see her after work,” Gene said. “You’ll feel better once you can make doe-eyes at her again.”
Sam couldn’t hear them, but he felt the tears run down his cheeks. He waited to hear Gene’s laugh, waited to hear the next nancy-poofter-girl comment.
“Here,” Gene pressed a handkerchief into his palm. “Get yourself cleaned up, then we’ll head inside. Okay?” Gene sounded gruff but not annoyed.
“Yes, Guv.” Sam wiped the drying tears from his face. He assumed the handkerchief was clean. He hadn’t checked. He didn’t want to ask now. Finished, he handed it back to Gene. He heard the soft cotton crumple as Gene stuffed the cloth into his pocket.
“You’re both alive, and not much worse for wear. That’s what you should be thinking about.”
“Yes, Guv.”
“I mean it, Sam. You hear me?”
“Yes, Gene. I hear you.”
From the corner of his eye, Sam saw Gene nod in satisfaction before opening his door and hopping out of the car. He came around the side and helped Sam out of the low seat. Sam balanced on his crutches and hobbled step by clack-clack step towards the building. At the bottom of the steps, he looked up and sighed.
“Chop chop, Gladys,” Gene called, halfway up already. “Going to wait till they build you a ramp or what?”
“Perish the thought, Guv,” Sam replied and, step by treacherous step, he pulled himself back to the top.