Fic: On Second Thought (1/1), green cortina, Sam/Gene, dakfinv
Title: On Second Thought (1/1)
Author: dak
Word Count: 817
Rating: green cortina
Warnings: blood
Pairing: Sam/Gene
Summary: Gene gets shot. He has some very frank thoughts on the matter.
A/N: Some Gene!whumping with rescuer!Sam for fern_tree who kindly made some kick ass wallpapers.
“Bollocks.”
Gene Hunt was not happy. Not only had his snitch lied to him (bastard), not only had Carling lost the keys to the Cortina, forcing him to take one of the shitty cars from the pool (bastard), he was now stuck in a bloody big (bloody empty) warehouse (in God knows where) with a growing red stain on his side to boot.
It was his green shirt, too. His lucky shirt. Good things always seemed to happen when he wore that shirt, at work and other places besides. He loved that shirt. (Sam loved that shirt.)
And now it was ruined by this bloody red stain that would never come out, though he didn’t know how washing clothes actually worked (ask Sam to do it?). This stain that kept spreading which Gene realized (maybe a little late) was actually bloody.
His blood.
“Shit.”
Gene pressed his fingers against his side, winced (not screamed, just winced), and pulled them away.
“Okay then. I’ve been shot. Lucky bastards.”
(Lucky shirt.)
Well, one tiny (large), bastard bullet (that bloody hurt) wasn’t enough to keep the Gene Genie down. He tried to stand. He fell back down. (So maybe it was.)
All in all, though, Gene didn’t feel that bad. Probably just a scratch. (A very deep scratch.) Put some pressure on it, get back to the car, drive himself to hospital. Easy. (Hard.) He’d be having drinks in no time. (From a hospital bed.)
Thinking of drink, Gene pulled a flask from his pocket. Was it a good idea or a bad idea to drink when injured? (Bad idea.) Well, one sip couldn’t hurt. For strength. (Courage.)
The whiskey didn’t burn. There was something wrong with it. (With him.) It tasted like nothing. Like his mouth was...something. (Numb.)
Putting pressure on the wound sounded like a good idea. (Very good idea.) He reached a hand to his side, but his fingers wouldn’t move like they were supposed to. (He couldn’t move them like he was supposed to.)
“Bollocks.”
He kept himself propped against the wall. Lying down would be a bad idea. (Very bad.) He managed to press his palm against the blood. It didn’t hurt as much now. (Very, very bad.) He tried to remember if brought a radio with him. (He hadn’t.) He didn’t need a radio. (Yes he did.) Radios were for plonks. (And dying DCIs.)
Gene shook his head. He was dizzy. (Bad.) Nauseous. (Also bad.) His eyes went in and out of focus. (Still bad.) He tried to remember if he’d told anyone where he was going. (No.) Did anyone know he was out here? (No.) Would anyone even be looking for him? (Sam.) Gene felt himself slouching. (Lying down bad.) He shifted. It wasn’t just his mouth that was numb now. (Really bad.)
He needed help. (Sam.) He couldn’t walk. Someone needed to find him. (Sam.) Someone would need to drive him to hospital. (Sam.) Someone would need to keep him awake. (Sam.) Tell him he’d be fine. (Sam.) Tell him he needed to live. (Sam.) That people needed him. (Sam.) That someone needed him. (Sam.)
He needed someone. (Sam.)
“Guv?”
Tyler? (Sam.)
“Guv, where are you?”
He made a noise. (No he didn’t.)
“Guv? Gene!”
Footsteps. (Death rattle.)
“Shit.”
Hands. (Warm hands.)
“Gene, can you hear me?”
(Yes.)
“Gene, answer me. Look at me.”
(Can’t.)
“Come on, Gene. It’s me. It’s Sam.”
Sam.
“I’m here, Gene. You’re going to be alright.”
“...Sam...”
“There you are. Don’t worry. Already radioed for an ambulance. It’ll be here any minute.”
“...Sam...”
“That’s right. I’m here. Christ. What have I told you about going off on your own? You know procedure. Should at least tell me where you’re going before you run off and get yourself shot. And take a bloody radio. Could’ve been here sooner if you’d have called for help. I could’ve...You wouldn’t have...Shit...”
“...Dorothy...” (Sam.)
“That’s the siren. Hear it?”
“Yeah.” (No.)
“Going to be alright.”
“Yeah.” (No.)
“Hang on, Gene. Ambulance is here. I’m here.”
“Yeah.” (Good.)
“Gene. Stay awake. Gene! Don’t do this, Gene!”
“Yeah.” (Too late.)
*
“Bollocks.”
“Stop moving.” Sam pressed his shoulders back against the hospital bed.
“I need a slash.” (Need to bloody move.)
“You have a...catheter,” Tyler whispered, probably hoping to save him some embarrassment. Girl. (Thoughtful.)
He lay back against the pillows to stop Tyler’s fussing. (To make Sam happy.)
“So, pub?” The Tyler glare. (Sam’s eyes.) “What?”
“You just got shot.”
“So? Man needs a drink.”
“You’re on morphine.”
“Your point being?”
“You are unbelievable.”
“Course I am. Eighth world wonder. That’s me.” (Alive. That’s enough.)
“You need to rest. Heal properly and I promise to take you to the pub. When the doctors clear you to drink. Deal?”
“Spoil sport.” (Deal.)
Gene’s eyes fell shut, unable to fight sleep any longer. Drifting away, he felt a hand slide into his.
“Girl...” (Thank you.)
Author: dak
Word Count: 817
Rating: green cortina
Warnings: blood
Pairing: Sam/Gene
Summary: Gene gets shot. He has some very frank thoughts on the matter.
A/N: Some Gene!whumping with rescuer!Sam for fern_tree who kindly made some kick ass wallpapers.
“Bollocks.”
Gene Hunt was not happy. Not only had his snitch lied to him (bastard), not only had Carling lost the keys to the Cortina, forcing him to take one of the shitty cars from the pool (bastard), he was now stuck in a bloody big (bloody empty) warehouse (in God knows where) with a growing red stain on his side to boot.
It was his green shirt, too. His lucky shirt. Good things always seemed to happen when he wore that shirt, at work and other places besides. He loved that shirt. (Sam loved that shirt.)
And now it was ruined by this bloody red stain that would never come out, though he didn’t know how washing clothes actually worked (ask Sam to do it?). This stain that kept spreading which Gene realized (maybe a little late) was actually bloody.
His blood.
“Shit.”
Gene pressed his fingers against his side, winced (not screamed, just winced), and pulled them away.
“Okay then. I’ve been shot. Lucky bastards.”
(Lucky shirt.)
Well, one tiny (large), bastard bullet (that bloody hurt) wasn’t enough to keep the Gene Genie down. He tried to stand. He fell back down. (So maybe it was.)
All in all, though, Gene didn’t feel that bad. Probably just a scratch. (A very deep scratch.) Put some pressure on it, get back to the car, drive himself to hospital. Easy. (Hard.) He’d be having drinks in no time. (From a hospital bed.)
Thinking of drink, Gene pulled a flask from his pocket. Was it a good idea or a bad idea to drink when injured? (Bad idea.) Well, one sip couldn’t hurt. For strength. (Courage.)
The whiskey didn’t burn. There was something wrong with it. (With him.) It tasted like nothing. Like his mouth was...something. (Numb.)
Putting pressure on the wound sounded like a good idea. (Very good idea.) He reached a hand to his side, but his fingers wouldn’t move like they were supposed to. (He couldn’t move them like he was supposed to.)
“Bollocks.”
He kept himself propped against the wall. Lying down would be a bad idea. (Very bad.) He managed to press his palm against the blood. It didn’t hurt as much now. (Very, very bad.) He tried to remember if brought a radio with him. (He hadn’t.) He didn’t need a radio. (Yes he did.) Radios were for plonks. (And dying DCIs.)
Gene shook his head. He was dizzy. (Bad.) Nauseous. (Also bad.) His eyes went in and out of focus. (Still bad.) He tried to remember if he’d told anyone where he was going. (No.) Did anyone know he was out here? (No.) Would anyone even be looking for him? (Sam.) Gene felt himself slouching. (Lying down bad.) He shifted. It wasn’t just his mouth that was numb now. (Really bad.)
He needed help. (Sam.) He couldn’t walk. Someone needed to find him. (Sam.) Someone would need to drive him to hospital. (Sam.) Someone would need to keep him awake. (Sam.) Tell him he’d be fine. (Sam.) Tell him he needed to live. (Sam.) That people needed him. (Sam.) That someone needed him. (Sam.)
He needed someone. (Sam.)
“Guv?”
Tyler? (Sam.)
“Guv, where are you?”
He made a noise. (No he didn’t.)
“Guv? Gene!”
Footsteps. (Death rattle.)
“Shit.”
Hands. (Warm hands.)
“Gene, can you hear me?”
(Yes.)
“Gene, answer me. Look at me.”
(Can’t.)
“Come on, Gene. It’s me. It’s Sam.”
Sam.
“I’m here, Gene. You’re going to be alright.”
“...Sam...”
“There you are. Don’t worry. Already radioed for an ambulance. It’ll be here any minute.”
“...Sam...”
“That’s right. I’m here. Christ. What have I told you about going off on your own? You know procedure. Should at least tell me where you’re going before you run off and get yourself shot. And take a bloody radio. Could’ve been here sooner if you’d have called for help. I could’ve...You wouldn’t have...Shit...”
“...Dorothy...” (Sam.)
“That’s the siren. Hear it?”
“Yeah.” (No.)
“Going to be alright.”
“Yeah.” (No.)
“Hang on, Gene. Ambulance is here. I’m here.”
“Yeah.” (Good.)
“Gene. Stay awake. Gene! Don’t do this, Gene!”
“Yeah.” (Too late.)
*
“Bollocks.”
“Stop moving.” Sam pressed his shoulders back against the hospital bed.
“I need a slash.” (Need to bloody move.)
“You have a...catheter,” Tyler whispered, probably hoping to save him some embarrassment. Girl. (Thoughtful.)
He lay back against the pillows to stop Tyler’s fussing. (To make Sam happy.)
“So, pub?” The Tyler glare. (Sam’s eyes.) “What?”
“You just got shot.”
“So? Man needs a drink.”
“You’re on morphine.”
“Your point being?”
“You are unbelievable.”
“Course I am. Eighth world wonder. That’s me.” (Alive. That’s enough.)
“You need to rest. Heal properly and I promise to take you to the pub. When the doctors clear you to drink. Deal?”
“Spoil sport.” (Deal.)
Gene’s eyes fell shut, unable to fight sleep any longer. Drifting away, he felt a hand slide into his.
“Girl...” (Thank you.)