Fic: Steady As She Goes (47/86), dakfinv, Blue Cortina
Title: Steady As She Goes (47/86)
Author: dak
Word Count: 1840 this part; [88,129 overall]
Summary for Whole: After an accidental shooting at the station, Gene struggles to keep his team from tearing themselves apart while his and Sam's friendship is pushed to the limits.
Summary this Part: Sunday morning. Gene and Sam prepare for the meeting with the psychiatrist.
Rating: still Blue-ish Cortina, uhm, what's slightly darker than blue?
Warnings: angst, swearing, violence, violent imagery, minor drug use, mild sexual situations, self-harm for whole
Spoilers: none here; see each chapter for specific spoiler warnings
Pairing: mild Sam/Annie, Sam/Maya, Gene/missus
Disclaimer: Belongs to BBC/Kudos
A/N: Didn't think I'd get this posted tonight. Guess luck was on my side. Please enjoy!
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21 Part 22 Part 23 Part 24 Part 25 Part 26 Part 27 Part 28 Part 29 Part 30 Part 31 Part 32 Part 33 Part 34 Part 35 Part 36 Part 37 Part 38 Part 39 Part 40 Part 41 Part 42 Part 43 Part 44 Part 45 Part 46 Part 47 Part 48 Part 49 Part 50 Part 51 Part 52 Part 53 Part 54 Part 55 Part 56 Part 57 Part 58 Part 59 Part 60 Part 61 Part 62 Part 63 Part 64 Part 65 Part 66 Part 67 Part 68 Part 69 Part 70 Part 71 Part 72 Part 73 Part 74 Part 75 Part 76 Part 77 Part 78 Part 79 Part 80 Part 81 Part 82 Part 83 Part 84 Part 85 Part 86
Gene didn’t sleep at all, partly because the furniture in the flat could not comfortably accommodate his size and partly because Sam would cry out every hour or so. The nightmares were graphic and unrelenting, or so Gene deduced. He could only imagine what images Tyler’s brain was cooking up. Didn’t involve Ursula Andress, of that he was certain.
Morning couldn’t have come soon enough and at six on the dot Gene removed himself from the cramped chair he’d given up considering a bed, threw on his shirt, and shuffled over to Tyler’s side. The lone, green cover had long since been kicked to the floor, leaving Sam curled up in the center of the mattress, shivering slightly for warmth.
"Wakey, wakey, Dorothy."
Sam moaned and weakly waved Gene away.
"Sorry Inspector, but we’ve gotta get you cleaned and fed ‘fore the doctor turns up." Sam moaned again in disagreement, shifting slightly to a more comfortable position. "C’mon. I have to dress you again it’ll be me wife’s flowered housecoat and pink, fuzzy slippers." The mild threat was enough to make Sam roll over and open his eyes. "Good lad." Gene decided to see if there was anything in the kitchen that could pass for coffee or tea. "What time’s he comin’?"
Sam sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "Din’t say," he yawned. " ‘S my shirt clean?"
"Which shirt?" Gene asked as he brewed some water for the tea bags he found, probably the only edible thing left in the flat.
"The...one." Sam’s attempt to describe colors with hand motions was mildly entertaining but ultimately useless.
"Words, Tyler. You love ‘em so much, try usin’ ‘em."
"Black, buttons, tiny white dots."
"Don’t know. Check your closet."
Gene remained stone faced as Sam glared at him and dragged himself over to the wobbly piece of furniture. The kettle whistled and Gene stopped observing Sam long enough to fix the tea.
"Ah! Found it," Sam assured his DCI.
"Oh good. And I was so worried," he said, setting two mugs on the table. "Missus makes waffles on Sunday. Don’t care if you like ‘em or not, she gives you crushed up eggshells and used coffee grounds, you’ll eat whatever she puts in front of you. Way of apology."
"Yes Guv," Sam grumbled as he struggled to pull up a pair of black jeans. After they were finally buttoned up correctly, Sam plopped himself at the table and sniffed his tea.
"Drink up then. Gotta get back." Gene watched the wary inspector over his own mug as Sam, instead of drinking it, merely stirred the tea bag.
"Not thirsty," he finally said and pushed the mug away. "Do...do you have a cigarette?" Sam was clearly embarrassed, looking down at his hands instead of up at Gene when asking the question.
By way of response, Gene fished his pack and a lighter from his trouser pocket and tossed them on the table. With the look of man headed to the gallows, Sam reached out and slid the offending items towards him.
"It’s just a fag, Tyler."
"Don’t like being a hypocrite."
"Then don’t smoke it."
Sam seemed to take that as a challenge and grabbed the pack from the table, the lighter making it much easier for him to light the cigarette for himself. He smoked in angry silence, glaring at the window with its unwashed curtains, then the ratty carpet, and the dim, dirty kitchen. By the time his eyes reached the flowered wallpaper Sam was fuming.
"What’s got twisted up your jacksie this time?" Gene inquired.
"Gonna hit me if I don’t answer?" Sam sneered.
"Possibly."
So Sam didn’t answer.
"Tyl--"
" ‘M tired, okay! That’s all. I don’t need the interrogation," Sam snapped and inhaled deeply on the cigarette. Gene was about to yell back when Sam beat him to it. "If we’re going to go, can we just do it?"
"Fine by me."
Sam stood up too quickly, his head spinning slightly. Ignoring Gene’s offer of help he scrambled over to the door, instinctively reaching towards the coat rack on the back. His hand hit empty air. "Where’s my jacket?"
"At the station."
Sam jumped. He hadn’t noticed Gene coming up behind him.
"It was evidence."
"Brilliant," Sam muttered. He yanked open the door and did his best to flee the building, dropping the still burning butt onto the carpet. Gene crushed it with his shoe before making his own way into the hall. Sam was leaning against the wall at the end of the corridor, already out of breath, his attitude showing no signs of improvement.
The ride in the Cortina was probably the most quiet it had ever been since Tyler arrived. Gene let his deputy stew in the passenger seat, not sure if the silence was helping or hurting Sam’s dark mood. When they reached the house Gene’s wife had only just woken up. She was ready to happily greet Sam with open arms but Gene shook his head as he helped the already drained man into the house and up the stairs. Sam didn’t have to ask where he was going. His uncoordinated limbs found their way to the guest room bed.
"Cleaned it out last night," she whispered behind Gene, having followed the pair upstairs. "Couldn’t sit still, even after the station called." Gene closed the door and faced his wife. "Oh Genie. You look awful." She smiled and brushed some stray blonde strands from his face. "Didn’t you sleep at all?"
"I’ve had worse. Fresh cup of your coffee should straighten me out."
She took his hand and guided the sleepy giant down the hall, past the stairs. "I know what else might help," she whispered, a devious glint in her eye as she pulled Gene into their bedroom.
" ‘S not Thursday."
"Very observant, Detective Chief Inspector. But if you’ll recall, I wasn’t home on Thursday."
Gene let a mischievous smile cross his face as he closed the door behind them.
*
He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to do this. Why were they making him do this? It wasn’t fair. All he wanted was to go home. If he admitted where home was they’d lock him up. But why? What was so hard to believe about coma-induced time travel? Honestly.
But if they did lock him up, he’d get Valium again, wouldn’t he? Which was bad. Very bad. So very, very good. Bad. Not good. Fuck. This was hard. Why did everything have to be so hard? For once, why couldn’t his life be easy? Life had been easy on Valium. No. No. No. Drugs were the problem. Another day or two of this, he’d be almost back to normal. Christ. Another day. Or two. Christ. Almost.
Sam tried to close his eyes but was terrified of the dreams that would follow. So, he laid in bed, staring up at the ceiling, letting his mind tick, tick, tick. Every minute that passed brought Merrick closer. Every minute that passed was worse than the last. Now would be a very good time to wake up from that coma.
With sleeping not working out Sam sat up, leaning against the headboard. He couldn’t get comfortable. His body was stiff. It felt hot and cold at the same time. As he rolled up his sleeves he noticed his bandaged wrists. His most recent attempt at the "definitive step." He didn’t want Merrick to see the faded, white gauze. Not that he didn’t already know, Sam just didn’t want him to be reminded. If the gauze was gone it would look like Sam had improved, wouldn’t it?
He held his left arm in front of him, gently unwrapping the red-tinged layers. Gene had pressed too hard the other night. Sam wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Finally all the white was gone and for the first time in a long time, Sam saw the scar that lay beneath. It was red and raised, the stitches desperately holding the skin together. There was a bit of dried blood at various spots, where Gene’s fingers had grasped him tightly, punishing him for his horrible mistake. He carefully uncovered the other wrist. This scar was little less red. He was right handed after all, the cut hadn’t been as deep. Still, as he held out both his arms the scars appeared like mirror images, reflecting his inadequacies.
A better man would have been able to cope. A better man wouldn’t have tried the coward’s way out. A better man wouldn’t have tried to hide from himself. A better man wouldn’t have started smoking or hit his friend or needed his Guv to dress him or called a second-rate psychiatrist in a moment of weakness.
Sam didn’t know how long he sat there like that, staring at the physical visualization of his decrepitude. Hours maybe, or just days. Perhaps mere seconds. He was still having trouble with time. Of course, when did he and time ever get along? Eventually the door was opened by a noticeably more relaxed Gene Hunt.
"Breakfast’s ready."
Sam, his arms still stretched before him, immediately responded to his Guv’s voice. "I can’t do it. I can’t. I can’t see him. I’m not ready. I don’t know why I called him. I never should have. It was wrong and stupid. Everything I’ve done is wrong and stupid. Everything I am. I can’t do this. I’m not strong enough to do this. I’m not strong enough to say no."
Gene entered the room and shut the door. Tyler was always so cocksure about everything, about his poncey Hyde policing, about CID’s faults, about himself. "It’ll only be worse if you wait."
"How? How could it be worse? I’ll-I’ll be stronger later. I can do it later. Let me do it later."
That’s what Stu had said. The last time Gene begged, yes begged, his brother to get clean. Three months later he was dead.
"You need to do it now. It can’t wait." Gene placed a comforting hand on Sam’s shoulder. "Well, maybe til after breakfast."
Sam stayed quiet but the worry didn’t depart his face, the uncertainty becoming all the more apparent.
There was a faint knock downstairs. Gene listened as his wife addressed someone at the front door then hurried up the stairs to knock on the guest room. She opened it without waiting for a response. "He’s here. That doctor." She looked nervously from Gene to Sam.
"Bastard. Barely nine o’clock!"
"Want me to go?"
"No, it’s alright. Might as well stay now, you’re already here. Tell ‘em we’ll be down in a few minutes."
She nodded and shut the door.
Sam looked up at Gene, pure terror on his face. "I can’t," he whispered. "I can’t."
"You’re going to have to."
Sam looked away, his mind racing through the worst possible outcomes.
"Don’t worry. It gets outta hand we can get Ray to bang him up for cattle rustling."
_____
Part 48
Author: dak
Word Count: 1840 this part; [88,129 overall]
Summary for Whole: After an accidental shooting at the station, Gene struggles to keep his team from tearing themselves apart while his and Sam's friendship is pushed to the limits.
Summary this Part: Sunday morning. Gene and Sam prepare for the meeting with the psychiatrist.
Rating: still Blue-ish Cortina, uhm, what's slightly darker than blue?
Warnings: angst, swearing, violence, violent imagery, minor drug use, mild sexual situations, self-harm for whole
Spoilers: none here; see each chapter for specific spoiler warnings
Pairing: mild Sam/Annie, Sam/Maya, Gene/missus
Disclaimer: Belongs to BBC/Kudos
A/N: Didn't think I'd get this posted tonight. Guess luck was on my side. Please enjoy!
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21 Part 22 Part 23 Part 24 Part 25 Part 26 Part 27 Part 28 Part 29 Part 30 Part 31 Part 32 Part 33 Part 34 Part 35 Part 36 Part 37 Part 38 Part 39 Part 40 Part 41 Part 42 Part 43 Part 44 Part 45 Part 46 Part 47 Part 48 Part 49 Part 50 Part 51 Part 52 Part 53 Part 54 Part 55 Part 56 Part 57 Part 58 Part 59 Part 60 Part 61 Part 62 Part 63 Part 64 Part 65 Part 66 Part 67 Part 68 Part 69 Part 70 Part 71 Part 72 Part 73 Part 74 Part 75 Part 76 Part 77 Part 78 Part 79 Part 80 Part 81 Part 82 Part 83 Part 84 Part 85 Part 86
Gene didn’t sleep at all, partly because the furniture in the flat could not comfortably accommodate his size and partly because Sam would cry out every hour or so. The nightmares were graphic and unrelenting, or so Gene deduced. He could only imagine what images Tyler’s brain was cooking up. Didn’t involve Ursula Andress, of that he was certain.
Morning couldn’t have come soon enough and at six on the dot Gene removed himself from the cramped chair he’d given up considering a bed, threw on his shirt, and shuffled over to Tyler’s side. The lone, green cover had long since been kicked to the floor, leaving Sam curled up in the center of the mattress, shivering slightly for warmth.
"Wakey, wakey, Dorothy."
Sam moaned and weakly waved Gene away.
"Sorry Inspector, but we’ve gotta get you cleaned and fed ‘fore the doctor turns up." Sam moaned again in disagreement, shifting slightly to a more comfortable position. "C’mon. I have to dress you again it’ll be me wife’s flowered housecoat and pink, fuzzy slippers." The mild threat was enough to make Sam roll over and open his eyes. "Good lad." Gene decided to see if there was anything in the kitchen that could pass for coffee or tea. "What time’s he comin’?"
Sam sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "Din’t say," he yawned. " ‘S my shirt clean?"
"Which shirt?" Gene asked as he brewed some water for the tea bags he found, probably the only edible thing left in the flat.
"The...one." Sam’s attempt to describe colors with hand motions was mildly entertaining but ultimately useless.
"Words, Tyler. You love ‘em so much, try usin’ ‘em."
"Black, buttons, tiny white dots."
"Don’t know. Check your closet."
Gene remained stone faced as Sam glared at him and dragged himself over to the wobbly piece of furniture. The kettle whistled and Gene stopped observing Sam long enough to fix the tea.
"Ah! Found it," Sam assured his DCI.
"Oh good. And I was so worried," he said, setting two mugs on the table. "Missus makes waffles on Sunday. Don’t care if you like ‘em or not, she gives you crushed up eggshells and used coffee grounds, you’ll eat whatever she puts in front of you. Way of apology."
"Yes Guv," Sam grumbled as he struggled to pull up a pair of black jeans. After they were finally buttoned up correctly, Sam plopped himself at the table and sniffed his tea.
"Drink up then. Gotta get back." Gene watched the wary inspector over his own mug as Sam, instead of drinking it, merely stirred the tea bag.
"Not thirsty," he finally said and pushed the mug away. "Do...do you have a cigarette?" Sam was clearly embarrassed, looking down at his hands instead of up at Gene when asking the question.
By way of response, Gene fished his pack and a lighter from his trouser pocket and tossed them on the table. With the look of man headed to the gallows, Sam reached out and slid the offending items towards him.
"It’s just a fag, Tyler."
"Don’t like being a hypocrite."
"Then don’t smoke it."
Sam seemed to take that as a challenge and grabbed the pack from the table, the lighter making it much easier for him to light the cigarette for himself. He smoked in angry silence, glaring at the window with its unwashed curtains, then the ratty carpet, and the dim, dirty kitchen. By the time his eyes reached the flowered wallpaper Sam was fuming.
"What’s got twisted up your jacksie this time?" Gene inquired.
"Gonna hit me if I don’t answer?" Sam sneered.
"Possibly."
So Sam didn’t answer.
"Tyl--"
" ‘M tired, okay! That’s all. I don’t need the interrogation," Sam snapped and inhaled deeply on the cigarette. Gene was about to yell back when Sam beat him to it. "If we’re going to go, can we just do it?"
"Fine by me."
Sam stood up too quickly, his head spinning slightly. Ignoring Gene’s offer of help he scrambled over to the door, instinctively reaching towards the coat rack on the back. His hand hit empty air. "Where’s my jacket?"
"At the station."
Sam jumped. He hadn’t noticed Gene coming up behind him.
"It was evidence."
"Brilliant," Sam muttered. He yanked open the door and did his best to flee the building, dropping the still burning butt onto the carpet. Gene crushed it with his shoe before making his own way into the hall. Sam was leaning against the wall at the end of the corridor, already out of breath, his attitude showing no signs of improvement.
The ride in the Cortina was probably the most quiet it had ever been since Tyler arrived. Gene let his deputy stew in the passenger seat, not sure if the silence was helping or hurting Sam’s dark mood. When they reached the house Gene’s wife had only just woken up. She was ready to happily greet Sam with open arms but Gene shook his head as he helped the already drained man into the house and up the stairs. Sam didn’t have to ask where he was going. His uncoordinated limbs found their way to the guest room bed.
"Cleaned it out last night," she whispered behind Gene, having followed the pair upstairs. "Couldn’t sit still, even after the station called." Gene closed the door and faced his wife. "Oh Genie. You look awful." She smiled and brushed some stray blonde strands from his face. "Didn’t you sleep at all?"
"I’ve had worse. Fresh cup of your coffee should straighten me out."
She took his hand and guided the sleepy giant down the hall, past the stairs. "I know what else might help," she whispered, a devious glint in her eye as she pulled Gene into their bedroom.
" ‘S not Thursday."
"Very observant, Detective Chief Inspector. But if you’ll recall, I wasn’t home on Thursday."
Gene let a mischievous smile cross his face as he closed the door behind them.
*
He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to do this. Why were they making him do this? It wasn’t fair. All he wanted was to go home. If he admitted where home was they’d lock him up. But why? What was so hard to believe about coma-induced time travel? Honestly.
But if they did lock him up, he’d get Valium again, wouldn’t he? Which was bad. Very bad. So very, very good. Bad. Not good. Fuck. This was hard. Why did everything have to be so hard? For once, why couldn’t his life be easy? Life had been easy on Valium. No. No. No. Drugs were the problem. Another day or two of this, he’d be almost back to normal. Christ. Another day. Or two. Christ. Almost.
Sam tried to close his eyes but was terrified of the dreams that would follow. So, he laid in bed, staring up at the ceiling, letting his mind tick, tick, tick. Every minute that passed brought Merrick closer. Every minute that passed was worse than the last. Now would be a very good time to wake up from that coma.
With sleeping not working out Sam sat up, leaning against the headboard. He couldn’t get comfortable. His body was stiff. It felt hot and cold at the same time. As he rolled up his sleeves he noticed his bandaged wrists. His most recent attempt at the "definitive step." He didn’t want Merrick to see the faded, white gauze. Not that he didn’t already know, Sam just didn’t want him to be reminded. If the gauze was gone it would look like Sam had improved, wouldn’t it?
He held his left arm in front of him, gently unwrapping the red-tinged layers. Gene had pressed too hard the other night. Sam wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Finally all the white was gone and for the first time in a long time, Sam saw the scar that lay beneath. It was red and raised, the stitches desperately holding the skin together. There was a bit of dried blood at various spots, where Gene’s fingers had grasped him tightly, punishing him for his horrible mistake. He carefully uncovered the other wrist. This scar was little less red. He was right handed after all, the cut hadn’t been as deep. Still, as he held out both his arms the scars appeared like mirror images, reflecting his inadequacies.
A better man would have been able to cope. A better man wouldn’t have tried the coward’s way out. A better man wouldn’t have tried to hide from himself. A better man wouldn’t have started smoking or hit his friend or needed his Guv to dress him or called a second-rate psychiatrist in a moment of weakness.
Sam didn’t know how long he sat there like that, staring at the physical visualization of his decrepitude. Hours maybe, or just days. Perhaps mere seconds. He was still having trouble with time. Of course, when did he and time ever get along? Eventually the door was opened by a noticeably more relaxed Gene Hunt.
"Breakfast’s ready."
Sam, his arms still stretched before him, immediately responded to his Guv’s voice. "I can’t do it. I can’t. I can’t see him. I’m not ready. I don’t know why I called him. I never should have. It was wrong and stupid. Everything I’ve done is wrong and stupid. Everything I am. I can’t do this. I’m not strong enough to do this. I’m not strong enough to say no."
Gene entered the room and shut the door. Tyler was always so cocksure about everything, about his poncey Hyde policing, about CID’s faults, about himself. "It’ll only be worse if you wait."
"How? How could it be worse? I’ll-I’ll be stronger later. I can do it later. Let me do it later."
That’s what Stu had said. The last time Gene begged, yes begged, his brother to get clean. Three months later he was dead.
"You need to do it now. It can’t wait." Gene placed a comforting hand on Sam’s shoulder. "Well, maybe til after breakfast."
Sam stayed quiet but the worry didn’t depart his face, the uncertainty becoming all the more apparent.
There was a faint knock downstairs. Gene listened as his wife addressed someone at the front door then hurried up the stairs to knock on the guest room. She opened it without waiting for a response. "He’s here. That doctor." She looked nervously from Gene to Sam.
"Bastard. Barely nine o’clock!"
"Want me to go?"
"No, it’s alright. Might as well stay now, you’re already here. Tell ‘em we’ll be down in a few minutes."
She nodded and shut the door.
Sam looked up at Gene, pure terror on his face. "I can’t," he whispered. "I can’t."
"You’re going to have to."
Sam looked away, his mind racing through the worst possible outcomes.
"Don’t worry. It gets outta hand we can get Ray to bang him up for cattle rustling."
_____
Part 48