Fic: Steady As She Goes (66/86), blue cortina, dakfinv
Title: Steady As She Goes (66/86)
Author: dak
Word Count: 1615 this part; [118,854 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: Gene and Sam talk about hearing voices.
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: 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
Sam groggily blinked his heavy eyelids. He squirmed in the bed, his body aching to find a comfortable position and return to sleep, but his mind was starting to wake and refused to let him drift back into happy unconsciousness. It wasn’t until he yawned that he noticed his jaw was stiff and sore. Still half-asleep, he rubbed the tender spot and tried to remember how he accrued the new damage.
"Sleep well, Gladys?"
Sam turned abruptly in his bed to see Gene sitting in the armchair, eyes glaring and hands folded like a misplaced Bond villain. "What’s going on?" Sam propped himself up on his elbows, still yawning and blinking the sleep from his eyes.
"Are you talking to me?" Gene’s tone was dead serious. If he was trying to bait Sam again, well, he wouldn’t fall for it again.
"Of course I’m talking to you. Who the bloody else is here?" He managed to swing his legs over the side of the bed.
"You tell me Tyler."
Sam leaned his elbows on his knees and rested his head in his hands. He didn’t know what time it was but he knew it had to be too early for Gene’s games. "Please don’t tell me I was drugged again."
"Why would you say that?"
"Why else would be acting like the Godfather over there unless I had been and did something stupid again." Sam decided to ignore his Guv’s odd behavior and slowly rose from the bed and stumbled into his tiny kitchen. "What time is it? We get a shout?"
"It’s noon." Gene replied without moving from the chair.
Sam threw back his head and whispered a tiny, "Shit." He tossed the empty kettle on the cold stovetop and walked back into the room, hands on his hips, head lowered in defeat. "You’re here to demote again, then."
"What?" Gene’s dark exterior slightly cracked, allowing a hint of confusion to surface.
"It’s noon which means I overslept which means I’m late for work which means I obviously didn’t get my shit together which means you’re here to demote me to Constable which means I get to shine Carling’s shoes for the rest of my career. Let me know if I’m on the right track."
"It’s Saturday," he said in a tone implying that this fact should have been so obvious even his dead Aunt Gertie would have known it.
Now it was Sam’s turn to be confused. "What? No. It’s Friday. Yesterday you sent me out on that bogus call with Chris, then the robbery with Clive. That was Thursday."
"Thursday you helped Phyllis with the charge sheets and kept the stationary cupboard so clean we could’ve used it for an operating theatre."
"What happened to Friday?"
"You went out on a bogus call with Chris, a robbery with Clive, and had a chat with your imaginary friends." Gene still hadn’t moved from the chair. He was barely looking at Tyler, if at all.
Sam felt his stomach drop. "I need something to eat." He hid himself back in the kitchen and searched his grocery bags for the bread he knew he bought. There was no way, absolutely no way. He simply couldn’t have. Even if she had been in the room at the same time as Gene, which was impossible because she only came when he was alone, and she wasn’t real to begin with, but he had been so tired. Sam folded a piece of bread in his hands and reentered the room, sitting on the bed facing Gene. "Tell me what happened," he asked softly.
"You really don’t remember?" Gene asked uncertainly.
"If I did I wouldn’t have to ask would I?" Sam tried to keep his anger under wraps. Gene apparently already thought he was completely mad. He didn’t need the Guv to beat the living shit out of him as well.
"Came round last night looking for your file which you took from the station without permission, Mister Rules and Regulations."
"Only because I knew you wouldn’t let me if I had asked," Sam defended weakly.
"Well I come here expectin’ to give you a proper lashing for disobeying orders but turns out you were too busy yapping with Claude Raines and his invisible fairies to listen to me. Merrick was right."
"What?" Sam gazed at him in disbelief.
"Complete nutter. Need the padded rooms, don’t you? Got that schizophrenia I reckon." Gene pushed himself out of the chair and crossed the room, lighting a cigarette by the boarded up window.
"I am not a schizophrenic, Gene." Sam couldn’t believe he was having this conversation.
"You think you’re from the future and you hear voices, Sam! Sure sounds like a mental case to me!" Gene shouted then turned away, smoking angrily.
"If you’re so sure, why aren’t I in hospital then? Explain that to me Guv," Sam threw the bread to the side and stood and faced Gene again. "Why am I not doped up and tied down and totally forgotten this very instant?" Forget hiding his anger. If he was going to make it out of this he was going to have to fight.
"I want you to talk me out of it!" Gene shouted back. "I want you to prove to me I haven’t been fighting for a lost cause!" Gene’s hand was shaking as it flicked ash to the floor.
"I bought an ashtray. Could you just use it?" Sam motioned to the glass dish on the table.
Gene stared at him oddly then reached over and pulled the empty ashtray towards him, watching as Sam rubbed his jaw again. "Last night, I knocked you out."
"You did what?" Sam dropped his hand.
"Couldn’t get a straight word out of yeh. Kept goin’ on about ‘she this’ and ‘she that’."
"So you hit me."
"Knocked you out cold. One punch. Impressive, even by my standards. Looked like you needed the rest anyhow. So," Gene straightened himself up, extinguished the cigarette in the tray, and crossed his arms. "Here we are now. All refreshed and relaxed. Explain to me why I shouldn’t be sendin’ you off to the funny farm." Gene’s expression had hardened. The man had a fantastic poker face and a stubborn disposition. If he was already convinced, Sam had to have all his wits about him to win this battle, which was what they were arguing about anyway. "C’mon then Dorothy. You’ve got a gift for gab that rivals the Missus’ entire bridge club. Talk me out of this."
"I don’t have schizophrenia."
"Oh, very convincing."
Sam held up his hands, wracking his brain for information about an illness he didn’t know much about. "Okay, let’s first say, hypothetically, that I do, even though I don’t. Even if I did, which I don’t--"
"So you keep saying."
"Mental illness doesn’t have to buy you a single ticket to the psych ward. It can be controlled with outpatient therapy and strict regiment of medication." Of course, what medications for this were available in 1973, Sam hadn’t a clue.
"As if you need more drugs," Gene scoffed.
"What I’m saying is it can be completely manageable. People with schizophrenia can be professors, artists, businessmen--"
"Coppers?"
"That was implied."
"But if you don’t have hamsters for brains, like you keep insisting, it’s a moot point, isn’t it? So tell me, Dr. Kildare, why it is that your hearing voices and missing flying cars doesn’t add up to one prozzie short of a brothel."
"Flying cars?" Sam shook his head and focused on the matter at hand. "I think...I think what you saw was a combination of stress, fatigue, PTSD--"
"Don’t think I want to know what that is."
"Post-traumatic stress disorder."
"You already said stress."
It didn’t matter what he said. Gene was going to take him away, wasn’t he? The man’s mind was already made up. Sam threw up his hands in defeat. "Jesus Christ, Gene! I was kidnapped, left to die, in a coma, hooked on Valium, lost my job, and haven’t slept more than three hours total this entire bloody week! If you don’t think that entitles me to be a little off, I don’t know what else to tell you! And use the fucking ashtray!" He added as he saw Gene light another ciggie.
Gene stopped and threw the fag down onto the table. "I want you to tell me I won’t ever see that again," he growled. "I want you to tell me all your fancy gay-boy ways of policing are from reading too many journals and not because you went for a trip with Doctor Who. I want you to tell me I can send you out on a call without fearing for the lives of the men under your command. I want you to tell me you can handle the stress of this job without stringing yourself up by your belt like Graham." Gene moved towards him with every demand until they were so close Sam could taste the whiskey on Gene’s breath.
"I never much liked belts, Guv." Sam looked him straight in the eye.
Gene turned around and grabbed the fag and the file off the table. Sam remained still as Gene brushed past him to the door.
"You’re taking half-days all next week. I don’t want to see your face ‘til noon, ‘less I say otherwise, Sergeant." Gene ripped open the door. "Sam...This happens again, I won’t have a choice."
The door closed and Sam let out a long held breath. He didn’t move, afraid if he did she would make a return. She didn’t. Sam slowly walked into his kitchen and finally unpacked his groceries.
_______
Part 67
Author: dak
Word Count: 1615 this part; [118,854 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: Gene and Sam talk about hearing voices.
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: 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
Sam groggily blinked his heavy eyelids. He squirmed in the bed, his body aching to find a comfortable position and return to sleep, but his mind was starting to wake and refused to let him drift back into happy unconsciousness. It wasn’t until he yawned that he noticed his jaw was stiff and sore. Still half-asleep, he rubbed the tender spot and tried to remember how he accrued the new damage.
"Sleep well, Gladys?"
Sam turned abruptly in his bed to see Gene sitting in the armchair, eyes glaring and hands folded like a misplaced Bond villain. "What’s going on?" Sam propped himself up on his elbows, still yawning and blinking the sleep from his eyes.
"Are you talking to me?" Gene’s tone was dead serious. If he was trying to bait Sam again, well, he wouldn’t fall for it again.
"Of course I’m talking to you. Who the bloody else is here?" He managed to swing his legs over the side of the bed.
"You tell me Tyler."
Sam leaned his elbows on his knees and rested his head in his hands. He didn’t know what time it was but he knew it had to be too early for Gene’s games. "Please don’t tell me I was drugged again."
"Why would you say that?"
"Why else would be acting like the Godfather over there unless I had been and did something stupid again." Sam decided to ignore his Guv’s odd behavior and slowly rose from the bed and stumbled into his tiny kitchen. "What time is it? We get a shout?"
"It’s noon." Gene replied without moving from the chair.
Sam threw back his head and whispered a tiny, "Shit." He tossed the empty kettle on the cold stovetop and walked back into the room, hands on his hips, head lowered in defeat. "You’re here to demote again, then."
"What?" Gene’s dark exterior slightly cracked, allowing a hint of confusion to surface.
"It’s noon which means I overslept which means I’m late for work which means I obviously didn’t get my shit together which means you’re here to demote me to Constable which means I get to shine Carling’s shoes for the rest of my career. Let me know if I’m on the right track."
"It’s Saturday," he said in a tone implying that this fact should have been so obvious even his dead Aunt Gertie would have known it.
Now it was Sam’s turn to be confused. "What? No. It’s Friday. Yesterday you sent me out on that bogus call with Chris, then the robbery with Clive. That was Thursday."
"Thursday you helped Phyllis with the charge sheets and kept the stationary cupboard so clean we could’ve used it for an operating theatre."
"What happened to Friday?"
"You went out on a bogus call with Chris, a robbery with Clive, and had a chat with your imaginary friends." Gene still hadn’t moved from the chair. He was barely looking at Tyler, if at all.
Sam felt his stomach drop. "I need something to eat." He hid himself back in the kitchen and searched his grocery bags for the bread he knew he bought. There was no way, absolutely no way. He simply couldn’t have. Even if she had been in the room at the same time as Gene, which was impossible because she only came when he was alone, and she wasn’t real to begin with, but he had been so tired. Sam folded a piece of bread in his hands and reentered the room, sitting on the bed facing Gene. "Tell me what happened," he asked softly.
"You really don’t remember?" Gene asked uncertainly.
"If I did I wouldn’t have to ask would I?" Sam tried to keep his anger under wraps. Gene apparently already thought he was completely mad. He didn’t need the Guv to beat the living shit out of him as well.
"Came round last night looking for your file which you took from the station without permission, Mister Rules and Regulations."
"Only because I knew you wouldn’t let me if I had asked," Sam defended weakly.
"Well I come here expectin’ to give you a proper lashing for disobeying orders but turns out you were too busy yapping with Claude Raines and his invisible fairies to listen to me. Merrick was right."
"What?" Sam gazed at him in disbelief.
"Complete nutter. Need the padded rooms, don’t you? Got that schizophrenia I reckon." Gene pushed himself out of the chair and crossed the room, lighting a cigarette by the boarded up window.
"I am not a schizophrenic, Gene." Sam couldn’t believe he was having this conversation.
"You think you’re from the future and you hear voices, Sam! Sure sounds like a mental case to me!" Gene shouted then turned away, smoking angrily.
"If you’re so sure, why aren’t I in hospital then? Explain that to me Guv," Sam threw the bread to the side and stood and faced Gene again. "Why am I not doped up and tied down and totally forgotten this very instant?" Forget hiding his anger. If he was going to make it out of this he was going to have to fight.
"I want you to talk me out of it!" Gene shouted back. "I want you to prove to me I haven’t been fighting for a lost cause!" Gene’s hand was shaking as it flicked ash to the floor.
"I bought an ashtray. Could you just use it?" Sam motioned to the glass dish on the table.
Gene stared at him oddly then reached over and pulled the empty ashtray towards him, watching as Sam rubbed his jaw again. "Last night, I knocked you out."
"You did what?" Sam dropped his hand.
"Couldn’t get a straight word out of yeh. Kept goin’ on about ‘she this’ and ‘she that’."
"So you hit me."
"Knocked you out cold. One punch. Impressive, even by my standards. Looked like you needed the rest anyhow. So," Gene straightened himself up, extinguished the cigarette in the tray, and crossed his arms. "Here we are now. All refreshed and relaxed. Explain to me why I shouldn’t be sendin’ you off to the funny farm." Gene’s expression had hardened. The man had a fantastic poker face and a stubborn disposition. If he was already convinced, Sam had to have all his wits about him to win this battle, which was what they were arguing about anyway. "C’mon then Dorothy. You’ve got a gift for gab that rivals the Missus’ entire bridge club. Talk me out of this."
"I don’t have schizophrenia."
"Oh, very convincing."
Sam held up his hands, wracking his brain for information about an illness he didn’t know much about. "Okay, let’s first say, hypothetically, that I do, even though I don’t. Even if I did, which I don’t--"
"So you keep saying."
"Mental illness doesn’t have to buy you a single ticket to the psych ward. It can be controlled with outpatient therapy and strict regiment of medication." Of course, what medications for this were available in 1973, Sam hadn’t a clue.
"As if you need more drugs," Gene scoffed.
"What I’m saying is it can be completely manageable. People with schizophrenia can be professors, artists, businessmen--"
"Coppers?"
"That was implied."
"But if you don’t have hamsters for brains, like you keep insisting, it’s a moot point, isn’t it? So tell me, Dr. Kildare, why it is that your hearing voices and missing flying cars doesn’t add up to one prozzie short of a brothel."
"Flying cars?" Sam shook his head and focused on the matter at hand. "I think...I think what you saw was a combination of stress, fatigue, PTSD--"
"Don’t think I want to know what that is."
"Post-traumatic stress disorder."
"You already said stress."
It didn’t matter what he said. Gene was going to take him away, wasn’t he? The man’s mind was already made up. Sam threw up his hands in defeat. "Jesus Christ, Gene! I was kidnapped, left to die, in a coma, hooked on Valium, lost my job, and haven’t slept more than three hours total this entire bloody week! If you don’t think that entitles me to be a little off, I don’t know what else to tell you! And use the fucking ashtray!" He added as he saw Gene light another ciggie.
Gene stopped and threw the fag down onto the table. "I want you to tell me I won’t ever see that again," he growled. "I want you to tell me all your fancy gay-boy ways of policing are from reading too many journals and not because you went for a trip with Doctor Who. I want you to tell me I can send you out on a call without fearing for the lives of the men under your command. I want you to tell me you can handle the stress of this job without stringing yourself up by your belt like Graham." Gene moved towards him with every demand until they were so close Sam could taste the whiskey on Gene’s breath.
"I never much liked belts, Guv." Sam looked him straight in the eye.
Gene turned around and grabbed the fag and the file off the table. Sam remained still as Gene brushed past him to the door.
"You’re taking half-days all next week. I don’t want to see your face ‘til noon, ‘less I say otherwise, Sergeant." Gene ripped open the door. "Sam...This happens again, I won’t have a choice."
The door closed and Sam let out a long held breath. He didn’t move, afraid if he did she would make a return. She didn’t. Sam slowly walked into his kitchen and finally unpacked his groceries.
_______
Part 67