Fic: Not Since (1/1), white cortina, dak
Title: Not Since
Author: dak
Word Count: 1461
Rating: white cortina
Spoilers: none
Pairing: Gene/missus
Summary: It's 1981 and Gene has just been to the scene of a coach crash...
A/N: This fic takes place in my Steady As She Goes universe, so it probably won't make sense unless you're familiar with that monster. This little bunny just got stuck in my head and I wanted to try a little Gene angst, give Sammy a break and all that. I also wanted to try and show how Gene might have been coping with losing Sam in my little AU. Please enjoy!
Gene looked ashen. Gene never looked ashen or livid or pallid or wan. Not Gene Hunt. Not her husband. He had come close twice. The first had been at Stu’s small funeral. The other...
This had nothing to do with Stu.
“Gene, luv, how was work?” Margaret helped him shed his coat then hung it in the closet while he lumbered off to the kitchen. Out of instinct she checked his flasks. All were empty. When she eventually followed him into the kitchen, he had already poured himself a hefty serving of whisky and looked ready to help himself to much more after that first glass was gone.
He hadn’t had this much to drink in ages. Not since...
“That coach crash. Up in Harrow.” His voice was hollow, devoid of its usual gruff spark and commanding presence. He hadn’t sounded like this since...
“Oh Lord. Was anyone hurt?” She sat down next to him. It must have been a horrible crash. Blood everywhere. Broken bodies and broken glass. She didn’t even want to try and imagine it. No wonder he was upset. Even a seasoned copper could struggle with such a terrible scene.
“No. Not really.” The drink was downed and he went to pour himself another but Margaret placed a firm hand on his arm, preventing him from lifting the bottle. Gene stared at her hand and she knew that if she was anyone else it would have been taken and twisted behind her back by now. Instead he simply shrugged it off and pushed himself away from the table.
He strode to the counter and picked at the stew she had warming on the stove. “Were a boy,” he finally said, still staring down into the black pot. Margaret was afraid to move, as if any motion would render him silent, like a deer scared off into the forest. She should never have to compare her husband to something as meek as a deer.
“Bump on the head an’ a broken arm. ‘E’ll be alright.” Gene’s hands were stuffed in his pockets, his gaze fixed on the boiling stew that needed desperately to be stirred. The long moments of silence were punctuated only by the ticking cuckoo clock DS Skelton had bought them on his trip to West Germany. The small, yellow room felt like it was filling up with heat, with pressure. It must be from the stew, Margaret decided. She really needed to stir it. She really needed to take care of it.
“Said ‘is name was Sam,” Gene whispered. “Sam Tyler.”
Margaret immediately scrambled out of her chair and hurried to the stove, stepping in front of Gene and forcing him to move so that she could finally stir that stew which had clearly reached its boiling point. Gene remained silent as he stood close, just a step away, as the name echoed over and over in her head, a name that had never been uttered in this house. A name never mentioned since they had left Manchester.
Bits of beefy broth speckled her apron as she violently wrenched the spoon round the pot. “ ‘S a common name, Gene. You know that. Just a common name.”
“Said ‘e was twelve.” Gene said it as if it was supposed to mean something but how could that mean anything? If anything, it proved that this was nothing to get upset over.
“Exactly. A twelve year old boy with a common name. That’s all.”
This time, it was Gene who grabbed her arm, preventing her spilling their supper over the recently washed floor. “ If ‘e’s twelve, you know what year ‘e were born then?”
“I’m no good at maths Gene. You should know that by now.” She meant to say it with spite but it came out a weakened whisper.
“1969.” Margaret closed her eyes. She knew what that meant but it was impossible. Completely and utterly impossible. “That’s what ‘e said. In hospital. When I...before he...’S why he thought he were four.”
“It’s just a coincidence, Gene,” she opened her eyes and pleaded with him. Gene may have been willing to cling to coincidences but she couldn’t. She had to be the reasonable one. She had to keep Gene focused on the present or the future. There were too many ghosts in his past. “You can’t think...you can’t think he was telling the truth. Something like that, it’s just not possible.”
Gene continued to hold tightly to her arm. It may have been the only thing keeping him upright. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see him.”
“I don’t need to see a twelve year old boy to know he’s not a forty-five year old man.” That’s old he would be now, wasn’t it, if he hadn’t...
“You didn’t see him,” Gene replied with more force.
Tonight was not going to end well. She could feel it. This was going to blow up into one of their huge, earth shaking rows which would send her to her mother’s for a fortnight and when she finally did return they would kiss and make up and never speak of it again. Never resolve anything.
“It wasn’t him.” Margaret tried to keep her voice calm, tried to level out Gene’s frustration, but her own was bubbling just beneath the surface.
“It could have been.” There was a fire in his eyes now, a fire fueled by anger, guilt, and worst of all, alcohol.
“It wasn’t,” she begged.
“It was Sam!” He bellowed and she swore the house did shutter.
“Daddy, who’s Sam?”
Both parties dropped the argument instantly as they turned to see their young daughter standing sleepily in the doorway. Gene squeezed his wife’s arm gently before walking over and kneeling down before his little girl.
“Just someone I used to work with, pet.” He reached out a hand and felt her forehead. “How’re you feeling? Still feel sick?” He asked with concern as he stroked her head.
“Fever broke this afternoon,” Margaret offered from her position by the stove. “Should be all set to go back to school in a day or two, hm?”
Gladys shook her head in a defiant no and Gene smiled. “Did you catch any scum today, Daddy?” She asked hopefully, clearly wanting to change the subject.
“Loads and loads,” he grinned and tapped her on the nose.
“Crumbs, chief! That’s brilliant!” She giggled.
“Watchin’ that Danger Rat again, I see,” Gene continued to check her forehead, still not convinced her temperature was back to normal.
Gladys sighed dramatically. “Dangermouse, Daddy. I told you before.” She grabbed his hand and tugged. “C’mon I taped it today. I’ve been waiting all day to watch it with you.”
“Daddy’s tired tonight, sweetheart,” Gene sighed. Margaret could see that all he wanted to do tonight was curl up in his whisky bottle and forget everything about the coach crash and its injured passenger. It was his habit after a rough day, after all.
“Please, please, please?” Gladys whined and kept jerking on his arm. “I’ve been really good. Haven’t I Mum? I took my medicine an’ stayed in bed an’ everything. Please Daddy?” Gladys stared at him longingly until Gene laughed and stood.
“Alright then. But only if your mum let’s us have ice cream while we watch it.” The two Hunts looked at Margaret with faux innocent expressions until she finally had to throw her arms up in defeat.
“Vanilla or chocolate,” she sighed.
“Vanilla,” they responded in unison.
“Go get comfy on the sofa then,” she ushered them out of her kitchen. “I’ll bring ‘em right out.”
“C’mon Gladys,” Gene scooped her up in one fluid movement and held her over his shoulder. “Show me how to work that VHR again.”
“VCR,” Gladys corrected as she was carried away.
As Gene watched cartoons with his daughter, the small girl snuggled up secure in his arms, Margaret popped out to the shop to grab some items for breakfast. At the till she saw the evening edition of the paper, the coach crash the front page headline. When she finally returned home, both Gene and Gladys were dozing on the couch, the television still blaring. She quietly made her way to the cellar, heading to the darkest corner. Kneeling down, she pulled out a dusty cardboard box. A box she hadn’t opened since...
Folding up the article, she gently lifted the stiff, leather jacket and placed the newsprint underneath, then closed the flaps, and pushed the box back in the corner.
Margaret returned to the kitchen and, with her family sleeping peacefully, paused a moment to finally let the stress of the near brutal argument wash away. With relief, she returned the whisky bottle to its place in the cupboard. Gene wouldn’t be needing it tonight.
_____
Followed by: End of the Road: Part 1
Author: dak
Word Count: 1461
Rating: white cortina
Spoilers: none
Pairing: Gene/missus
Summary: It's 1981 and Gene has just been to the scene of a coach crash...
A/N: This fic takes place in my Steady As She Goes universe, so it probably won't make sense unless you're familiar with that monster. This little bunny just got stuck in my head and I wanted to try a little Gene angst, give Sammy a break and all that. I also wanted to try and show how Gene might have been coping with losing Sam in my little AU. Please enjoy!
Gene looked ashen. Gene never looked ashen or livid or pallid or wan. Not Gene Hunt. Not her husband. He had come close twice. The first had been at Stu’s small funeral. The other...
This had nothing to do with Stu.
“Gene, luv, how was work?” Margaret helped him shed his coat then hung it in the closet while he lumbered off to the kitchen. Out of instinct she checked his flasks. All were empty. When she eventually followed him into the kitchen, he had already poured himself a hefty serving of whisky and looked ready to help himself to much more after that first glass was gone.
He hadn’t had this much to drink in ages. Not since...
“That coach crash. Up in Harrow.” His voice was hollow, devoid of its usual gruff spark and commanding presence. He hadn’t sounded like this since...
“Oh Lord. Was anyone hurt?” She sat down next to him. It must have been a horrible crash. Blood everywhere. Broken bodies and broken glass. She didn’t even want to try and imagine it. No wonder he was upset. Even a seasoned copper could struggle with such a terrible scene.
“No. Not really.” The drink was downed and he went to pour himself another but Margaret placed a firm hand on his arm, preventing him from lifting the bottle. Gene stared at her hand and she knew that if she was anyone else it would have been taken and twisted behind her back by now. Instead he simply shrugged it off and pushed himself away from the table.
He strode to the counter and picked at the stew she had warming on the stove. “Were a boy,” he finally said, still staring down into the black pot. Margaret was afraid to move, as if any motion would render him silent, like a deer scared off into the forest. She should never have to compare her husband to something as meek as a deer.
“Bump on the head an’ a broken arm. ‘E’ll be alright.” Gene’s hands were stuffed in his pockets, his gaze fixed on the boiling stew that needed desperately to be stirred. The long moments of silence were punctuated only by the ticking cuckoo clock DS Skelton had bought them on his trip to West Germany. The small, yellow room felt like it was filling up with heat, with pressure. It must be from the stew, Margaret decided. She really needed to stir it. She really needed to take care of it.
“Said ‘is name was Sam,” Gene whispered. “Sam Tyler.”
Margaret immediately scrambled out of her chair and hurried to the stove, stepping in front of Gene and forcing him to move so that she could finally stir that stew which had clearly reached its boiling point. Gene remained silent as he stood close, just a step away, as the name echoed over and over in her head, a name that had never been uttered in this house. A name never mentioned since they had left Manchester.
Bits of beefy broth speckled her apron as she violently wrenched the spoon round the pot. “ ‘S a common name, Gene. You know that. Just a common name.”
“Said ‘e was twelve.” Gene said it as if it was supposed to mean something but how could that mean anything? If anything, it proved that this was nothing to get upset over.
“Exactly. A twelve year old boy with a common name. That’s all.”
This time, it was Gene who grabbed her arm, preventing her spilling their supper over the recently washed floor. “ If ‘e’s twelve, you know what year ‘e were born then?”
“I’m no good at maths Gene. You should know that by now.” She meant to say it with spite but it came out a weakened whisper.
“1969.” Margaret closed her eyes. She knew what that meant but it was impossible. Completely and utterly impossible. “That’s what ‘e said. In hospital. When I...before he...’S why he thought he were four.”
“It’s just a coincidence, Gene,” she opened her eyes and pleaded with him. Gene may have been willing to cling to coincidences but she couldn’t. She had to be the reasonable one. She had to keep Gene focused on the present or the future. There were too many ghosts in his past. “You can’t think...you can’t think he was telling the truth. Something like that, it’s just not possible.”
Gene continued to hold tightly to her arm. It may have been the only thing keeping him upright. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see him.”
“I don’t need to see a twelve year old boy to know he’s not a forty-five year old man.” That’s old he would be now, wasn’t it, if he hadn’t...
“You didn’t see him,” Gene replied with more force.
Tonight was not going to end well. She could feel it. This was going to blow up into one of their huge, earth shaking rows which would send her to her mother’s for a fortnight and when she finally did return they would kiss and make up and never speak of it again. Never resolve anything.
“It wasn’t him.” Margaret tried to keep her voice calm, tried to level out Gene’s frustration, but her own was bubbling just beneath the surface.
“It could have been.” There was a fire in his eyes now, a fire fueled by anger, guilt, and worst of all, alcohol.
“It wasn’t,” she begged.
“It was Sam!” He bellowed and she swore the house did shutter.
“Daddy, who’s Sam?”
Both parties dropped the argument instantly as they turned to see their young daughter standing sleepily in the doorway. Gene squeezed his wife’s arm gently before walking over and kneeling down before his little girl.
“Just someone I used to work with, pet.” He reached out a hand and felt her forehead. “How’re you feeling? Still feel sick?” He asked with concern as he stroked her head.
“Fever broke this afternoon,” Margaret offered from her position by the stove. “Should be all set to go back to school in a day or two, hm?”
Gladys shook her head in a defiant no and Gene smiled. “Did you catch any scum today, Daddy?” She asked hopefully, clearly wanting to change the subject.
“Loads and loads,” he grinned and tapped her on the nose.
“Crumbs, chief! That’s brilliant!” She giggled.
“Watchin’ that Danger Rat again, I see,” Gene continued to check her forehead, still not convinced her temperature was back to normal.
Gladys sighed dramatically. “Dangermouse, Daddy. I told you before.” She grabbed his hand and tugged. “C’mon I taped it today. I’ve been waiting all day to watch it with you.”
“Daddy’s tired tonight, sweetheart,” Gene sighed. Margaret could see that all he wanted to do tonight was curl up in his whisky bottle and forget everything about the coach crash and its injured passenger. It was his habit after a rough day, after all.
“Please, please, please?” Gladys whined and kept jerking on his arm. “I’ve been really good. Haven’t I Mum? I took my medicine an’ stayed in bed an’ everything. Please Daddy?” Gladys stared at him longingly until Gene laughed and stood.
“Alright then. But only if your mum let’s us have ice cream while we watch it.” The two Hunts looked at Margaret with faux innocent expressions until she finally had to throw her arms up in defeat.
“Vanilla or chocolate,” she sighed.
“Vanilla,” they responded in unison.
“Go get comfy on the sofa then,” she ushered them out of her kitchen. “I’ll bring ‘em right out.”
“C’mon Gladys,” Gene scooped her up in one fluid movement and held her over his shoulder. “Show me how to work that VHR again.”
“VCR,” Gladys corrected as she was carried away.
As Gene watched cartoons with his daughter, the small girl snuggled up secure in his arms, Margaret popped out to the shop to grab some items for breakfast. At the till she saw the evening edition of the paper, the coach crash the front page headline. When she finally returned home, both Gene and Gladys were dozing on the couch, the television still blaring. She quietly made her way to the cellar, heading to the darkest corner. Kneeling down, she pulled out a dusty cardboard box. A box she hadn’t opened since...
Folding up the article, she gently lifted the stiff, leather jacket and placed the newsprint underneath, then closed the flaps, and pushed the box back in the corner.
Margaret returned to the kitchen and, with her family sleeping peacefully, paused a moment to finally let the stress of the near brutal argument wash away. With relief, she returned the whisky bottle to its place in the cupboard. Gene wouldn’t be needing it tonight.
_____
Followed by: End of the Road: Part 1