Fic: The Kept Man (12/40), brown cortina, dakfinv
Title: The Kept Man (12/40)
Author: dak
Word Count: 1880 this part; [22,618 overall]
Rating: brown cortina
Warnings: angst, sexual situations, swearing
Spoilers: 1.04,1.05, 1.07
Pairing: Sam/Warren, Sam/Gene
Summary: AU. Sam woke up with amnesia when he landed in 1973, able to only remember his name, and ended up in the grasp of Stephen Warren. When he and Gene Hunt finally cross paths it starts a chain of events that will either save Sam or damn him.
A/N: From an idea from
talcat given via
culf. Working double shifts all weekend has seemed to have caught up with me but I wanted to get this finished before I go conk out. 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
“What are you doing Sam? Do you really think this is going to help?”
Sam screamed and fell out of the bed as the little girl floated towards him.
“Will it make it all better? Will it make it go away?”
“Get away from me!” He shrunk back as far as he could but still she drifted towards him.
“Will it make you go or will it make you stay?”
“I’m leaving. I’m going to get out! He’ll let me go. Warren will let me go!”
She cocked her head to the side. “Poor little Sammy doesn’t remember, does he?”
Sam closed his eyes but instead of blocking her out he saw a flash of blue. He snapped them open once more. She was still there. “No! No no no no no!”
“Is he a good man or a bad man or is he not a man at all?”
He pressed his hands tightly over his eyes. “Leave me alone,” he cried.
“He better watch the edge or else he just might fall.”
Another blinding flash of an image. Sam on a roof, his foot outstretched over the side.
“No!” He screamed and shot up in bed, a bed not his own. Trembling, covered in tears and sweat, he looked around the room, seeing nothing but the eerie glow projected by Test Card F. He leapt out of bed and slammed off the telly. In the sudden darkness he managed to stumble towards Gene’s bathroom, flinching every time he jostled his injured rib.
He refused to flick on the light, allowing his eyes to adjust to the blackness instead, and stood in front of the mirror, the lack of illumination only making his pale visage appear even more ghastly.
“Good man. Bad man. Good man. Bad man.” He whispered to himself, the nightmare’s tiny voice still echoing inside his head. He closed his eyes and slammed a fist on the sink. “Stop!” He shouted at himself then reopened his eyes, feigning confidence. “You can do it. You will do it,” he ordered himself. “You have to do it,” he spoke more pleadingly.
Fed up with thinking, he maneuvered back towards the bed and collapsed on top of the covers. Gene’s wife was out of town so he had no reason to sleep in the flat. Warren said he could have a few days but not forever. Sam would have to think of way to get Gene to stay.
*
“Don’t make a move ‘til I say,” Gene ordered into the radio. Gwen had called them that morning, having apparently been told the next drop off point - a disused alley behind a record shop in Old Trafford. God help Denny if he told them the wrong address but no, about thirty minutes before Gwen was supposed to arrive a car pulled up to one end of the alley and a conspicuous looking man in sunglasses and shiny loafers stepped out, a parcel under one arm. Hunt waited until the flash git was in the center of the alley before giving the signal.
“Go, go, go!” He shouted into the radio and his officers swarmed the alley from both sides. The man, startled at first, legged it in the direction of Ray and Chris, somehow maneuvering past both detectives and escaping out onto the main road. Gene immediately took chase, knocking down DC Skelton who had only just picked himself back up.
Luckily, for Hunt anyway, the suspect’s mates had abandoned him, driving off as soon as the police appeared, leaving him to fend for himself. He stalled in his confusion, giving Gene enough time to catch up and use a full body tackle to send him sprawling to the ground.
The man managed to elbow Gene hard in the face and the DCI could feel blood beginning to drip down his chin. It was the only blow the toerag managed to get in as Gene pulled back just enough to punch him in the kidney and screw his arms behind his back.
“You’re nicked,” Hunt snarled before slamming the suspect’s head into the pavement, rendering him unconscious.
“Good collar, Guv,” Ray panted, finally catching up with Chris in tow.
Gene hoisted himself to his feet, wiping the back of his hand through the blood on his face, which had since begun to drop onto his beige shirt. “Get ‘im back to the station. I want to speak to ‘im soon as he’s awake.” Gene kicked the man over, revealing the squashed parcel beneath. He bent over and scooped it up, tossing it to Chris who nearly dropped it. “Make sure that gets there, too.”
Leaving his minions to clear up the mess, Gene decided a change of shirt would be best, considering he had another meeting with the Superintendent later that day and it probably wouldn’t be prudent to show up with insides on the outside. It was only at the last second that he remembered he had no more clean shirts left at the station and he was currently closer to his flat than to his home.
A few handbrake turns and several destroyed dust bins later, Gene was outside the building containing his cheap flat. He would be in and out in minutes. Seconds. The damn fairy probably wouldn’t even be there. Probably got scared in the middle of the night and went running back to Daddy.
It was with barely concealed surprise that Gene opened his door to find Tyler sprawled out face up on his bed, sleeping fitfully, feet bare but other clothes still intact. He knew it would be easier if grabbed what he needed and left but he couldn’t resist slamming his door shut and waking the little tosser. Sam hadn’t run off and that made Gene curious. Gene Hunt was never one to ignore his curiosity.
Sam shot up in bed as soon as the door clicked shut, glancing around anxiously until his eyes focused on Gene. “What time is it? What are you doing here?” He questioned, rubbing the back of his head as his body slowly woke. Gene wondered how someone with so little hair could manage to get it so askew.
“My flat. I can do whatever I want in it, whenever I want, whereever I want.”
“Sorry. Shit, are you alright?” Sam seemed to suddenly the intricate blood pattern on Gene’s otherwise clean shirt.
“ ‘S nothing.” Gene rushed past to his closet hoping he did actually have a clean shirt here or risk thoroughly embarrassing his ego.
Sam slid off the bed and Gene could hear his bare feet padding across the shoddy carpet as he followed. “Is it still bleeding?”
“I’m fine,” Gene barked as he ripped a shirt off a hanger and tossed it on the bed behind him. He didn’t look but heard Sam go into the kitchen and turn on the sink. He stripped off his coat and suit jacket, then loosened his tie. As turned, pulling the tie over his head, he saw Sam standing there, a damp cloth in his hand.
“It’s still bleeding. What good will it do to change your shirt if you’re just going to bleed all over it again?” He cocked his eyebrows and held out the cloth.
Gene considered it briefly before reaching out and yanking it from the lad’s grasp. “Guess you’d know a bit about bruises,” he muttered, pressing the cloth to his split lip.
“Yeah. A bit.” He expected Sam to stay and stare but instead he wandered back into the kitchen. “Do you have a kettle?”
“Does it look like I would have a kettle?” Gene argued back, still dabbing at his lip. “Does it look like I even ‘ave tea?”
“I have tea,” Sam called back. “I brought some with me.” Sam reentered the main room of the flat, shuffling over to his knapsack.
“You’re on the run from a dangerous criminal overlord and you took the time to pack tea? You really are a poof.” Gene tossed the bloodied rag onto the windowsill and unbuttoned the dirty shirt.
“I like tea,” Sam shrugged.
“You pack any biscuits, too? Garibaldis or pink wafers?” Gene quickly slipped on the fresh shirt and began buttoning it up.
“No. No food,” Sam pulled out a tea bag then wandered back into the kitchen.
“Then what are you eatin’. I ain’t got nowt here.” Gene hadn’t meant to sound so concerned as he fixed his tie. He followed Sam to the kitchen and saw him shrug.
“I won’t be here long. I’ll eat when I’m gone.” Sam kept his back to him as he searched the bare cupboards for any sort of pot or pan.
“You like curry?”
Sam turned abruptly, confusion plastered all across his tired face. “Sure. Why?”
“I’ll drop some off after work. Don’t want you dyin’ in here of starvation. The stink would be horrendous.” Gene grabbed his coat and disappeared out the door before he could stick his foot in his mouth any further.
*
“Yes, sir...I’m working on it, sir. He’s bringing me something to eat tonight. I’ll make sure he stays...I know, sir...I just need time is...Right...Yes. I understand, Mr. Warren.” Sam hung up the pay phone and jogged out of the phone box, back to the building. Exhausted from lack of sleep and eager to return to the anonymity of the flat, he only barely missed being hit by a passing car. He fell back, landing hard on his elbows, shutting his eyes from the jarring pain shocking his arms.
A blue car. His dark blue tie. Into the bonnet. Over the roof. Flat on the ground. But the film is a saddening bore, cos she’s lived it ten times or more. His car. His silver car. His silver Jeep. What happened? Did you not see the signs? Do you remember what happened, sir?
“Sir? Sir? You alright?”
Sam’s eyes snapped open, his mind unable to comprehend the new memories.
“Sir?”
He looked up. It was the driver of the car. “Fine. Fine,” he repeated, scrambling off the ground. “Sorry. I’m fine.” He ran off, over to the building and up the stairs, not stopping for breath until he was back inside the flat. He shut the door behind him and rested his head against the wood.
No sense. It didn’t make any sense. He could close his eyes and picture that car. Picture his car and it was surreal. Totally surreal. No cars like that existed in 1973. At least nothing he’d seen. It must have been from a dream. A dream his troubled mind was confusing with reality.
“It wasn’t real,” he told himself. “Wasn’t real.” Sam panted against the door, catching his breath and repeating the mantra. Calming himself, Sam turned away from the door and lay back down on the bed. He had a job to do and he needed to stay focused. Catching up on some much needed sleep could only help. Losing himself in the pillows and blankets, Sam shut his eyes, murmuring as he drifted into a soothe-less sleep.
“...take a look at the lawman beating up the wrong guy. Oh man, wonder if he’ll ever know, he’s in the best-selling show...”
Beep. Beep. Beep. Vitals are decreasing. Beep. Beep. Beep.
_______
Part 13
Author: dak
Word Count: 1880 this part; [22,618 overall]
Rating: brown cortina
Warnings: angst, sexual situations, swearing
Spoilers: 1.04,1.05, 1.07
Pairing: Sam/Warren, Sam/Gene
Summary: AU. Sam woke up with amnesia when he landed in 1973, able to only remember his name, and ended up in the grasp of Stephen Warren. When he and Gene Hunt finally cross paths it starts a chain of events that will either save Sam or damn him.
A/N: From an idea from
talcat given via
culf. Working double shifts all weekend has seemed to have caught up with me but I wanted to get this finished before I go conk out. 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
“What are you doing Sam? Do you really think this is going to help?”
Sam screamed and fell out of the bed as the little girl floated towards him.
“Will it make it all better? Will it make it go away?”
“Get away from me!” He shrunk back as far as he could but still she drifted towards him.
“Will it make you go or will it make you stay?”
“I’m leaving. I’m going to get out! He’ll let me go. Warren will let me go!”
She cocked her head to the side. “Poor little Sammy doesn’t remember, does he?”
Sam closed his eyes but instead of blocking her out he saw a flash of blue. He snapped them open once more. She was still there. “No! No no no no no!”
“Is he a good man or a bad man or is he not a man at all?”
He pressed his hands tightly over his eyes. “Leave me alone,” he cried.
“He better watch the edge or else he just might fall.”
Another blinding flash of an image. Sam on a roof, his foot outstretched over the side.
“No!” He screamed and shot up in bed, a bed not his own. Trembling, covered in tears and sweat, he looked around the room, seeing nothing but the eerie glow projected by Test Card F. He leapt out of bed and slammed off the telly. In the sudden darkness he managed to stumble towards Gene’s bathroom, flinching every time he jostled his injured rib.
He refused to flick on the light, allowing his eyes to adjust to the blackness instead, and stood in front of the mirror, the lack of illumination only making his pale visage appear even more ghastly.
“Good man. Bad man. Good man. Bad man.” He whispered to himself, the nightmare’s tiny voice still echoing inside his head. He closed his eyes and slammed a fist on the sink. “Stop!” He shouted at himself then reopened his eyes, feigning confidence. “You can do it. You will do it,” he ordered himself. “You have to do it,” he spoke more pleadingly.
Fed up with thinking, he maneuvered back towards the bed and collapsed on top of the covers. Gene’s wife was out of town so he had no reason to sleep in the flat. Warren said he could have a few days but not forever. Sam would have to think of way to get Gene to stay.
*
“Don’t make a move ‘til I say,” Gene ordered into the radio. Gwen had called them that morning, having apparently been told the next drop off point - a disused alley behind a record shop in Old Trafford. God help Denny if he told them the wrong address but no, about thirty minutes before Gwen was supposed to arrive a car pulled up to one end of the alley and a conspicuous looking man in sunglasses and shiny loafers stepped out, a parcel under one arm. Hunt waited until the flash git was in the center of the alley before giving the signal.
“Go, go, go!” He shouted into the radio and his officers swarmed the alley from both sides. The man, startled at first, legged it in the direction of Ray and Chris, somehow maneuvering past both detectives and escaping out onto the main road. Gene immediately took chase, knocking down DC Skelton who had only just picked himself back up.
Luckily, for Hunt anyway, the suspect’s mates had abandoned him, driving off as soon as the police appeared, leaving him to fend for himself. He stalled in his confusion, giving Gene enough time to catch up and use a full body tackle to send him sprawling to the ground.
The man managed to elbow Gene hard in the face and the DCI could feel blood beginning to drip down his chin. It was the only blow the toerag managed to get in as Gene pulled back just enough to punch him in the kidney and screw his arms behind his back.
“You’re nicked,” Hunt snarled before slamming the suspect’s head into the pavement, rendering him unconscious.
“Good collar, Guv,” Ray panted, finally catching up with Chris in tow.
Gene hoisted himself to his feet, wiping the back of his hand through the blood on his face, which had since begun to drop onto his beige shirt. “Get ‘im back to the station. I want to speak to ‘im soon as he’s awake.” Gene kicked the man over, revealing the squashed parcel beneath. He bent over and scooped it up, tossing it to Chris who nearly dropped it. “Make sure that gets there, too.”
Leaving his minions to clear up the mess, Gene decided a change of shirt would be best, considering he had another meeting with the Superintendent later that day and it probably wouldn’t be prudent to show up with insides on the outside. It was only at the last second that he remembered he had no more clean shirts left at the station and he was currently closer to his flat than to his home.
A few handbrake turns and several destroyed dust bins later, Gene was outside the building containing his cheap flat. He would be in and out in minutes. Seconds. The damn fairy probably wouldn’t even be there. Probably got scared in the middle of the night and went running back to Daddy.
It was with barely concealed surprise that Gene opened his door to find Tyler sprawled out face up on his bed, sleeping fitfully, feet bare but other clothes still intact. He knew it would be easier if grabbed what he needed and left but he couldn’t resist slamming his door shut and waking the little tosser. Sam hadn’t run off and that made Gene curious. Gene Hunt was never one to ignore his curiosity.
Sam shot up in bed as soon as the door clicked shut, glancing around anxiously until his eyes focused on Gene. “What time is it? What are you doing here?” He questioned, rubbing the back of his head as his body slowly woke. Gene wondered how someone with so little hair could manage to get it so askew.
“My flat. I can do whatever I want in it, whenever I want, whereever I want.”
“Sorry. Shit, are you alright?” Sam seemed to suddenly the intricate blood pattern on Gene’s otherwise clean shirt.
“ ‘S nothing.” Gene rushed past to his closet hoping he did actually have a clean shirt here or risk thoroughly embarrassing his ego.
Sam slid off the bed and Gene could hear his bare feet padding across the shoddy carpet as he followed. “Is it still bleeding?”
“I’m fine,” Gene barked as he ripped a shirt off a hanger and tossed it on the bed behind him. He didn’t look but heard Sam go into the kitchen and turn on the sink. He stripped off his coat and suit jacket, then loosened his tie. As turned, pulling the tie over his head, he saw Sam standing there, a damp cloth in his hand.
“It’s still bleeding. What good will it do to change your shirt if you’re just going to bleed all over it again?” He cocked his eyebrows and held out the cloth.
Gene considered it briefly before reaching out and yanking it from the lad’s grasp. “Guess you’d know a bit about bruises,” he muttered, pressing the cloth to his split lip.
“Yeah. A bit.” He expected Sam to stay and stare but instead he wandered back into the kitchen. “Do you have a kettle?”
“Does it look like I would have a kettle?” Gene argued back, still dabbing at his lip. “Does it look like I even ‘ave tea?”
“I have tea,” Sam called back. “I brought some with me.” Sam reentered the main room of the flat, shuffling over to his knapsack.
“You’re on the run from a dangerous criminal overlord and you took the time to pack tea? You really are a poof.” Gene tossed the bloodied rag onto the windowsill and unbuttoned the dirty shirt.
“I like tea,” Sam shrugged.
“You pack any biscuits, too? Garibaldis or pink wafers?” Gene quickly slipped on the fresh shirt and began buttoning it up.
“No. No food,” Sam pulled out a tea bag then wandered back into the kitchen.
“Then what are you eatin’. I ain’t got nowt here.” Gene hadn’t meant to sound so concerned as he fixed his tie. He followed Sam to the kitchen and saw him shrug.
“I won’t be here long. I’ll eat when I’m gone.” Sam kept his back to him as he searched the bare cupboards for any sort of pot or pan.
“You like curry?”
Sam turned abruptly, confusion plastered all across his tired face. “Sure. Why?”
“I’ll drop some off after work. Don’t want you dyin’ in here of starvation. The stink would be horrendous.” Gene grabbed his coat and disappeared out the door before he could stick his foot in his mouth any further.
*
“Yes, sir...I’m working on it, sir. He’s bringing me something to eat tonight. I’ll make sure he stays...I know, sir...I just need time is...Right...Yes. I understand, Mr. Warren.” Sam hung up the pay phone and jogged out of the phone box, back to the building. Exhausted from lack of sleep and eager to return to the anonymity of the flat, he only barely missed being hit by a passing car. He fell back, landing hard on his elbows, shutting his eyes from the jarring pain shocking his arms.
A blue car. His dark blue tie. Into the bonnet. Over the roof. Flat on the ground. But the film is a saddening bore, cos she’s lived it ten times or more. His car. His silver car. His silver Jeep. What happened? Did you not see the signs? Do you remember what happened, sir?
“Sir? Sir? You alright?”
Sam’s eyes snapped open, his mind unable to comprehend the new memories.
“Sir?”
He looked up. It was the driver of the car. “Fine. Fine,” he repeated, scrambling off the ground. “Sorry. I’m fine.” He ran off, over to the building and up the stairs, not stopping for breath until he was back inside the flat. He shut the door behind him and rested his head against the wood.
No sense. It didn’t make any sense. He could close his eyes and picture that car. Picture his car and it was surreal. Totally surreal. No cars like that existed in 1973. At least nothing he’d seen. It must have been from a dream. A dream his troubled mind was confusing with reality.
“It wasn’t real,” he told himself. “Wasn’t real.” Sam panted against the door, catching his breath and repeating the mantra. Calming himself, Sam turned away from the door and lay back down on the bed. He had a job to do and he needed to stay focused. Catching up on some much needed sleep could only help. Losing himself in the pillows and blankets, Sam shut his eyes, murmuring as he drifted into a soothe-less sleep.
“...take a look at the lawman beating up the wrong guy. Oh man, wonder if he’ll ever know, he’s in the best-selling show...”
Beep. Beep. Beep. Vitals are decreasing. Beep. Beep. Beep.
_______
Part 13