Fic: The Kept Man (13/40), brown cortina, dakfinv
Title: The Kept Man (13/40)
Author: dak
Word Count: 2056 this part; [24,674 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. 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
He wasn’t talking. It wasn’t that he didn’t give them a straight answer or that he was being overly belligerent towards them. The nameless suspect had not uttered a single word since being taken into custody. Hunt had questioned. He had threatened. He had put some of those threats into action. The whole time, the man sat there stoically with an annoyingly unyielding closed mouth.
He’d had no identification on him when they’d picked him up and the only thing they had to go on was the car he’d been dropped off in. Chris swore he remembered the plate number and was at that moment trying to trace the registration with the help of WPC Cartwright.
When three hours of interrogation failed to reveal anything, Gene decided a cold night in the cells might just be what Mr. No Name needed to loosen his tongue. Gene would have left for the pub right then except he still had to endure an hour of being chewed out by Rathbone for slack behavior and poor results.
Hunt tried to explain, in a completely rational and calm manner of course, how the majority of CID’s failures were due to the fact he was a man down and RCS weren’t picking up the slack like Litton said they would, despite that department’s relatively light current case load.
A few torn reports and one nearly broken chair later and Gene was dismissed for the day so that he could think over his department’s current situation and his next proper course of action to correct the problem, all according to Rathbone.
All Gene could think was that if Frank’s uniform was stitched any tighter, his ego was bound to start popping out of the seams. It was just gone six when he finally left the station, driving the short distance to the Taj Mahal and grabbing a few cartons of take away.
He couldn’t explain, at least not to himself, why he was doing it. Why he was hiding Sam Tyler, enabling a fugitive in a way, especially after outright refusing him help only a scant few days before. In fact, it would probably be better if he dragged him back to Warren, make that poofter owe him a favor for a change.
What Gene didn’t want to admit was that it had something to do with his own pride. Even after sending the lad away, Sam had responded to Gene’s words, saw the error of his ways, and felt that Gene was the only man who could help him. The only man who could defy Stephen Warren. It was certainly the ego boost he needed after the constant reaming he’d been receiving lately from the Super.
Gene knew he should have been acting more cautious, shouldn’t even be bringing the boy food like he was. Let Tyler get himself together and get out of town while Gene stayed far out of the way. His overenthusiastic libido reminded him why he wasn’t as he opened the door to the flat and saw Sam emerging from the bathroom in nowt but Gene’s towel wrapped around his skinny waist, damp hair and chest still dripping water as he slinked over to the clothes laid out on the bed. Oh yes. The git most certainly slinked.
“Hope you don’t mind,” Sam motioned to the towel.
“I’ll make sure to burn it later,” Gene responded with a dry mouth as he shut the door. Sam didn’t begin dressing but picked up a small hand towel and began scrubbing it over his hair, the gentle flexing of his muscles illuminated by his wet skin. Gene realized he was staring and quickly marched into the kitchen, depositing the food on the counter. He had every intention of walking right back out of the flat but his crotch caused his eyes to rebel and he caught another glance of Sam’s smooth, battered chest.
“Those look worse.”
“They are. Reinjured in the...line of duty, let’s say.” There was no denying the malice in Tyler’s voice.
“Sounds like you don’t enjoy it.”
Sam shifted his body and the only thing protecting his modesty nearly fell to the floor. Gene should be leaving now. He really should be leaving.
“I don’t,” Tyler snapped.
“Not even a little? Even the prozzies get a little pleasure out of it now and then.”
“I am not a prostitute,” Sam angrily tossed the hand towel back on the bed.
“No. You’re a rent boy. Completely different, innit?”
“Thanks for the food. You can leave now.” Sam picked at the clothes, not putting them on but not allowing them to remain still.
“Well if you can’t face the truth...”
“What do you want me to say?” Sam yelled, throwing up his hands in defeat. “What do you want to hear, Gene? That I enjoy getting basically...basically raped by that sickening man nearly ever night? That I love it so much being his little toy to use and abuse whenever he feels like it? That I like not having my own life or remembering who I am or not knowing if there’s a single person in this whole bloody world who actually gives a shit about me?”
Sam had screamed himself hoarse by the end of his tirade. He stopped not because he ran out of things to say but because he ran out of breath to say them with. Flinching as he grabbed his left side, he fell partially onto the bed.
Gene went to him immediately, holding him by the shoulders and helping him to sit down properly. “Easy,” he coaxed as Sam struggled to catch his breath. Gene gently pressed his fingers against the more tender side and Sam winced in response. “That feels broken,” Gene said as he let his fingers examine the rib.
“Probably is. One of the pitfalls of being forcibly shagged against an oak desk,” Sam panted, still out of breath and very light-headed by the looks of it.
“Forcibly?” Gene asked as he falsely remembered the joy he thought he had seen of Sam’s face that night.
“Told you. Not that I can do anything about it except tell him what he wants to hear and hope he finishes quickly.” Sam swayed on the bed. Gene caught him and held him upright.
“Look like you could use summit to eat,” Gene tried to push away the sudden guilt that had started gnawing at his insides. Whisky should help with that.
“Guess it wouldn’t hurt.” Sam was carefully controlling his breathing, trying to get it back to normal.
“Get some clothes on. Skinny bloke like you must be freezing in ‘ere.”
“Yeah. Okay,” Sam agreed and Gene left him to prepare the food in the kitchen. When he returned, Sam was asleep, collapsed back on the bed, still in nowt but the towel. It wouldn’t do to have a dead body found in a flat registered under his name, so Gene stayed, just to make sure he didn’t cop it.
*
When Sam woke he realized he was dressed which was odd because usually when he passed out he awoke wearing less clothes than he had been before, not more. He sat up carefully, already used to moving cautiously around his damaged side.
“So, you’re awake then?”
With unfocused eyes, he made out the figure of Gene Hunt reclining in one of the pathetic excuses for a dining room chair. Christ, he had stayed. Wait, that was a good thing. That’s what Sam had needed to happen.
“Did you...” he waved to his body, indicating the clothes.
“Goosebumps all over yeh. Couldn’t ‘ave yeh freezing to death.”
“Oh.” Sam normally would have said thank you but he was no longer accustomed to men being nice to him.
“Some food left, if you want it.”
His stomach growled and Sam began to realize just how hungry he really was. “Yeah.”
“Talkative tonight, aren’t yeh?” Gene bit into a piece of bread, dropping crumbs all over the floor as he reached up to adjust the reception on the radio. Sam couldn’t recognize the song. It wasn’t Roger Whittaker, was it?
“Sorry. What would you like me to say?”
Even though his eyes had yet to clear entirely, he could tell Gene rolled his eyes. “ ‘M not payin’ yeh, Tyler. You can say whatever you want.”
Sam was taken aback by that. That’s not what he had meant, was it? Had he really become so conditioned to obedience? He remembered what he was actually here to do and his stomach dropped as he realized the answer was yes. “I’m not that hungry,” he sighed, appetite suddenly gone.
“When’s the last time you ate?”
“What does it matter to you?”
“You asked me to help. Thought that included eating.”
“Oh so now you want to help me?” Sam crossed his arms. “What happened to not having the energy to waste on useless poofs like me?” He saw Gene react, ever so slightly, to having his words thrown back in his face. It felt good to have the upper hand for once. It felt even better to know Gene had no idea just how much of the upper hand Sam had right now. Feeling good about that made him feel even sicker.
“Changed your mind. Not so useless anymore, seeing’s how you can still think for yourself.” Gene hadn’t been looking at him throughout their exchange but now Sam had to look away.
“Gee. Thanks.” He took a step forward but fumbled the landing, unintentionally. The radio crackled.
Beep. Beep. I’m sorry Mrs. Tyler. Beep. Beep.
“Tyler?”
How did he get on the floor?
Beep. Beep. We can’t seem to explain Sam’s sudden deterioration. Beep. Beep.
“Christ, you’re a mess.”
“No I’m not,” Sam mumbled, trying to block out the noises with his hands, unaware of the other pair trying to pick him off the carpet.
Beep. Beep. It’s as if he’s simply stopped fighting. Beep. Beep.
“No. No I haven’t. I’m fighting. I am,” he shook his head. He had no idea what the voices were talking about but he instinctively felt the need to disagree with them.
“Fighting what Sam?”
Beep. Beep. No. Not my boy. Not my Sammy. He would never give up. Beep. Beep.
“Mum. That’s her voice. That’s my mum!” He reached for the radio, confused when his arms were pulled back and held against his chest.
“Your mum’s Dusty Springfield?”
Beep. Beep. Don’t give up, Sam. Come back to us, love. Please come back. Beep. Beep.
“I do! I do want to get back.”
“Get back where Sam?”
Why couldn’t he move? Who had wrapped him so tight in this warm blanket that he couldn’t move?
“Home. I want to go home.”
“With Warren?”
“No. No no no.”
“Good.”
The blanket cradled him tighter. The blanket with the beating heart. The blanket that was kissing him? Holding him gently and kindly and respectfully, a soft, curry-flavored tongue tracing the inside of his mouth, probing only as far as Sam would let it. Every warm touch bringing his sanity back to him piece by piece.
He pulled away. “I’m not...”
“You’re not what, Sam?” A breathless voice asked him.
“I’m not a man at all,” he whispered. “She was right. Shit. She was right.” He pushed Gene away and detached himself from his hold, sliding backwards until he was far enough away to try standing on his own. “I can’t. I can’t do it. He’ll kill me but I deserve it.”
“What are you on about, Tyler?”
Everything was swimming in and out of focus as his truths battled for dominance against the lies inside him. The truth. Oh God. It would feel so good to tell the truth. It would damn him ultimately, with Gene and Warren he knew that, but for a moment, for that one tiny moment when he would reveal it, everything would feel so perfect.
“He sent me. He sent me here but I can’t. I can’t do it. Not to you. Not to anyone. I’m not that man. I’m not that man at all. I know it.”
“Tyler. What did Warren send you to do?”
He closed his eyes, savoring that moment, the last happy moment he would experience, as he let the truth spill out of him, knowing his blood would soon follow.
________
Part 14
Author: dak
Word Count: 2056 this part; [24,674 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. 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
He wasn’t talking. It wasn’t that he didn’t give them a straight answer or that he was being overly belligerent towards them. The nameless suspect had not uttered a single word since being taken into custody. Hunt had questioned. He had threatened. He had put some of those threats into action. The whole time, the man sat there stoically with an annoyingly unyielding closed mouth.
He’d had no identification on him when they’d picked him up and the only thing they had to go on was the car he’d been dropped off in. Chris swore he remembered the plate number and was at that moment trying to trace the registration with the help of WPC Cartwright.
When three hours of interrogation failed to reveal anything, Gene decided a cold night in the cells might just be what Mr. No Name needed to loosen his tongue. Gene would have left for the pub right then except he still had to endure an hour of being chewed out by Rathbone for slack behavior and poor results.
Hunt tried to explain, in a completely rational and calm manner of course, how the majority of CID’s failures were due to the fact he was a man down and RCS weren’t picking up the slack like Litton said they would, despite that department’s relatively light current case load.
A few torn reports and one nearly broken chair later and Gene was dismissed for the day so that he could think over his department’s current situation and his next proper course of action to correct the problem, all according to Rathbone.
All Gene could think was that if Frank’s uniform was stitched any tighter, his ego was bound to start popping out of the seams. It was just gone six when he finally left the station, driving the short distance to the Taj Mahal and grabbing a few cartons of take away.
He couldn’t explain, at least not to himself, why he was doing it. Why he was hiding Sam Tyler, enabling a fugitive in a way, especially after outright refusing him help only a scant few days before. In fact, it would probably be better if he dragged him back to Warren, make that poofter owe him a favor for a change.
What Gene didn’t want to admit was that it had something to do with his own pride. Even after sending the lad away, Sam had responded to Gene’s words, saw the error of his ways, and felt that Gene was the only man who could help him. The only man who could defy Stephen Warren. It was certainly the ego boost he needed after the constant reaming he’d been receiving lately from the Super.
Gene knew he should have been acting more cautious, shouldn’t even be bringing the boy food like he was. Let Tyler get himself together and get out of town while Gene stayed far out of the way. His overenthusiastic libido reminded him why he wasn’t as he opened the door to the flat and saw Sam emerging from the bathroom in nowt but Gene’s towel wrapped around his skinny waist, damp hair and chest still dripping water as he slinked over to the clothes laid out on the bed. Oh yes. The git most certainly slinked.
“Hope you don’t mind,” Sam motioned to the towel.
“I’ll make sure to burn it later,” Gene responded with a dry mouth as he shut the door. Sam didn’t begin dressing but picked up a small hand towel and began scrubbing it over his hair, the gentle flexing of his muscles illuminated by his wet skin. Gene realized he was staring and quickly marched into the kitchen, depositing the food on the counter. He had every intention of walking right back out of the flat but his crotch caused his eyes to rebel and he caught another glance of Sam’s smooth, battered chest.
“Those look worse.”
“They are. Reinjured in the...line of duty, let’s say.” There was no denying the malice in Tyler’s voice.
“Sounds like you don’t enjoy it.”
Sam shifted his body and the only thing protecting his modesty nearly fell to the floor. Gene should be leaving now. He really should be leaving.
“I don’t,” Tyler snapped.
“Not even a little? Even the prozzies get a little pleasure out of it now and then.”
“I am not a prostitute,” Sam angrily tossed the hand towel back on the bed.
“No. You’re a rent boy. Completely different, innit?”
“Thanks for the food. You can leave now.” Sam picked at the clothes, not putting them on but not allowing them to remain still.
“Well if you can’t face the truth...”
“What do you want me to say?” Sam yelled, throwing up his hands in defeat. “What do you want to hear, Gene? That I enjoy getting basically...basically raped by that sickening man nearly ever night? That I love it so much being his little toy to use and abuse whenever he feels like it? That I like not having my own life or remembering who I am or not knowing if there’s a single person in this whole bloody world who actually gives a shit about me?”
Sam had screamed himself hoarse by the end of his tirade. He stopped not because he ran out of things to say but because he ran out of breath to say them with. Flinching as he grabbed his left side, he fell partially onto the bed.
Gene went to him immediately, holding him by the shoulders and helping him to sit down properly. “Easy,” he coaxed as Sam struggled to catch his breath. Gene gently pressed his fingers against the more tender side and Sam winced in response. “That feels broken,” Gene said as he let his fingers examine the rib.
“Probably is. One of the pitfalls of being forcibly shagged against an oak desk,” Sam panted, still out of breath and very light-headed by the looks of it.
“Forcibly?” Gene asked as he falsely remembered the joy he thought he had seen of Sam’s face that night.
“Told you. Not that I can do anything about it except tell him what he wants to hear and hope he finishes quickly.” Sam swayed on the bed. Gene caught him and held him upright.
“Look like you could use summit to eat,” Gene tried to push away the sudden guilt that had started gnawing at his insides. Whisky should help with that.
“Guess it wouldn’t hurt.” Sam was carefully controlling his breathing, trying to get it back to normal.
“Get some clothes on. Skinny bloke like you must be freezing in ‘ere.”
“Yeah. Okay,” Sam agreed and Gene left him to prepare the food in the kitchen. When he returned, Sam was asleep, collapsed back on the bed, still in nowt but the towel. It wouldn’t do to have a dead body found in a flat registered under his name, so Gene stayed, just to make sure he didn’t cop it.
*
When Sam woke he realized he was dressed which was odd because usually when he passed out he awoke wearing less clothes than he had been before, not more. He sat up carefully, already used to moving cautiously around his damaged side.
“So, you’re awake then?”
With unfocused eyes, he made out the figure of Gene Hunt reclining in one of the pathetic excuses for a dining room chair. Christ, he had stayed. Wait, that was a good thing. That’s what Sam had needed to happen.
“Did you...” he waved to his body, indicating the clothes.
“Goosebumps all over yeh. Couldn’t ‘ave yeh freezing to death.”
“Oh.” Sam normally would have said thank you but he was no longer accustomed to men being nice to him.
“Some food left, if you want it.”
His stomach growled and Sam began to realize just how hungry he really was. “Yeah.”
“Talkative tonight, aren’t yeh?” Gene bit into a piece of bread, dropping crumbs all over the floor as he reached up to adjust the reception on the radio. Sam couldn’t recognize the song. It wasn’t Roger Whittaker, was it?
“Sorry. What would you like me to say?”
Even though his eyes had yet to clear entirely, he could tell Gene rolled his eyes. “ ‘M not payin’ yeh, Tyler. You can say whatever you want.”
Sam was taken aback by that. That’s not what he had meant, was it? Had he really become so conditioned to obedience? He remembered what he was actually here to do and his stomach dropped as he realized the answer was yes. “I’m not that hungry,” he sighed, appetite suddenly gone.
“When’s the last time you ate?”
“What does it matter to you?”
“You asked me to help. Thought that included eating.”
“Oh so now you want to help me?” Sam crossed his arms. “What happened to not having the energy to waste on useless poofs like me?” He saw Gene react, ever so slightly, to having his words thrown back in his face. It felt good to have the upper hand for once. It felt even better to know Gene had no idea just how much of the upper hand Sam had right now. Feeling good about that made him feel even sicker.
“Changed your mind. Not so useless anymore, seeing’s how you can still think for yourself.” Gene hadn’t been looking at him throughout their exchange but now Sam had to look away.
“Gee. Thanks.” He took a step forward but fumbled the landing, unintentionally. The radio crackled.
Beep. Beep. I’m sorry Mrs. Tyler. Beep. Beep.
“Tyler?”
How did he get on the floor?
Beep. Beep. We can’t seem to explain Sam’s sudden deterioration. Beep. Beep.
“Christ, you’re a mess.”
“No I’m not,” Sam mumbled, trying to block out the noises with his hands, unaware of the other pair trying to pick him off the carpet.
Beep. Beep. It’s as if he’s simply stopped fighting. Beep. Beep.
“No. No I haven’t. I’m fighting. I am,” he shook his head. He had no idea what the voices were talking about but he instinctively felt the need to disagree with them.
“Fighting what Sam?”
Beep. Beep. No. Not my boy. Not my Sammy. He would never give up. Beep. Beep.
“Mum. That’s her voice. That’s my mum!” He reached for the radio, confused when his arms were pulled back and held against his chest.
“Your mum’s Dusty Springfield?”
Beep. Beep. Don’t give up, Sam. Come back to us, love. Please come back. Beep. Beep.
“I do! I do want to get back.”
“Get back where Sam?”
Why couldn’t he move? Who had wrapped him so tight in this warm blanket that he couldn’t move?
“Home. I want to go home.”
“With Warren?”
“No. No no no.”
“Good.”
The blanket cradled him tighter. The blanket with the beating heart. The blanket that was kissing him? Holding him gently and kindly and respectfully, a soft, curry-flavored tongue tracing the inside of his mouth, probing only as far as Sam would let it. Every warm touch bringing his sanity back to him piece by piece.
He pulled away. “I’m not...”
“You’re not what, Sam?” A breathless voice asked him.
“I’m not a man at all,” he whispered. “She was right. Shit. She was right.” He pushed Gene away and detached himself from his hold, sliding backwards until he was far enough away to try standing on his own. “I can’t. I can’t do it. He’ll kill me but I deserve it.”
“What are you on about, Tyler?”
Everything was swimming in and out of focus as his truths battled for dominance against the lies inside him. The truth. Oh God. It would feel so good to tell the truth. It would damn him ultimately, with Gene and Warren he knew that, but for a moment, for that one tiny moment when he would reveal it, everything would feel so perfect.
“He sent me. He sent me here but I can’t. I can’t do it. Not to you. Not to anyone. I’m not that man. I’m not that man at all. I know it.”
“Tyler. What did Warren send you to do?”
He closed his eyes, savoring that moment, the last happy moment he would experience, as he let the truth spill out of him, knowing his blood would soon follow.
________
Part 14