I'll Be Home For
Title: I'll Be Home For
Author: dakfinv
Recipient: m31andy
Rating: red cortina
Word Count: 1298
Notes/Warnings: blood, character death
Summary: Sam/Gene. Classically, there are three Fates. Clotho, who spins the thread of life, Lachesis, who weaves it into whole cloth and Atropos, who cuts the thread when life is done.
“Classically, there are three Fates. Clotho, who spins the thread of life, Lachesis, who weaves it into whole cloth, and Atropos, who cuts the thread when life is done. Now, Mr. Tyler, which do you think I am?”
*
“Ha bloody ha.”
“Pray tell, what is so funny about this?”
“Well, there’s you, you undercover, and you undercover as a junkie.”
“And?”
“And I’m not sure which is more laughable.”
Sam sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose in his typical, self-righteous fashion. Gene leaned back and smirked - cigarette dangling from his lips - as he awaited the inevitable argument.
“Our killer has a type.”
“It’s called scum. And I don’t see why we shouldn’t let him get on with it.”
“You really want some murderous vigilante policing your city?”
“Beats a time-wasting druggie.”
“No one is above the law, Guv. And murder should not be allowed on any level. There’s a reason we did away with the death penalty, you know.”
“Yeah, because a bunch of bleeding hearts put up a fuss that scum should have rights.”
“I am not getting into an argument over human rights with you.”
“Cos you know you’d lose.”
Sam pursed his lips and furrowed his brow. Gene smirked some more. It was always easy to get something twisted up Tyler’s jacksie.
“Okay, so this person, he’s killing drug addicts now. What happens when that’s not enough? What happens when he wants to knock off more than a coke-addicted bookie like Mickey the Rat? What if he starts targeting innocent people? Are you really going to wait until after an innocent man or woman is killed to start finding this bastard?”
Gene sat up and stubbed his fag out in the ash tray.
“Alright then. You’ve convinced me.”
Sam leaned back and crossed his arms.
“It wasn’t much of an argument.”
“Well, it was your brilliant blowjob that really got the point across.”
“I haven’t given you a blowjob.”
“Excellent observation, Sammy-boy. Time we went home, don’t you think?”
*
“Having trouble? Why don’t I give you a hint. I don’t have a spindle, I don’t have a loom, but I do have this.”
*
“Brilliant enough?”
“It’ll do.”
Sam punched him in the arm.
“You asked,” Gene added, but he couldn’t keep the laugh out of his voice. They laid there side by side, a comfortable silence between them. Gene took his time lighting up a cigarette. Sam crooked one arm behind his head, the other absentmindedly rubbing his bare stomach as he stared up at the ceiling.
“What’s going on in that head of yours?” Gene asked as he set his lighter aside.
“What do you want for Christmas?”
Gene nearly choked on his smoke.
“Christmas?”
“You know, tinsel and Santa Claus and reindeer.”
“You’re about to go undercover and you’re thinking about bloody reindeer?”
“I like reindeer. They’re...majestic.”
“Poof.”
“You should know.”
They resumed their silence. Gene became hypnotized by the way Sam’s fingers kept sliding over his pale skin.
“So, what do you want?”
“Why does it matter?”
“It’s my first Christmas here. Well, sort of. I haven’t been here for your birthday, yet. I’ve never bought you a gift before. I want it to be something good.”
Gene returned the cigarette to his lips and inhaled deeply.
“Well?”
“I’m thinking.”
“I can hear the cogs turning.”
Gene punched him in the arm. They let the silence surround them until Gene had finished his cigarette.
“You. Back safely,” Gene answered quietly, avoiding glances in Sam’s direction. He felt Sam’s wandering hand, though, as it glided onto his thigh.
“Alright.”
“Barring that,” Gene cleared his throat, “and if you tell anyone this, I’ll lock you in cells, naked, for a fortnight...” he trailed off, mumbling the last part of his sentence.
“What?” Sam asked.
“Roger Whittaker’s Christmas album,” he muttered only slightly louder. Sam laughed and squeezed his thigh.
“Alright,” he said, and Gene could hear him grinning.
They then let the silence overtake them until they fell into a peaceful sleep.
*
“A thread, Mr. Tyler, is so easy to slice. You, however, will take much longer to cut through.”
*
Gene cursed as the wrapping paper ripped for the third time. He took the sheet, crumpled it up, and tossed it across the room. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d bothered to wrap a gift. The missus had always done it and, after she left, he could always convince a plonk to take care of it.
This was for Sam, though, and God help him, he actually wanted to wrap it himself. What a right, flaming poofter he’d turned out to be.
Gene grabbed another sheet and started again. After he had seen that Slade group in concert, Sam had done nothing but ramble on and on for weeks about this old guitar he’d had in Hyde. Why the ponce hadn’t brought it with him, Gene had no clue. But, it was better not to argue with Sam when it came to matters of his past.
Gene had found this old hunk at the nearby pawn shop. It wasn’t electric, like those bloody girls on stage used, but it had all its pegs, only the holes it was meant to, and a decent set of strings. He hoped it would be good enough for Sam.
Tyler was due to check in tomorrow. Christmas Eve. If he had nothing worthwhile, Gene was pulling him out. No sense he should spend his first Christmas here shivering on the street like all the real junkies.
The wrapping paper ripped a fourth time.
Gene wondered if he could just stick a really big bow on the bastard piece of wood.
*
“Watch it all go away, Mr. Tyler. Watch it wash away your sins. Shh. It’s alright. Now you’ve suffered here on Earth, God will be more lenient to you on your Judgement Day. This is my gift to you.”
*
He was trussed up like a turkey. Wrapped up tight with his hands bound behind his neck, his ankles tied together. Blood had finished flowing from his body, the path leading a trail of red ribbons from his pale, sliced stomach, leaving his once soft skin white as snow. The green, cloth gag was tied in a tight bowknot behind the back of his head. His once bright eyes were clouded, as if covered by morning frost. The stench of blood and death filled the room, overpowering the senses at one moment, like a candle left burning far too long had suddenly been snuffed out and there was nowhere to escape the smoke.
Gene excused himself and vomited in the alley. The whisky, cranberry sauce, and stuffing from CIDs abruptly interrupted Christmas party returned to the world the same way it had left it mere hours before.
*
“Happy Christmas, Mr. Tyler.”
*
Gene smashed the guitar into little pieces. He collected the broken bits and threw them into the fireplace, watching them burn away. He threw down the tiny Christmas tree he’d been forced to get, feeling nothing as the bright red bulbs of the newly purchased glass ornaments were crushed under his loafers. He needed more to burn.
He went to Sam’s wardrobe and tore it apart, cursing his name, God’s name, and every other name he could think of, including his own. He tore out the last of the slim, striped shirts, ripped off the sleeves. It was the shirt Sam had worn his first day in CID. Then he saw it: resting against the back of the wardrobe, a thin red and green package.
Gene bent down and picked it up. It was addressed for him, from Sam. He tore it open. Roger Whittaker’s face stared back at him.
Gene burned that, too.
Author: dakfinv
Recipient: m31andy
Rating: red cortina
Word Count: 1298
Notes/Warnings: blood, character death
Summary: Sam/Gene. Classically, there are three Fates. Clotho, who spins the thread of life, Lachesis, who weaves it into whole cloth and Atropos, who cuts the thread when life is done.
“Classically, there are three Fates. Clotho, who spins the thread of life, Lachesis, who weaves it into whole cloth, and Atropos, who cuts the thread when life is done. Now, Mr. Tyler, which do you think I am?”
*
“Ha bloody ha.”
“Pray tell, what is so funny about this?”
“Well, there’s you, you undercover, and you undercover as a junkie.”
“And?”
“And I’m not sure which is more laughable.”
Sam sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose in his typical, self-righteous fashion. Gene leaned back and smirked - cigarette dangling from his lips - as he awaited the inevitable argument.
“Our killer has a type.”
“It’s called scum. And I don’t see why we shouldn’t let him get on with it.”
“You really want some murderous vigilante policing your city?”
“Beats a time-wasting druggie.”
“No one is above the law, Guv. And murder should not be allowed on any level. There’s a reason we did away with the death penalty, you know.”
“Yeah, because a bunch of bleeding hearts put up a fuss that scum should have rights.”
“I am not getting into an argument over human rights with you.”
“Cos you know you’d lose.”
Sam pursed his lips and furrowed his brow. Gene smirked some more. It was always easy to get something twisted up Tyler’s jacksie.
“Okay, so this person, he’s killing drug addicts now. What happens when that’s not enough? What happens when he wants to knock off more than a coke-addicted bookie like Mickey the Rat? What if he starts targeting innocent people? Are you really going to wait until after an innocent man or woman is killed to start finding this bastard?”
Gene sat up and stubbed his fag out in the ash tray.
“Alright then. You’ve convinced me.”
Sam leaned back and crossed his arms.
“It wasn’t much of an argument.”
“Well, it was your brilliant blowjob that really got the point across.”
“I haven’t given you a blowjob.”
“Excellent observation, Sammy-boy. Time we went home, don’t you think?”
*
“Having trouble? Why don’t I give you a hint. I don’t have a spindle, I don’t have a loom, but I do have this.”
*
“Brilliant enough?”
“It’ll do.”
Sam punched him in the arm.
“You asked,” Gene added, but he couldn’t keep the laugh out of his voice. They laid there side by side, a comfortable silence between them. Gene took his time lighting up a cigarette. Sam crooked one arm behind his head, the other absentmindedly rubbing his bare stomach as he stared up at the ceiling.
“What’s going on in that head of yours?” Gene asked as he set his lighter aside.
“What do you want for Christmas?”
Gene nearly choked on his smoke.
“Christmas?”
“You know, tinsel and Santa Claus and reindeer.”
“You’re about to go undercover and you’re thinking about bloody reindeer?”
“I like reindeer. They’re...majestic.”
“Poof.”
“You should know.”
They resumed their silence. Gene became hypnotized by the way Sam’s fingers kept sliding over his pale skin.
“So, what do you want?”
“Why does it matter?”
“It’s my first Christmas here. Well, sort of. I haven’t been here for your birthday, yet. I’ve never bought you a gift before. I want it to be something good.”
Gene returned the cigarette to his lips and inhaled deeply.
“Well?”
“I’m thinking.”
“I can hear the cogs turning.”
Gene punched him in the arm. They let the silence surround them until Gene had finished his cigarette.
“You. Back safely,” Gene answered quietly, avoiding glances in Sam’s direction. He felt Sam’s wandering hand, though, as it glided onto his thigh.
“Alright.”
“Barring that,” Gene cleared his throat, “and if you tell anyone this, I’ll lock you in cells, naked, for a fortnight...” he trailed off, mumbling the last part of his sentence.
“What?” Sam asked.
“Roger Whittaker’s Christmas album,” he muttered only slightly louder. Sam laughed and squeezed his thigh.
“Alright,” he said, and Gene could hear him grinning.
They then let the silence overtake them until they fell into a peaceful sleep.
*
“A thread, Mr. Tyler, is so easy to slice. You, however, will take much longer to cut through.”
*
Gene cursed as the wrapping paper ripped for the third time. He took the sheet, crumpled it up, and tossed it across the room. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d bothered to wrap a gift. The missus had always done it and, after she left, he could always convince a plonk to take care of it.
This was for Sam, though, and God help him, he actually wanted to wrap it himself. What a right, flaming poofter he’d turned out to be.
Gene grabbed another sheet and started again. After he had seen that Slade group in concert, Sam had done nothing but ramble on and on for weeks about this old guitar he’d had in Hyde. Why the ponce hadn’t brought it with him, Gene had no clue. But, it was better not to argue with Sam when it came to matters of his past.
Gene had found this old hunk at the nearby pawn shop. It wasn’t electric, like those bloody girls on stage used, but it had all its pegs, only the holes it was meant to, and a decent set of strings. He hoped it would be good enough for Sam.
Tyler was due to check in tomorrow. Christmas Eve. If he had nothing worthwhile, Gene was pulling him out. No sense he should spend his first Christmas here shivering on the street like all the real junkies.
The wrapping paper ripped a fourth time.
Gene wondered if he could just stick a really big bow on the bastard piece of wood.
*
“Watch it all go away, Mr. Tyler. Watch it wash away your sins. Shh. It’s alright. Now you’ve suffered here on Earth, God will be more lenient to you on your Judgement Day. This is my gift to you.”
*
He was trussed up like a turkey. Wrapped up tight with his hands bound behind his neck, his ankles tied together. Blood had finished flowing from his body, the path leading a trail of red ribbons from his pale, sliced stomach, leaving his once soft skin white as snow. The green, cloth gag was tied in a tight bowknot behind the back of his head. His once bright eyes were clouded, as if covered by morning frost. The stench of blood and death filled the room, overpowering the senses at one moment, like a candle left burning far too long had suddenly been snuffed out and there was nowhere to escape the smoke.
Gene excused himself and vomited in the alley. The whisky, cranberry sauce, and stuffing from CIDs abruptly interrupted Christmas party returned to the world the same way it had left it mere hours before.
*
“Happy Christmas, Mr. Tyler.”
*
Gene smashed the guitar into little pieces. He collected the broken bits and threw them into the fireplace, watching them burn away. He threw down the tiny Christmas tree he’d been forced to get, feeling nothing as the bright red bulbs of the newly purchased glass ornaments were crushed under his loafers. He needed more to burn.
He went to Sam’s wardrobe and tore it apart, cursing his name, God’s name, and every other name he could think of, including his own. He tore out the last of the slim, striped shirts, ripped off the sleeves. It was the shirt Sam had worn his first day in CID. Then he saw it: resting against the back of the wardrobe, a thin red and green package.
Gene bent down and picked it up. It was addressed for him, from Sam. He tore it open. Roger Whittaker’s face stared back at him.
Gene burned that, too.