LoM Fic: "Don't you like it here, Sam?" (White Cortina [G], Gen)
Warning to people on my flist: SPOILERS for the end of Life on Mars in the summary. DON'T read, if you don't want to be spoiled.
This is technically my second Life on Mars fic, but the one I started first isn't anywhere near finished yet. Plus, I'm tired of the first thing I post for any fandom being shameless sexing. Once I've posted, I'm going out to sunbathe.
Title ~ "Don't you like it here, Sam?"
Rating ~ White Cortina (G)
Summary ~ Missing Scene, set in 2.08 while Sam's in 2006, between him talking to his mum and the scene in the meeting.
Characters ~ Sam Tyler, the Test Card Girl (and clown), Ruth Tyler. Gen
Notes ~ Spoilers for series two. Written on the train from Durham to Manchester. Apologies for the rather rubbish ending.Unbeta'd, sadly, because I was too much of a wimp to ask at Lifein1973 none of my betas have seen Life on Mars, poor things, and I didn't want to spoil them before lending them my DVDs. :) YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE!
Wordcount ~ 1,866
Disclaimer ~ Life on Mars belongs to the BBC and Kudos, not me.
"Don't you like it here, Sam?"
Sam woke in front of the TV - for once turned off before he fell asleep - and for a moment of disorientation believed himself to be back in his dingy 1973 flat. His panicked eyes scanned the room. 2006 shapes loomed out of the darkness, and Sam sighed, lifting his hands to rub his eyes.
Then the high-pitched whistling started. Sam stiffened, his hands still over his eyes. This couldn’t be happening, he told himself firmly. This was 2006; he shouldn’t - he didn’t hallucinate in 2006.
A familiar voice came out of the darkness, despite his internal protests. “Don’t you like it here, Sam?”
He couldn’t help himself. He lowered his hands and opened his eyes. Sure enough, the Test Card Girl was there, large as life and standing just in front of the TV, her empty test card displayed on the screen. Sam swallowed hard, trying to take deep breaths. “No. This isn’t real. This can’t be real.”
“I thought you wanted to come back, Sam,” the Test Card Girl said, her tone as even as ever. “All you ever thought about was waking up.”
“Wake up,” Sam muttered, his eyes searching for a way out as the little girl in the red dress began to glide forwards, propelled by some force Sam didn’t understand. “This is a dream - it’s got to be a dream. C’mon, wake up …”
“You’re not happy, Sam,” the Test Card Girl said; for the first time, he heard a note of resentment in her voice. She raised one hand, the other arm still holding her clown, and pointed an accusing finger at Sam’s chest. “You went away - you got everything you wanted … but you’re not happy here.”
“Go away!” Sam shouted, curling his body protectively into the armchair, arms outstretched to hold her at bay. She opened her hand as if to take one of his, and as she came closer he shrank back from her touch.
“Come back with me, Sam,” the Test Card Girl insisted, her pale eyes huge in her expressionless face. “You know you want to come back with me.”
Sam buried his face in his knees, pressing his hands to his ears, whimpering at the Test Card Girl to go away, go away, go away. A hand fell onto his arm.
Sam yelled, jerking backwards. He was about to lash out, to shove the Test Card Girl away, when he realised that the hand did not belong to a little girl. On the contrary, it was the hand of an elderly woman. Sam looked down at the figure crouched before him.
His mother, looking at him as if he might bite. It took him a moment too long to recognise her, and that made him wonder. When had he begun to think of the pretty young blonde he recalled from early childhood when he thought of his mum? He sucked in a deep, steadying breath and allowed his muscles to relax. His feet slipped off the edge of the armchair seat onto the floor, and Ruth Tyler placed her other hand on his knee.
“I’m sorry,” Sam whispered, pressing his fingers into his eyes. “I’m sorry. I was - sorry.”
“It’s all right, love,” Ruth told him. She still had the same gentle voice, at least. The same kind eyes. She got to her feet and perched on the chair arm, sliding an arm around Sam’s shoulders in a loose embrace. He leant into her as she murmured, “It’s just bad dreams, Sammy. That’s all - you’re awake now. Just a bad dream, it’s all right.”
Sam concentrated on breathing in and out. She was treating him like he was four years old again, and somehow managed not to come off as patronising. He swallowed hard. How was he supposed to explain to her that this was more than just another nightmare - that this was his coma-dream was bleeding into reality?
It had been bad enough when he had only had the all-too-real and all-too-present guilt of what he had done to his (imaginary) team, without visions of the Test Card Girl to make him question the reality of 2006. Her visit had reminded him - did he really need reminding? He hadn’t forgotten, not for a moment - of how he had abandoned them on the railway line at the mercy of a cop-killer with a gun. His friends were dead because of him.
His only friends, he realised with a jolt. They might only be part of a dream, as the doctors said, but they were all he had. When he had finally woken up from the coma, his work colleagues had pooled their money to buy him a ‘get well soon’ card, and although he could put faces to the names scrawled hastily inside, he couldn’t do more. He didn’t know what they drank, what football team they supported, even if they were married. They were strangers to him; he was closer to figments of his imagination than he had ever been to anyone in 2006.
The realisation that the Test Card Girl was right wasn’t pleasant. The thought ran through his mind that his happiest days since his childhood were the ones he had experienced inside his own head. While he was there, 1973 had seemed terrible; it was only now, back in the grey world of 2006, that he realised how alive he had felt while he was fighting the entire world.
“Sam?”
His mum had noticed his sudden stillness, and probably heard the horrified catch in his breath. She sounded worried, but how could he explain this to her? He had already upset her more than enough. Sometimes he wondered if it might have been kinder if he had never woken up.
He pulled out of her arms and took her hand, smiling his most brilliant, most brittle smile. “Thanks, mum.”
“Are you going to be all right today, Sam?” she asked, her forehead creased by a frown that Sam wanted to smooth away, along with all the other wrinkles. For a second, he didn’t know what she was talking about. Then he remembered: this was it, his big day. The day he returned to the force.
Not that he was actually returning full-time. .That wouldn’t happen for a long while, until numerous doctors had okayed it and pronounced his sanity one hundred percent intact. For now, he would be sitting in on meetings, getting back into the swing of things. He was grateful to be allowed back at all, let alone allowed to keep his rank as DCI. At least, that’s what people said he should be.
He squeezed his mum’s hand. “I’ll be all right, mum. It’ll be okay.”
She didn’t look in the slightest bit convinced. “Are you sure, Sammy? You’re barely out of hospital. It’d be just like you to do too much before you’re ready -”
“I’m ready, mum,” Sam replied firmly. He didn’t believe it himself, but another day of stewing his guilt, with nothing but inane makeover shows and reality TV to take his mind off it, wouldn’t do him any good either. “Doctors said I should get back as soon as possible, get back into my routine.”
Ruth’s smile didn’t reach her eyes, but she nodded anyway and rose to her feet. “I came over to make sure you had a good breakfast before you go. Why don’t you go and get dressed while I make you some scrambled eggs on toast.”
“Lovely,” Sam smiled. He watched her walk into the kitchen, her gait a little unsteadier than he remembered. It was strangely upsetting to see the signs of her age, now that he had been reminded of how strong, how capable she had once been. He let his head drop into his hands for a moment.
Yes, he had been happier in 1973 - despite the violence and the primitive policing methods and the lack of technology, despite even Gene Hunt and his Neanderthal interrogation techniques. People had cared about him; Annie had listened patiently to everything he had to say, no matter how upsetting. Chris had come to him for advice about his date; it was hard to imagine anyone from 2006 coming to him for personal advice, let alone him giving them some. Even Gene had refused to ever leave him behind, even when he was next-to-useless and Tony Crane was getting away.
The memory sent another shard of guilt slicing through him. Gene had always come back for him. In his heart, Sam knew that any of them would’ve done the same thing - even Ray - because he was part of their team. Sam hadn’t gone back for them; he had left them all to die.
He stood up, angry with himself, and stalked into his bedroom, yanking open the wardrobe with unnecessary force. It was all in his head - as he had been telling himself more and more frequently as his coma-dream slipped further into the past and began to seem preferable to reality. 1973 wasn’t real; the doctors had said as much. 2006 was the real world, the place he had been fighting so hard to return to ever since his crash-landing in 1973. The only thing stopping him from enjoying being back was his own stubbornness.
Sam stared at the black suits and stark white shirts in the wardrobe, and felt something within him cringe. The world of 2006 was colourless, a world of black and white and grey, constrained by limitless rules and regulations. He rubbed the starched collar of one of his shirts between finger and thumb, his other hand stroking the arm of one of the suit jackets. Both were soft and smooth, the textures so subtle that he could barely feel them. He suddenly missed his leather jacket, Gene’s camel-hair coat - clothes that could be identified by touch.
His mother called from the kitchen to let him know that his eggs were almost ready. Sam jerked a suit and shirt out at random, threw them on and headed back to the kitchen, grabbing a tie on his way out. His fingers fumbled with the length of cloth as he tried to fasten it; he had only worn a tie a couple of times in 1973, and to wear one again felt strange, too formal. His mother turned, a plate in her hand, as he walked into the kitchen.
“Don’t you look smart!” she smiled as she set the plate down on the kitchen table. Sam plastered on a smile as he sat down. She came up behind him as he picked up his knife and fork, and stroked his hair.
Sam picked at his breakfast, making an effort to eat for Ruth’s sake, although he didn’t feel hungry. Once he was finished, Ruth tidied away his plate and followed him to the door. He locked it behind them and let his mum kiss his cheek and wish him luck. As he climbed into his car - too big, too ugly, too silver; nothing like the sleek bronze Cortina he was used to - Sam tried to make himself believe that he was excited, but the only feeling rattling inside his chest was disappointment in the world he had woken up in.
end
.
This is technically my second Life on Mars fic, but the one I started first isn't anywhere near finished yet. Plus, I'm tired of the first thing I post for any fandom being shameless sexing. Once I've posted, I'm going out to sunbathe.
Title ~ "Don't you like it here, Sam?"
Rating ~ White Cortina (G)
Summary ~ Missing Scene, set in 2.08 while Sam's in 2006, between him talking to his mum and the scene in the meeting.
Characters ~ Sam Tyler, the Test Card Girl (and clown), Ruth Tyler. Gen
Notes ~ Spoilers for series two. Written on the train from Durham to Manchester. Apologies for the rather rubbish ending.Unbeta'd, sadly, because I was too much of a wimp to ask at Lifein1973 none of my betas have seen Life on Mars, poor things, and I didn't want to spoil them before lending them my DVDs. :) YOU KNOW WHO YOU ARE!
Wordcount ~ 1,866
Disclaimer ~ Life on Mars belongs to the BBC and Kudos, not me.
"Don't you like it here, Sam?"
Sam woke in front of the TV - for once turned off before he fell asleep - and for a moment of disorientation believed himself to be back in his dingy 1973 flat. His panicked eyes scanned the room. 2006 shapes loomed out of the darkness, and Sam sighed, lifting his hands to rub his eyes.
Then the high-pitched whistling started. Sam stiffened, his hands still over his eyes. This couldn’t be happening, he told himself firmly. This was 2006; he shouldn’t - he didn’t hallucinate in 2006.
A familiar voice came out of the darkness, despite his internal protests. “Don’t you like it here, Sam?”
He couldn’t help himself. He lowered his hands and opened his eyes. Sure enough, the Test Card Girl was there, large as life and standing just in front of the TV, her empty test card displayed on the screen. Sam swallowed hard, trying to take deep breaths. “No. This isn’t real. This can’t be real.”
“I thought you wanted to come back, Sam,” the Test Card Girl said, her tone as even as ever. “All you ever thought about was waking up.”
“Wake up,” Sam muttered, his eyes searching for a way out as the little girl in the red dress began to glide forwards, propelled by some force Sam didn’t understand. “This is a dream - it’s got to be a dream. C’mon, wake up …”
“You’re not happy, Sam,” the Test Card Girl said; for the first time, he heard a note of resentment in her voice. She raised one hand, the other arm still holding her clown, and pointed an accusing finger at Sam’s chest. “You went away - you got everything you wanted … but you’re not happy here.”
“Go away!” Sam shouted, curling his body protectively into the armchair, arms outstretched to hold her at bay. She opened her hand as if to take one of his, and as she came closer he shrank back from her touch.
“Come back with me, Sam,” the Test Card Girl insisted, her pale eyes huge in her expressionless face. “You know you want to come back with me.”
Sam buried his face in his knees, pressing his hands to his ears, whimpering at the Test Card Girl to go away, go away, go away. A hand fell onto his arm.
Sam yelled, jerking backwards. He was about to lash out, to shove the Test Card Girl away, when he realised that the hand did not belong to a little girl. On the contrary, it was the hand of an elderly woman. Sam looked down at the figure crouched before him.
His mother, looking at him as if he might bite. It took him a moment too long to recognise her, and that made him wonder. When had he begun to think of the pretty young blonde he recalled from early childhood when he thought of his mum? He sucked in a deep, steadying breath and allowed his muscles to relax. His feet slipped off the edge of the armchair seat onto the floor, and Ruth Tyler placed her other hand on his knee.
“I’m sorry,” Sam whispered, pressing his fingers into his eyes. “I’m sorry. I was - sorry.”
“It’s all right, love,” Ruth told him. She still had the same gentle voice, at least. The same kind eyes. She got to her feet and perched on the chair arm, sliding an arm around Sam’s shoulders in a loose embrace. He leant into her as she murmured, “It’s just bad dreams, Sammy. That’s all - you’re awake now. Just a bad dream, it’s all right.”
Sam concentrated on breathing in and out. She was treating him like he was four years old again, and somehow managed not to come off as patronising. He swallowed hard. How was he supposed to explain to her that this was more than just another nightmare - that this was his coma-dream was bleeding into reality?
It had been bad enough when he had only had the all-too-real and all-too-present guilt of what he had done to his (imaginary) team, without visions of the Test Card Girl to make him question the reality of 2006. Her visit had reminded him - did he really need reminding? He hadn’t forgotten, not for a moment - of how he had abandoned them on the railway line at the mercy of a cop-killer with a gun. His friends were dead because of him.
His only friends, he realised with a jolt. They might only be part of a dream, as the doctors said, but they were all he had. When he had finally woken up from the coma, his work colleagues had pooled their money to buy him a ‘get well soon’ card, and although he could put faces to the names scrawled hastily inside, he couldn’t do more. He didn’t know what they drank, what football team they supported, even if they were married. They were strangers to him; he was closer to figments of his imagination than he had ever been to anyone in 2006.
The realisation that the Test Card Girl was right wasn’t pleasant. The thought ran through his mind that his happiest days since his childhood were the ones he had experienced inside his own head. While he was there, 1973 had seemed terrible; it was only now, back in the grey world of 2006, that he realised how alive he had felt while he was fighting the entire world.
“Sam?”
His mum had noticed his sudden stillness, and probably heard the horrified catch in his breath. She sounded worried, but how could he explain this to her? He had already upset her more than enough. Sometimes he wondered if it might have been kinder if he had never woken up.
He pulled out of her arms and took her hand, smiling his most brilliant, most brittle smile. “Thanks, mum.”
“Are you going to be all right today, Sam?” she asked, her forehead creased by a frown that Sam wanted to smooth away, along with all the other wrinkles. For a second, he didn’t know what she was talking about. Then he remembered: this was it, his big day. The day he returned to the force.
Not that he was actually returning full-time. .That wouldn’t happen for a long while, until numerous doctors had okayed it and pronounced his sanity one hundred percent intact. For now, he would be sitting in on meetings, getting back into the swing of things. He was grateful to be allowed back at all, let alone allowed to keep his rank as DCI. At least, that’s what people said he should be.
He squeezed his mum’s hand. “I’ll be all right, mum. It’ll be okay.”
She didn’t look in the slightest bit convinced. “Are you sure, Sammy? You’re barely out of hospital. It’d be just like you to do too much before you’re ready -”
“I’m ready, mum,” Sam replied firmly. He didn’t believe it himself, but another day of stewing his guilt, with nothing but inane makeover shows and reality TV to take his mind off it, wouldn’t do him any good either. “Doctors said I should get back as soon as possible, get back into my routine.”
Ruth’s smile didn’t reach her eyes, but she nodded anyway and rose to her feet. “I came over to make sure you had a good breakfast before you go. Why don’t you go and get dressed while I make you some scrambled eggs on toast.”
“Lovely,” Sam smiled. He watched her walk into the kitchen, her gait a little unsteadier than he remembered. It was strangely upsetting to see the signs of her age, now that he had been reminded of how strong, how capable she had once been. He let his head drop into his hands for a moment.
Yes, he had been happier in 1973 - despite the violence and the primitive policing methods and the lack of technology, despite even Gene Hunt and his Neanderthal interrogation techniques. People had cared about him; Annie had listened patiently to everything he had to say, no matter how upsetting. Chris had come to him for advice about his date; it was hard to imagine anyone from 2006 coming to him for personal advice, let alone him giving them some. Even Gene had refused to ever leave him behind, even when he was next-to-useless and Tony Crane was getting away.
The memory sent another shard of guilt slicing through him. Gene had always come back for him. In his heart, Sam knew that any of them would’ve done the same thing - even Ray - because he was part of their team. Sam hadn’t gone back for them; he had left them all to die.
He stood up, angry with himself, and stalked into his bedroom, yanking open the wardrobe with unnecessary force. It was all in his head - as he had been telling himself more and more frequently as his coma-dream slipped further into the past and began to seem preferable to reality. 1973 wasn’t real; the doctors had said as much. 2006 was the real world, the place he had been fighting so hard to return to ever since his crash-landing in 1973. The only thing stopping him from enjoying being back was his own stubbornness.
Sam stared at the black suits and stark white shirts in the wardrobe, and felt something within him cringe. The world of 2006 was colourless, a world of black and white and grey, constrained by limitless rules and regulations. He rubbed the starched collar of one of his shirts between finger and thumb, his other hand stroking the arm of one of the suit jackets. Both were soft and smooth, the textures so subtle that he could barely feel them. He suddenly missed his leather jacket, Gene’s camel-hair coat - clothes that could be identified by touch.
His mother called from the kitchen to let him know that his eggs were almost ready. Sam jerked a suit and shirt out at random, threw them on and headed back to the kitchen, grabbing a tie on his way out. His fingers fumbled with the length of cloth as he tried to fasten it; he had only worn a tie a couple of times in 1973, and to wear one again felt strange, too formal. His mother turned, a plate in her hand, as he walked into the kitchen.
“Don’t you look smart!” she smiled as she set the plate down on the kitchen table. Sam plastered on a smile as he sat down. She came up behind him as he picked up his knife and fork, and stroked his hair.
Sam picked at his breakfast, making an effort to eat for Ruth’s sake, although he didn’t feel hungry. Once he was finished, Ruth tidied away his plate and followed him to the door. He locked it behind them and let his mum kiss his cheek and wish him luck. As he climbed into his car - too big, too ugly, too silver; nothing like the sleek bronze Cortina he was used to - Sam tried to make himself believe that he was excited, but the only feeling rattling inside his chest was disappointment in the world he had woken up in.
end
.