FICATHON 2012 FIC: BROKEN, PART 1, DEBL_NS, SAM/GENE, BLUE CORTINA
Title: Broken, Part 1
Author: debl_ns; beta read bymargo_kim
Rating: Blue Cortina
Word Count: 4425 entire fic
Summary: see notes
Notes: Written for lifein1973's Ficathon 2012, using basaltgrrl's prompt Sam gets two broken arms somehow, goes with my series of "two broken arms" artworks, serious or comedic as you wish. Preferences: It's great when you can capture two sides of the character - i.e. Gene's toughness and vulnerability.
Special thanks to margo_kim. Basalt, I didn't write a literal interpretation of all of your artworks, but I hope you like it!
LJ won't let me post this in its entirety, so it's in two parts. Hmph.
Basaltgrrl's artworks:
http://lifein1973.livejournal.com/2155397.html
http://lifein1973.livejournal.com/2089634.html
http://lifein1973.livejournal.com/2089934.html
http://lifein1973.livejournal.com/2099673.html
http://lifein1973.livejournal.com/2103328.html
Heroes
“We're not going that way,” Sam said, fingering his seat belt.
“Of course we are,” Gene replied, shifting the gear lever. He took a corner at high speed into a wide alley, tyres squealing on the metalled road.
“Road sign says one-way.”
“I can read.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. I'm a copper, I know how to follow bloody traffic signs.”
“Sarcasm, Gene. You missed it.”
Pompous little pillock. “You were an only child, weren't you?” Gene saw the suspect vehicle's rear lights up ahead. Alleluia. “Got you, you bastard!” He felt a rush of excitement and pressed down on the accelerator.
They exited the ginnel, Gene barely lifting his foot. He wrenched the driving wheel, feeling it vibrate beneath his hands, and just managed to steer clear of a dog. He glanced over at Sam and caught the frown pinching his face. Gene raised his eyebrow. “What are you giving me that look for? What are you, a bloody dog fancier?”
“Only you could make it sound like an insult. And it's cynophilist.”
“Bless you.” The smell of burning rubber and petrol reached Gene's nostrils and he breathed deeply, turning it into a snort. “I'm a good driver.” They headed into traffic.
“Or a bad one. Depends on how you look at it.”
Gene sighed. A bloody answer for everything. “Oi, I didn't kill the dog. You know what? You've got a tendency towards the pessimistic.”
The police radio crackled as Phyllis said, “All units. Black Ford Escort, number plate JBT 970H still traveling east.”
They crested a hill and, like the car before them, took flight. “Hang on!” Gene shouted. Sam fell back in the seat, bracing his feet in the footwell. Gene held his breath. As they came crashing down, he saw a flash of yellow and narrowly missed a Capri entering the crossroads. “Out of my way, you flaming idiot!”
“Slow down!” Sam yelled.
“Quit whinging! It was just a car.” Gene ran a red light, hitting the horn. A pedestrian on the crossing dived ungracefully back on to the kerb.
“Come on! That traffic light was red!”
“Bloody obvious, that. We're okay, aren't we?”
“Would it matter a toss if I said I wasn't? We're not The Sweeney.”
“Eh?”
“I think I'm going to be sick.”
Even with a quick look Gene could see that Sam looked like death warmed up. Pasty, his Gran used to say. Bugger. “Don't you dare!”
The Escort turned off, and Sam yelled, “Turn right!”, and Gene made the mistake of hitting the brakes too hard. They skidded, tyres screaming, and the Cortina's boot was hit with great force by a pink ice cream van. Gene caught a glimpse of 'Creamy Ice Cream' on its panel as he tried to reach out for Sam, but they were spinning like a top across the road and his fingers brushed soft leather rather than warm skin. He felt a squeeze and knew that Sam's hand had found its way to his leg. Time appeared to slow down; there was no end to the circular motion, and Gene's own stomach rolled. Finally, they came to a stop, facing the wrong way, in the path of a green Morris Minor estate.
“Oh, shit,” Sam whispered.
The estate crashed into them head-on, horn blaring and with a explosive bang, which shook the car and, for a second, Gene was unable to hear. Then the windscreen shattered into small pieces. Body parts thudded against interior surfaces.
Gene felt something warm and wet. Next to him, there was an animal whimper of pain. The dog? What the fuck? He sat there, dazed, trying to figure it out, then he heard the cry again.
Sam.
***
Hurt
Gene slumped back in his chair in the corridor outside Sam's room. He hated hospitals. As a copper, he'd spent a lot of time in them. Brightly lit wards, full of sick people. Drawn curtains. The smell of untouched food on bed tables. He put his hand to his forehead and felt five stitches. He was sore, knackered, and things were about to go from bad to worse--which would suit him fine. He enjoyed a good fight. Sam was a right pain in the arse at the best of times, but Gene wasn't about to apologise for the accident, even if he wasn't too happy about the damage to his car. They were both alive, weren't they?
Gene fished his cigarettes out of his shirt pocket. He shook one from the pack and put it in his mouth. He was just about to light it when the door opened, and the doctor gestured for him to enter. Gene nodded, keeping his lips tight on the fag, and followed the man into the room.
Sam looked pale and vulnerable lying there in the bed. His face looked a bit of a mess; he had a few bruises and cuts. Both of his arms were encased in casts from just below his arm pits to his hands, and included the thumbs. Fuck. Gene went to the bed, his hands on his hips, and stood over it for a long time before lighting the cigarette. The doctor waited until he took a deep drag.
“He's had a blow to the head. Luckily, there's no fracture; however, Mr. Tyler--”
“DI Tyler,” Gene interrupted, a cloud of smoke following his words.
“--is suffering from memory loss.”
Gene's forehead furrowed. He rubbed at it, trying to reduce the pain. “Come again?” He was finding it hard to take it in.
“Memory loss.”
Bloody hell. “Memory loss?” Gene snorted, hiding his surprise but aware of the tightness in his neck. “What I tell him comes in one shell-like and goes out the other all the time. Right, Sam?” Gene peered at him through the smoke.
Sam stared back at him with those brown eyes of his, without expression. Gene visualised another time, when they'd been hot as fire.
“Do I know you?” Sam murmured tonelessly.
Gene chuckled. “Me? Of course you do, you git.”
Sam switched his gaze from Gene to the doctor and back again. He frowned.
“It's Gene--DCI Hunt,” Gene replied testily. “Your friend. Boss. And, as you can see, a big, ugly sod.”
“Of course you are.”
Relief flooded over Gene, and he smiled broadly and genuinely at Sam, his shoulders relaxing. “Good. You remember me then?”
“I'm afraid not,” Sam admitted, not returning Gene's smile. “It's your sort. Overbearing, heavyset--you probably spend a lot of time behind your desk--the unmistakable smell of alcohol. Not to mention the ridiculous tie.”
Gene huffed. “I had not been drinking!” He walked to the window, his back to Sam as he looked out over the car park. He raised his head, blew a long, narrow stream of smoke towards the ceiling, then turned and faced the doctor, his face hard. “This memory business. You mean to say he's clean forgotten me, the crash, what?”
“Inspector, DI Tyler is suffering from amnesia.”
Gene drew in a sharp breath, the room's disinfectant filling his lungs and coating his throat. He swallowed and could taste it. “Yes, I see. Is that usual?” he asked.
“It doesn't happen often,” the doctor replied. He smiled tactfully. “It's early days yet; I'm sure it will come back to him soon. It's best for his recovery if he doesn't worry. He needs to rest. DI Tyler feels that this would best be achieved at home. I don't like the idea, but I'm willing to release him as long as you can be there to keep an eye on him.”
Gene nodded. “Fine by me, why the hell not? Won't let him out of my sight.” He placed a hand softly on Sam's shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “I reckon you'll be right as rain tomorrow. So, fancy getting out of here? Just you and me, Sam, chalk and cheese, but we make a good team. We trust each other.”
“The thing is I don't really have a choice,” Sam retorted, holding up his arms. “I'd like to get away from this place, but I need help. I can hardly be on my own, can I? I'll have to stay with you.” He stared at Gene resentfully.
It wasn't the implied criticism that hurt, although Sam had been bloody rude; it was the way he'd said it. Out-of-sorts, like he had a chip on his shoulder weighing him down instead of two plaster casts. “Right. Right!” Gene exclaimed. “I knew you were in there somewhere. Gob the size of the Peak District National Park and the bloody cheek to match.” He stubbed out the fag under his shoe. “Mind you, being your nursemaid's not my idea of a fun time, but what he wants,” he said, jerking his thumb in the doctor's direction, “is what you'll get. So, grin and bear it and get your arse out of bed. You're safe with me.”
***
Reality
Gene hailed a taxi and gave the driver Sam's address. Sam was quiet during the drive home, and, after a few minutes had passed, Gene gripped the headrest and twisted in his seat to look at him. Sam was staring straight ahead, uninterested seemingly in either the passing sights of the city or with conversing with Gene. It made him feel unsettled.
They stopped to pick up a takeaway of hot chips before the cabbie pulled up in front of a red-bricked Victorian end of terrace house, which had been converted into flats. Curved, white brick lintels topped the windows, making each one appear to have a drooping eyebrow. The gabled facade could have been charming, but the blue paint on the front door and window sills was faded and peeling. Even though it was the largest of the row of identical houses, its condition made it seem solitary and forlorn.
Sam's flat was on the second floor. Gene led Sam halfway along the landing. “Do you know where we are, Sam?” he asked.
Sam shrugged. “Where are we?” he answered.
“We're home. Just what the doctor ordered.”
Sam sniffed the air. “Bit of a smell though.”
Gene could taste the stale cooking spices that seemed to always be there in the landing, and found it oddly reassuring. He looked at Sam, but he was standing there, uncertainty on his face. Gene fumbled in his pocket for the key to the door, put it in the lock and opened it, stepping aside so Sam could enter ahead of him. Sam hesitated, put his head around the doorway, then stepped across the threshold.
“You can't be serious. You live here?” Sam asked, his voice incredulous.
“Yours not mine. Everything spick and span and orderly--all of the cutlery in their proper sections of the drawer.”
Sam looked around the bed-sit as though he was simply a visitor. He picked up a fading snapshot of a boy wearing a constable's helmet, glanced at it, his face remaining blank, and replaced it just as quickly on the narrow single bed's headboard. “It's not much ...”
You're rather partial to it,” Gene answered. “Must be the view, I reckon.” He walked over to a window and pulled the curtains open. “The best, this. Might move in meself.”
Sam looked obediently outside. “It's a row of curry houses,” he answered, his voice flat.
“It is that.” Gene grinned mischievously. He steered Sam towards a chair. Sam shook him off with a groan. “Your arms?”
Sam kicked off his boots. “I hurt and I'm tired.”
In spite of himself, Gene felt guilt well up inside him, making his ears roar. “You sit here, Sam, whilst I get our food. I'm no Graham Kerr but I'm an expert at chip butties.” He assembled their sandwiches on two plates, buttering the white sliced bread with a generous amount of butter, piling on the chips, and adding red sauce. He was parched. He felt hot and his head was still aching. “What have you got? Any beer in the fridge?”
“I can't remember,” Sam said bitterly.
Bugger. “Never you mind. It'll all come back, in time.” Gene took two bottles of bitter from the fridge. “Do you want a pint?”
“Sure. Great.” He sounded like he couldn't care less.
Gene put them on the small table, followed by the greasy butties. He held the sandwich up to Sam, both hands holding the butty. “Eat.”
Sam looked at him disbelievingly. “Feels a bit strange, having to be fed.” He hesitated then bit into it, filling his mouth.
“Not so bad, is it? Food, then a warm bed. Which side do you sleep on?”
Sam broke into a fit of coughing.
“You all right? Can I get you a drink?” Gene asked with a bit of a smile, but Sam shook his head.
***
Author: debl_ns; beta read bymargo_kim
Rating: Blue Cortina
Word Count: 4425 entire fic
Summary: see notes
Notes: Written for lifein1973's Ficathon 2012, using basaltgrrl's prompt Sam gets two broken arms somehow, goes with my series of "two broken arms" artworks, serious or comedic as you wish. Preferences: It's great when you can capture two sides of the character - i.e. Gene's toughness and vulnerability.
Special thanks to margo_kim. Basalt, I didn't write a literal interpretation of all of your artworks, but I hope you like it!
LJ won't let me post this in its entirety, so it's in two parts. Hmph.
Basaltgrrl's artworks:
http://lifein1973.livejournal.com/2155397.html
http://lifein1973.livejournal.com/2089634.html
http://lifein1973.livejournal.com/2089934.html
http://lifein1973.livejournal.com/2099673.html
http://lifein1973.livejournal.com/2103328.html
Heroes
“We're not going that way,” Sam said, fingering his seat belt.
“Of course we are,” Gene replied, shifting the gear lever. He took a corner at high speed into a wide alley, tyres squealing on the metalled road.
“Road sign says one-way.”
“I can read.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. I'm a copper, I know how to follow bloody traffic signs.”
“Sarcasm, Gene. You missed it.”
Pompous little pillock. “You were an only child, weren't you?” Gene saw the suspect vehicle's rear lights up ahead. Alleluia. “Got you, you bastard!” He felt a rush of excitement and pressed down on the accelerator.
They exited the ginnel, Gene barely lifting his foot. He wrenched the driving wheel, feeling it vibrate beneath his hands, and just managed to steer clear of a dog. He glanced over at Sam and caught the frown pinching his face. Gene raised his eyebrow. “What are you giving me that look for? What are you, a bloody dog fancier?”
“Only you could make it sound like an insult. And it's cynophilist.”
“Bless you.” The smell of burning rubber and petrol reached Gene's nostrils and he breathed deeply, turning it into a snort. “I'm a good driver.” They headed into traffic.
“Or a bad one. Depends on how you look at it.”
Gene sighed. A bloody answer for everything. “Oi, I didn't kill the dog. You know what? You've got a tendency towards the pessimistic.”
The police radio crackled as Phyllis said, “All units. Black Ford Escort, number plate JBT 970H still traveling east.”
They crested a hill and, like the car before them, took flight. “Hang on!” Gene shouted. Sam fell back in the seat, bracing his feet in the footwell. Gene held his breath. As they came crashing down, he saw a flash of yellow and narrowly missed a Capri entering the crossroads. “Out of my way, you flaming idiot!”
“Slow down!” Sam yelled.
“Quit whinging! It was just a car.” Gene ran a red light, hitting the horn. A pedestrian on the crossing dived ungracefully back on to the kerb.
“Come on! That traffic light was red!”
“Bloody obvious, that. We're okay, aren't we?”
“Would it matter a toss if I said I wasn't? We're not The Sweeney.”
“Eh?”
“I think I'm going to be sick.”
Even with a quick look Gene could see that Sam looked like death warmed up. Pasty, his Gran used to say. Bugger. “Don't you dare!”
The Escort turned off, and Sam yelled, “Turn right!”, and Gene made the mistake of hitting the brakes too hard. They skidded, tyres screaming, and the Cortina's boot was hit with great force by a pink ice cream van. Gene caught a glimpse of 'Creamy Ice Cream' on its panel as he tried to reach out for Sam, but they were spinning like a top across the road and his fingers brushed soft leather rather than warm skin. He felt a squeeze and knew that Sam's hand had found its way to his leg. Time appeared to slow down; there was no end to the circular motion, and Gene's own stomach rolled. Finally, they came to a stop, facing the wrong way, in the path of a green Morris Minor estate.
“Oh, shit,” Sam whispered.
The estate crashed into them head-on, horn blaring and with a explosive bang, which shook the car and, for a second, Gene was unable to hear. Then the windscreen shattered into small pieces. Body parts thudded against interior surfaces.
Gene felt something warm and wet. Next to him, there was an animal whimper of pain. The dog? What the fuck? He sat there, dazed, trying to figure it out, then he heard the cry again.
Sam.
***
Hurt
Gene slumped back in his chair in the corridor outside Sam's room. He hated hospitals. As a copper, he'd spent a lot of time in them. Brightly lit wards, full of sick people. Drawn curtains. The smell of untouched food on bed tables. He put his hand to his forehead and felt five stitches. He was sore, knackered, and things were about to go from bad to worse--which would suit him fine. He enjoyed a good fight. Sam was a right pain in the arse at the best of times, but Gene wasn't about to apologise for the accident, even if he wasn't too happy about the damage to his car. They were both alive, weren't they?
Gene fished his cigarettes out of his shirt pocket. He shook one from the pack and put it in his mouth. He was just about to light it when the door opened, and the doctor gestured for him to enter. Gene nodded, keeping his lips tight on the fag, and followed the man into the room.
Sam looked pale and vulnerable lying there in the bed. His face looked a bit of a mess; he had a few bruises and cuts. Both of his arms were encased in casts from just below his arm pits to his hands, and included the thumbs. Fuck. Gene went to the bed, his hands on his hips, and stood over it for a long time before lighting the cigarette. The doctor waited until he took a deep drag.
“He's had a blow to the head. Luckily, there's no fracture; however, Mr. Tyler--”
“DI Tyler,” Gene interrupted, a cloud of smoke following his words.
“--is suffering from memory loss.”
Gene's forehead furrowed. He rubbed at it, trying to reduce the pain. “Come again?” He was finding it hard to take it in.
“Memory loss.”
Bloody hell. “Memory loss?” Gene snorted, hiding his surprise but aware of the tightness in his neck. “What I tell him comes in one shell-like and goes out the other all the time. Right, Sam?” Gene peered at him through the smoke.
Sam stared back at him with those brown eyes of his, without expression. Gene visualised another time, when they'd been hot as fire.
“Do I know you?” Sam murmured tonelessly.
Gene chuckled. “Me? Of course you do, you git.”
Sam switched his gaze from Gene to the doctor and back again. He frowned.
“It's Gene--DCI Hunt,” Gene replied testily. “Your friend. Boss. And, as you can see, a big, ugly sod.”
“Of course you are.”
Relief flooded over Gene, and he smiled broadly and genuinely at Sam, his shoulders relaxing. “Good. You remember me then?”
“I'm afraid not,” Sam admitted, not returning Gene's smile. “It's your sort. Overbearing, heavyset--you probably spend a lot of time behind your desk--the unmistakable smell of alcohol. Not to mention the ridiculous tie.”
Gene huffed. “I had not been drinking!” He walked to the window, his back to Sam as he looked out over the car park. He raised his head, blew a long, narrow stream of smoke towards the ceiling, then turned and faced the doctor, his face hard. “This memory business. You mean to say he's clean forgotten me, the crash, what?”
“Inspector, DI Tyler is suffering from amnesia.”
Gene drew in a sharp breath, the room's disinfectant filling his lungs and coating his throat. He swallowed and could taste it. “Yes, I see. Is that usual?” he asked.
“It doesn't happen often,” the doctor replied. He smiled tactfully. “It's early days yet; I'm sure it will come back to him soon. It's best for his recovery if he doesn't worry. He needs to rest. DI Tyler feels that this would best be achieved at home. I don't like the idea, but I'm willing to release him as long as you can be there to keep an eye on him.”
Gene nodded. “Fine by me, why the hell not? Won't let him out of my sight.” He placed a hand softly on Sam's shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “I reckon you'll be right as rain tomorrow. So, fancy getting out of here? Just you and me, Sam, chalk and cheese, but we make a good team. We trust each other.”
“The thing is I don't really have a choice,” Sam retorted, holding up his arms. “I'd like to get away from this place, but I need help. I can hardly be on my own, can I? I'll have to stay with you.” He stared at Gene resentfully.
It wasn't the implied criticism that hurt, although Sam had been bloody rude; it was the way he'd said it. Out-of-sorts, like he had a chip on his shoulder weighing him down instead of two plaster casts. “Right. Right!” Gene exclaimed. “I knew you were in there somewhere. Gob the size of the Peak District National Park and the bloody cheek to match.” He stubbed out the fag under his shoe. “Mind you, being your nursemaid's not my idea of a fun time, but what he wants,” he said, jerking his thumb in the doctor's direction, “is what you'll get. So, grin and bear it and get your arse out of bed. You're safe with me.”
***
Reality
Gene hailed a taxi and gave the driver Sam's address. Sam was quiet during the drive home, and, after a few minutes had passed, Gene gripped the headrest and twisted in his seat to look at him. Sam was staring straight ahead, uninterested seemingly in either the passing sights of the city or with conversing with Gene. It made him feel unsettled.
They stopped to pick up a takeaway of hot chips before the cabbie pulled up in front of a red-bricked Victorian end of terrace house, which had been converted into flats. Curved, white brick lintels topped the windows, making each one appear to have a drooping eyebrow. The gabled facade could have been charming, but the blue paint on the front door and window sills was faded and peeling. Even though it was the largest of the row of identical houses, its condition made it seem solitary and forlorn.
Sam's flat was on the second floor. Gene led Sam halfway along the landing. “Do you know where we are, Sam?” he asked.
Sam shrugged. “Where are we?” he answered.
“We're home. Just what the doctor ordered.”
Sam sniffed the air. “Bit of a smell though.”
Gene could taste the stale cooking spices that seemed to always be there in the landing, and found it oddly reassuring. He looked at Sam, but he was standing there, uncertainty on his face. Gene fumbled in his pocket for the key to the door, put it in the lock and opened it, stepping aside so Sam could enter ahead of him. Sam hesitated, put his head around the doorway, then stepped across the threshold.
“You can't be serious. You live here?” Sam asked, his voice incredulous.
“Yours not mine. Everything spick and span and orderly--all of the cutlery in their proper sections of the drawer.”
Sam looked around the bed-sit as though he was simply a visitor. He picked up a fading snapshot of a boy wearing a constable's helmet, glanced at it, his face remaining blank, and replaced it just as quickly on the narrow single bed's headboard. “It's not much ...”
You're rather partial to it,” Gene answered. “Must be the view, I reckon.” He walked over to a window and pulled the curtains open. “The best, this. Might move in meself.”
Sam looked obediently outside. “It's a row of curry houses,” he answered, his voice flat.
“It is that.” Gene grinned mischievously. He steered Sam towards a chair. Sam shook him off with a groan. “Your arms?”
Sam kicked off his boots. “I hurt and I'm tired.”
In spite of himself, Gene felt guilt well up inside him, making his ears roar. “You sit here, Sam, whilst I get our food. I'm no Graham Kerr but I'm an expert at chip butties.” He assembled their sandwiches on two plates, buttering the white sliced bread with a generous amount of butter, piling on the chips, and adding red sauce. He was parched. He felt hot and his head was still aching. “What have you got? Any beer in the fridge?”
“I can't remember,” Sam said bitterly.
Bugger. “Never you mind. It'll all come back, in time.” Gene took two bottles of bitter from the fridge. “Do you want a pint?”
“Sure. Great.” He sounded like he couldn't care less.
Gene put them on the small table, followed by the greasy butties. He held the sandwich up to Sam, both hands holding the butty. “Eat.”
Sam looked at him disbelievingly. “Feels a bit strange, having to be fed.” He hesitated then bit into it, filling his mouth.
“Not so bad, is it? Food, then a warm bed. Which side do you sleep on?”
Sam broke into a fit of coughing.
“You all right? Can I get you a drink?” Gene asked with a bit of a smile, but Sam shook his head.
***