Fic - Four Against Two, by Girl with the Mousy Hair, Blue Cortina
Originally posted by girlwtmousyhair at LoM Fic - Four Against Two
Title: Four Against Two
Rating: 16+ - Blue Cortina (to be on the safe side)
Word Count/Length: 4272
Summary: Would have been a mini!reverse!bang submission but here I am posting it about a million years later.
Based on Aima's awesome art YOU'RE SURROUNDED BY ARMED--oh wait crap which was drawn for allonsyeveryone and now I've written a fic for it and actually the longer I write this sentence the more nervous I am about posting it.
I'm sorry I've been away. I have missed you all. I hope you like this and absence made the heart grow fonder x
As is so often the case, Sam isn’t exactly sure how they came to be where they are now. Sometimes, this is a good thing. Right now, in a dingy alleyway, surrounded by four thugs in various stages of tooled up, it is not. Most definitely not.
Sam eyes up the two in front of him; one with a lead pipe (Professor Plum, in the library, his mind supplies, unhelpfully) and one with clenched fists that he’s willing to bet are practised enough to make mincemeat of his face, if he lets them.
The owner of those fists cracks the knuckles of his left hand, in a way that Sam will later register as appallingly cliched. For now, he can only register the sheer size of both the hands and, indeed, the man he will soon be expected to fight. He feels Gene’s back against his, not exactly flush; they’re leaning their opposite shoulders against each other, his right to Gene’s left. He can feel Gene’s muscles tense and bunch as he shifts, and one of their potential assailants speaks up, in a voice that betrays a certain tremor of nerves. Even with odds like this, these guys are afraid of them. Well, he corrects himself, grudgingly, of one of them, anyway.
‘Oi! No funny business!’
Sam remains tensed, ever so slightly crouched, arms a little widened to deal with any incoming attack. Gene, on the other hand, continues to move; not away from Sam, and not quickly, but he’s up to something. Sam hopes it’s the right kind of something.
‘Easy, lads,’ says the Guv, and his voice sounds steady, almost entirely unconcerned. Sam, his own body thrumming with tension down to his fingertips, has no idea what to expect.
Then he hears the familiar scratch and tiny hiss of a cigarette lighter.
He’s lighting a fag? Now?!
A curl of smoke billows round and into his nose, as all the smoke from Gene’s cigarettes seems to do, and dispels any doubts he might have had.
Unbelievable. He’s just... he’s so... He tries not to be distracted; the two Neanderthals in front of him are shifting restlessly, almost worked up to getting down to business. One of them wears the kind of smirk that begs to be wiped out. Sam hopes he’ll get the chance.
He hears Gene take a deep draw of his untimely cigarette, and let it out again in an unhurried gust. Sam tries to clamp down on the rise of indignant fury, tries not to show it in his face, where the others could see it. If they’re going to get out of this, it’ll be as a team.
‘So,’ Gene’s voice echoes in the narrow alleyway. ‘You poofs going to come quietly, or are we doing this the hard way?’ His tone is still casual, and Sam feels him take a third drag on that damned cancer stick. He can’t see the two on Gene’s side, but the men facing him exchange a look tinged with uncertainty - only tinged, mind you. Then, the one who spoke up before answers.
‘We’ll see who’s the poofs, Mister Hunt.’ Sam winces inwardly at the grammar. He subtly shifts his gaze between Lead Pipe and Knuckles, watching for one of them making the first move. Then, he hears a sudden shuffle behind him. There’s no time to turn and look, even if he wanted to, as Lead Pipe has been spurred on by whatever’s happening back there, and steps up to the plate. Sam barely has time to count his blessings - at least they didn’t both charge at once - before the pipe is swinging down towards his skull.
His training kicks in and he ducks low, breaking contact with Gene’s back and hoping that the Guv’s had the sense to get out of the way, too. He keeps his arms wide to balance himself as he crouches, under the arc of the lead pipe. The weapon actually brushes the crown of his head, ruffling the hair there on its way past.
Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, my friend, he thinks, with a kind of delirious good humour. Round one to Tyler. God, talk about your mixed metaphors, he was all over the shop here. Never mind that. His inner voice is stern. Now that Lead Pipe is off-balance, with his whole body turned to the left and all his weight on his front foot, Sam has a chance to keep things going his way. He straightens and pushes, as hard as he can. One hand collides with a meaty shoulder, the other with a solid bicep, and he throws everything he has into the shove. There is no finesse to this maneuver, but in a pinch it’s enough to buy some time; time that he needs, as Bare Knuckles is now charging in to the fray.
There is a grunt behind him, which he doesn’t think sounds like Gene, before he’s punched in the gut. If he’d been completely off-guard, this would easily have sent him to his knees, winded. As it is, he’s still left a little breathless by the force of the blow, but his tense muscles have absorbed much of it and he only gives a half-inch stagger backwards before throwing a tight jab of his own, straight to his opponent’s throat. The guy might be a bruiser, but he has nothing by way of guard up, and he lets out a choked grunt as Sam’s fist connects with the gristle of his Adam’s apple. He staggers back a few paces, retching.
Lead Pipe is back, by now, and Sam isn’t quick enough to dodge this swing; the pipe crashes into his side, mercifully missing his ribs but sending a bolt of pain through his midriff and round his back. Before it can be fully drawn back for a second swipe, Sam grabs the pipe and hauls on it with both hands. His attacker is caught off-balance, and though his grip on the pipe doesn’t loosen, Sam senses an opportunity and takes it. He swings a knee forward and up, aiming as though for a point somewhere over Lead Pipe’s head so that, when he makes contact with the bloke’s bollocks, it’s at full force. He finds the weapon suddenly in his control as the other man crumples to the ground, too hurt to utter a sound, and yanks it from the now-loose hands, which are already racing to cup the injured area.
From behind him Sam registers, barely, a muffled thudding, the metallic rattle of chain links hitting the ground, and the sound of shoes scuffling over concrete. He wants to look around, make sure that Gene hasn’t fallen foul of the bartender’s friend or length of chain that he saw in the hands of the other two crooks. Before this kicked off, he’d barely had time to take note of the tools they were carrying, before Gene spun him and planted his shoulder squarely against Sam’s own. Sam doesn’t wonder if Gene did that out of concern for him or out of lack of confidence in his hand to hand skills. Not until later, anyway.
There’s no time to look away - Knuckles is wading back in. The look in his eyes says he means business; he’s obviously recovered his breath while Sam was kicking his friend in the knackers. Sam hefts the length of metal in his right hand, spreading his left out to balance him. Can he really do this? It’s a desperate situation, and fighting dirty is obviously the only way to win - but beating someone with a lead pipe? Can he?
His arm muscles answer for him, and lob the pipe end over end down the alleyway, as far as he can manage, over the head of his one remaining adversary. ‘As far as he can manage’ turns out to be pretty far, and the look of surprise on his opponent’s face as he turns to watch it spin into the distance is matched only by Sam’s own expression. Principled as he is, this guy’s got at least two stone on him, most of that grimly taut muscle, and he’s at least six inches taller, to boot. Sam’s just thrown away a very easy way to beat this man-mountain, quite literally beat him, and he’s not sure he believes that he’s done it.
Still, there’s always the element of surprise, and before Knuckles can fully turn back, Sam barrels into him with the speed of a sprinter off the blocks. He remains a little bent forward as he goes, and the top of his head collides with the bastard’s chin, throwing his head back. Sam pushes onwards, letting go of a shout that’s been building up all this time as he does, and they both topple to the ground, legs and feet tangled. When they land, Sam’s quick to push himself to his knees, straddling the man on the ground, and unleash a serious hammer blow to the nose with the side of his hand. He feels something crunch, and Knuckles gives a squawk that Sam would be embarrassed to have uttered. He is savagely glad to hear it, and follows up with another hard punch to the throat, cutting off any further sound. Still, these necessary blows aside, he controls his urge to let loose with his fists and instead directs his attention over his shoulder to check on Lead Pipe, who has stopped cradling his injured manhood, gotten to his feet and is struggling forwards, away from Sam and towards Gene and the other two men.
Sam risks a glance at the other fight, and sees Gene trading blows with only one of his attackers. The second is on the ground, seemingly out cold and sporting the beginnings of two black eyes and, perhaps, a broken nose; certainly there is plenty of blood oozing from it. The length of chain lies off to one side in a pile, while the bartender’s friend - a cricket bat with nails run haphazardly through it - is now in Gene’s left hand. He’s too close to his opponent to use it properly, and Christ knows how he got it in the first place, but the other guy is too concerned with trying to wrestle it back off him (while avoiding the sharp points) to throw any decent punches. At this moment, Gene is literally fending him off one-handed, and... surely not? Yes, he does. He still has his cigarette in the corner of his mouth - it’s even still lit, if the orange flicker at the tip is anything to go by.
Sam knows there’ll be no living with him if they get out of this.
Of course, there’ll be no living with him if they don’t, either.
Having made sure that the Guv is alright (something he already knows better than to admit he’s been doing), he turns his attention back to Lead Pipe, who is proceeding with shuffling gait towards the struggling men. Shit. A glance down at Knuckles shows that he’s groggy but still awake; no time to restrain this one, it’ll have to do. Sam shoves himself to his feet and takes two stumbling, headlong steps forward until he’s right behind his target. He raises his right foot, leaning backward for a brief, counter-balancing moment with arms upstretched, then brings it down on the top of Lead Pipe’s calf, hard enough to topple the man to his knees all over again, this time screaming with the pain and, Sam supposes, the surprise of a sudden Cuban heel to the back of the knee. Even as he falls, Sam’s whipping a set of cuffs out of his leather jacket, and it’s the work of only a moment to secure them and, therefore, secure the first prisoner of the evening. He easily tips him forward on to his front, resisting the man’s fairly feeble struggles with a firm hand between the shoulder blades and a knee across the back of his legs.
‘Stay down,’ he growls into Lead Pipe’s ear, bringing his face close enough for it to be a private warning, and pushes the man’s face firmly, if not gratuitously, into the dirty ground. The answering groan makes Sam think he won’t have any more trouble from this one.
He takes another second to look up again at Gene, who is just administering a sharp kick to the shin, and as the would-be attacker instinctively leans the upper half of his body forwards, Sam sees the Guv start to swing the cricket bat in an arc that will bring it crashing into the man’s face. The nails are pointing outwards. If it doesn’t kill the guy outright, it’s bound to blind him, and rearrange his face into the bargain. Gene’s coming in from the side, using the full force of his arm and the full momentum he can muster up - Christ, even without the nails, swung with this force that bat’s a lethal weapon.
‘Guv!’ The word is dragged out of him; he has no sense of meaning to say it before it’s out there in the open, amplified by the brick walls on either side, huge in the confined space. He sees Gene’s arm falter, and then nothing more as a ringing in his ear and a starburst in front of his eyes let him know that he’s taken his eye off the ball for too long, and Knuckles is back in the game.
Shit.
The punch to the head, combined with his lack of concentration, is enough to topple him onto his arse next to his captive, leaving him winded. Besides the inevitable swearing, he also has time to think fleetingly that he is glad, after all, that he’d thrown away the weapon earlier. If he hadn’t, he could easily be dead by now. He senses rather than sees the second punch coming, and brings his arms up over his face just in time to catch the blow on his forearm. From behind this now-throbbing shield, he sees the looming figure above lift one heavy boot, and prepares himself as best he can in the seconds he has.
Even in his distraction, he hears the Guv bark an inventive expletive, then the dull rattle of a cricket bat hitting the ground; a clunk as the broad end hits, and a thunk as the handle joins it.
The sole of Knuckles’ boot heads for Sam’s knee, both of which he’s drawn up to cover his stomach. Just before it makes contact and shatters his kneecap, Sam throws himself over onto his right side and then his front; his knees connect roughly with the concrete and he pushes himself up onto his feet again, the palms of his hands stinging and studded with stray gravel. He spins clumsily to face the danger that is now behind him, trying not to look at what’s happening with the Guv. He hasn’t heard any screaming, as would surely accompany a cricket bat to the face, and Gene hasn’t come wading in to help over on this side, so Sam can only assume that he thought better of smashing Steel Chain’s skull in - at least for now.
Unless he did it so quickly the man didn’t have time to shout out, and Gene was now just finishing his fag and watching to see how Sam got on.
He almost wouldn't put it past him.
This all floods through Sam’s head as he turns away, deliberately not looking, determinedly not being distracted from the fight at hand. Knuckles had stumbled when Sam rolled out from under him, but he has recovered himself and is almost on him again, one arm already raised to bring round in a powerful haymaker. His nose is bleeding, but not as freely as the man passed out on the ground behind them; it seems that breaking this guy’s nose was only enough to piss him off. Sam steps into a defensive pose, one foot behind and bracing him as he raises both hands. He catches the incoming fist in his left, then deftly steps in and under the punch, spinning and pulling the offending arm with him as he goes. He ends up behind Knuckles, forcing the thug's fist up between his own shoulder blades. Sam uses his right arm to push on the other man's elbow, shoving the connected shoulder round to an increasingly unnatural angle and hearing a sharp yelp in reward for his efforts.
Too late, he realises that this isn't a self defence class, and that his opponent is not going to submit simply because he's in an arm lock; the heel of one heavy boot slams down on the toes of Sam's left foot, and this time he can't contain a shout of his own. He keeps hold of the arm in front of him, frantically shifting his injured foot out of the way as Knuckles tries to repeat the performance, but he feels his grip slipping as he divides his attention. Knuckles squirms, flailing behind him with his left hand, trying to get hold of Sam's arm, his jacket - anything he can reach and pull, to make Sam let go. Sam tries to get out of the way, all the while scrabbling at the fist he has pinned in front of him. He manages to get hold of the thumb and yank it backwards, against the joint, not to the point of breaking but certainly to the point of pain, as evidenced by the roar that echoes now from Knuckles' mouth. He stops trying to simultaneously stamp on Sam's feet and grab at him, though it won't be for long, and Sam knows he has to seize that moment to do something else. He'd done well to get him locked the way he had, but it wasn't enough.
His training, so fresh in his mind earlier, has now deserted him. He has no idea how he's going to get out of this. Through habit, through desperation, and through a trust so deeply ingrained that he is almost unaware of it, Sam looks over to Gene. The Guv has got turned around as he fights, and is now facing Sam, grappling with Steel Chain. The crook's face is, thankfully, still the same shape as it was earlier, but the colour has changed considerably, given that it is now tucked firmly in the crook of Gene Hunt's arm. His skin has taken the shade of an over-ripe plum, and he scratches at the Guv's gloved hand and camelhair sleeve ineffectually, trying to escape. The cricket bat lies off to one side, where it was dropped. Gene doesn't need it, as he proves now by delivering a heavy punch to his prisoner's temple, a blow that seems to leave the man stunned. Then, incredibly, infuriatingly, the Guv reaches up to his mouth and takes hold of the cigarette that is still there, takes a draw, and lets it out in a long, insulting stream of smoke, which he directs to the already puce face locked under his arm.
He seems to sense Sam looking at him, because he looks back. Knuckles has started to struggle again, but Sam keeps his eyes on Gene, locking gazes with him. And finally, just when he needs it most, a flash of understanding rockets between them. Neither says a word, but as though they have just finished a conversation, Gene gives a single nod and begins to propel Steel Chain forward at speed. Sam uses the remains of his hold on Knuckles to swing him around, throwing all of his own weight to the left and pushing hard, feeling the scream of his strained muscles and battered side as he forcibly pivots the bigger man around. Knuckles is too busy trying to get a look at Sam to realise what's happening. Sam himself, his view of Gene blocked, can only guess when the time is right, but guess he does.
All of a sudden, Knuckles finds himself free, the hands that have been pinning and pushing him gone, and it is only at the last moment that he hears the onrushing steps and looks up to see Gene Hunt, grinning around a lit cigarette and trailing smoke like a demon, barrelling towards him, dragging his mate along by the neck.
Sam drops to a crouch and covers his head. The smell of road dust fills his mouth and nose, and silver flares flash in front of his eyes as he squeezes them shut. Moments later, he's being crushed by the weight of two enormous men, their feet catching his elbows and ribs and back as they topple over him, forced to the ground by the momentum of Gene's assault. Knuckles thrashes around, trying to untangle himself and get back up, but the dead weight of the near-unconscious Steel Chain holds him in place better than any official restraint could. Sam drags himself from under the pile-up, palms now raw, dirt clinging to his face and shirt rucked up seven ways to Sunday. He makes it out and stands over the prone bodies, one of which has started to emit a pitiful groan. Gene steps in, slowly fishing a set of cuffs out of his pocket, and crouches on one knee next to their beaten foes.
‘This was the hard way, Sunshine,’ he says to Bare Knuckles, almost cheerfully. 'Remember, for next time.' The thug glowers at him, still fighting to get himself out from under Steel Chain, and almost making it. He's managed to get halfway clear, but the bulk of other man's weight is over his legs, pinning him. He's shoving at him with one hand, holding himself up off the ground with the other. Gene, seeing no need to hurry, takes a moment to draw on the last smouldering inch of his cigarette, then lifts it clear of his mouth, cuffs in one hand, fag in the other, and exhales with every sign of satisfaction. Infuriated by the copper's taunting, and seeing his opportunity while both Hunt’s hands are occupied, Knuckles acts. With surprising speed, he whips his head forward, aiming to connect his forehead with the Guv’s cheekbone. Gene goes from casual mockery to almost fully alert in the time it takes Sam to blink, and intercepts the headbutt with a raised arm. Knuckles falls backwards, covering his face and letting out a roar that seems completely disproportionate, until Sam sees Gene looking at his own fist. He'd only had time to get a hand in front of the oncoming threat; it happened to be the hand holding the now crumpled and very much extinguished remains of his cigarette. Not only has the suspect just punched himself in the face with someone else’s fist, he’s tortured himself with a lit cigarette into the bargain.
Gene looks over at Sam, sandy hair dishevelled, tie askew, crushed fag dowt still in hand, and starts to laugh. It begins as a low chuckle, and Sam only looks at him, mouth slightly open, rubbing his injured palms against the softness of his jacket. He’s bone-weary, sore from arse to elbow, and the Guv thinks this is funny? The Guv, with his bloody prop cigarette...
Gene’s mirth has escalated to a proper laugh, and he drops his arse to the ground, leaning his elbow on a raised knee to support himself. The hand holding the fag end hangs down from the wrist, the article causing so much merriment still clamped between two fingers, shaking with the rhythm of Hunt’s amusement.
Sam looks around him, as though there may be some sympathetic passer by in this dark alleyway who might spare him a commiserating glance. He takes in Lead Pipe, who has successfully rolled onto his side but is still lying where Sam left him, cuffed and looking miserable. He takes in Cricket Bat, who seems to have mostly come round, but remains flat on his back, dried blood streaked up his face where he’s groggily tried to wipe himself clean. He brings his gaze back to Bare Knuckles, who has taken his hands away from his face but is gingerly pressing on a lump on his forehead, which is red and beginning to swell. He winces as he finds the tiny burned circle left by Gene’s cigarette, a little above his right eyebrow. Steel Chain remains flat out across Knuckles’ legs, breathing deeply and loudly through his mouth, evidence of his altercation with Hunt etched in a bloody graze across his cheek and the slowly receding high colour in his face. Finally, he looks back at the man himself: DCI Gene Hunt. He is still laughing, head hanging forward, shoulders shaking.
The Guv looks up, his usually stoic face creased, and raises his eyebrows at Sam.
‘Stupid bastard almost blinded himself!’ he manages, short of breath, and even though Sam knows this isn’t funny, knows it’s a serious matter that will require a lot of paperwork and statements from both of them (and that’ll be like pulling teeth, God knows), the madness of the moment gradually wins him round. It starts with just one snort through his nose, and slowly becomes a string of chuckles that grow into peals. He puts his hands on his hips, the pain in his side making him draw his face into a frown but somehow making this all funnier, and leans back to laugh at the night sky. He looks up at the stars, and laughs.
Title: Four Against Two
Rating: 16+ - Blue Cortina (to be on the safe side)
Word Count/Length: 4272
Summary: Would have been a mini!reverse!bang submission but here I am posting it about a million years later.
Based on Aima's awesome art YOU'RE SURROUNDED BY ARMED--oh wait crap which was drawn for allonsyeveryone and now I've written a fic for it and actually the longer I write this sentence the more nervous I am about posting it.
I'm sorry I've been away. I have missed you all. I hope you like this and absence made the heart grow fonder x
As is so often the case, Sam isn’t exactly sure how they came to be where they are now. Sometimes, this is a good thing. Right now, in a dingy alleyway, surrounded by four thugs in various stages of tooled up, it is not. Most definitely not.
Sam eyes up the two in front of him; one with a lead pipe (Professor Plum, in the library, his mind supplies, unhelpfully) and one with clenched fists that he’s willing to bet are practised enough to make mincemeat of his face, if he lets them.
The owner of those fists cracks the knuckles of his left hand, in a way that Sam will later register as appallingly cliched. For now, he can only register the sheer size of both the hands and, indeed, the man he will soon be expected to fight. He feels Gene’s back against his, not exactly flush; they’re leaning their opposite shoulders against each other, his right to Gene’s left. He can feel Gene’s muscles tense and bunch as he shifts, and one of their potential assailants speaks up, in a voice that betrays a certain tremor of nerves. Even with odds like this, these guys are afraid of them. Well, he corrects himself, grudgingly, of one of them, anyway.
‘Oi! No funny business!’
Sam remains tensed, ever so slightly crouched, arms a little widened to deal with any incoming attack. Gene, on the other hand, continues to move; not away from Sam, and not quickly, but he’s up to something. Sam hopes it’s the right kind of something.
‘Easy, lads,’ says the Guv, and his voice sounds steady, almost entirely unconcerned. Sam, his own body thrumming with tension down to his fingertips, has no idea what to expect.
Then he hears the familiar scratch and tiny hiss of a cigarette lighter.
He’s lighting a fag? Now?!
A curl of smoke billows round and into his nose, as all the smoke from Gene’s cigarettes seems to do, and dispels any doubts he might have had.
Unbelievable. He’s just... he’s so... He tries not to be distracted; the two Neanderthals in front of him are shifting restlessly, almost worked up to getting down to business. One of them wears the kind of smirk that begs to be wiped out. Sam hopes he’ll get the chance.
He hears Gene take a deep draw of his untimely cigarette, and let it out again in an unhurried gust. Sam tries to clamp down on the rise of indignant fury, tries not to show it in his face, where the others could see it. If they’re going to get out of this, it’ll be as a team.
‘So,’ Gene’s voice echoes in the narrow alleyway. ‘You poofs going to come quietly, or are we doing this the hard way?’ His tone is still casual, and Sam feels him take a third drag on that damned cancer stick. He can’t see the two on Gene’s side, but the men facing him exchange a look tinged with uncertainty - only tinged, mind you. Then, the one who spoke up before answers.
‘We’ll see who’s the poofs, Mister Hunt.’ Sam winces inwardly at the grammar. He subtly shifts his gaze between Lead Pipe and Knuckles, watching for one of them making the first move. Then, he hears a sudden shuffle behind him. There’s no time to turn and look, even if he wanted to, as Lead Pipe has been spurred on by whatever’s happening back there, and steps up to the plate. Sam barely has time to count his blessings - at least they didn’t both charge at once - before the pipe is swinging down towards his skull.
His training kicks in and he ducks low, breaking contact with Gene’s back and hoping that the Guv’s had the sense to get out of the way, too. He keeps his arms wide to balance himself as he crouches, under the arc of the lead pipe. The weapon actually brushes the crown of his head, ruffling the hair there on its way past.
Close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades, my friend, he thinks, with a kind of delirious good humour. Round one to Tyler. God, talk about your mixed metaphors, he was all over the shop here. Never mind that. His inner voice is stern. Now that Lead Pipe is off-balance, with his whole body turned to the left and all his weight on his front foot, Sam has a chance to keep things going his way. He straightens and pushes, as hard as he can. One hand collides with a meaty shoulder, the other with a solid bicep, and he throws everything he has into the shove. There is no finesse to this maneuver, but in a pinch it’s enough to buy some time; time that he needs, as Bare Knuckles is now charging in to the fray.
There is a grunt behind him, which he doesn’t think sounds like Gene, before he’s punched in the gut. If he’d been completely off-guard, this would easily have sent him to his knees, winded. As it is, he’s still left a little breathless by the force of the blow, but his tense muscles have absorbed much of it and he only gives a half-inch stagger backwards before throwing a tight jab of his own, straight to his opponent’s throat. The guy might be a bruiser, but he has nothing by way of guard up, and he lets out a choked grunt as Sam’s fist connects with the gristle of his Adam’s apple. He staggers back a few paces, retching.
Lead Pipe is back, by now, and Sam isn’t quick enough to dodge this swing; the pipe crashes into his side, mercifully missing his ribs but sending a bolt of pain through his midriff and round his back. Before it can be fully drawn back for a second swipe, Sam grabs the pipe and hauls on it with both hands. His attacker is caught off-balance, and though his grip on the pipe doesn’t loosen, Sam senses an opportunity and takes it. He swings a knee forward and up, aiming as though for a point somewhere over Lead Pipe’s head so that, when he makes contact with the bloke’s bollocks, it’s at full force. He finds the weapon suddenly in his control as the other man crumples to the ground, too hurt to utter a sound, and yanks it from the now-loose hands, which are already racing to cup the injured area.
From behind him Sam registers, barely, a muffled thudding, the metallic rattle of chain links hitting the ground, and the sound of shoes scuffling over concrete. He wants to look around, make sure that Gene hasn’t fallen foul of the bartender’s friend or length of chain that he saw in the hands of the other two crooks. Before this kicked off, he’d barely had time to take note of the tools they were carrying, before Gene spun him and planted his shoulder squarely against Sam’s own. Sam doesn’t wonder if Gene did that out of concern for him or out of lack of confidence in his hand to hand skills. Not until later, anyway.
There’s no time to look away - Knuckles is wading back in. The look in his eyes says he means business; he’s obviously recovered his breath while Sam was kicking his friend in the knackers. Sam hefts the length of metal in his right hand, spreading his left out to balance him. Can he really do this? It’s a desperate situation, and fighting dirty is obviously the only way to win - but beating someone with a lead pipe? Can he?
His arm muscles answer for him, and lob the pipe end over end down the alleyway, as far as he can manage, over the head of his one remaining adversary. ‘As far as he can manage’ turns out to be pretty far, and the look of surprise on his opponent’s face as he turns to watch it spin into the distance is matched only by Sam’s own expression. Principled as he is, this guy’s got at least two stone on him, most of that grimly taut muscle, and he’s at least six inches taller, to boot. Sam’s just thrown away a very easy way to beat this man-mountain, quite literally beat him, and he’s not sure he believes that he’s done it.
Still, there’s always the element of surprise, and before Knuckles can fully turn back, Sam barrels into him with the speed of a sprinter off the blocks. He remains a little bent forward as he goes, and the top of his head collides with the bastard’s chin, throwing his head back. Sam pushes onwards, letting go of a shout that’s been building up all this time as he does, and they both topple to the ground, legs and feet tangled. When they land, Sam’s quick to push himself to his knees, straddling the man on the ground, and unleash a serious hammer blow to the nose with the side of his hand. He feels something crunch, and Knuckles gives a squawk that Sam would be embarrassed to have uttered. He is savagely glad to hear it, and follows up with another hard punch to the throat, cutting off any further sound. Still, these necessary blows aside, he controls his urge to let loose with his fists and instead directs his attention over his shoulder to check on Lead Pipe, who has stopped cradling his injured manhood, gotten to his feet and is struggling forwards, away from Sam and towards Gene and the other two men.
Sam risks a glance at the other fight, and sees Gene trading blows with only one of his attackers. The second is on the ground, seemingly out cold and sporting the beginnings of two black eyes and, perhaps, a broken nose; certainly there is plenty of blood oozing from it. The length of chain lies off to one side in a pile, while the bartender’s friend - a cricket bat with nails run haphazardly through it - is now in Gene’s left hand. He’s too close to his opponent to use it properly, and Christ knows how he got it in the first place, but the other guy is too concerned with trying to wrestle it back off him (while avoiding the sharp points) to throw any decent punches. At this moment, Gene is literally fending him off one-handed, and... surely not? Yes, he does. He still has his cigarette in the corner of his mouth - it’s even still lit, if the orange flicker at the tip is anything to go by.
Sam knows there’ll be no living with him if they get out of this.
Of course, there’ll be no living with him if they don’t, either.
Having made sure that the Guv is alright (something he already knows better than to admit he’s been doing), he turns his attention back to Lead Pipe, who is proceeding with shuffling gait towards the struggling men. Shit. A glance down at Knuckles shows that he’s groggy but still awake; no time to restrain this one, it’ll have to do. Sam shoves himself to his feet and takes two stumbling, headlong steps forward until he’s right behind his target. He raises his right foot, leaning backward for a brief, counter-balancing moment with arms upstretched, then brings it down on the top of Lead Pipe’s calf, hard enough to topple the man to his knees all over again, this time screaming with the pain and, Sam supposes, the surprise of a sudden Cuban heel to the back of the knee. Even as he falls, Sam’s whipping a set of cuffs out of his leather jacket, and it’s the work of only a moment to secure them and, therefore, secure the first prisoner of the evening. He easily tips him forward on to his front, resisting the man’s fairly feeble struggles with a firm hand between the shoulder blades and a knee across the back of his legs.
‘Stay down,’ he growls into Lead Pipe’s ear, bringing his face close enough for it to be a private warning, and pushes the man’s face firmly, if not gratuitously, into the dirty ground. The answering groan makes Sam think he won’t have any more trouble from this one.
He takes another second to look up again at Gene, who is just administering a sharp kick to the shin, and as the would-be attacker instinctively leans the upper half of his body forwards, Sam sees the Guv start to swing the cricket bat in an arc that will bring it crashing into the man’s face. The nails are pointing outwards. If it doesn’t kill the guy outright, it’s bound to blind him, and rearrange his face into the bargain. Gene’s coming in from the side, using the full force of his arm and the full momentum he can muster up - Christ, even without the nails, swung with this force that bat’s a lethal weapon.
‘Guv!’ The word is dragged out of him; he has no sense of meaning to say it before it’s out there in the open, amplified by the brick walls on either side, huge in the confined space. He sees Gene’s arm falter, and then nothing more as a ringing in his ear and a starburst in front of his eyes let him know that he’s taken his eye off the ball for too long, and Knuckles is back in the game.
Shit.
The punch to the head, combined with his lack of concentration, is enough to topple him onto his arse next to his captive, leaving him winded. Besides the inevitable swearing, he also has time to think fleetingly that he is glad, after all, that he’d thrown away the weapon earlier. If he hadn’t, he could easily be dead by now. He senses rather than sees the second punch coming, and brings his arms up over his face just in time to catch the blow on his forearm. From behind this now-throbbing shield, he sees the looming figure above lift one heavy boot, and prepares himself as best he can in the seconds he has.
Even in his distraction, he hears the Guv bark an inventive expletive, then the dull rattle of a cricket bat hitting the ground; a clunk as the broad end hits, and a thunk as the handle joins it.
The sole of Knuckles’ boot heads for Sam’s knee, both of which he’s drawn up to cover his stomach. Just before it makes contact and shatters his kneecap, Sam throws himself over onto his right side and then his front; his knees connect roughly with the concrete and he pushes himself up onto his feet again, the palms of his hands stinging and studded with stray gravel. He spins clumsily to face the danger that is now behind him, trying not to look at what’s happening with the Guv. He hasn’t heard any screaming, as would surely accompany a cricket bat to the face, and Gene hasn’t come wading in to help over on this side, so Sam can only assume that he thought better of smashing Steel Chain’s skull in - at least for now.
Unless he did it so quickly the man didn’t have time to shout out, and Gene was now just finishing his fag and watching to see how Sam got on.
He almost wouldn't put it past him.
This all floods through Sam’s head as he turns away, deliberately not looking, determinedly not being distracted from the fight at hand. Knuckles had stumbled when Sam rolled out from under him, but he has recovered himself and is almost on him again, one arm already raised to bring round in a powerful haymaker. His nose is bleeding, but not as freely as the man passed out on the ground behind them; it seems that breaking this guy’s nose was only enough to piss him off. Sam steps into a defensive pose, one foot behind and bracing him as he raises both hands. He catches the incoming fist in his left, then deftly steps in and under the punch, spinning and pulling the offending arm with him as he goes. He ends up behind Knuckles, forcing the thug's fist up between his own shoulder blades. Sam uses his right arm to push on the other man's elbow, shoving the connected shoulder round to an increasingly unnatural angle and hearing a sharp yelp in reward for his efforts.
Too late, he realises that this isn't a self defence class, and that his opponent is not going to submit simply because he's in an arm lock; the heel of one heavy boot slams down on the toes of Sam's left foot, and this time he can't contain a shout of his own. He keeps hold of the arm in front of him, frantically shifting his injured foot out of the way as Knuckles tries to repeat the performance, but he feels his grip slipping as he divides his attention. Knuckles squirms, flailing behind him with his left hand, trying to get hold of Sam's arm, his jacket - anything he can reach and pull, to make Sam let go. Sam tries to get out of the way, all the while scrabbling at the fist he has pinned in front of him. He manages to get hold of the thumb and yank it backwards, against the joint, not to the point of breaking but certainly to the point of pain, as evidenced by the roar that echoes now from Knuckles' mouth. He stops trying to simultaneously stamp on Sam's feet and grab at him, though it won't be for long, and Sam knows he has to seize that moment to do something else. He'd done well to get him locked the way he had, but it wasn't enough.
His training, so fresh in his mind earlier, has now deserted him. He has no idea how he's going to get out of this. Through habit, through desperation, and through a trust so deeply ingrained that he is almost unaware of it, Sam looks over to Gene. The Guv has got turned around as he fights, and is now facing Sam, grappling with Steel Chain. The crook's face is, thankfully, still the same shape as it was earlier, but the colour has changed considerably, given that it is now tucked firmly in the crook of Gene Hunt's arm. His skin has taken the shade of an over-ripe plum, and he scratches at the Guv's gloved hand and camelhair sleeve ineffectually, trying to escape. The cricket bat lies off to one side, where it was dropped. Gene doesn't need it, as he proves now by delivering a heavy punch to his prisoner's temple, a blow that seems to leave the man stunned. Then, incredibly, infuriatingly, the Guv reaches up to his mouth and takes hold of the cigarette that is still there, takes a draw, and lets it out in a long, insulting stream of smoke, which he directs to the already puce face locked under his arm.
He seems to sense Sam looking at him, because he looks back. Knuckles has started to struggle again, but Sam keeps his eyes on Gene, locking gazes with him. And finally, just when he needs it most, a flash of understanding rockets between them. Neither says a word, but as though they have just finished a conversation, Gene gives a single nod and begins to propel Steel Chain forward at speed. Sam uses the remains of his hold on Knuckles to swing him around, throwing all of his own weight to the left and pushing hard, feeling the scream of his strained muscles and battered side as he forcibly pivots the bigger man around. Knuckles is too busy trying to get a look at Sam to realise what's happening. Sam himself, his view of Gene blocked, can only guess when the time is right, but guess he does.
All of a sudden, Knuckles finds himself free, the hands that have been pinning and pushing him gone, and it is only at the last moment that he hears the onrushing steps and looks up to see Gene Hunt, grinning around a lit cigarette and trailing smoke like a demon, barrelling towards him, dragging his mate along by the neck.
Sam drops to a crouch and covers his head. The smell of road dust fills his mouth and nose, and silver flares flash in front of his eyes as he squeezes them shut. Moments later, he's being crushed by the weight of two enormous men, their feet catching his elbows and ribs and back as they topple over him, forced to the ground by the momentum of Gene's assault. Knuckles thrashes around, trying to untangle himself and get back up, but the dead weight of the near-unconscious Steel Chain holds him in place better than any official restraint could. Sam drags himself from under the pile-up, palms now raw, dirt clinging to his face and shirt rucked up seven ways to Sunday. He makes it out and stands over the prone bodies, one of which has started to emit a pitiful groan. Gene steps in, slowly fishing a set of cuffs out of his pocket, and crouches on one knee next to their beaten foes.
‘This was the hard way, Sunshine,’ he says to Bare Knuckles, almost cheerfully. 'Remember, for next time.' The thug glowers at him, still fighting to get himself out from under Steel Chain, and almost making it. He's managed to get halfway clear, but the bulk of other man's weight is over his legs, pinning him. He's shoving at him with one hand, holding himself up off the ground with the other. Gene, seeing no need to hurry, takes a moment to draw on the last smouldering inch of his cigarette, then lifts it clear of his mouth, cuffs in one hand, fag in the other, and exhales with every sign of satisfaction. Infuriated by the copper's taunting, and seeing his opportunity while both Hunt’s hands are occupied, Knuckles acts. With surprising speed, he whips his head forward, aiming to connect his forehead with the Guv’s cheekbone. Gene goes from casual mockery to almost fully alert in the time it takes Sam to blink, and intercepts the headbutt with a raised arm. Knuckles falls backwards, covering his face and letting out a roar that seems completely disproportionate, until Sam sees Gene looking at his own fist. He'd only had time to get a hand in front of the oncoming threat; it happened to be the hand holding the now crumpled and very much extinguished remains of his cigarette. Not only has the suspect just punched himself in the face with someone else’s fist, he’s tortured himself with a lit cigarette into the bargain.
Gene looks over at Sam, sandy hair dishevelled, tie askew, crushed fag dowt still in hand, and starts to laugh. It begins as a low chuckle, and Sam only looks at him, mouth slightly open, rubbing his injured palms against the softness of his jacket. He’s bone-weary, sore from arse to elbow, and the Guv thinks this is funny? The Guv, with his bloody prop cigarette...
Gene’s mirth has escalated to a proper laugh, and he drops his arse to the ground, leaning his elbow on a raised knee to support himself. The hand holding the fag end hangs down from the wrist, the article causing so much merriment still clamped between two fingers, shaking with the rhythm of Hunt’s amusement.
Sam looks around him, as though there may be some sympathetic passer by in this dark alleyway who might spare him a commiserating glance. He takes in Lead Pipe, who has successfully rolled onto his side but is still lying where Sam left him, cuffed and looking miserable. He takes in Cricket Bat, who seems to have mostly come round, but remains flat on his back, dried blood streaked up his face where he’s groggily tried to wipe himself clean. He brings his gaze back to Bare Knuckles, who has taken his hands away from his face but is gingerly pressing on a lump on his forehead, which is red and beginning to swell. He winces as he finds the tiny burned circle left by Gene’s cigarette, a little above his right eyebrow. Steel Chain remains flat out across Knuckles’ legs, breathing deeply and loudly through his mouth, evidence of his altercation with Hunt etched in a bloody graze across his cheek and the slowly receding high colour in his face. Finally, he looks back at the man himself: DCI Gene Hunt. He is still laughing, head hanging forward, shoulders shaking.
The Guv looks up, his usually stoic face creased, and raises his eyebrows at Sam.
‘Stupid bastard almost blinded himself!’ he manages, short of breath, and even though Sam knows this isn’t funny, knows it’s a serious matter that will require a lot of paperwork and statements from both of them (and that’ll be like pulling teeth, God knows), the madness of the moment gradually wins him round. It starts with just one snort through his nose, and slowly becomes a string of chuckles that grow into peals. He puts his hands on his hips, the pain in his side making him draw his face into a frown but somehow making this all funnier, and leans back to laugh at the night sky. He looks up at the stars, and laughs.