Fic: Are We Sitting Comfortably (Brown Cortina for character death)
Title: Are We Sitting Comfortably
Word Count: 763
Rating: Brown Cortina for character death(s).
Notes: Spoilers for 1x07. Random fic started on the train back from London. Also, first fic to be posted from my new laptop! *streamers and a half-arsed party popper*
Summary: Gene takes Ray along to Andrea Kemble's.
-0-0-
There’s silence in the car.
Ray’s squirming in his seat, trying not to make any noise for fear that the Guv will pull over and shove him in the boot instead. He’s painfully aware of the thinly-veiled fury oozing from his superior officer, trying not to watch the clenching of his hands on the steering wheel, the tightness of his lips and the flaring nostrils; he wipes a hand over his forehead, folds his hands back on his lap, and lets out a slightly shaky breath.
They draw up outside Andrea Kemble’s flat. Gene kills the engine, sits back in his seat, doesn’t quite look round at Ray.
“You stay ‘ere. If she decides she wants to speak with you, you’ll come in. Got it?”
Ray feels blood rushing to his cheeks, jerks his head quickly. “Yes, Guv.”
“Now shut up an’ stay put.” Gene turns away, yanks the gearstick into position, and pushes his door open, swinging out of the car and slamming the door behind himself. The Cortina rocks wildly.
He watches Gene striding away towards the flats, shoulders tense beneath the swinging camel hair. Leans back in his seat and groans, rubs his sweaty palms on his thighs, and closes his eyes, fingers itching for a bottle of Bell’s to blot out the bloody awful torture his Guv’s putting him through. He’s putting himself through.
“Jesus, Carling,” he mutters. He’s screwed it up good and proper, hasn’t he, DC Carling now even. Never seen the Guv look like that, like he’s holding his breakfast in with the last of his ironclad grip, the coldness in his eyes, hopes he never will again. Knows that the Guv will never let him forget this, as long as he lives.
The seat’s soft and comforting on his back, moulding itself to his body, drawing him in closer. He rubs his head back against it, sighs, and flops it down into his hands. He killed a man. He, Ray Carling, a copper, who’s supposed to bloody protect the citizens rather than send them to their graves, even the ones dealing sodding drugs-
A tight cord around his neck, and Ray’s arms jerk up to the thin strand of vinyl over his windpipe, ripped off from the car seat, and he tries to scream but no sound’s coming out, just a desperate wheezing and there are stars in front of his eyes and his hands are shaking too hard to try to get the cord off, face stinging, eyes turning red, his chest’s heaving uselessly and he’s gasping like an old man but no air is coming in and he’s screaming but it feels like his brain is going to explode-
-0-0-
He buttons his coat up as he walks back out to the Cortina. Handled that just like Tyler would have wanted him to, he did. Told Andrea everything, didn’t lie once… not that he normally sodding lies… explained to her exactly why her beloved little brother choked on his chips in a shitty cell at the station. And she slapped him. Very hard. He wasn’t expecting anything less from her. Feisty bird, she was.
“You ‘ave to fire ‘im, you soddin’ pig! I want ‘im sent down for murder!” she’d screamed after him as he left the flat, clutching his hipflask in both hands. Oh Christ, won’t Tyler have a field day if she contacts him. Maybe he should cut Ray loose- dead wood, no help to the team, a bloody manslaughter case on his record…
He yanks the door open and slides back in, bangs it shut behind him.
“She wants you sentenced for murder, Carling. Ten years at least. I could turn you over to Tyler in a heartbeat, so you tell me why I shouldn’t, because otherwise they’ll be buryin’ you in shit so deep you’ll need a soddin’ black ‘ole to vacuum yerself out.”
He turns to the passenger seat, and shouts out loud as his eyes meet Ray’s bulging, dilated ones.
“Ray! JESUS! What-”
A thin cord of vinyl strokes the back of his neck. The Cortina shudders, starts, and purrs throatily beneath him.
“… No, you didn’t.”
The car rocks, just a little.
“’E didn’t deserve that!”
A furious rev, and the cord tugs sharply on the hair at the back of his neck. “I know ‘e killed someone, but you didn’t need to- Christ-!”
The cord relaxes, strokes down his spine again, and the wheel turns just a little to brush against his fingers as his seat seems to soften beneath him, drawing him in comfortingly.
Word Count: 763
Rating: Brown Cortina for character death(s).
Notes: Spoilers for 1x07. Random fic started on the train back from London. Also, first fic to be posted from my new laptop! *streamers and a half-arsed party popper*
Summary: Gene takes Ray along to Andrea Kemble's.
-0-0-
There’s silence in the car.
Ray’s squirming in his seat, trying not to make any noise for fear that the Guv will pull over and shove him in the boot instead. He’s painfully aware of the thinly-veiled fury oozing from his superior officer, trying not to watch the clenching of his hands on the steering wheel, the tightness of his lips and the flaring nostrils; he wipes a hand over his forehead, folds his hands back on his lap, and lets out a slightly shaky breath.
They draw up outside Andrea Kemble’s flat. Gene kills the engine, sits back in his seat, doesn’t quite look round at Ray.
“You stay ‘ere. If she decides she wants to speak with you, you’ll come in. Got it?”
Ray feels blood rushing to his cheeks, jerks his head quickly. “Yes, Guv.”
“Now shut up an’ stay put.” Gene turns away, yanks the gearstick into position, and pushes his door open, swinging out of the car and slamming the door behind himself. The Cortina rocks wildly.
He watches Gene striding away towards the flats, shoulders tense beneath the swinging camel hair. Leans back in his seat and groans, rubs his sweaty palms on his thighs, and closes his eyes, fingers itching for a bottle of Bell’s to blot out the bloody awful torture his Guv’s putting him through. He’s putting himself through.
“Jesus, Carling,” he mutters. He’s screwed it up good and proper, hasn’t he, DC Carling now even. Never seen the Guv look like that, like he’s holding his breakfast in with the last of his ironclad grip, the coldness in his eyes, hopes he never will again. Knows that the Guv will never let him forget this, as long as he lives.
The seat’s soft and comforting on his back, moulding itself to his body, drawing him in closer. He rubs his head back against it, sighs, and flops it down into his hands. He killed a man. He, Ray Carling, a copper, who’s supposed to bloody protect the citizens rather than send them to their graves, even the ones dealing sodding drugs-
A tight cord around his neck, and Ray’s arms jerk up to the thin strand of vinyl over his windpipe, ripped off from the car seat, and he tries to scream but no sound’s coming out, just a desperate wheezing and there are stars in front of his eyes and his hands are shaking too hard to try to get the cord off, face stinging, eyes turning red, his chest’s heaving uselessly and he’s gasping like an old man but no air is coming in and he’s screaming but it feels like his brain is going to explode-
-0-0-
He buttons his coat up as he walks back out to the Cortina. Handled that just like Tyler would have wanted him to, he did. Told Andrea everything, didn’t lie once… not that he normally sodding lies… explained to her exactly why her beloved little brother choked on his chips in a shitty cell at the station. And she slapped him. Very hard. He wasn’t expecting anything less from her. Feisty bird, she was.
“You ‘ave to fire ‘im, you soddin’ pig! I want ‘im sent down for murder!” she’d screamed after him as he left the flat, clutching his hipflask in both hands. Oh Christ, won’t Tyler have a field day if she contacts him. Maybe he should cut Ray loose- dead wood, no help to the team, a bloody manslaughter case on his record…
He yanks the door open and slides back in, bangs it shut behind him.
“She wants you sentenced for murder, Carling. Ten years at least. I could turn you over to Tyler in a heartbeat, so you tell me why I shouldn’t, because otherwise they’ll be buryin’ you in shit so deep you’ll need a soddin’ black ‘ole to vacuum yerself out.”
He turns to the passenger seat, and shouts out loud as his eyes meet Ray’s bulging, dilated ones.
“Ray! JESUS! What-”
A thin cord of vinyl strokes the back of his neck. The Cortina shudders, starts, and purrs throatily beneath him.
“… No, you didn’t.”
The car rocks, just a little.
“’E didn’t deserve that!”
A furious rev, and the cord tugs sharply on the hair at the back of his neck. “I know ‘e killed someone, but you didn’t need to- Christ-!”
The cord relaxes, strokes down his spine again, and the wheel turns just a little to brush against his fingers as his seat seems to soften beneath him, drawing him in comfortingly.