Advent Calendar Fic: Grotto, Part 1 (very very mild Gene/Sam, Green Cortina)
Title: Grotto (Part 1)
Rating: Green Cortina for swearing and innuendo. Can be read as no pairing/buddy cop gen, or slash.
Word Count: 1874
Notes: Sneaking it in just under the time limit! This is being split into two parts simply so that I have more time to write the second half.
Summary: Sam's going undercover.
-0-0-
“Ho, ho, ho. You’re lookin’ bloody jolly, mate.”
“Yeah, very funny.”
“Can only ‘ope you ‘ad private elf insurance!”
“Can you ask him to stop?” Their victim somehow manages to give Sam a pleading look with two black eyes. And from underneath a yellow felt hat with bells on. “I’ve got an ‘eadache an’ ‘e’s not ‘elpin’.”
“Gene. Stop, please.”
“No.”
Sam shrugs. “Sorry. I tried.”
“D’you remember who pushed you down the stairs?” Gene plumps down on the chair next to the bed, plucks two grapes from the tray on the table, and flicks them into his mouth. “Or where the money in yer safe box was?”
“No. Can’t remember anything before wakin’ up in ‘ere. Well, I remember goin’ to work at the grotto, gettin’ changed an’ that…” He nods noisily to what’s left of his elf costume, crumpled in a bag in the corner. “But I don’t know anything else. I don’t know what I was doin’ with the money. I must’ve put it in there an’ collected everyone else’s on me way to the office.”
“What was yer role at the grotto?”
The man sighs. “Singing to the kiddies. Handin’ out chocolates. The usual rubbish kids love at Christmas. I work there every year, it’s good to see the kiddies ‘avin’ fun at Christmastime, an’ they all love elves, don’t they, especially the mums an’ dads who can sneak off for some mulled wine-”
“Can you tell us who else was workin’ with you, Mr Higgins?” Sam interjects. He appears to be the only elf who’s come to grief at the grotto, and after examining the livelihoods, bank balances, employment and sodding dental records of everyone working there, they still have no idea who might be behind the attack, any links between any of the workers, or even what the motivation to rob a sodding Christmas grotto by knocking an elf’s lights out might be, besides an intense and disturbing hatred of bells. “Did you get on with the other elves at the grotto, and Father Christmas?”
“Dancer an’ Prancer, you’d know them, wouldn’t you, Tyler?” Gene mutters under his breath.
“They’re good kids, mostly temporary staff members for the other elves, from a local kids’ centre. Arnie Wainwright’s been Father Christmas since I can remember.” Joe Higgins plucks the hat from his head and throws it at the rest of his ruined costume. “I’d ‘ad a couple of brandies from the café, would take a soddin’ saint not to ‘ave ‘ad. But I felt ‘ands on my back before I fell.”
“Thought you said you couldn’t remember anything?” Gene leans forwards, hands on his knees. “Anything else? A voice, a shape? Any bells jinglin’?”
“No.” Higgins rubs his face. “That’s everything. I’m sorry, Chief Inspector, I whacked my ‘ead so ‘ard, I’m amazed I can remember my own bloody name. My missus ‘ad to come in an’ tell me I’m meant to be goin’ to Blackpool with ‘er an’ ‘er family for Christmas, an’ if you lot insist I’m under police bloody protection-”
“What, you’d rather we left you ‘ere an’ toddled off back to our mince pies with the bloke who tried to turn yer brains into sherry runnin’ about loose?”
“Well, when you put it like that,” Joe mumbles.
Gene bares his teeth at him. “We’ll ‘ave ‘im banged up before you miss yer train to sunny Blackpool. Just remember to bring me back some rock, eh?”
Higgins rolls his eyes and winces.
-0-0-
Gene’s laughing too much to say anything as Sam stomps out of the men’s and down to CID, leaving a trail of double-takes and sniggering constables in his wake.
“If anyone makes so much as one Christmas pun, joke or sarcastic remark,” Sam snaps out through gritted teeth as CID falls silent at the sight of his yellow trousers, green felt jacket and bell-bedecked hat, “they will be doin’ everyone else’s paperwork on Christmas Day on unpaid overtime. Do. You. Understand?”
Chris hiccups.
“Right.” Sam turns on his heel and strides, jingling, to his desk. Ray stuffs his fist in his mouth and ducks under his desk, chest heaving with the effort of not laughing, just as Gene topples through the double doors, gasping for air.
“Right, Jingle Balls, got everything?”
Sam shoots him a glare so frosty it should have turned Gene into a snowman. “Yes.”
“Get a move on, then.” Gene reaches over and flicks the bell on the tip of Sam’s hat; Ray makes an explosive sound, just as Annie bursts into giggles.
Sam turns his back on the squad room and jangles away with as much dignity as is possible.
-0-0-
“I want a toy rocket,” the kid says.
Sam sticks a smile on his face, stuffing his twenty pence into the overflowing belt bag that Father Christmas said he’d pop out and collect as soon as they were given a tea break. Yet Joe Higgins had had access to the safe box. “That sounds good. Like from David Bowie’s music video?”
The girl nods enthusiastically. “And to ‘ave my ‘air cut so it’s sticky-up ‘air like his.”
The mother makes a strangled noise; Sam quickly changes tack. “Oh, no. Takes him hours and hours to make his hair look like that. An’ it’s all flat again within ten minutes. Not worth it at all. I ‘ad to give ‘im so much hairspray for Christmas, it’s maybe all ‘e got.”
The girl winces; her mother breathes a sigh of relief. “I want a rocket. An’ a new dolly. My dolly’s eye fell out.”
“Maybe a medical set, then? So you can ‘elp dolly’s eye go back in?” That’s something he knows Arnie’s got, at least. The girl nods.
“An’ what might you be ‘avin’ for your big present?”
“Rollerskates. Really good ones.”
The mother drops her handbag.
“But Debbie, darling,” her father says slowly. “You wanted an art set for yer big present.”
“Not any more,” Debbie says. “I want some rollerskates.”
“Er, but rollerskates are really nasty when you fall over,” Sam gabbles as the parents exchange panicked looks. “An’ it takes ages to learn. An’ your feet’ll grow out of them within, maybe, six months? Father Christmas would rather get you something you’ll really, really enjoy.”
“Next!” one of the other elves shouts, and Sam breathes a huge sigh of relief as Debbie and her parents are shepherded in between the tinsel curtains.
“Medical set,” he mouthes at the tinsel-bedecked elf, who nods and ducks back inside. Just his bloody luck that the elf in hospital had the costume with bells on. If only it’d been Tony Stubbs and his gold tinsel, that actually looked- well, if not good, at least mildly tasteful. Or Melanie Rudd and her plastic holly. Prickly, but far less embarrassing.
And had Joe Higgins really had access to the safe box, when he was taking most of the money from the children? Why not, if he hadn’t? Why did Arnie Wainwright seem so bloody intent on keeping the key completely to himself? It’s like trying to get scotch off Gene.
And all of the elves have alibis, too. Arnie said he’d been in the cafeteria. Sam could sneak off to have a quick chat with the staff there, but no, another snotty nose has appeared at his elbow, and the pinched, anxious twin faces of Mum and Dad are brilliantly persuasive for him to hang around for another couple of minutes.
“Right. Hello, what’s your name?”
“Benedict,” the boy in front of him says. “Like the man from the Bible.”
“And what would you like for Christmas, Benedict?”
“A train set.” Sam exhales hard as both of Benedict’s parents grin wearily. “With a blue Hornby train.”
And the joint looks of panic again, and Sam all but shoves Benedict into the grotto as his parents start desperately trying to persuade him that a green train will look far better on the track Father Christmas is getting him. One more kid, and he’ll escape and ask some questions.
“Hello, who’s-” And his voice dies in his throat as small hazel eyes gaze up at him, clutching a small cuddly cat, one hand in his mother’s as he swallows hard to wet his throat and opens his mouth to speak.
“My name’s Sam-”
“Tony!” Sam bolts for him, grabs him by the sparkly shoulders and shoves him in front of Ruth and her son. “Needtheloo, berightback, justattendtotheyoungman.” And with that, he’s gone, rushing into the grotto and out the back, rubbing his temples as he bursts out into the fresh air.
Shit. Shit. He doesn’t even remember coming to this grotto. Doesn’t remember anything about it. Didn’t know this sodding department store was even here, had never set foot in here before to his knowledge and oh God oh God he couldn’t go back in there and how would he know if they’d gone, what kind of bloody time paradox is it going to create if he meets his younger self and does being dressed as an elf alter anything-
“Tyler! What the bloody ‘ell? Santa didn’t offer to ‘ave a rummage in yer present sack, did ‘e?”
Sam launches himself forwards, clings to Gene, wraps his arms right around him and pulls him as close as possible, squishing bells and pom-poms between them and it just gets bloody better, doesn’t it, he’s hugging his boss, but Gene’s warm in his arms and Sam can feel his chest deflate and expand against his own and-
And Gene reaches up and pats his shoulder, clumsy but gentle, before shoving him hard away and dusting himself down, brushing the imprints of small bells from his skin.
“Don’t soddin’ do that again, or I’ll be roastin’ yer dumplings on an open spit. Anything?”
“… None of them seem to ‘ave any motive.” Sam swipes at his eyes, scrubs his hands over his face. Dressed as Santa’s little helper, hugging Gene Hunt. As if his Guv needed any further reasons to have him transferred. “The money is stashed under Father Christmas’s chair. ‘E’s guardin’ it like a dog with a bone, but Joe told us ‘e collected everyone else’s money on ‘is way to the office, so maybe someone asked ‘im to do it for them that day? Maybe that’s our man. Or elf. Or whatever.”
“Who’s got the key?”
“Arnie. Father Christmas. Don’t know where it’s kept though. I need you to go an’ talk to the people in the cafeteria, ask them whether Arnie Wainwright was there when Joe Higgins’ accident ‘appened an’ I’ll try an’ find out from ‘im why ‘e doesn’t let the elves ‘ave access to the safe box any more an’ whether it’s anything to do with Joe-”
“Christ, Tyler, you done anything at all today? Go back in there an’ do some soddin’ detecting! Focuss on this safe box, find out who doesn’t ‘ave a motive that stands up, offer to suck on Saint Nick’s bloody candy cane if you ‘ave to, but find me some villains an’ do it now!”
“… Only you could turn something as innocent as Christmas into an absolute filth fest.”
“Clever, innit. Now make like a good little fairy an’ mush.”
Great.
To be continued…
Rating: Green Cortina for swearing and innuendo. Can be read as no pairing/buddy cop gen, or slash.
Word Count: 1874
Notes: Sneaking it in just under the time limit! This is being split into two parts simply so that I have more time to write the second half.
Summary: Sam's going undercover.
-0-0-
“Ho, ho, ho. You’re lookin’ bloody jolly, mate.”
“Yeah, very funny.”
“Can only ‘ope you ‘ad private elf insurance!”
“Can you ask him to stop?” Their victim somehow manages to give Sam a pleading look with two black eyes. And from underneath a yellow felt hat with bells on. “I’ve got an ‘eadache an’ ‘e’s not ‘elpin’.”
“Gene. Stop, please.”
“No.”
Sam shrugs. “Sorry. I tried.”
“D’you remember who pushed you down the stairs?” Gene plumps down on the chair next to the bed, plucks two grapes from the tray on the table, and flicks them into his mouth. “Or where the money in yer safe box was?”
“No. Can’t remember anything before wakin’ up in ‘ere. Well, I remember goin’ to work at the grotto, gettin’ changed an’ that…” He nods noisily to what’s left of his elf costume, crumpled in a bag in the corner. “But I don’t know anything else. I don’t know what I was doin’ with the money. I must’ve put it in there an’ collected everyone else’s on me way to the office.”
“What was yer role at the grotto?”
The man sighs. “Singing to the kiddies. Handin’ out chocolates. The usual rubbish kids love at Christmas. I work there every year, it’s good to see the kiddies ‘avin’ fun at Christmastime, an’ they all love elves, don’t they, especially the mums an’ dads who can sneak off for some mulled wine-”
“Can you tell us who else was workin’ with you, Mr Higgins?” Sam interjects. He appears to be the only elf who’s come to grief at the grotto, and after examining the livelihoods, bank balances, employment and sodding dental records of everyone working there, they still have no idea who might be behind the attack, any links between any of the workers, or even what the motivation to rob a sodding Christmas grotto by knocking an elf’s lights out might be, besides an intense and disturbing hatred of bells. “Did you get on with the other elves at the grotto, and Father Christmas?”
“Dancer an’ Prancer, you’d know them, wouldn’t you, Tyler?” Gene mutters under his breath.
“They’re good kids, mostly temporary staff members for the other elves, from a local kids’ centre. Arnie Wainwright’s been Father Christmas since I can remember.” Joe Higgins plucks the hat from his head and throws it at the rest of his ruined costume. “I’d ‘ad a couple of brandies from the café, would take a soddin’ saint not to ‘ave ‘ad. But I felt ‘ands on my back before I fell.”
“Thought you said you couldn’t remember anything?” Gene leans forwards, hands on his knees. “Anything else? A voice, a shape? Any bells jinglin’?”
“No.” Higgins rubs his face. “That’s everything. I’m sorry, Chief Inspector, I whacked my ‘ead so ‘ard, I’m amazed I can remember my own bloody name. My missus ‘ad to come in an’ tell me I’m meant to be goin’ to Blackpool with ‘er an’ ‘er family for Christmas, an’ if you lot insist I’m under police bloody protection-”
“What, you’d rather we left you ‘ere an’ toddled off back to our mince pies with the bloke who tried to turn yer brains into sherry runnin’ about loose?”
“Well, when you put it like that,” Joe mumbles.
Gene bares his teeth at him. “We’ll ‘ave ‘im banged up before you miss yer train to sunny Blackpool. Just remember to bring me back some rock, eh?”
Higgins rolls his eyes and winces.
-0-0-
Gene’s laughing too much to say anything as Sam stomps out of the men’s and down to CID, leaving a trail of double-takes and sniggering constables in his wake.
“If anyone makes so much as one Christmas pun, joke or sarcastic remark,” Sam snaps out through gritted teeth as CID falls silent at the sight of his yellow trousers, green felt jacket and bell-bedecked hat, “they will be doin’ everyone else’s paperwork on Christmas Day on unpaid overtime. Do. You. Understand?”
Chris hiccups.
“Right.” Sam turns on his heel and strides, jingling, to his desk. Ray stuffs his fist in his mouth and ducks under his desk, chest heaving with the effort of not laughing, just as Gene topples through the double doors, gasping for air.
“Right, Jingle Balls, got everything?”
Sam shoots him a glare so frosty it should have turned Gene into a snowman. “Yes.”
“Get a move on, then.” Gene reaches over and flicks the bell on the tip of Sam’s hat; Ray makes an explosive sound, just as Annie bursts into giggles.
Sam turns his back on the squad room and jangles away with as much dignity as is possible.
-0-0-
“I want a toy rocket,” the kid says.
Sam sticks a smile on his face, stuffing his twenty pence into the overflowing belt bag that Father Christmas said he’d pop out and collect as soon as they were given a tea break. Yet Joe Higgins had had access to the safe box. “That sounds good. Like from David Bowie’s music video?”
The girl nods enthusiastically. “And to ‘ave my ‘air cut so it’s sticky-up ‘air like his.”
The mother makes a strangled noise; Sam quickly changes tack. “Oh, no. Takes him hours and hours to make his hair look like that. An’ it’s all flat again within ten minutes. Not worth it at all. I ‘ad to give ‘im so much hairspray for Christmas, it’s maybe all ‘e got.”
The girl winces; her mother breathes a sigh of relief. “I want a rocket. An’ a new dolly. My dolly’s eye fell out.”
“Maybe a medical set, then? So you can ‘elp dolly’s eye go back in?” That’s something he knows Arnie’s got, at least. The girl nods.
“An’ what might you be ‘avin’ for your big present?”
“Rollerskates. Really good ones.”
The mother drops her handbag.
“But Debbie, darling,” her father says slowly. “You wanted an art set for yer big present.”
“Not any more,” Debbie says. “I want some rollerskates.”
“Er, but rollerskates are really nasty when you fall over,” Sam gabbles as the parents exchange panicked looks. “An’ it takes ages to learn. An’ your feet’ll grow out of them within, maybe, six months? Father Christmas would rather get you something you’ll really, really enjoy.”
“Next!” one of the other elves shouts, and Sam breathes a huge sigh of relief as Debbie and her parents are shepherded in between the tinsel curtains.
“Medical set,” he mouthes at the tinsel-bedecked elf, who nods and ducks back inside. Just his bloody luck that the elf in hospital had the costume with bells on. If only it’d been Tony Stubbs and his gold tinsel, that actually looked- well, if not good, at least mildly tasteful. Or Melanie Rudd and her plastic holly. Prickly, but far less embarrassing.
And had Joe Higgins really had access to the safe box, when he was taking most of the money from the children? Why not, if he hadn’t? Why did Arnie Wainwright seem so bloody intent on keeping the key completely to himself? It’s like trying to get scotch off Gene.
And all of the elves have alibis, too. Arnie said he’d been in the cafeteria. Sam could sneak off to have a quick chat with the staff there, but no, another snotty nose has appeared at his elbow, and the pinched, anxious twin faces of Mum and Dad are brilliantly persuasive for him to hang around for another couple of minutes.
“Right. Hello, what’s your name?”
“Benedict,” the boy in front of him says. “Like the man from the Bible.”
“And what would you like for Christmas, Benedict?”
“A train set.” Sam exhales hard as both of Benedict’s parents grin wearily. “With a blue Hornby train.”
And the joint looks of panic again, and Sam all but shoves Benedict into the grotto as his parents start desperately trying to persuade him that a green train will look far better on the track Father Christmas is getting him. One more kid, and he’ll escape and ask some questions.
“Hello, who’s-” And his voice dies in his throat as small hazel eyes gaze up at him, clutching a small cuddly cat, one hand in his mother’s as he swallows hard to wet his throat and opens his mouth to speak.
“My name’s Sam-”
“Tony!” Sam bolts for him, grabs him by the sparkly shoulders and shoves him in front of Ruth and her son. “Needtheloo, berightback, justattendtotheyoungman.” And with that, he’s gone, rushing into the grotto and out the back, rubbing his temples as he bursts out into the fresh air.
Shit. Shit. He doesn’t even remember coming to this grotto. Doesn’t remember anything about it. Didn’t know this sodding department store was even here, had never set foot in here before to his knowledge and oh God oh God he couldn’t go back in there and how would he know if they’d gone, what kind of bloody time paradox is it going to create if he meets his younger self and does being dressed as an elf alter anything-
“Tyler! What the bloody ‘ell? Santa didn’t offer to ‘ave a rummage in yer present sack, did ‘e?”
Sam launches himself forwards, clings to Gene, wraps his arms right around him and pulls him as close as possible, squishing bells and pom-poms between them and it just gets bloody better, doesn’t it, he’s hugging his boss, but Gene’s warm in his arms and Sam can feel his chest deflate and expand against his own and-
And Gene reaches up and pats his shoulder, clumsy but gentle, before shoving him hard away and dusting himself down, brushing the imprints of small bells from his skin.
“Don’t soddin’ do that again, or I’ll be roastin’ yer dumplings on an open spit. Anything?”
“… None of them seem to ‘ave any motive.” Sam swipes at his eyes, scrubs his hands over his face. Dressed as Santa’s little helper, hugging Gene Hunt. As if his Guv needed any further reasons to have him transferred. “The money is stashed under Father Christmas’s chair. ‘E’s guardin’ it like a dog with a bone, but Joe told us ‘e collected everyone else’s money on ‘is way to the office, so maybe someone asked ‘im to do it for them that day? Maybe that’s our man. Or elf. Or whatever.”
“Who’s got the key?”
“Arnie. Father Christmas. Don’t know where it’s kept though. I need you to go an’ talk to the people in the cafeteria, ask them whether Arnie Wainwright was there when Joe Higgins’ accident ‘appened an’ I’ll try an’ find out from ‘im why ‘e doesn’t let the elves ‘ave access to the safe box any more an’ whether it’s anything to do with Joe-”
“Christ, Tyler, you done anything at all today? Go back in there an’ do some soddin’ detecting! Focuss on this safe box, find out who doesn’t ‘ave a motive that stands up, offer to suck on Saint Nick’s bloody candy cane if you ‘ave to, but find me some villains an’ do it now!”
“… Only you could turn something as innocent as Christmas into an absolute filth fest.”
“Clever, innit. Now make like a good little fairy an’ mush.”
Great.
To be continued…