ailcia
in
lifein1973
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This fandom's taking a bit of a hammering from the '5 Things' meme, isn't it? I, personally, am loving all the stuff that's been posted of late, but sorry for all those who don't... Hope you don't mind me adding a couple more! Comments are greatly appreciated!
Title: Five Times Sam Tyler Smiled At Somebody
Author:ailcia
Rating: Swearing
Pairing: Gene/Sam, hint of Sam/Annie, fairly gen, though.
Spoilers None
Author Notes: For weekend's rather wry prompt!
1.
Chris could feel his cheeks burning as Ray kept on at him. He'd gone from snide remarks, to vocal taunts, to outright abuse, and now he was onto physical impressions. Ray did an excellent Sam; the gales of laughter echoing through the duty room was enough to prove that.
Ray, himself, was stellar: shouldn't have been a copper, Ray - would be destined for treading the boards if it weren't so poofy. He had every squint, every hysterical note, every twitch of the lips or spasm of the hands just right. Chris would have been laughing along with the rest of them at this performance of a lifetime - were it not for Sam.
Sam was just sitting there, still and quiet, just watching with a funny expression on his face, as if his skin was too tight. He was watching Ray intently, eyes wide and completely focused onto the shameless performance. He wasn't even fighting back, wasn't cutting Ray down with one of his biting comebacks... was just sitting there, watching.
The Gov wasn't there to stop Ray, and Sam suddenly seemed too... enthralled to do it for himself. Chris felt something twist deep down in his stomach; he was all for a laugh, like, but only if it was funny. And, even if everyone else were beside themselves laughing, he wasn't and, more importantly, Sam wasn't. Chris didn't know what it was, but something felt incredibly wrong about that and, before he knew what he was doing, he was somehow standing up and shouting: "Oi, just knock it off, alright?"
He froze. Ray froze. The whole room froze and then turned to look at him. Chris felt his ears turning red, and resisted the overwhelming urge to clamp his hands over them.
Ray turned, hands still raised in his impression of Sam clawing at the air in front of his eyes like those actors did in those rubbish horror films. Ray took his cigarette out of his mouth and set that frighteningly-blue stare on Chris.
Chris couldn't look at him - Ray had magic eyes and if he looked into them, he'd see his own death. But he had to look at something. The Boss was always telling him to stand his ground; that looking down was a sign of defeat. Chris looked at The Boss.
Sam was grinning at him. Not one of his little half-smiles, not a quiet smirk - the ones Chris usually got off him... An actual, full-on beam of a grin, right in front of Ray.
And Chris couldn't help but smile back, even though he knew Ray would be introducing his face to his locker door later because of it; he really was a mad bastard.
2.
"I just want something! Anything!"
Sometimes, Annie felt the only way to get any sort of reaction out of Sam might be by throttling him... Certainly seemed to work for The Gov.
Annie took a deep breath, and then let it out slowly... No, that really wasn't fair. It wasn't her place to pry into the special boy's-own relationship they had. Despite how much they claimed to hate each other, you'd have to be blind, deaf and stupid to miss what they had. Annie wasn't blind, deaf or stupid, but perhaps... perhaps she'd not quite realised the extent of what they had.
Gene was the only one of them who made Sam shout and stomp, the only one Sam felt motivated to swear at or punch... the only one whose opinions mattered enough to Sam to argue over. The Gov was the only one who made Sam feel anything at all. And she should be happy: she should be happy that Sam was able to feel something, no matter how it happened, because sometimes she wasn't sure.
And so, here they stood, with her railing against his silence, his calmness. Annie had seen him lose control, seen him cry, seen him furious, seen him scared... Who couldn't he be any of those things now? Now, he would only ever watch her, those dark eyes dull and closed off from her. He was no longer a puzzle for her to solve - he wasn't asking to be solved. Not anymore.
She took a deep breath, and a sharp pain panged in her chest, but the words were surprisingly easy.
"I think... I think we're done here, aren't we?"
Nothing changed in his expression - he continued staring blankly at her, not a twitch, not a breif flicker of anything (books lied, Annie realised), and she felt her heart sink low under the weight of something like disappointment.
A small, barely-there smile crept across his face. Slow and secret - no more than a quirk of the lips, really - but she knew him, and she knew it was there.
His eyes glittered and Annie laughed with delight.
3.
"You dickhead. Think you can just waltz in and take my job, eh?"
Ray knew he was shit-scary because Tyler flinched back, moving his head away and pressing himself back further into the brick wall.
"God, Ray, your breath."
Yeah, well, he was clearly trying to avoid the question. Tricksey bastard. Ray beltched in retaliation, right into Sam's face - a really good one, too. The prissy so-and-so wrinkled his nose delicately, and Ray sneered.
"Come on, faggot, you didn't answer my question."
"Was it a question, officer?" Sam, pinned to the wall with Ray's hands on either side of him and his great ox-weight bearing down on him, spat the words with venom... As if that was going to do anything.
Ray was the bigger man, though, and he ignored the irritating little git. He staggered a bit closer, and made sure to press his face right up close to him.
"I said... you think you can just land in from Hyde and take my job?"
The lad was on the ropes, Ray could tell by the way he scrunched up that ugly mush of his. Ray blinked to keep him in focus; he wanted to see him cry.
Sam licked his lips, and Ray wondered briefly - irrationally - if the poof was planning to kiss him. But he didn't.
"Well, you know what, Ray? I thought the job should really go to someone who could actually understand it."
Ray reeled backwards a bit, brow furrowed, trying to get the words in the right order in his head. He glared at Sam. Had Tyler said what Ray thought he'd said?
Sam's smirk was smug enough to answer his question, as well as fully justify everything that Ray did to him when he was explaining himself to The Gov the next day.
4.
For someone who looked so knackered all the time, he could sleep for England.
It was something that had always amused Gene. Well, annoyed him, really. But it was interesting, whatever else it was, and it was these interesting things that kept Gene occupied in the early hours of the morning, when it was too close to work to sleep, but he was too close to Sam to get up.
Sam was sleeping as he always slept, like the pissing dead. Scrumched up and knocked out, he looked far younger than he did when he was poncing about the office glaring at people. Looked almost... alright.
Gene tilted his head to one side and studied Sam. A get big wedge of light was shining through the ratty curtains, and it fell right onto Sam's face, but still he didn't wake up. Just stayed there in
his own dream world, with his face open and completely relaxed - not even Gene got to see him like this very often.
The more time Gene spent with Sam - which was increasing with a rate proportional only to Gene's manly sexual prowess, of course - the more he realised that his D.I. was not at all like he first appeared. For example, you could say, at first glance, that Tyler was a stick-up-his arse, know-it-all gayboy... And he was, but he was so much more than that, and all.
He was funny as fuck, sharp as a razor and just tingling with this sort of electricity... and he gave the best blow jobs in the business. He was evil, he was annoying, he was pernickety, he was depressing, he was awkward, he was stubborn, he was negative... But he was Gene's.
Overcome with something like fondness, something like bemusement, Gene reached over and sort of nudged Sam's cheek with the heel of his hand. Sam's eyes drifted sluggishly open, fuggy with sleep, and Gene smiled despite himself.
Sam let out a breath, and smiled back - understanding - before turning his head to the other side and closing his eyes again.
5.
The day began like any other. Sam snapped awake with his face stuck to the report he'd been working on the night before. He was still in his shirt and, as he sat up, he wondered if he'd ever give in and buy a pair of pyjamas.
He put the kettle on the gas cooker, and yawned while he got glass bottle of milk out the fridge. He smelt it; on the turn, but still alright.
Drifting across to the television set, he switched it on and was amused for ten minutes or so that the episode of 'Some Mothers Do 'Ave 'Em' where Michael Crawford goes under the bus on his roller skates was being enjoyed for the first time... But then the kettle made a weird banging noise, and he leapt up to take it off the heat and pour his tea.
Wandering back across the room, Sam put a new shirt on - he couldn't be arsed to change, and it was not like a bit of body odour would be noticed in the cess-pit that was the CIS duty room. He spotted the book by his bed that he was going to lend to Annie, and picked it up.
Holding it in his teeth, he picked up his leather jacket, and swung it on, then he attacked his cowboy boots. Sam tucked the book under his arm, went to the fridge, and retrieved the bottle of Lucozade he needed to give Chris in return for the one he'd nicked the day before, when he'd felt rough coming back from the backseat of Gene's car.
It was only when he had both hands full that he realised he hadn't brushed his teeth. Setting everything down on the wobbly table, he clattered into the bathroom - checking his watch because Ray would have a go at him and tell him to 'set an example' with that fucking glib way he had. Ramming the toothpasted brush into his mouth and scrubbing as fast as he could, Sam glanced up at the mirror.
He stopped brushing. He put the toothbrush down, spat into the basin, and then looked again. Really looked hard.
A smile slowly spread across his face. And it was only then that Sam truly believed he was home.
Title: Four Times Sam Tyler Woke Up On Someone Else's Floor (And One Time He Didn't)
Author:ailcia
Rating: Swearing
Pairing: Gene/Sam, hint of Sam/Annie, fairly gen, though.
Spoilers: None
Author Notes: For lo0o0ony_lauren who knows my kinks too well. :D
1.
Sam groaned before he'd ever opened his eyes, because he could feel floorboards under his spine. And he could taste that increasing familiar horrid, bitter flavour of unbrushed teeth, too much whisky and someone else’s stale spittle. And he could feel his shirt crusting at the armpits and his cords digging into his hip, his belt cutting off blood circulation to his lower body. He didn't want to open his eyes and stare at unfamiliar wallpaper. He didn't want to creep out of someone else’s flat in his bare feet, holding his shoes and his breath and desperately hoping he didn't wake them up... He was too old for this shit, and the free-love generation wasn't fucking real.
But it had to be done. And, like ripping off a plaster, it had to be done quick, before your brain got the better of you. Sam snapped his eyes open and tried to moan as what felt like all the light in the universe rushed right into his eyes. He lay there, like a goldfish out of it's bowl - or a man out of his time - blinking in the shaft of sunlight that shone through the gap in the stripy curtains behind the sofa.
The sofa? What the fuck?
Lifting his head off the ground, Sam gazed blearily around, trying to get the living room in focus.
"You're awake."
Her voice startled him, and his head snaps to the side. There stands Annie in the doorway, looking as fresh and as pretty as she always does though pale and uneasy, one hand rubbing her arm awkwardly.
Sam clears his throat, and forces his aching body to sit up straight. "I am."
He wants to ask why he's on the floor, why he feels like a the worst piece of shit in the world, why she doesn't step closer. Sam wants to ask why he came here last night... But he thinks he can guess, and the fact she's avoiding his eye tells him more than he could ever make himself ask.
"Please leave, sir." Her voice is small, and it catches on the last word.
Sam closes his eyes again and nods, not half as surprised as he should have been.
"Yeah."
2.
"Boss? You up?"
The words slink through his subconscious, needling and nagging at him. He tries to ignore them, tries to ignore that slightly dazed, slightly wondering (totally thick) voice... But it's impossible, and the crunching of toast from somewhere near his right earlobe - accompanied, as ever, by the tinkling of crumbs on the side of his face - forces Sam to open his eyes in irritation.
He hears the smile rather than sees it - understandable, really, considering how hard he's glaring at the chair leg nearest to him.
"Morning, boss! You sleep right like the dead, you do."
Crunch, chew, cough, crunch.
Sam screws his sandpaper eyes shut, and rubs the side of his head across the floor, feeling the carpet burn on his skin. He lets out a groan as the pain seeps into his skull. He's so tired.
"I know, boss... And I'm dead sorry and all, what with you only getting a couple hours kip after last night and everything, but- "
"Chris, if you don't shut up right this second..." Sam warns, feeling a thumping sensation start at the bridge of his nose.
The younger man steps away from him, and Sam almost smiles because it's funny that he's so scared of him. No one else is.
"We've, it's just - sorry, boss - but, err, we've got to, you know..."
"Spit it out, Chris." He mumbles, because he doesn't want to kick the lad's legs out from under him because, really, he quite likes Chris, he's just too tired for him.
"But, you told me to lip up." Confusion. Always total confusion.
"Chris."
"Well, we've got to go into work, haven't we? Gov said."
A mug of tea is slopped onto the carpet and Sam's rolled up jacket-come-pillow as it's set down next to him, and without another word, Chris shuffles off.
And it's probably the most sensible thing Chris has ever said, because Sam had, for a minute or so, quite forgotten.
3.
You can't just shag yourself to reality, Sam, that's not how it works, alright? Nothing is like it is on the telly, and you've become the last cliche of the 70s: the drunken, swearing, smoking embittered copper with stains on his shirt... And you wake up on the floor of someone elses' room - some slapper you picked up down the pub, told her all your gruesome stories, didn't you? You wake up with your trousers round your ankles and saliva pooling in your neck, on the floor where you fell, too fucked to get to her bed... and where is she, anyway? And don't you feel proud, Sammy?
4.
"Come on, boss. Don't be a gayboy all your life, alright? The Gov'll..."
Seeping through the haze comes the gruff words, but it's like Sam's head is wrapped up in cotton wool and broken glass, because he cannot for the life of him work out who said it... And he can't open his sore eyes wide enough to see who's tentatively shaking his shoulders.
"Come on... Boss... Sam..."
It sounds like Ray - all fucked off and mean-tempered, and the words sound as if they're half-obscured by that ridiculous moustache... But Ray doesn't call him Sam... No one does, no one except, sometimes-
"Sam."
And there it is. It all comes rushing back to him. Hostage. Gun pointed at someone who shouldn't be shot ever. The bullet in the belly. Hitting the floor and hearing something pop in his shoulder. Blinding white pain, all the energy being stolen away from his limbs, and then... Then nothing.
It was probably for the best. No one would miss him, and maybe, just maybe he'd get back home. Home, where no one gets shot with a sawn-off rifle for one hundred quid... Where police wear stab-vests and visors for protection, and not hip flasks. Where Sam doesn't care enough about anyone to take a bullet for them. Home would be so easy to slip away to. His life wouldn't hurt half so much.
He feels rough hands - impossibly warm - brush across his cheeks and he shivers because suddenly he's colder than he's ever been before. He moans because he feels so sick, so terribly sick, and his stomach burns horribly and the freezing concrete underneath him seems to melt ice into his skin...
But the hands are holding tighter now, and the voice is so soft. Softer than ever... But, surely, he should be angry with him for getting shot.
"Open your eyes for me, Sammy Boy... Please."
And Sam does, immediately and without question, even though it hurts more than words can say to wake up properly... but Gene doesn't say please for anyone. And when he opens his eyes to find that sharp green gaze filling his whole vision, Sam's glad he did wake up after all.
5.
Awareness creeps into his bones like the sun over pavement; it finds all the cracks in his skin and fills them with light, exposing every shadow and warming every inch of stone... Still half-asleep, Sam smiles, and buries his face deeper into the soft, sun-warmed mattress, hugging it closer to him.
"Do you mind?"
The slurred words stir him into awareness, and he opens his eyes slowly. He's on the floor - again, what is wrong with him? But the floor is somewhat comfier than usual.
Sam looks about blearily. He lies on the floor next to the horrid camp-bed, but his limbs are cushioned and his legs are tangled up with someone else’s, and there are arms wrapped all the way around him and underneath his ear there is the comforting throb of a slightly-sluggish heartbeat. He looks up, eyebrows raised in confusion.
Gene is watching him down his own nose, face contorted in a bizarre half-grimace, half-grin. "What you doing, you mad git?"
Title: Five Times Sam Tyler Smiled At Somebody
Author:ailcia
Rating: Swearing
Pairing: Gene/Sam, hint of Sam/Annie, fairly gen, though.
Spoilers None
Author Notes: For weekend's rather wry prompt!
1.
Chris could feel his cheeks burning as Ray kept on at him. He'd gone from snide remarks, to vocal taunts, to outright abuse, and now he was onto physical impressions. Ray did an excellent Sam; the gales of laughter echoing through the duty room was enough to prove that.
Ray, himself, was stellar: shouldn't have been a copper, Ray - would be destined for treading the boards if it weren't so poofy. He had every squint, every hysterical note, every twitch of the lips or spasm of the hands just right. Chris would have been laughing along with the rest of them at this performance of a lifetime - were it not for Sam.
Sam was just sitting there, still and quiet, just watching with a funny expression on his face, as if his skin was too tight. He was watching Ray intently, eyes wide and completely focused onto the shameless performance. He wasn't even fighting back, wasn't cutting Ray down with one of his biting comebacks... was just sitting there, watching.
The Gov wasn't there to stop Ray, and Sam suddenly seemed too... enthralled to do it for himself. Chris felt something twist deep down in his stomach; he was all for a laugh, like, but only if it was funny. And, even if everyone else were beside themselves laughing, he wasn't and, more importantly, Sam wasn't. Chris didn't know what it was, but something felt incredibly wrong about that and, before he knew what he was doing, he was somehow standing up and shouting: "Oi, just knock it off, alright?"
He froze. Ray froze. The whole room froze and then turned to look at him. Chris felt his ears turning red, and resisted the overwhelming urge to clamp his hands over them.
Ray turned, hands still raised in his impression of Sam clawing at the air in front of his eyes like those actors did in those rubbish horror films. Ray took his cigarette out of his mouth and set that frighteningly-blue stare on Chris.
Chris couldn't look at him - Ray had magic eyes and if he looked into them, he'd see his own death. But he had to look at something. The Boss was always telling him to stand his ground; that looking down was a sign of defeat. Chris looked at The Boss.
Sam was grinning at him. Not one of his little half-smiles, not a quiet smirk - the ones Chris usually got off him... An actual, full-on beam of a grin, right in front of Ray.
And Chris couldn't help but smile back, even though he knew Ray would be introducing his face to his locker door later because of it; he really was a mad bastard.
2.
"I just want something! Anything!"
Sometimes, Annie felt the only way to get any sort of reaction out of Sam might be by throttling him... Certainly seemed to work for The Gov.
Annie took a deep breath, and then let it out slowly... No, that really wasn't fair. It wasn't her place to pry into the special boy's-own relationship they had. Despite how much they claimed to hate each other, you'd have to be blind, deaf and stupid to miss what they had. Annie wasn't blind, deaf or stupid, but perhaps... perhaps she'd not quite realised the extent of what they had.
Gene was the only one of them who made Sam shout and stomp, the only one Sam felt motivated to swear at or punch... the only one whose opinions mattered enough to Sam to argue over. The Gov was the only one who made Sam feel anything at all. And she should be happy: she should be happy that Sam was able to feel something, no matter how it happened, because sometimes she wasn't sure.
And so, here they stood, with her railing against his silence, his calmness. Annie had seen him lose control, seen him cry, seen him furious, seen him scared... Who couldn't he be any of those things now? Now, he would only ever watch her, those dark eyes dull and closed off from her. He was no longer a puzzle for her to solve - he wasn't asking to be solved. Not anymore.
She took a deep breath, and a sharp pain panged in her chest, but the words were surprisingly easy.
"I think... I think we're done here, aren't we?"
Nothing changed in his expression - he continued staring blankly at her, not a twitch, not a breif flicker of anything (books lied, Annie realised), and she felt her heart sink low under the weight of something like disappointment.
A small, barely-there smile crept across his face. Slow and secret - no more than a quirk of the lips, really - but she knew him, and she knew it was there.
His eyes glittered and Annie laughed with delight.
3.
"You dickhead. Think you can just waltz in and take my job, eh?"
Ray knew he was shit-scary because Tyler flinched back, moving his head away and pressing himself back further into the brick wall.
"God, Ray, your breath."
Yeah, well, he was clearly trying to avoid the question. Tricksey bastard. Ray beltched in retaliation, right into Sam's face - a really good one, too. The prissy so-and-so wrinkled his nose delicately, and Ray sneered.
"Come on, faggot, you didn't answer my question."
"Was it a question, officer?" Sam, pinned to the wall with Ray's hands on either side of him and his great ox-weight bearing down on him, spat the words with venom... As if that was going to do anything.
Ray was the bigger man, though, and he ignored the irritating little git. He staggered a bit closer, and made sure to press his face right up close to him.
"I said... you think you can just land in from Hyde and take my job?"
The lad was on the ropes, Ray could tell by the way he scrunched up that ugly mush of his. Ray blinked to keep him in focus; he wanted to see him cry.
Sam licked his lips, and Ray wondered briefly - irrationally - if the poof was planning to kiss him. But he didn't.
"Well, you know what, Ray? I thought the job should really go to someone who could actually understand it."
Ray reeled backwards a bit, brow furrowed, trying to get the words in the right order in his head. He glared at Sam. Had Tyler said what Ray thought he'd said?
Sam's smirk was smug enough to answer his question, as well as fully justify everything that Ray did to him when he was explaining himself to The Gov the next day.
4.
For someone who looked so knackered all the time, he could sleep for England.
It was something that had always amused Gene. Well, annoyed him, really. But it was interesting, whatever else it was, and it was these interesting things that kept Gene occupied in the early hours of the morning, when it was too close to work to sleep, but he was too close to Sam to get up.
Sam was sleeping as he always slept, like the pissing dead. Scrumched up and knocked out, he looked far younger than he did when he was poncing about the office glaring at people. Looked almost... alright.
Gene tilted his head to one side and studied Sam. A get big wedge of light was shining through the ratty curtains, and it fell right onto Sam's face, but still he didn't wake up. Just stayed there in
his own dream world, with his face open and completely relaxed - not even Gene got to see him like this very often.
The more time Gene spent with Sam - which was increasing with a rate proportional only to Gene's manly sexual prowess, of course - the more he realised that his D.I. was not at all like he first appeared. For example, you could say, at first glance, that Tyler was a stick-up-his arse, know-it-all gayboy... And he was, but he was so much more than that, and all.
He was funny as fuck, sharp as a razor and just tingling with this sort of electricity... and he gave the best blow jobs in the business. He was evil, he was annoying, he was pernickety, he was depressing, he was awkward, he was stubborn, he was negative... But he was Gene's.
Overcome with something like fondness, something like bemusement, Gene reached over and sort of nudged Sam's cheek with the heel of his hand. Sam's eyes drifted sluggishly open, fuggy with sleep, and Gene smiled despite himself.
Sam let out a breath, and smiled back - understanding - before turning his head to the other side and closing his eyes again.
5.
The day began like any other. Sam snapped awake with his face stuck to the report he'd been working on the night before. He was still in his shirt and, as he sat up, he wondered if he'd ever give in and buy a pair of pyjamas.
He put the kettle on the gas cooker, and yawned while he got glass bottle of milk out the fridge. He smelt it; on the turn, but still alright.
Drifting across to the television set, he switched it on and was amused for ten minutes or so that the episode of 'Some Mothers Do 'Ave 'Em' where Michael Crawford goes under the bus on his roller skates was being enjoyed for the first time... But then the kettle made a weird banging noise, and he leapt up to take it off the heat and pour his tea.
Wandering back across the room, Sam put a new shirt on - he couldn't be arsed to change, and it was not like a bit of body odour would be noticed in the cess-pit that was the CIS duty room. He spotted the book by his bed that he was going to lend to Annie, and picked it up.
Holding it in his teeth, he picked up his leather jacket, and swung it on, then he attacked his cowboy boots. Sam tucked the book under his arm, went to the fridge, and retrieved the bottle of Lucozade he needed to give Chris in return for the one he'd nicked the day before, when he'd felt rough coming back from the backseat of Gene's car.
It was only when he had both hands full that he realised he hadn't brushed his teeth. Setting everything down on the wobbly table, he clattered into the bathroom - checking his watch because Ray would have a go at him and tell him to 'set an example' with that fucking glib way he had. Ramming the toothpasted brush into his mouth and scrubbing as fast as he could, Sam glanced up at the mirror.
He stopped brushing. He put the toothbrush down, spat into the basin, and then looked again. Really looked hard.
A smile slowly spread across his face. And it was only then that Sam truly believed he was home.
Title: Four Times Sam Tyler Woke Up On Someone Else's Floor (And One Time He Didn't)
Author:ailcia
Rating: Swearing
Pairing: Gene/Sam, hint of Sam/Annie, fairly gen, though.
Spoilers: None
Author Notes: For lo0o0ony_lauren who knows my kinks too well. :D
1.
Sam groaned before he'd ever opened his eyes, because he could feel floorboards under his spine. And he could taste that increasing familiar horrid, bitter flavour of unbrushed teeth, too much whisky and someone else’s stale spittle. And he could feel his shirt crusting at the armpits and his cords digging into his hip, his belt cutting off blood circulation to his lower body. He didn't want to open his eyes and stare at unfamiliar wallpaper. He didn't want to creep out of someone else’s flat in his bare feet, holding his shoes and his breath and desperately hoping he didn't wake them up... He was too old for this shit, and the free-love generation wasn't fucking real.
But it had to be done. And, like ripping off a plaster, it had to be done quick, before your brain got the better of you. Sam snapped his eyes open and tried to moan as what felt like all the light in the universe rushed right into his eyes. He lay there, like a goldfish out of it's bowl - or a man out of his time - blinking in the shaft of sunlight that shone through the gap in the stripy curtains behind the sofa.
The sofa? What the fuck?
Lifting his head off the ground, Sam gazed blearily around, trying to get the living room in focus.
"You're awake."
Her voice startled him, and his head snaps to the side. There stands Annie in the doorway, looking as fresh and as pretty as she always does though pale and uneasy, one hand rubbing her arm awkwardly.
Sam clears his throat, and forces his aching body to sit up straight. "I am."
He wants to ask why he's on the floor, why he feels like a the worst piece of shit in the world, why she doesn't step closer. Sam wants to ask why he came here last night... But he thinks he can guess, and the fact she's avoiding his eye tells him more than he could ever make himself ask.
"Please leave, sir." Her voice is small, and it catches on the last word.
Sam closes his eyes again and nods, not half as surprised as he should have been.
"Yeah."
2.
"Boss? You up?"
The words slink through his subconscious, needling and nagging at him. He tries to ignore them, tries to ignore that slightly dazed, slightly wondering (totally thick) voice... But it's impossible, and the crunching of toast from somewhere near his right earlobe - accompanied, as ever, by the tinkling of crumbs on the side of his face - forces Sam to open his eyes in irritation.
He hears the smile rather than sees it - understandable, really, considering how hard he's glaring at the chair leg nearest to him.
"Morning, boss! You sleep right like the dead, you do."
Crunch, chew, cough, crunch.
Sam screws his sandpaper eyes shut, and rubs the side of his head across the floor, feeling the carpet burn on his skin. He lets out a groan as the pain seeps into his skull. He's so tired.
"I know, boss... And I'm dead sorry and all, what with you only getting a couple hours kip after last night and everything, but- "
"Chris, if you don't shut up right this second..." Sam warns, feeling a thumping sensation start at the bridge of his nose.
The younger man steps away from him, and Sam almost smiles because it's funny that he's so scared of him. No one else is.
"We've, it's just - sorry, boss - but, err, we've got to, you know..."
"Spit it out, Chris." He mumbles, because he doesn't want to kick the lad's legs out from under him because, really, he quite likes Chris, he's just too tired for him.
"But, you told me to lip up." Confusion. Always total confusion.
"Chris."
"Well, we've got to go into work, haven't we? Gov said."
A mug of tea is slopped onto the carpet and Sam's rolled up jacket-come-pillow as it's set down next to him, and without another word, Chris shuffles off.
And it's probably the most sensible thing Chris has ever said, because Sam had, for a minute or so, quite forgotten.
3.
You can't just shag yourself to reality, Sam, that's not how it works, alright? Nothing is like it is on the telly, and you've become the last cliche of the 70s: the drunken, swearing, smoking embittered copper with stains on his shirt... And you wake up on the floor of someone elses' room - some slapper you picked up down the pub, told her all your gruesome stories, didn't you? You wake up with your trousers round your ankles and saliva pooling in your neck, on the floor where you fell, too fucked to get to her bed... and where is she, anyway? And don't you feel proud, Sammy?
4.
"Come on, boss. Don't be a gayboy all your life, alright? The Gov'll..."
Seeping through the haze comes the gruff words, but it's like Sam's head is wrapped up in cotton wool and broken glass, because he cannot for the life of him work out who said it... And he can't open his sore eyes wide enough to see who's tentatively shaking his shoulders.
"Come on... Boss... Sam..."
It sounds like Ray - all fucked off and mean-tempered, and the words sound as if they're half-obscured by that ridiculous moustache... But Ray doesn't call him Sam... No one does, no one except, sometimes-
"Sam."
And there it is. It all comes rushing back to him. Hostage. Gun pointed at someone who shouldn't be shot ever. The bullet in the belly. Hitting the floor and hearing something pop in his shoulder. Blinding white pain, all the energy being stolen away from his limbs, and then... Then nothing.
It was probably for the best. No one would miss him, and maybe, just maybe he'd get back home. Home, where no one gets shot with a sawn-off rifle for one hundred quid... Where police wear stab-vests and visors for protection, and not hip flasks. Where Sam doesn't care enough about anyone to take a bullet for them. Home would be so easy to slip away to. His life wouldn't hurt half so much.
He feels rough hands - impossibly warm - brush across his cheeks and he shivers because suddenly he's colder than he's ever been before. He moans because he feels so sick, so terribly sick, and his stomach burns horribly and the freezing concrete underneath him seems to melt ice into his skin...
But the hands are holding tighter now, and the voice is so soft. Softer than ever... But, surely, he should be angry with him for getting shot.
"Open your eyes for me, Sammy Boy... Please."
And Sam does, immediately and without question, even though it hurts more than words can say to wake up properly... but Gene doesn't say please for anyone. And when he opens his eyes to find that sharp green gaze filling his whole vision, Sam's glad he did wake up after all.
5.
Awareness creeps into his bones like the sun over pavement; it finds all the cracks in his skin and fills them with light, exposing every shadow and warming every inch of stone... Still half-asleep, Sam smiles, and buries his face deeper into the soft, sun-warmed mattress, hugging it closer to him.
"Do you mind?"
The slurred words stir him into awareness, and he opens his eyes slowly. He's on the floor - again, what is wrong with him? But the floor is somewhat comfier than usual.
Sam looks about blearily. He lies on the floor next to the horrid camp-bed, but his limbs are cushioned and his legs are tangled up with someone else’s, and there are arms wrapped all the way around him and underneath his ear there is the comforting throb of a slightly-sluggish heartbeat. He looks up, eyebrows raised in confusion.
Gene is watching him down his own nose, face contorted in a bizarre half-grimace, half-grin. "What you doing, you mad git?"