ailcia
in
lifein1973
(no subject)
TITLE: Two Foot Small
AUTHOR:
ailcia/Alice
SUMMARY: Here I stand, head in hand, turn my face to the wall; I can see them laugh at me...
RATING: Swearing
PAIRINGS: Sam/Chris (although it doesn't even have to be slash, really)
A/N: This if for
pernickety, who wanted Sam/Chris (I'm sorry, love, I did try!) and for
sizzleleg, who I recently got drunk and made her watch the first three episodes (I abused her, essentially, and I'm not ashamed to admit it) and whom is now totally gone. Also, instead of sleeping in order to be able to function at work in some hours, I wrote this: so comments would be much appreciated! Also, thanks to
lo0o0ony_lauren for BETAing my shizz once again. She knows her stuff, that girl.
DISCLAIMER: This is all in nothingness.
“All of them need to be trained in basic interrogation techniques.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“It’s standard procedure. It ensures every unit has a good strong foundation in standing, allowing mobile workers more time to- ”
“Jesus wept! Will you ever shut your flapping trap for longer than a heartbeat? You’re making my ears ring!”
“I’m just saying, Gene, that we need to train the DCs up, otherwise when one of us goes there’ll be no-”
“Good to know you have faith in me and my men, Tyler. Really helpful and positive, that.”
“Positivity isn’t going to get us anywhere without major key skills!”
“Can’t you practice this new-wave education on Cartwright?
“I… Can’t. She’s in the Lake District.”
“Shame. She does so like it when you go off on one.”
“Gene-”
“… Gets her knickers all wringing.”
“GOV!”
He didn’t even hear them come in: he never did. No matter how much noise they made, they always came in just as he was staring off into space or thinking about something else.
Miles away in his own thoughts, the first Chris knew of the argument taking place behind his desk, was when The Gov barrelled past, knocking all his carefully-stacked folders across the floor with his broad arse on the way.
Chris reached down with a sigh, narrowly missing smacking his forehead off the desk as he did so. He leaned precariously on his chair to try and snag the fallen papers, which were annoyingly just out of reach. Suddenly they were in his hand and he glanced up. Warm, steady eyes met his, and Chris felt a small tingle in his hand where rough skin brushed his own. Sam gave a quick smile and then stood straight, snatching his hand back. Chris let out a breath that rustled the papers he now held.
Someone was talking - bellowing, even - from somewhere behind him. The words eventually filtered through, and he blinked back into the ops room in time to hear a clap of hands.
“Here we go. What’s the Mad Hatter cooked up this time, eh, Gov?”
Chris glanced round to see Ray leaning back smugly in his seat, one huge gorilla arm slung over the back of the chair. Gene rewarded him with a brief easing of the fierce scowl on his face, before it fell back into place again. Sam just glared at him and crossed his arms.
“I didn’t know you’d read Alice In Wonderland, Ray.”
Ray shrugged. “Read it when I was twelve, didn’t I?”
Sam nodded smartly. “Yeah… Tell me, was that the last book you read, or the first?”
A sort of hushed splutter echoed throughout the room, and even Chris had to suppress a chuckle. Ray looked thunderous.
“Ladies, as entertaining as it is to watch you beat the shit out of each other with your verbal dollies, we’ve got work to do.” Gene settled himself back against the desk opposite Chris, and Chris tried not to wince when his sharp eyes clapped on him: The Gov always made him feel guilty, as if he knew everything that he’d ever done wrong. Luckily, the steely eyes drifted inevitably back to Sam, and Chris couldn’t help but feel suddenly very sorry for his superior.
“Gladys, would you like to enlighten the troops on what stupid-arse thing you want to try on the Collins case?”
Sam rolled his eyes, but stepped into the limelight nevertheless, arms outstretched. “I just wanted someone to give me a hand on something- ”
“An’ seeing as there’s no other girls here, you’ll have to do, Chris!” Gene cried gleefully.
“Used to filling in for girls, in’t you, Chris?” Ray grinned and waggled his eyebrows as he brought the cigarette up to his lips. Sam threw up his hands and left the room with frustration as Gene laughed.
Chris bowed with a flourish, tripping over his feet as he did so: the old hands at the back chuckled and he saw Ray shake his head. Job done, he followed Sam through into the corridor as he stalked off ahead.
“What is it, boss? Ninjas?”
Chris grinned with pleasure as he caught up with Sam, pleased that they still had that in-joke; it always earned him something. It was hard getting a reaction out of the boss, and every time it was a frustrated groan or an indulgent smile, Chris knew Sam wasn’t as cold as Ray said.
But this time, it was neither. Sam just stopped dead and Chris had to pull up sharp to keep from running nose-first into his shoulder.
“Chris,” Sam said, and Chris felt his stomach drop a bit as the hard, serious gaze hit him all of a sudden. He fought the urge to step back.
“I need you to stop dicking around for a minute and get your work head on, right?” Sam looked so urgent, as if this really, really mattered. Chris swallowed as Sam looked away. “Now, Gene doesn’t want you in on this, but I said you should be given a go: you can observe the techniques and that. I need you to not let me down. We… We need to prove him wrong on this, okay?”
Chris suddenly felt like the biggest idiot in the world. Once again, Sam was sticking his neck out for him, and all he could do was clown about. His gaze dropped to his boots, and he felt his shoulders slip down with guilt. “Sorry, boss.”
Sam didn’t answer, and they stood awkwardly in the corridor for a minute or so. Suddenly, Chris felt a brisk pat on the side of his arm. Chris looked up to see Sam smiling at him, as if embarrassed. “Don’t… worry about it.”
Chris couldn’t help smiling back, nodding eagerly, and Sam gave him a final pat on the arm before ducking his head and disappearing into Lost and Found. After a second, Cris followed.
Sitting on the side of the desk nearest the wall was a huge, broad bloke who Chris knew from the victim ID was the rapist Collins. He looked friendly enough - all pleasant smiles and twinkling blue eyes - but Chris wasn’t that thick. He knew better than to trust a book by its cover, especially when the book was 6ft 3 and with hands the size of spades.
Still, a little thrill of excitement went through him as he took his place along the wall, and the suspect nodded respectfully at him. He’d not been in on an interrogation before - well, he’d stood around the edges of them, and he’d manhandled the tape recorder into submission many a time, but nothing like being part of the proper questioning with The Gov not there and everything-
“Chris.”
He looked up: Sam was stood between the two chairs on the other side of Collins, looking at him expectantly. Chris tried to think about what he might have done wrong… He didn’t have his flies open did he?
“You want… to come sit down?” Sam asked tentatively, and the penny dropped with a clunk.
“Oh, right, yeah. Sorry, boss,” Chris stumbled towards him, and sat in the seat nearest to him. Sam yelped in pain as the chair leg slammed onto his foot, and Chris leapt to his feet as if his arse were on fire.
“Shit, sorry, boss!”
Sam fell backwards, hopping up and down slightly and clutching at his foot. He looked like he was about to yell or cry or throw up - or maybe all three - but when Chris went to try and help, he backed away quickly, holding a hand out as if for mercy.
“I’m fine! I’m fine, Chris. Sit down, will you?”
Chris did so at once, and watched as Sam gingerly tested his foot, limping a couple of paces and then limping back, wincing all the way and pretending he wasn’t. Sam glanced up at him, and tried to smile… the effect was ruined somewhat as he’d gone as white a sheet.
“You two the music hall act, then? Or do I need to pay for the real Cannon and Ball stuff?”
He’d almost forgotten Collins was there. He was watching them, arms folded in front of his huge chest, amusement in every laughter line of his face. They must have looked like the biggest joke in the world to seasoned criminal like him.
Chris quickly averted his gaze. Sam sat down next to him with a sigh, plonking the tape recorder on the table, along with his notebook and a handful of pens. Chris felt inordinately stupid when he realised he’d brought nothing but his pack of fags.
He took these out now, risking a glance to the side, expecting to see the familiar look of total disappointment: luckily Sam was fiddling with the clapped out machine, the sudden focus hardening his face. He looked like he looked all those months ago, when he’d first arrived: the face he had on him when he was desperately trying to tweezer some invisible fibres out from under a victim’s nail on nothing but a throwaway guess. Chris had always thought Sam was what total and utter concentration looked like.
“Earth to copper!”
A hand waved in front of his face and he jumped back in his chair. Collins reeled back in alarm, then coughed and grinned uneasily. “Sorry, mate, was just wondering who you are. Not met you before… Met your boss, like: nasty bit of kit, him.”
Chris wasn’t sure what you said to something like that - do you even have to defend your DCI to a raper? Was it something you were supposed to do… like one of them symbolical things? He opened his mouth, hoping the answer might come to him before he finished whatever he was going to say, but Sam saved him.
“This, Mr Collins, is DC Skelton. He’ll be conducting your interview.”
Chris looked around in alarm, panic flaring within him. He hadn’t thought he’d be leading the interview. Phyllis had always said he couldn’t lead a rabbit to a carrot, let alone get him to take a bite.
But Sam just looked at him calmly, eyebrows raised as if inviting doubt. Any fear Chris felt was immediately extinguished when he realised that Sam had done this for a reason. Sam did everything for a reason - no matter how mental it was - and he couldn’t help but trust him entirely. If Sam thought he could do it, he could do it. The boss knew everything, and he wouldn’t have said he could do it if he didn’t believe it… The Gov hadn’t wanted him to, but sometimes - just sometimes, mind - Chris thought Sam might know a little bit better.
Tearing his eyes away from Sam’s encouraging gaze, Chris started sifting through the folder Sam had placed in front of him with shaky fingers, feeling his cheeks growing warm under Collins’ good-natured gaze.
“Right, yeah… Well, now….”
A hand dropped to rest on his knee, giving it a charitable squeeze. At first, Chris looked up at Collins with horror. But then Sam gave a polite cough, and Chris’ stomach slowly drifted back down from his throat, a warm feeling seeping through his chest.
“Right, then, Mr Collins… Can I ask you where you were at 11pm precisely on the night in question?”
------
The atmosphere in The Railway Arms was thick with the hard-earned sweat, and drunken laughter and muggy, confused conversations. It was past everyone’s bedtimes and it was a Friday night: they’d all see dawn rising over the beer pumps, and they all knew it, and it made them race each other to the finish line. Same as every Friday.
Ray and Gene were in one corner with five other lads for A and B-division, and there was a particularly violent game of chicken going on. Chris wasn’t sure of the rules, but it seemed to involve Gene’s zippo lighter, the smell of singed moustaches and a lot of laughter.
‘She’s So Heavy’ was throbbing in the background of the loud pub, pulsating beneath the cigarette smoke. Despite being a bit full-on for the average entertainment venue, it was one of Nelson’s favourites, and they’d all heard it a dozen times. But instead of soothing Chris, this time it only helped churn up the thoughts in his head and the feelings in his chest. He was trying to explain himself to Sam, but wasn’t really getting very far, and hadn’t been for the past few hours. Yet Sam was still listening.
Chris took another drag of his nearly-spent cigarettes. Blowing the smoke into his pint glass as he took a hasty gulp, his already bloodshot eyes watered as he looked up at Sam.
“I’d just, you know, always thought rapists would…. You know, look more like rapists.”
Sam was leaning heavily on the bar, one fist propping up his head, chin tilted backwards and watching Chris through sleepy eyes. He took a deep breath, blinked slowly, and then exhaled through his frown, his voice whisky-thick.
“Well, they’re not going to have tattoos on their heads, are they, Chris?”
It seemed so obvious when he said - everything did. Chris looked away moodily, burning his fingers as he took the last snort of his snout.
“Should have,” he muttered as he stubbed it out, aware that he was sulking, but suddenly too tired to care.
Something in Sam’s eyes flared, and he slammed his hand down on the bar, causing Phyllis to jump and scowl at him. He ignored her, leaning into Chris’ space, chin jutted forward angrily and eyes squinted in displeasure. “These aren’t monsters, Chris. These are people. Real people with problems. They… They don’t always know what they’re doing. They might need help. They deserve being put away for whatever it is they’ve done, but they don’t deserve to be-”
“I know,” Chris said, voice soft and humble. Sam stopped at once, as if the wind had been stolen from his sails. Almost as if he hadn’t expected Chris to understand.
“Shit, sorry, boss…”
“Chris…”
They both started and stopped at the same time. After a second of silence, Sam shook his head and pushed himself upright, signalling to Nelson for two more pints as he did so. Chris watched him and wondered mildly how he did that so smoothly: just a flick of two fingers, and two pints appeared. He wondered if he’d ever be able to do that. Perhaps Sam could give him lessons-
A burst of bellowed excitement from over the other side of the pub caused Sam to look away from him for a moment. Chris watched as the long muscle at the side of Sam’s neck flexed, St Christopher medal glinting in the dimmed lights behind the bar. Sam smiled as Gene started shouting along to the song, and the nerve hidden in the kiss of his collarbone jumped hypnotically.
He’d seemed more peaceful recently, Chris thought. Now him and Annie had settled back to normal after the thing they’d had a couple of months back, and they’d stop glaring at each other over the mint custard and making everyone hate Sam even more. Once that had all calmed down, Sam didn’t look half as mad as he had before. He was still totally cracked, like - not even Chris could ignore all the hand gestures, the frantic switching on and off of radios, the too-short hair, and the fact Sam had chucked his telly out his flat window a couple of weeks ago.
Despite all that, he seemed less… frantic with it. Like he’d worked it all out of his system or something. He smiled easier and he laughed quicker. He still went ten-bells with The Gov, but he no longer looked like he was in danger of throttling you with your own collar if you disagreed with him. In fact, looking at him now - with that barely-there half-smile playing about his lips, eyes crinkling with amusement as he watched Gene clatter about with the chairs - Chris found it hard to imagine a time where he’d ever been unsure about the boss. Not now, after all he’d done for him.
A strange feeling stirred suddenly right in the bottom of his belly, as if his insides had turned over, and he jolted slightly on the spindly bar stood. Sam’s attention immediately snapped back to him, a hand coming up to rest maddeningly at the base of his back.
“Chris, you alright?”
“Fine, boss.” The words seemed garbled and rushed even to him, and Sam took a dizzying step closer to him. Chris could feel the pungent brush of his breath drifting against his face and suddenly his tongue seemed too big for his mouth and he gagged a bit, the bar tipping away from him.
“Woah!”
Hands that were stronger than they looked caught him, stopped him from falling all the way down, and a great cheer went up from all round the bar who’d seen his unceremonious topple. Under normal circumstances, he’d be too wankered to do anything but grin proudly before he puked into whatever someone had held up for him. But this was different. He wasn’t wankered - well, not really. A bit wobbly in the old pins, but still in control of himself for once, which was odd considering how he was still leaning fairly heavily against Sam, and his hands were clutched in the folds of the bloke’s leather jacket, and Sam’s hands still gripping his chest.
“’Ere na’, you best be takin’ him home, mon brav’ ,” the words drifted across to him, and he couldn’t help thinking that might be a bit of a brilliant idea. “He ‘bout lost ‘is feet.”
“Yeah.” Sam’s voice came, hushed and furtive, tickling Chris’ ear. “Cheers, Nelson.”
Chris tried to get his feet back under him, but the way Sam was propping him up, he only succeeded in stumbling further, causing Sam to stagger backwards and into a chair. Another cheer was sent into the thick air, and Chris suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to curl up behind the bar and die. Perhaps Nelson needed a floor-warmer.
“Come on, you big lump,” Sam manoeuvred one of Chris’ arms around his shoulder to a chorus of jeers and the sound of a bottle smashing against the wall and Nelson yelling.
Sam was mumbling something soothing under his breath, and his hand was rubbing comforting circles on Chris’ shoulder: he clearly thought Chris was far more gone than he was. Chris couldn’t bring himself to complain… and if he’d just felt what he thought he’d felt, he must be as gone as all that. Because, otherwise, that made him everything Ray and The Gov said Sam was.
But then, what was wrong with that? After all, it was Sam who’d shown Chris that he could do it: that he didn’t have to be a carbon-copy of Ray to make it in a business that was sometimes so horrible Chris couldn’t eat his tea at night, no matter if it was chicken pie, even. He didn’t have to try and be like Ray: didn’t have to continually disappoint himself by failing, by just not being able to be that tough, that unconcerned. Ray was the best copper in the world, Chris had always thought… Until Sam had come along and shown him a different way, a way that meant he could go to sleep at night, and he could wake up in the morning and not wish he could just sleep forever. Sam had made Chris love his job again, and had made him like being himself, and Chris just… couldn’t think how to thank him without sounding like a big girl. But would Sam mind, even?
The cold night air hit him like a brick wall as the door swung closed behind them with a bang, cutting off his train of thought abruptly. He jumped at the noise, and Sam’s hand moved up to clutch the back of his neck, steering him down one side of the pavement. And, as his cold fingers got at the bit of skin between Chris’ collar and his hair, he flinched away, clumsily lost his footing on the kerb, and fell down with an impressive thud, winded as all the air rushed out of his lungs at once.
A sort of stunned silence fell, except for Chris’ wheezing gasps and the roar of distant traffic.
Chris wished he could think of something to say: he wracked his brains as he picked himself painfully up off the floor. Tried to think of something that might trick Sam into thinking he wasn’t an idiot and that his behaviour was down to… a stomach bug or something. If Ray got away with castle-rustling, he could sure as hell fire blag gut flu.
He looked up, fully prepared to launch into an explanation - as long and as elaborate as he could make it, despite being the worst liar in the district… But Sam was a bit closer than he’d imagined. Just in front of him, actually. And just looking at him. Just stood, in the middle of the road, about an inch away from him, watching him. Chris couldn’t see his eyes, because it was dark and Sam’s head was tilted down slightly, so the orange light from the blinking streetlamp behind him cast shadows across his face.
“What’s up with you, Chris?” Sam slurred, as if he was thinking out-loud more than asking.
And there it was. The fact that Sam thought about Chris… Not just as a copper, not just as the fall-boy or the joker, but as something worthwhile. Maybe he was a bit far gone, but Chris suddenly felt a great big surge of gratitude fill up in his chest. He smiled, letting out a shaky breath.
“I’m just… really glad you’re here, boss.”
And before he’d known what he’d done, he’d kissed him. In a moment of madness and sudden, overwhelming glee, he’d kissed the boss, full on the mouth. And, what was more, quite to his surprise, the boss had responded. He felt a hand tangle in the hair at the base of his neck, pulling him closer and he’d stumbled, his hand slipping into the inside of Sam’s jacket of it’s own accord, coming to rest on one skinny hip. They stood still, held together by the orange streetlight and the sheer oddness of the moment itself.
Finally he broke away, clattering backwards with sudden alarm: “Shit, boss, sorry!”
Sam held up his hands, calmly - always so fucking calm. “Woah, Chris, it’s alright!”
“No it bloody isn’t!” Chris cried out, and Sam winced, glancing in alarm at the rowdy figures moving dully behind the pub’s smudged windows. No one had seen, and his shoulders inched downwards once more.
Chris shook his head, and rubbed it with the palm of his hand. He’d totally gone and buggered everything sideways: Ray would never speak to him again, The Gov would kick him off the force and Sam… What if Sam stopped trying to make him better? What would he do then, if he’d been given this grand glimpse of something better in his future, and then suddenly all means of getting it just disappeared. What would he do if Sam became like the rest of them? All for nothing? All because he couldn’t say thank you any other way. Fucking idiot.
He felt tears prickle in his eyes, hot mortification flushing through him, making his skin crawl. He turned away quickly so that Sam couldn’t see him cry. That’d really be the icing on the cake, wouldn’t it?
“It’s not alright… What did I go and do that for?”
He hadn’t really expected an answer - the whispered words, garbled through a thick throat, slipped out of him. But, nevertheless, a hand slid up his back and round his shoulders, and Sam’s spirit-soaked voice - course, he’d have to be muntered to be pressed so hard into his inferior at 4am after said inferior had just snogged him - breathed in his ear, once more: “You know what, Chris?”
Chris shook his head miserably, and only looked up when Sam squeezed his shoulders.
“I’m really glad you’re here, too.”
He looked up. Sam was beaming at him. His face was just inches from Chris’, and his eyes were reduced to pin-pricks in the night light, but his smile was everything Chris could see. And he knew, he just knew Sam had known that he was just trying to say thankyou all along. "Really?"
Sam leaned closer, brushing their foreheads against each other. "Really."
--------
The End
--------
AUTHOR:
ailcia/Alice
SUMMARY: Here I stand, head in hand, turn my face to the wall; I can see them laugh at me...
RATING: Swearing
PAIRINGS: Sam/Chris (although it doesn't even have to be slash, really)
A/N: This if for
pernickety, who wanted Sam/Chris (I'm sorry, love, I did try!) and for
sizzleleg, who I recently got drunk and made her watch the first three episodes (I abused her, essentially, and I'm not ashamed to admit it) and whom is now totally gone. Also, instead of sleeping in order to be able to function at work in some hours, I wrote this: so comments would be much appreciated! Also, thanks to
lo0o0ony_lauren for BETAing my shizz once again. She knows her stuff, that girl.
DISCLAIMER: This is all in nothingness.
“All of them need to be trained in basic interrogation techniques.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“It’s standard procedure. It ensures every unit has a good strong foundation in standing, allowing mobile workers more time to- ”
“Jesus wept! Will you ever shut your flapping trap for longer than a heartbeat? You’re making my ears ring!”
“I’m just saying, Gene, that we need to train the DCs up, otherwise when one of us goes there’ll be no-”
“Good to know you have faith in me and my men, Tyler. Really helpful and positive, that.”
“Positivity isn’t going to get us anywhere without major key skills!”
“Can’t you practice this new-wave education on Cartwright?
“I… Can’t. She’s in the Lake District.”
“Shame. She does so like it when you go off on one.”
“Gene-”
“… Gets her knickers all wringing.”
“GOV!”
He didn’t even hear them come in: he never did. No matter how much noise they made, they always came in just as he was staring off into space or thinking about something else.
Miles away in his own thoughts, the first Chris knew of the argument taking place behind his desk, was when The Gov barrelled past, knocking all his carefully-stacked folders across the floor with his broad arse on the way.
Chris reached down with a sigh, narrowly missing smacking his forehead off the desk as he did so. He leaned precariously on his chair to try and snag the fallen papers, which were annoyingly just out of reach. Suddenly they were in his hand and he glanced up. Warm, steady eyes met his, and Chris felt a small tingle in his hand where rough skin brushed his own. Sam gave a quick smile and then stood straight, snatching his hand back. Chris let out a breath that rustled the papers he now held.
Someone was talking - bellowing, even - from somewhere behind him. The words eventually filtered through, and he blinked back into the ops room in time to hear a clap of hands.
“Here we go. What’s the Mad Hatter cooked up this time, eh, Gov?”
Chris glanced round to see Ray leaning back smugly in his seat, one huge gorilla arm slung over the back of the chair. Gene rewarded him with a brief easing of the fierce scowl on his face, before it fell back into place again. Sam just glared at him and crossed his arms.
“I didn’t know you’d read Alice In Wonderland, Ray.”
Ray shrugged. “Read it when I was twelve, didn’t I?”
Sam nodded smartly. “Yeah… Tell me, was that the last book you read, or the first?”
A sort of hushed splutter echoed throughout the room, and even Chris had to suppress a chuckle. Ray looked thunderous.
“Ladies, as entertaining as it is to watch you beat the shit out of each other with your verbal dollies, we’ve got work to do.” Gene settled himself back against the desk opposite Chris, and Chris tried not to wince when his sharp eyes clapped on him: The Gov always made him feel guilty, as if he knew everything that he’d ever done wrong. Luckily, the steely eyes drifted inevitably back to Sam, and Chris couldn’t help but feel suddenly very sorry for his superior.
“Gladys, would you like to enlighten the troops on what stupid-arse thing you want to try on the Collins case?”
Sam rolled his eyes, but stepped into the limelight nevertheless, arms outstretched. “I just wanted someone to give me a hand on something- ”
“An’ seeing as there’s no other girls here, you’ll have to do, Chris!” Gene cried gleefully.
“Used to filling in for girls, in’t you, Chris?” Ray grinned and waggled his eyebrows as he brought the cigarette up to his lips. Sam threw up his hands and left the room with frustration as Gene laughed.
Chris bowed with a flourish, tripping over his feet as he did so: the old hands at the back chuckled and he saw Ray shake his head. Job done, he followed Sam through into the corridor as he stalked off ahead.
“What is it, boss? Ninjas?”
Chris grinned with pleasure as he caught up with Sam, pleased that they still had that in-joke; it always earned him something. It was hard getting a reaction out of the boss, and every time it was a frustrated groan or an indulgent smile, Chris knew Sam wasn’t as cold as Ray said.
But this time, it was neither. Sam just stopped dead and Chris had to pull up sharp to keep from running nose-first into his shoulder.
“Chris,” Sam said, and Chris felt his stomach drop a bit as the hard, serious gaze hit him all of a sudden. He fought the urge to step back.
“I need you to stop dicking around for a minute and get your work head on, right?” Sam looked so urgent, as if this really, really mattered. Chris swallowed as Sam looked away. “Now, Gene doesn’t want you in on this, but I said you should be given a go: you can observe the techniques and that. I need you to not let me down. We… We need to prove him wrong on this, okay?”
Chris suddenly felt like the biggest idiot in the world. Once again, Sam was sticking his neck out for him, and all he could do was clown about. His gaze dropped to his boots, and he felt his shoulders slip down with guilt. “Sorry, boss.”
Sam didn’t answer, and they stood awkwardly in the corridor for a minute or so. Suddenly, Chris felt a brisk pat on the side of his arm. Chris looked up to see Sam smiling at him, as if embarrassed. “Don’t… worry about it.”
Chris couldn’t help smiling back, nodding eagerly, and Sam gave him a final pat on the arm before ducking his head and disappearing into Lost and Found. After a second, Cris followed.
Sitting on the side of the desk nearest the wall was a huge, broad bloke who Chris knew from the victim ID was the rapist Collins. He looked friendly enough - all pleasant smiles and twinkling blue eyes - but Chris wasn’t that thick. He knew better than to trust a book by its cover, especially when the book was 6ft 3 and with hands the size of spades.
Still, a little thrill of excitement went through him as he took his place along the wall, and the suspect nodded respectfully at him. He’d not been in on an interrogation before - well, he’d stood around the edges of them, and he’d manhandled the tape recorder into submission many a time, but nothing like being part of the proper questioning with The Gov not there and everything-
“Chris.”
He looked up: Sam was stood between the two chairs on the other side of Collins, looking at him expectantly. Chris tried to think about what he might have done wrong… He didn’t have his flies open did he?
“You want… to come sit down?” Sam asked tentatively, and the penny dropped with a clunk.
“Oh, right, yeah. Sorry, boss,” Chris stumbled towards him, and sat in the seat nearest to him. Sam yelped in pain as the chair leg slammed onto his foot, and Chris leapt to his feet as if his arse were on fire.
“Shit, sorry, boss!”
Sam fell backwards, hopping up and down slightly and clutching at his foot. He looked like he was about to yell or cry or throw up - or maybe all three - but when Chris went to try and help, he backed away quickly, holding a hand out as if for mercy.
“I’m fine! I’m fine, Chris. Sit down, will you?”
Chris did so at once, and watched as Sam gingerly tested his foot, limping a couple of paces and then limping back, wincing all the way and pretending he wasn’t. Sam glanced up at him, and tried to smile… the effect was ruined somewhat as he’d gone as white a sheet.
“You two the music hall act, then? Or do I need to pay for the real Cannon and Ball stuff?”
He’d almost forgotten Collins was there. He was watching them, arms folded in front of his huge chest, amusement in every laughter line of his face. They must have looked like the biggest joke in the world to seasoned criminal like him.
Chris quickly averted his gaze. Sam sat down next to him with a sigh, plonking the tape recorder on the table, along with his notebook and a handful of pens. Chris felt inordinately stupid when he realised he’d brought nothing but his pack of fags.
He took these out now, risking a glance to the side, expecting to see the familiar look of total disappointment: luckily Sam was fiddling with the clapped out machine, the sudden focus hardening his face. He looked like he looked all those months ago, when he’d first arrived: the face he had on him when he was desperately trying to tweezer some invisible fibres out from under a victim’s nail on nothing but a throwaway guess. Chris had always thought Sam was what total and utter concentration looked like.
“Earth to copper!”
A hand waved in front of his face and he jumped back in his chair. Collins reeled back in alarm, then coughed and grinned uneasily. “Sorry, mate, was just wondering who you are. Not met you before… Met your boss, like: nasty bit of kit, him.”
Chris wasn’t sure what you said to something like that - do you even have to defend your DCI to a raper? Was it something you were supposed to do… like one of them symbolical things? He opened his mouth, hoping the answer might come to him before he finished whatever he was going to say, but Sam saved him.
“This, Mr Collins, is DC Skelton. He’ll be conducting your interview.”
Chris looked around in alarm, panic flaring within him. He hadn’t thought he’d be leading the interview. Phyllis had always said he couldn’t lead a rabbit to a carrot, let alone get him to take a bite.
But Sam just looked at him calmly, eyebrows raised as if inviting doubt. Any fear Chris felt was immediately extinguished when he realised that Sam had done this for a reason. Sam did everything for a reason - no matter how mental it was - and he couldn’t help but trust him entirely. If Sam thought he could do it, he could do it. The boss knew everything, and he wouldn’t have said he could do it if he didn’t believe it… The Gov hadn’t wanted him to, but sometimes - just sometimes, mind - Chris thought Sam might know a little bit better.
Tearing his eyes away from Sam’s encouraging gaze, Chris started sifting through the folder Sam had placed in front of him with shaky fingers, feeling his cheeks growing warm under Collins’ good-natured gaze.
“Right, yeah… Well, now….”
A hand dropped to rest on his knee, giving it a charitable squeeze. At first, Chris looked up at Collins with horror. But then Sam gave a polite cough, and Chris’ stomach slowly drifted back down from his throat, a warm feeling seeping through his chest.
“Right, then, Mr Collins… Can I ask you where you were at 11pm precisely on the night in question?”
------
The atmosphere in The Railway Arms was thick with the hard-earned sweat, and drunken laughter and muggy, confused conversations. It was past everyone’s bedtimes and it was a Friday night: they’d all see dawn rising over the beer pumps, and they all knew it, and it made them race each other to the finish line. Same as every Friday.
Ray and Gene were in one corner with five other lads for A and B-division, and there was a particularly violent game of chicken going on. Chris wasn’t sure of the rules, but it seemed to involve Gene’s zippo lighter, the smell of singed moustaches and a lot of laughter.
‘She’s So Heavy’ was throbbing in the background of the loud pub, pulsating beneath the cigarette smoke. Despite being a bit full-on for the average entertainment venue, it was one of Nelson’s favourites, and they’d all heard it a dozen times. But instead of soothing Chris, this time it only helped churn up the thoughts in his head and the feelings in his chest. He was trying to explain himself to Sam, but wasn’t really getting very far, and hadn’t been for the past few hours. Yet Sam was still listening.
Chris took another drag of his nearly-spent cigarettes. Blowing the smoke into his pint glass as he took a hasty gulp, his already bloodshot eyes watered as he looked up at Sam.
“I’d just, you know, always thought rapists would…. You know, look more like rapists.”
Sam was leaning heavily on the bar, one fist propping up his head, chin tilted backwards and watching Chris through sleepy eyes. He took a deep breath, blinked slowly, and then exhaled through his frown, his voice whisky-thick.
“Well, they’re not going to have tattoos on their heads, are they, Chris?”
It seemed so obvious when he said - everything did. Chris looked away moodily, burning his fingers as he took the last snort of his snout.
“Should have,” he muttered as he stubbed it out, aware that he was sulking, but suddenly too tired to care.
Something in Sam’s eyes flared, and he slammed his hand down on the bar, causing Phyllis to jump and scowl at him. He ignored her, leaning into Chris’ space, chin jutted forward angrily and eyes squinted in displeasure. “These aren’t monsters, Chris. These are people. Real people with problems. They… They don’t always know what they’re doing. They might need help. They deserve being put away for whatever it is they’ve done, but they don’t deserve to be-”
“I know,” Chris said, voice soft and humble. Sam stopped at once, as if the wind had been stolen from his sails. Almost as if he hadn’t expected Chris to understand.
“Shit, sorry, boss…”
“Chris…”
They both started and stopped at the same time. After a second of silence, Sam shook his head and pushed himself upright, signalling to Nelson for two more pints as he did so. Chris watched him and wondered mildly how he did that so smoothly: just a flick of two fingers, and two pints appeared. He wondered if he’d ever be able to do that. Perhaps Sam could give him lessons-
A burst of bellowed excitement from over the other side of the pub caused Sam to look away from him for a moment. Chris watched as the long muscle at the side of Sam’s neck flexed, St Christopher medal glinting in the dimmed lights behind the bar. Sam smiled as Gene started shouting along to the song, and the nerve hidden in the kiss of his collarbone jumped hypnotically.
He’d seemed more peaceful recently, Chris thought. Now him and Annie had settled back to normal after the thing they’d had a couple of months back, and they’d stop glaring at each other over the mint custard and making everyone hate Sam even more. Once that had all calmed down, Sam didn’t look half as mad as he had before. He was still totally cracked, like - not even Chris could ignore all the hand gestures, the frantic switching on and off of radios, the too-short hair, and the fact Sam had chucked his telly out his flat window a couple of weeks ago.
Despite all that, he seemed less… frantic with it. Like he’d worked it all out of his system or something. He smiled easier and he laughed quicker. He still went ten-bells with The Gov, but he no longer looked like he was in danger of throttling you with your own collar if you disagreed with him. In fact, looking at him now - with that barely-there half-smile playing about his lips, eyes crinkling with amusement as he watched Gene clatter about with the chairs - Chris found it hard to imagine a time where he’d ever been unsure about the boss. Not now, after all he’d done for him.
A strange feeling stirred suddenly right in the bottom of his belly, as if his insides had turned over, and he jolted slightly on the spindly bar stood. Sam’s attention immediately snapped back to him, a hand coming up to rest maddeningly at the base of his back.
“Chris, you alright?”
“Fine, boss.” The words seemed garbled and rushed even to him, and Sam took a dizzying step closer to him. Chris could feel the pungent brush of his breath drifting against his face and suddenly his tongue seemed too big for his mouth and he gagged a bit, the bar tipping away from him.
“Woah!”
Hands that were stronger than they looked caught him, stopped him from falling all the way down, and a great cheer went up from all round the bar who’d seen his unceremonious topple. Under normal circumstances, he’d be too wankered to do anything but grin proudly before he puked into whatever someone had held up for him. But this was different. He wasn’t wankered - well, not really. A bit wobbly in the old pins, but still in control of himself for once, which was odd considering how he was still leaning fairly heavily against Sam, and his hands were clutched in the folds of the bloke’s leather jacket, and Sam’s hands still gripping his chest.
“’Ere na’, you best be takin’ him home, mon brav’ ,” the words drifted across to him, and he couldn’t help thinking that might be a bit of a brilliant idea. “He ‘bout lost ‘is feet.”
“Yeah.” Sam’s voice came, hushed and furtive, tickling Chris’ ear. “Cheers, Nelson.”
Chris tried to get his feet back under him, but the way Sam was propping him up, he only succeeded in stumbling further, causing Sam to stagger backwards and into a chair. Another cheer was sent into the thick air, and Chris suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to curl up behind the bar and die. Perhaps Nelson needed a floor-warmer.
“Come on, you big lump,” Sam manoeuvred one of Chris’ arms around his shoulder to a chorus of jeers and the sound of a bottle smashing against the wall and Nelson yelling.
Sam was mumbling something soothing under his breath, and his hand was rubbing comforting circles on Chris’ shoulder: he clearly thought Chris was far more gone than he was. Chris couldn’t bring himself to complain… and if he’d just felt what he thought he’d felt, he must be as gone as all that. Because, otherwise, that made him everything Ray and The Gov said Sam was.
But then, what was wrong with that? After all, it was Sam who’d shown Chris that he could do it: that he didn’t have to be a carbon-copy of Ray to make it in a business that was sometimes so horrible Chris couldn’t eat his tea at night, no matter if it was chicken pie, even. He didn’t have to try and be like Ray: didn’t have to continually disappoint himself by failing, by just not being able to be that tough, that unconcerned. Ray was the best copper in the world, Chris had always thought… Until Sam had come along and shown him a different way, a way that meant he could go to sleep at night, and he could wake up in the morning and not wish he could just sleep forever. Sam had made Chris love his job again, and had made him like being himself, and Chris just… couldn’t think how to thank him without sounding like a big girl. But would Sam mind, even?
The cold night air hit him like a brick wall as the door swung closed behind them with a bang, cutting off his train of thought abruptly. He jumped at the noise, and Sam’s hand moved up to clutch the back of his neck, steering him down one side of the pavement. And, as his cold fingers got at the bit of skin between Chris’ collar and his hair, he flinched away, clumsily lost his footing on the kerb, and fell down with an impressive thud, winded as all the air rushed out of his lungs at once.
A sort of stunned silence fell, except for Chris’ wheezing gasps and the roar of distant traffic.
Chris wished he could think of something to say: he wracked his brains as he picked himself painfully up off the floor. Tried to think of something that might trick Sam into thinking he wasn’t an idiot and that his behaviour was down to… a stomach bug or something. If Ray got away with castle-rustling, he could sure as hell fire blag gut flu.
He looked up, fully prepared to launch into an explanation - as long and as elaborate as he could make it, despite being the worst liar in the district… But Sam was a bit closer than he’d imagined. Just in front of him, actually. And just looking at him. Just stood, in the middle of the road, about an inch away from him, watching him. Chris couldn’t see his eyes, because it was dark and Sam’s head was tilted down slightly, so the orange light from the blinking streetlamp behind him cast shadows across his face.
“What’s up with you, Chris?” Sam slurred, as if he was thinking out-loud more than asking.
And there it was. The fact that Sam thought about Chris… Not just as a copper, not just as the fall-boy or the joker, but as something worthwhile. Maybe he was a bit far gone, but Chris suddenly felt a great big surge of gratitude fill up in his chest. He smiled, letting out a shaky breath.
“I’m just… really glad you’re here, boss.”
And before he’d known what he’d done, he’d kissed him. In a moment of madness and sudden, overwhelming glee, he’d kissed the boss, full on the mouth. And, what was more, quite to his surprise, the boss had responded. He felt a hand tangle in the hair at the base of his neck, pulling him closer and he’d stumbled, his hand slipping into the inside of Sam’s jacket of it’s own accord, coming to rest on one skinny hip. They stood still, held together by the orange streetlight and the sheer oddness of the moment itself.
Finally he broke away, clattering backwards with sudden alarm: “Shit, boss, sorry!”
Sam held up his hands, calmly - always so fucking calm. “Woah, Chris, it’s alright!”
“No it bloody isn’t!” Chris cried out, and Sam winced, glancing in alarm at the rowdy figures moving dully behind the pub’s smudged windows. No one had seen, and his shoulders inched downwards once more.
Chris shook his head, and rubbed it with the palm of his hand. He’d totally gone and buggered everything sideways: Ray would never speak to him again, The Gov would kick him off the force and Sam… What if Sam stopped trying to make him better? What would he do then, if he’d been given this grand glimpse of something better in his future, and then suddenly all means of getting it just disappeared. What would he do if Sam became like the rest of them? All for nothing? All because he couldn’t say thank you any other way. Fucking idiot.
He felt tears prickle in his eyes, hot mortification flushing through him, making his skin crawl. He turned away quickly so that Sam couldn’t see him cry. That’d really be the icing on the cake, wouldn’t it?
“It’s not alright… What did I go and do that for?”
He hadn’t really expected an answer - the whispered words, garbled through a thick throat, slipped out of him. But, nevertheless, a hand slid up his back and round his shoulders, and Sam’s spirit-soaked voice - course, he’d have to be muntered to be pressed so hard into his inferior at 4am after said inferior had just snogged him - breathed in his ear, once more: “You know what, Chris?”
Chris shook his head miserably, and only looked up when Sam squeezed his shoulders.
“I’m really glad you’re here, too.”
He looked up. Sam was beaming at him. His face was just inches from Chris’, and his eyes were reduced to pin-pricks in the night light, but his smile was everything Chris could see. And he knew, he just knew Sam had known that he was just trying to say thankyou all along. "Really?"
Sam leaned closer, brushing their foreheads against each other. "Really."
--------
The End
--------