The Tale of the Christmas Killer
Title: The Tale of the Christmas Killer
Author: Alizarin_NYC
Recipient: _afterism
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: Sam/Gene please, either obvious or hinted at, I don't mind. "I'm blaming you entirely."
Word count: 985
I.
“I’m blaming you entirely,” Gene said.
“Like I expected anything else.” Sam stood in the middle of Gene’s office, legs apart and arms folded. Gene lolled back in his chair like a fat Santa Claus the day after Christmas. Ray perched on a nearby desk, and Chris shadowed the doorway.
“You, Sam Tyler, are under the ongoing and pervasive delusion that you’re better than everyone else around you,” Gene continued. “That’ll be your downfall, mark my words.”
“Mark ‘em,” Ray echoed, his face arranged with clown-like seriousness.
“Guv’s right on this,” Chris said.
Sam thumbed his lower lip and then turned. “On what, exactly, is the guv right on, Chris? Pray tell me.” He spread his arms wide. “My imminent downfall?” He spun to address Ray. “Or the fact that I am the only person in the whole of this place who has a working theory and can follow modern police procedural?”
He was trying very hard not to shout. But he could see that he’d failed by the smug look on Gene’s face. The Christmas Killer had stumped Manchester’s finest for years. He only killed at Christmastime, but he was regular and he was brutal. Sam wanted the collar. He’d studied the case for months and drawn up a pretty good profile. Gene knew what Sam wanted and how badly he wanted it, and that meant he had the upper hand.
“Fuck your modern bullshit, Tyler,” Gene said, grinning. “You’re off the Christmas Killer case until further notice. And don’t go tellin’ nobody what rot you’ve been telling us. It’s bloody witchcraft.”
“I’ve given you your best theory yet, and you’re blaming me for… what again?”
“For wasting our time and squandering valuable department resources,” Gene said. Ray chuckled. Chris looked as if he wasn’t sure what squandering meant. “The very idea that our killer is a quiet man, living in the suburbs, with a wife, two kids and a dog, is beyond ludicrous. Chasing up timetables for trains that get him home in time for tea! Knocking on houses of stand-up citizens who own dogs because of one bloody hair on one victim! You don’t expect us to continue this farce?”
“No,” Sam said. “I don’t expect you to do anything at all.”
II.
“I’m blaming you entirely,” Gene said.
“Right,” Sam said. Only it came out “brigthhh” since his lip was swollen and bloody and he was lying in a pool of his own blood. He could feel it sticky on the back of his neck. The Christmas Killer had not taken kindly to being asked questions by a copper in front of his wife and kids. A copper who wasn’t even supposed to be on the case.
“Let’s go, then, shall we?” Gene leaned forward and pulled Sam up by the elbow. The guv didn’t seem to take into account the fact that two of the fingers on the hand attached to that elbow were broken. “Shall I call you an ambulance, Nancy?”
“I’ll be okay. Just tell me you nicked him.” Sam would save the other questions for later, the most pertinent of which was how the hell Gene found him. They were miles from the city centre.
“Gave him a good knee in the knackers, didn’t I? Only a nonce would go after the Christmas Killer without backup all the way out here. Good thing I watch your back, Tyler, or you’d be dead about now.”
“So what exactly are you blaming me for?” Sam leaned heavily on Gene, who felt more solid than ever at his side, as he gingerly tried out his sprained ankle. He swore at the pain and felt dizzy for a second. Not so dizzy that he didn’t catch what Gene muttered under his breath.
“For almost losing me my best DI.”
“Aw, didn’t know you cared.”
“Shut it.”
III.
“I’m blaming you entirely,” Gene said.
Sam sat up, rubbing his head. Hangover, check. Head wound, check. Poorly wrapped broken fingers, ouch. Gene Hunt in his flat, what?
“What are you doing here?” Sam asked, sitting up and staring down at the lump of his DCI wrapped up tightly in his quilt.
“If you’d had a concussion, I couldn’t let you sleep. Also, don’t exactly remember crashing here, as it happens.”
Sam rolled off his bed, the movement nearly dislodging Gene.
“Oi!”
“Sorry. If I have a concussion and you were worried about that, why did you continue to buy rounds at the pub and then insist I drink to your glorious one-handed capture of the Christmas Killer? Which, I might add, you would never have caught if it weren’t for me.”
“My way of saying thank you,” Gene said. “Anyway, better get home to the missus. Where’re my trousers?”
“Why aren’t you wearing any trousers?” Sam was moving to the corner of the room, not sure just exactly how horrified he was that moments ago, he’d been laying in a not-quite double bed with a trouser-less Gene Hunt. Perhaps he was in shock and it had yet to sink in. Perhaps he did in fact have a concussion. Post-traumatic stress, at the very least. The Christmas Killer had almost killed him. If it wasn’t for Gene…
“Listen guv, I meant to ask you. How did you know where I was yesterday?”
“It so happened, Tyler, that I was following up a lead.”
“You were following my psychological profile.”
Gene pretended to take up a full-scale manhunt for his trousers at that moment and didn’t answer.
“Got ‘em!”
Sam hid a smile as he watched Gene struggle silently into his trousers.
“Going to tell me how you nicked the Christmas Killer if you weren’t either following me or using my profile to the letter?”
“Oi, lookit that,” Gene said, giving him a lascivious wink. “You’re not wearing trousers either.” He flung open the door of Sam’s flat and bounded out with unusual spryness. “Happy Christmas, killer.”
.
Author: Alizarin_NYC
Recipient: _afterism
Rating: PG-13
Prompt: Sam/Gene please, either obvious or hinted at, I don't mind. "I'm blaming you entirely."
Word count: 985
I.
“I’m blaming you entirely,” Gene said.
“Like I expected anything else.” Sam stood in the middle of Gene’s office, legs apart and arms folded. Gene lolled back in his chair like a fat Santa Claus the day after Christmas. Ray perched on a nearby desk, and Chris shadowed the doorway.
“You, Sam Tyler, are under the ongoing and pervasive delusion that you’re better than everyone else around you,” Gene continued. “That’ll be your downfall, mark my words.”
“Mark ‘em,” Ray echoed, his face arranged with clown-like seriousness.
“Guv’s right on this,” Chris said.
Sam thumbed his lower lip and then turned. “On what, exactly, is the guv right on, Chris? Pray tell me.” He spread his arms wide. “My imminent downfall?” He spun to address Ray. “Or the fact that I am the only person in the whole of this place who has a working theory and can follow modern police procedural?”
He was trying very hard not to shout. But he could see that he’d failed by the smug look on Gene’s face. The Christmas Killer had stumped Manchester’s finest for years. He only killed at Christmastime, but he was regular and he was brutal. Sam wanted the collar. He’d studied the case for months and drawn up a pretty good profile. Gene knew what Sam wanted and how badly he wanted it, and that meant he had the upper hand.
“Fuck your modern bullshit, Tyler,” Gene said, grinning. “You’re off the Christmas Killer case until further notice. And don’t go tellin’ nobody what rot you’ve been telling us. It’s bloody witchcraft.”
“I’ve given you your best theory yet, and you’re blaming me for… what again?”
“For wasting our time and squandering valuable department resources,” Gene said. Ray chuckled. Chris looked as if he wasn’t sure what squandering meant. “The very idea that our killer is a quiet man, living in the suburbs, with a wife, two kids and a dog, is beyond ludicrous. Chasing up timetables for trains that get him home in time for tea! Knocking on houses of stand-up citizens who own dogs because of one bloody hair on one victim! You don’t expect us to continue this farce?”
“No,” Sam said. “I don’t expect you to do anything at all.”
II.
“I’m blaming you entirely,” Gene said.
“Right,” Sam said. Only it came out “brigthhh” since his lip was swollen and bloody and he was lying in a pool of his own blood. He could feel it sticky on the back of his neck. The Christmas Killer had not taken kindly to being asked questions by a copper in front of his wife and kids. A copper who wasn’t even supposed to be on the case.
“Let’s go, then, shall we?” Gene leaned forward and pulled Sam up by the elbow. The guv didn’t seem to take into account the fact that two of the fingers on the hand attached to that elbow were broken. “Shall I call you an ambulance, Nancy?”
“I’ll be okay. Just tell me you nicked him.” Sam would save the other questions for later, the most pertinent of which was how the hell Gene found him. They were miles from the city centre.
“Gave him a good knee in the knackers, didn’t I? Only a nonce would go after the Christmas Killer without backup all the way out here. Good thing I watch your back, Tyler, or you’d be dead about now.”
“So what exactly are you blaming me for?” Sam leaned heavily on Gene, who felt more solid than ever at his side, as he gingerly tried out his sprained ankle. He swore at the pain and felt dizzy for a second. Not so dizzy that he didn’t catch what Gene muttered under his breath.
“For almost losing me my best DI.”
“Aw, didn’t know you cared.”
“Shut it.”
III.
“I’m blaming you entirely,” Gene said.
Sam sat up, rubbing his head. Hangover, check. Head wound, check. Poorly wrapped broken fingers, ouch. Gene Hunt in his flat, what?
“What are you doing here?” Sam asked, sitting up and staring down at the lump of his DCI wrapped up tightly in his quilt.
“If you’d had a concussion, I couldn’t let you sleep. Also, don’t exactly remember crashing here, as it happens.”
Sam rolled off his bed, the movement nearly dislodging Gene.
“Oi!”
“Sorry. If I have a concussion and you were worried about that, why did you continue to buy rounds at the pub and then insist I drink to your glorious one-handed capture of the Christmas Killer? Which, I might add, you would never have caught if it weren’t for me.”
“My way of saying thank you,” Gene said. “Anyway, better get home to the missus. Where’re my trousers?”
“Why aren’t you wearing any trousers?” Sam was moving to the corner of the room, not sure just exactly how horrified he was that moments ago, he’d been laying in a not-quite double bed with a trouser-less Gene Hunt. Perhaps he was in shock and it had yet to sink in. Perhaps he did in fact have a concussion. Post-traumatic stress, at the very least. The Christmas Killer had almost killed him. If it wasn’t for Gene…
“Listen guv, I meant to ask you. How did you know where I was yesterday?”
“It so happened, Tyler, that I was following up a lead.”
“You were following my psychological profile.”
Gene pretended to take up a full-scale manhunt for his trousers at that moment and didn’t answer.
“Got ‘em!”
Sam hid a smile as he watched Gene struggle silently into his trousers.
“Going to tell me how you nicked the Christmas Killer if you weren’t either following me or using my profile to the letter?”
“Oi, lookit that,” Gene said, giving him a lascivious wink. “You’re not wearing trousers either.” He flung open the door of Sam’s flat and bounded out with unusual spryness. “Happy Christmas, killer.”
.