RL with DCI Gene Hunt

[out_of_my_time]

'You're buying me a drink.'  DCI Hunt had told him curtly.  'Tomorrow.'

Sam hadn't bothered to ask why; it wasn't as if it was important enough to needle the man about, anyway, and certainly he'd find out when he bought the Guv his drink anyway.  Like as not it was some stupid attempt to get him out of the station so he wouldn't 'get in the way' of

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[manc_sheriff]

The wheels screech at the Cortina jerks forward. Gene declines the accelerator, enjoying the tight thrill of adreneline as he pulls a sharp right at the next corner. He takes a sudden sharp left when Sam sighs, hoping a slam against the door will knock some of the sour mood out of him.

'Stop looking like something crawled up your gullet and died, Dorothy.'

The Cortina lurches as Gene shifts to the break in order to stop from hitting two mates swaggering home from the pub. He pumps the gas back to top speed, swinging around another bend. CID is a straight shot in front of them now, which means he can look at Sam as he speaks.

'You're like a vulcano,' Gene says with a lift of his eyebrows, 'just simmering under the surface, and as soon as I think I'm going to finally get a moment's peace, that's when your panties will get all in a twist. I'm nipping this in the bud before it gets that far.'

He looks forward just in time to see the front doors approaching in five, four, three, two -- until finally Gene crashes his foot down on the brake. He cocks the wheel hard, sliding up to the kerb with inches to spare.

'Perfect parking job,' he announces with pride and then shoves at Sam's shoulder. 'Out.'

[out_of_my_time]

'Nipping this in the bud?' He echoes incredulously. What precisely the Guv thinks he's nipping, Sam doesn't know; if that's just what he's like, it's not exactly something Gene can simply prune away. Either way, though, there's no answer; either Gene just ignores him completely or his words are drowned in the sudden screech of tyres as the Cortina whips around into an improbable parking job worthy of any action movie ever made.

'You know,' he offers, falling into step at Gene's side as the DCI shoves his way through the doors to CID and starts striding down the corridor, 'That car might actually last five more years if you drove it at a halfway reasonable speed.'

He doesn't expect an answer.

When they finally reach Hunt's office, though, he turns, lifting an eyebrow. 'Right. Computer on the desk.' He jerks his head at it. 'What d'you want me to do about it? Tell you what it is, what it does- I have done. Why it's here? No fucking idea.' He exhales angrily. 'What d'you want me to do, Guv?'

[manc_sheriff]

'You know,' Gene replies without so much of a blink in Sam's direction, 'your teeth might actually last five more minutes if you shut your mouth once in a while.'

He barrles through the door to his office and collapses in the chair behind his desk. A flask magically appears from one of his many pockets and Gene takes a deep swig.

'Obviously it's to ask me pointless questions about it.' He holds out the flask to Sam, carefully avoiding placing his arm anywhere near the computer. Sam seems about ready to jump it as much as he is to explain anything.

'Since it got here, that thing has been a pain in your arse and therefore a pain in mine. Do whatever you want with it. Get something off your chest about it. Destroy it. I don't care. Just get your head straight about it instead of huffing and puffing like your about to push out your future spawn.'

He takes the flask back, draining its contents and reaches into a pocket for a new one. His feet find their way up onto the corner of his desk and he crosses he ankles, fully prepared to wait Sam out.

[out_of_my_time]

Sam shakes his head in something like wonderment. The man is just lounging there, cool as a proverbial cucumber, and the computer sits on the desk before him, gleamingly silver, taunting Sam with its incongruous modernity in Hunt's dim, cigarette-smelling office. Sam bristles at nothing in particular. The idea of just smashing the damned thing to bits is enticing, he has to admit, but that'll get him nowhere.

No, he has a better idea. A sudden, almost mad smile splits his face, and he shoulders himself off the wall.

'Whatever I want?' He asks, his voice rough, and gives Hunt an eyes-narrowed look of challenge. He spins the laptop around on the desk, hunching over to type frantically, clicking here and there until he finds something that should suit. He turns it back so Gene can see the screen.

'There,' he grits out, smug, and leans in to read from the page he'd pulled up. '8 February, 2005 - Danish parliamentary election: The center-right coalition led by Prime Minister Anders Fogh Rasmussen and his Liberal Party wins another term.'

He shoots Gene a look, then reads aloud again. '1 March, 2005 - The prosecution begins its testimony in the Michael Jackson trial. There!' One hand slams down on the desk. 'Explain that.'

[manc_sheriff]

The smile Sam sports disturbs Gene. It's one of those daft, slap-happy grins that either means he's hit on something brilliant or is about to do something that could get him fitted for a white coat with the arms on backwards. Gene lights a cigarette and wordlessly meets Sam's look of challenge with one of his own. Whatever Tyler has cooked up, Gene will face it, head on and stoic, like always.

The light from the screen bleeds over Sam's face as he clicks and punches buttons. It makes him look mad -- madder than usual -- the manic gleam in his eyes highlighted as he reads off something. The words fly past Gene's ears, random dates and news headlines, but he can't make them mean anything significant. He knows Sam wants to him to think they're some form of proof or explanation, but Gene can't figure what Sam wants him to gain from hearing that. It means nothing to him -- just more gibberish from a thing that shouldn't be here in the first place said by his DI who is springing more leaks than the Titanic.

Gene lifts his chin defiantly when Sam slaps the desk, grown too used to displays of aggression to be much impressed by this one. He can't explain it, of course. He doesn't even know what it is he should be explaining.

'If you think a load of gibberish from that thing is going to hold any sway with me, you've sprung more leaks than the Titanic.'

He grits his teeth and inhales a drag from the cigarette, eyes locked on Sam's over the top of the machine. There's something eerie about the way his face looks illuminated in the dim office. It's obvious that getting away from the thing isn't doing Sam any good and neither is being near it. Gene might just have to dispose of thing himself.

He softens the hold of his jaw. When he speaks, he spaces the words, slow but direct, the most tactful order he can give. 'Let it go, Sam.'

[out_of_my_time]

Sam feels like he could scream. He'd thought, just for a moment, that he'd found proof. He'd felt so clever, so sure that he'd finally found indisputable evidence, something solid and real and undeniable. Actual, real proof that he isn't insane, something he could show the Guv, to prove that he isn't from bloody Hyde, that he doesn't belong here. A reassurance for himself as much as it was to prove a point to Gene.

But of course, he should have expected Gene to take it all in stride, just like he took everything else. To dismiss it as nothing but bollocks. That bollocks, he wants to shout, is his home! His life! If he searched that computer, he could probably find a record of himself as DCI of the Greater Manchester Police Force. And yet Gene Hunt didn't even think it worth a second glance.

The look Gene's giving Sam sets him on edge. It's a forced gentleness, as if he was speaking to a half-wild animal, a horse he's afraid to spook. Oh, he's used enough to getting that kind of look; Annie is particularly fond of it, but getting it now, from this man... His hands on the desktop curl in on themselves, the nails digging so hard into his palms that he feels he might well draw blood.

'Let it go!?' He finally bursts out, tearing himself away from the desk, 'Let it- that's all I've bloody got, Hunt! That- Christ!'

He wishes he had something to punch.

[manc_sheriff]

'All you've bloody got?'

Sam's just touched on his last nerve. All Gene's trying to do is fix this, solve this, whatever this is that is making Sam go hair-brained crazy for the time. Tight on the job, tight at the pub, tight even now when there's nothing there to irritate him except this damn machine. Gene's given him every opportunity to work it out himself -- drink it out, argue it out, punch it out and Sam's throwing it all back for one of his stupid pandering wankery attacks.

If he could, Gene would land him a blow straight to the kidneys. Unfortunately there's a desk in the way. Instead, he settles for lunging forward, cracking both fists down to gain Sam the Lunatic's attention.

'All you've bloody got, my arse! Do tell, precious, how a thingamajig from nowhere and dates that don't exist and Peter Jackson going to trial is all you bloody got.'

He waits for Sam to answer, before deciding that he's not quite done speaking yet.

'These episodes of yours aren't charming, in case you were wondering. Shoot the damn thing if you have to or find Cartwright for a slap and tickle. Just do something before I have to go and find myself another DI!'

And that is something Gene really doesn't want to do. For all the pain and antics that come with Sam, he is a bloody good copper. He thinks of things that never would have occured to Gene as workable solutions. Even if a few of them turn out to be a bit nutty, Sam still offers him a balance. Gene admits that, if never outloud, and he's not particularly keen to lose that. They make a good team, him and Sam.

[out_of_my_time]

The sudden, resonant crack of Gene's fists down on his desk barely registers with Sam. He's speaking, but it's as if there's a layer of static between Sam and whatever he's saying- just words, muffled and muted. Standing facing Gene's poster of The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly, his fists clenched at his sides, his ears are filled with the unfriendly beep of hospital machinery, voices speaking as if from the next room over.

'Sam's increased heart rate could very possibly be a response to stress, a good indicator that his neuromuscular system it still responsive.'

'Responsive? What's there for it to respond to?'

'Coma patients can occasionally experience hallucinations or- for want of a better word- dreams. This is caused-'

The voices begin to echo, mocking him relentlessly and Sam squeezes his eyes shut, as though that would stop them.

'Random neurons fire in the brain-'

'The brain tissue is very delicate, we still don't-'

'It's alright, Sammie. We'll get you back, I know it.'

Get you back

Sam wants to clap his hands to his ears, dig his fingers in until he can't hear them anymore, until there's nothing left but him and Gene Hunt and this office. Because as much as he hates being stuck here, here at least he can touch and recognise; it's something solid, even if it is nothing but a hallucination. Because that, really, was what was so maddening about the damn computer showing up out of nowhere; policing, drinking, fighting with Hunt- it was all wrong, but it was steady, it had a pattern, a way of existing that was reliable. And then that computer had shown up, and any illusion of dependability about this world had been shattered.

After a moment, they do indeed go silent, and Sam is left with the uncomfortable realisation that he'd been acting like a complete nutter. It's not as if this is something new, not really. Half of CID's walked into a room to find him pacing the floor or shouting at the ceiling, and Annie already thinks he's insane. Still though, he's a rational man, or he likes to think he is, and he's not keen on the idea of his DCI looking to fit him for a straightjacket.

He clears his throat, unclenching his hands, and looks down at one slowly, as though unsure of what he'll find there. Indeed, across the palm are four smeared little crescents of rust-red, and he wipes his hands compulsively on his thighs.

When he does turn to face the desk, Gene's face is thunderous, as he'd expected, and Sam gives him a brief, crooked little smile. 'Right, Guv.' He says.

He hopes Gene will take that for what it is- even though Sam himself isn't entirely sure what that is. An apology, an explanation, Sam saying right, that's done with, I'm back here now. Most likely it's all of them at once.

[manc_sheriff]

Usually that tone of voice guarantees Gene some sort of reaction. At the very least, it can earn him a glance from Sam, if not an entire speech of bollacks. But this time -- nothing. Sam doesn't even look up at him when Gene threatens to replace him. All he does is stand there, staring blankly out into space, with knuckles painted the direct opposite of tar.

'Take a trip to the land of the fairies again, Tyler?' Gene waits for a response but there's nothing. 'Tyler? Tyler!'

Sam ignores him or doesn't hear him or something. His shoulders look about as stiff as the good whiskey Gene keeps in the bottom desk drawer.

'This is no time for one of your bloody attacks,' Gene says, but it's pointless. He might as well be speaking to thin air. Sam's about as aware of him as Gene knows what's happening three blocks away. 'Sam,' he tries again. 'Sam.' And if he sounds worried, it's because he is. His DI is going on another bender that Gene can't possibly explain.

Finally the man seems to get a grip on himself, flashing that strange little smirk that Gene has no idea how to interpret. Right, Guv what?

Puffing out a sigh, Gene sinks back into the chair. A drink is what he needs. Luckily, there's a few more flasks to go through before he needs to tap into his own personal office stash. Time around Sam is never a good time for sobriety.

It's not the bitterness of the drink that makes him shake his head. 'You need to come with a manual.'

[out_of_my_time]

It would be a lie to say he wasn't shaken, but nevertheless, he can't help but lift a wry eyebrow at Hunt's words. If that's how Gene sees things, well, that's nothing to Sam's own feelings on the subject. He snorts dryly.

'More's the pity.'

Because yeah, a manual would be nice. Some way, for example, to keep himself from hearing voices. That would be right bloody convenient right about now.

But he doesn't want to dwell on that, not now. When he gets back to his flat, he knows, there will be nightmares and voices and his own damned computer to worry about, but if he has any choice about it, he doesn't want to brood on it now. Not with Hunt sitting there looking at him like he'd like nothing better than to just deck him and be done with it.

So he wrenches his thoughts away from that particular darkness and leans against the wall, crossing his arms across his chest and regarding Gene steadily. The computer's still there, though, sleek and silver and modern, and Sam can't help but grimace.

'Could you, ah, put that away?'

He nods jerkily at the laptop. He doesn't know what Gene wants, but if it's any kind of conversation, better to have it without that sitting there throughout.

[manc_sheriff]

'At least then there'd be something to throw at you when you go off your head.'

Even a few sips from the flask help to settle Gene's nerves. He no longer feels the helpless agitation that comes whenever Sam goes off his trolley.

Gene doubts it ever occured to Sam, but it's not easy to watch him during those moments. For anybody. Chris, Cartwright -- even Ray -- they all get the same look on their faces, just like the one Gene sported a few moments ago. The one that quite clearly asks the question: Do I ring the loony bin now or wait to see if he improves?

Yet for all that Gene might threaten it, he knows deep in his gut he could never reach for the phone at a time like this. This is something that affects his department, and anything that affects the department gets taken care of in the department. Alone.

The cover of the whatever-it-is still stands, blocking half of Gene's view, so he shuts it with a grimace before tugging the thing towards him and slipping it beneath the desk. He'd rather shoot it than hide it, but it's not the cause to Sam's problems. Maybe a piece of evidence but not the perpetrator.

Sam seems to expect him to keep on, but Gene has no idea at this point what to say. Are you really nutters? What does this thing have to do with it? Would a kick to the shins solve anything at this point? All relevant questions but he can't find the reason to ask them. Anything seems to be able to set off Sam right now, and Gene isn't too keen to witness another one of his mental holidays. He settles for something simple.

'All right then?' He can't quite keep the pointed sarcasm out of the question. It may be because he doesn't actually try.

[out_of_my_time]

'All right.' He echoes Gene, and with just as much sarcasm.

He half wishes he was back at the bar now, because at least then he'd have a drink to distract himself with, something to occupy his hands and his eyes during these awkward silences. As it is, though, there's nothing, and he pouts his lips absently, looking somewhere over Hunt's head.

Despite the amount of time they spend fighting (which admittedly is considerable), he and Gene generally have a certain amount of ease around each other- a camaraderie, of sorts. It's the sort of relationship that's been tried by fire, so it tends to stick around, no matter what the circumstances. Sam hearing voices and shouting about things from thirty years into the future, however, seems to be one circumstance that rather defies that. Which, he supposes, is understandable, but it doesn't make this silence any more bearable. Sam doesn't particularly like silence; he's learned not to since he got here. Leaning back, he drums his fingers over the dusty top of a filing cabinet, a steady four-beat rhythm that serves no purpose other than to create a bit of noise in the thick air of Gene's office.

He looks over absently when his fingers come into contact with something that isn't chipped paint or several years worth of dust. A ticket stub, it seems, from a movie. He plucks it disinterestedly from the cabinet, then, after quickly reading it, smirks. He lifts an eyebrow at Gene, still apparently fascinated by his flask.

'Deaf Smith and Johnny Ears?' He reads, only slightly incredulous. 'Really, Guv? Sounds like quality cinema, that.'

[manc_sheriff]

Now that he's not on about stupid machines or Gene's method of driving, Sam seems content to just pout in silence.

Well, fine. Two can play at that game, and at least Gene has his flask to pass the time.

He stares at Sam's chest while Sam stares over his head and tries to think where the man could buy such God-awful shirts. It's like Gene's old maths class went and spewed all over the fabric to create painful geometric lines and dots and patterns.

It's with some relief to his eyes that Gene looks up when Sam finally says something.

'Oi! Respect Deaf Smith. He could give you a run for your bollocks.' Gene takes another swig and then sets the flask on the desk to cross his arms. He regards Sam with a half-smug expression. 'I hate to see what you go to the flicks for. Probably some nimby-arse romantic picture. Or do you just let Cartwright pick?' He smirks at the joke and then kicks out the chair in front of his desk for Sam to sit. 'Now stop feeling up my cabinets and come have a drink.'

[out_of_my_time]

'Such a comfort to know chivalry isn't entirely dead.' Sam murmurs wryly, but he's fairly sure Gene doesn't hear him. Not that it really matters. The real point is that they've crossed back into comfortable territory, and any remaining echoes of doctors' voices or life support equipment in Sam's head have faded entirely.

He smirks easily at the other man as he shoulders himself off the wall and allows himself to fall into the chair. 'What, you jealous?'

[manc_sheriff]

'If chivalry includes having a drink, may I die before it,' Gene says loudly. It's obvious Sam didn't intend him to hear, but the office is small, and Gene's made the habit of listening for Sam little comments. Theycan make or break cases.

He knocks the flask towards Sam when the man sits before twisting around to collect two glasses from the ledge. They clatter to the table as Gene handwaves Sam to fill them.

'Of your loving attachment to my filing cabinet?' He snorts, trying to look detatched and possibly a bit put-off, but Sam's half-smile is contagious. The right side of Gene's mouth rises. 'Maybe your dust-drumming worked well on them in Hyde, but no skirt here I know of would fall for that.'

Gene picks up the glass, studying the skewed reflection of his face in the side. He considers. 'Well. Maybe Jackie Queen.'

[out_of_my_time]

A little chuff of laughter escapes as Sam pours out two measures of whatever Gene's got in his flask and pushes one glass across to the DCI. He'd half-expected Gene to get offended at the thoughtless comment, despite the number of times a day the Guv routinely called Sam a pouf, but it would seem not. His mouth twitches, the smirk threatening to turn into something more like a proper grin, and he lifts his glass to his lips.

'Believe me,' he says with some feeling, before taking a sip. 'I have got no designs on Jackie Queen. That's your burden, Guv.'

He tips the glass again- whiskey, single malt. Well, Gene knows what he likes, Sam has to give him that. 'Anyway,' he gave the Guv another little smirk, 'If I'm looking to pull a bird, I've got me ways. None of which, by the way, involve feeling up filing cabinets.'