Life on Mars fanfic: Was Blind But Now I See
Author notes: Written for the first Life on Mars ficathon (history in the making people!) for 
onger, whose three prompts were: coma hallucinations, lost and found, car sex. I may have cheated a bit on the last but I hope you like it anyway.
Unbetaed due to my shameful lateness. Any glaring errors, please let me know.
Was Blind But Now I See
***
Red and green and butter yellow starburst behind his eyelids, the vortex of geometrical shapes pulsating in time to his heartbeat. He dug the heels of his hands in deeper, the pressure-pain oddly comforting.
Sam Tyler was standing on the dusty street outside his flat and giving some serious thought to crying. Or maybe just curling in a tight ball and whimpering pathetically. He cracked his eyes open just enough to check the pavement; dirty, hard, and getting hotter by the minute thanks to the sun climbing up behind buildings. Ok, so maybe it wouldn’t be that comfortable, but surely it would only take, say, an hour tops, until someone called the nice men in white to come and pick him up. And then it would be all padded cells and rubber sheets, happy drugs and…
White light, so bright it hurts.
He’s falling. (no, no, not now)
down
down
past where the asphalt should’ve been, eyes flying open in panic, but there’s nothing to see.
Something is lodged in his throat, too full and dry. Sam gags, unable to swallow around the thick plastic taste of the oxygen tube. (breath, breath damn it)
“Nurse! He’s seizing!”
(“You okay, mate?”)
“Mum?” (“I’m fine, just…”)
His body convulsing (hitting the pavement), lifting off the hospital bed, muscles screaming, wound so tight, so tight, Jesus, it hurts. The world is rushing away (back), and Sam claws at his neck, desperate to get air, coughing, choking on…
Nothing. There was nothing in his throat, nothing in his mouth except his own tongue, swollen and dry.
He brought a hand to his face, feeling the wetness of tears and sweat and fuck, he hadn’t seriously wanted to cry in public.
A hand was grasping him by the elbow and lifting him to his feet. Its owner, a skinny young man in overalls, regarded Sam suspiciously. “Do you need me to call an ambulance?”
He thought about it perhaps a bit too long, debating the relative merits of forced vacation in a government institution because his helper started looking increasingly torn between being a Good Samaritan and escaping the crazy man writhing in the middle of the street.
“No, no. It’s just… uh, sunstroke.” It was barely eight in the morning so as explanations went that was pretty pathetic. Nevertheless, the lad seized the excuse with eagerness born out of fear and left Sam to his own devices.
Sam wiped his face with a weary hand and stared at the curb despondently. Where he’d parked his car last night after coming home from the pub, there was now nothing but empty space and a dirty chip wrapper, listlessly flapping in the wind.
He was never, ever going to live this one down.
***
He was never, ever coming to Gene Hunt for help again.
Sam was sitting, head thrown back, on the battered sofa in his boss’ office and counting the ceiling tiles. He was up to two-hundred-and-sixty-four and Gene had yet to stop laughing.
A glance to the other end of the room showed him hunched over the desk, shaking with silent mirth. Well, at least someone was having a good time around here.
“So, let me get this straight.” The older man finally got up and walked around to lean against the wall next to Sam, his arms crossed, looking dishevelled and entirely comfortable with it. “You lost an unmarked police car that you have been driving around without actual permission or paperwork for the last few months?"
Sam groaned. “I didn’t lose it. It was stolen!”
“Oh, excuse me. Let me rephrase. You got an unmarked police car stolen from right under your nose. A car that…”
“Okay, fine! Shut up, all right.” Surprisingly he did.
It didn’t last for long. After a few minutes of silence Gene abruptly straightened and grabbing his jacket headed for the door.
“Where are we going?” Sam too got to his feet, trailing after his superior with an air of resignation.
“To find your car. Before someone - and by someone I mean you, but also, due to the misfortune of being the next link in the chain of command, me - has to write a goddamn report about this fiasco.”
***
In the city the size of Manchester there was about a dozen garages willing to buy used cars without the requisite papers or too many questions. Hunt, unsurprisingly, turned out to be on first name basis with the owners of all of them.
As they walked in the first establishment Sam briefly considered making a remark about the economic impact of volume crime and how it perhaps wasn’t in the public’s interest for CID to maintain quite so mutually beneficial relationships with every fence in the city. There was something in the twist of Gene’s lips, however, that told it was exactly what he was expecting. Sam clamped his mouth resolutely shut; he’d provided enough amusement for the day already. Besides, he really wanted his car back.
“Tyler, meet Slick-Jim. Jimmy, I see the business is banging."
Sam shook hands, his palm coming away greasy. Whether it was motor-oil, hair-oil, or just plain dirt was a mystery he was willing to leave unsolved. He was attempting to surreptitiously wipe his hand on the back of his jacket when he became aware of two sets of eyes looking at him expectantly. There had been a question, Sam was pretty sure of it. Unfortunately, he had no idea what it was.
The DCI appeared to be visibly restraining himself from smacking Sam on the head, instead snapping fingers in front of his face impatiently. “The least you could do is to stay awake. I’m doing you a favour here and don’t think I’ll let you forget it either. Now, which car was it?”
Fuck, it’s not like he didn’t know his cars - it was practically an occupational requirement in his line of work - but he hadn’t had to identify many forty-year-old motor vehicles back in the twenty-first century. “Um… the small, blue-grey one?”
They stared at him for good fifteen seconds before Gene calmly reached over and thwacked the back of his head before turning to Jimmy, answering his own question “1962 Austin A60 Cambridge”
The day was just getting better and better.
***
The sixth place they stopped at was marginally cleaner but no less disreputable looking than the others. The owner (“Bryan with a y darling, please”) sashayed from between the stripped cars, gracefully stepping over toolboxes and engine parts. He was all effusive smiles and lingering handshakes and camper than a monkey in drag. Biting back a slightly hysterical giggle Sam mentally slapped himself for being surprised. It’s not like heterosexuality was some sort of prerequisite for fixing cars. But still. It was Northern England. In the early seventies. Who knew?
Beside him Hunt was asking the same questions and receiving the same headshake as in the every other used car shop and shady garage so far. Except, no one else had deemed it necessary to lean quite so close during the discussion.
Sam felt himself tense in anticipation. Bryan-with-a-y and his touchy-feely approach were guaranteed to grate Guv the wrong way - quite possible the violent way - and he fully expected having to drag his superior off the premises to avoid things getting the nasty kind of physical.
Gene, however, seemed uncharacteristically unfazed by the situation. His only reaction was a casual step away, not backwards - when Gene Hunt backed down from anyone would be a very cold day in Hell - but sideways, towards Sam. When the move was followed by a heavy hand settling on the back of his neck, Sam had to make a conscious effort to relax into the touch.
It was… unexpected. And clever. Something Sam might have done himself in similar circumstances, but not something he’d expected to see from the older man. Not that Gene wasn’t clever, it’s just that a move like that was subtle and non-confrontational in a way Hunt really wasn’t.
Bryan raised his eyebrows but chose not to comment, instead winding the conversation down and waiving them off with a promise to keep an eye out for a blue-grey Austin.
Gene led them out, not dropping his hand until it was necessary to do so to get into the car. Once inside he shot a quick glance in Sam’s direction, gauging his reaction.
Sam felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and the answering smirk on Gene’s face was equal parts relief and a dare. Well shit, Sam though, now grinning openly. Would he ever learn not to underestimate the man?
***
By the end of the afternoon, however, Sam’s momentary good humour had all but evaporated. No one had seen a 1962 Austin Cambridge, not Big-Chris or Lenny or Mickey “Three Fingers” Sullivan over at Sullivan’s Repair Shop.
They were outside the station, sitting in the parked car. Gene was smoking a cigarette, looking oddly peaceful despite the sweltering heat.
“I don’t want to go inside.” The words came out mumbled. Sam was leaning his head against the dashboard, fully aware of sounding like a petulant kid but beyond caring. Going in meant filing an official report on how a high-ranking member of the CID managed to get an unmarked police vehicle stolen from right in front of his flat.
A bark of laughter from the driver’s seat startled him to the fact that he’d said the last bit out loud. “Well, when you put it like that…”
Sam’s head snapped up so fast he gave himself whiplash. “If I remember correctly, it was you who…”
“Alpha One this is base.” The radio came to life with a burst of static. “Are you there, sir?” Phyllis’ voice called over the ether, not overtly concerned about keeping to official call signs as per usual.
“What is it?” Gene grabbed the mouthpiece
“There’s a message for you from PC Gromley…” Phyllis sounded puzzled.
“Yeah?” Sam watched with interest as the older man came to attention.
“He said to tell you… This is strange, sir. I’d think he’s playing a prank, only…”
“Out with it already. They quicker you relay the message, the quicker you can get back to your cuppa.”
“Yeah, well, at least I don’t have to hide my drink in the bottom drawer every time the Super comes by.”
“Who’s hiding? The message, Phyllis, today.”
With a long-suffering sigh Phyllis recited it. “PC Gromley rang and said to tell you that he’s got what you asked for and that as far as he was concerned you were now even.”
“And did he by any chance mention where he was?”
“He said debts were paid where they were created and that you would know where to find him.”
“Thanks, luv.”
Gene dropped the radio and turned over, flashing him a grin to rival a shark’s. “Cheer up, Sammy-boy. What once was lost has now been found.”
Without a further explanation he started the car and peeled out of the parking lot. It took Sam no time at all to recognise the slow tune he was humming under his breath. It was the same one his mum used to sing on Sundays.
Sam laughed. Fucking, yes! Amazing Gene, indeed.
***
Ten minutes later they squealed to a halt behind an abandoned warehouse. It was one of many littering the docks, the crumbling remains of economic prosperity bound for degeneration for another two decades before the booming nineties would bring a new spark of life to the area.
Sam fumbled with the seatbelt, already running before he was half way out of the door. Standing in the middle of the dusty yard was his car, in one piece and looking none too worse to wear.
A man in his late forties was leaning against it, sweating profusely in his uniform, his beer belly barely contained by the wool jacket. PC Gromley chuckled heartily as Sam all but threw himself on the hood, coming perilously close to petting it. He’d never thought he’d be so happy to see the hunk of scrap metal again.
Gromley was relating the story of how he knew someone who knew someone else who used to do a little free enterprising in Sam’s neighbourhood so when Hunt had called in a favour, it’d merely taken some good old-fashioned footwork to track down the missing car.
“I wouldn’t sit in the back before you’ve given it a good clean, mind.”
Sam peered in through the window but could see nothing amiss. “Why?”
“Well, let’s just say that the reason I was able to get my hands on the car was because the punk who nicked it was otherwise occupied.” Seeing the blank incomprehension on their faces Gromley clarified. “With his bird.”
Oh.
Oh eww.
On the other side of the car Gene was cracking up again, laughing so hard there were tears running down his face. “Oh man, Sam. I gotta thank you, mate. I haven’t had this much fun since the time I got to rough up Warren
“Hey! And how many times have I told you not to… Oh, you know what? Never mind!” He could let some things slide. After all, he got his car back. Besides, it was Warren, who'd probably deserved it.
***
The day ended much more pleasantly than it had started. The Railway Arms was packed, the hot weather ensuring people were thirsty and perhaps a bit more rowdy than usual. Sam and Gene were sitting in the corner, drinking steadily toward sweet oblivion and attempting to talk over the noise cresting over them in waves of meaningless sound.
After Sam had wondered out loud if he should go back to the warehouse to look for bodies, Gene had finally relented and explained how it was that Gromley fit into the picture. Apparently, some ten years prior Gene had helped him with a delicate situation involving Gromley, his girlfriend, his girlfriend’s no-good boyfriend and some fifty crates of alcohol of questionable origin, housed in the very same warehouse. Not something Sam felt any inclination to force his morals on.
There was, however, another issue of fundamental unfairness that had yet to be addressed. He pointed an unsteady finger at the older man sitting opposite him. “You know what the worst part is?”
“What?”
“I’ve had that car on “loan”…” He seemed to have some trouble with muscle control and the air quotes came out looking like he was trying to take flight. “…ever since I got here and this is the first time it’s seen any action.” Sam stared into his drink sorrowfully. “And it wasn’t even by me.”
“Stop moping, Tyler. I’ve seen how all the birds look at you.” There was an almost imperceptible pause as Gene’s eyes dropped to the table, before lifting up to meet Sam’s. “Quite a few of the fellas, too. You could get your leg over whenever, wherever, you wanted. Including that crummy car.”
Huh. Sam blinked slowly, processing the unspoken implications.
There had been quite a few unexpected things today and dammit if they all hadn’t come from one DCI Hunt. Moreover, Sam was starting to sense a certain theme developing here.
“Maybe.” The older man opened his mouth to protest but Sam silenced him with a shushing motion, managing to knock over the ashtray. Not that it mattered. “But maybe that’s not what I want. Not just that, anyway.”
“Yeah? What is it that you want then, Sam?”
It was a good question. Straightforward but layered like the man who asked it. Too bad he didn’t have a complete answer to give.
“What I want right now, Gene…” The name came out with a deliberate drawl. “…is another drink.” Sam passed over his empty pint glass, nodding pointedly toward the bar. “With you.” He added when the other man made no move to get up.
There was a short silence, just long enough for Sam to think he’d said too much or not enough, before Gene reached over the table and clapped him on the shoulder.
“Well, hell, Sammy. That I can do.”
Sam watched him make his way to the crowded bar, feeling unexpectedly at peace. A simple drink would be enough for tonight, the more complicated answers - and there certainly were some, he’d just been too blind to see even the possibility of a question until today - would keep for now.
THE END
onger, whose three prompts were: coma hallucinations, lost and found, car sex. I may have cheated a bit on the last but I hope you like it anyway.
Unbetaed due to my shameful lateness. Any glaring errors, please let me know.
Was Blind But Now I See
***
Red and green and butter yellow starburst behind his eyelids, the vortex of geometrical shapes pulsating in time to his heartbeat. He dug the heels of his hands in deeper, the pressure-pain oddly comforting.
Sam Tyler was standing on the dusty street outside his flat and giving some serious thought to crying. Or maybe just curling in a tight ball and whimpering pathetically. He cracked his eyes open just enough to check the pavement; dirty, hard, and getting hotter by the minute thanks to the sun climbing up behind buildings. Ok, so maybe it wouldn’t be that comfortable, but surely it would only take, say, an hour tops, until someone called the nice men in white to come and pick him up. And then it would be all padded cells and rubber sheets, happy drugs and…
White light, so bright it hurts.
He’s falling. (no, no, not now)
down
down
past where the asphalt should’ve been, eyes flying open in panic, but there’s nothing to see.
Something is lodged in his throat, too full and dry. Sam gags, unable to swallow around the thick plastic taste of the oxygen tube. (breath, breath damn it)
“Nurse! He’s seizing!”
(“You okay, mate?”)
“Mum?” (“I’m fine, just…”)
His body convulsing (hitting the pavement), lifting off the hospital bed, muscles screaming, wound so tight, so tight, Jesus, it hurts. The world is rushing away (back), and Sam claws at his neck, desperate to get air, coughing, choking on…
Nothing. There was nothing in his throat, nothing in his mouth except his own tongue, swollen and dry.
He brought a hand to his face, feeling the wetness of tears and sweat and fuck, he hadn’t seriously wanted to cry in public.
A hand was grasping him by the elbow and lifting him to his feet. Its owner, a skinny young man in overalls, regarded Sam suspiciously. “Do you need me to call an ambulance?”
He thought about it perhaps a bit too long, debating the relative merits of forced vacation in a government institution because his helper started looking increasingly torn between being a Good Samaritan and escaping the crazy man writhing in the middle of the street.
“No, no. It’s just… uh, sunstroke.” It was barely eight in the morning so as explanations went that was pretty pathetic. Nevertheless, the lad seized the excuse with eagerness born out of fear and left Sam to his own devices.
Sam wiped his face with a weary hand and stared at the curb despondently. Where he’d parked his car last night after coming home from the pub, there was now nothing but empty space and a dirty chip wrapper, listlessly flapping in the wind.
He was never, ever going to live this one down.
***
He was never, ever coming to Gene Hunt for help again.
Sam was sitting, head thrown back, on the battered sofa in his boss’ office and counting the ceiling tiles. He was up to two-hundred-and-sixty-four and Gene had yet to stop laughing.
A glance to the other end of the room showed him hunched over the desk, shaking with silent mirth. Well, at least someone was having a good time around here.
“So, let me get this straight.” The older man finally got up and walked around to lean against the wall next to Sam, his arms crossed, looking dishevelled and entirely comfortable with it. “You lost an unmarked police car that you have been driving around without actual permission or paperwork for the last few months?"
Sam groaned. “I didn’t lose it. It was stolen!”
“Oh, excuse me. Let me rephrase. You got an unmarked police car stolen from right under your nose. A car that…”
“Okay, fine! Shut up, all right.” Surprisingly he did.
It didn’t last for long. After a few minutes of silence Gene abruptly straightened and grabbing his jacket headed for the door.
“Where are we going?” Sam too got to his feet, trailing after his superior with an air of resignation.
“To find your car. Before someone - and by someone I mean you, but also, due to the misfortune of being the next link in the chain of command, me - has to write a goddamn report about this fiasco.”
***
In the city the size of Manchester there was about a dozen garages willing to buy used cars without the requisite papers or too many questions. Hunt, unsurprisingly, turned out to be on first name basis with the owners of all of them.
As they walked in the first establishment Sam briefly considered making a remark about the economic impact of volume crime and how it perhaps wasn’t in the public’s interest for CID to maintain quite so mutually beneficial relationships with every fence in the city. There was something in the twist of Gene’s lips, however, that told it was exactly what he was expecting. Sam clamped his mouth resolutely shut; he’d provided enough amusement for the day already. Besides, he really wanted his car back.
“Tyler, meet Slick-Jim. Jimmy, I see the business is banging."
Sam shook hands, his palm coming away greasy. Whether it was motor-oil, hair-oil, or just plain dirt was a mystery he was willing to leave unsolved. He was attempting to surreptitiously wipe his hand on the back of his jacket when he became aware of two sets of eyes looking at him expectantly. There had been a question, Sam was pretty sure of it. Unfortunately, he had no idea what it was.
The DCI appeared to be visibly restraining himself from smacking Sam on the head, instead snapping fingers in front of his face impatiently. “The least you could do is to stay awake. I’m doing you a favour here and don’t think I’ll let you forget it either. Now, which car was it?”
Fuck, it’s not like he didn’t know his cars - it was practically an occupational requirement in his line of work - but he hadn’t had to identify many forty-year-old motor vehicles back in the twenty-first century. “Um… the small, blue-grey one?”
They stared at him for good fifteen seconds before Gene calmly reached over and thwacked the back of his head before turning to Jimmy, answering his own question “1962 Austin A60 Cambridge”
The day was just getting better and better.
***
The sixth place they stopped at was marginally cleaner but no less disreputable looking than the others. The owner (“Bryan with a y darling, please”) sashayed from between the stripped cars, gracefully stepping over toolboxes and engine parts. He was all effusive smiles and lingering handshakes and camper than a monkey in drag. Biting back a slightly hysterical giggle Sam mentally slapped himself for being surprised. It’s not like heterosexuality was some sort of prerequisite for fixing cars. But still. It was Northern England. In the early seventies. Who knew?
Beside him Hunt was asking the same questions and receiving the same headshake as in the every other used car shop and shady garage so far. Except, no one else had deemed it necessary to lean quite so close during the discussion.
Sam felt himself tense in anticipation. Bryan-with-a-y and his touchy-feely approach were guaranteed to grate Guv the wrong way - quite possible the violent way - and he fully expected having to drag his superior off the premises to avoid things getting the nasty kind of physical.
Gene, however, seemed uncharacteristically unfazed by the situation. His only reaction was a casual step away, not backwards - when Gene Hunt backed down from anyone would be a very cold day in Hell - but sideways, towards Sam. When the move was followed by a heavy hand settling on the back of his neck, Sam had to make a conscious effort to relax into the touch.
It was… unexpected. And clever. Something Sam might have done himself in similar circumstances, but not something he’d expected to see from the older man. Not that Gene wasn’t clever, it’s just that a move like that was subtle and non-confrontational in a way Hunt really wasn’t.
Bryan raised his eyebrows but chose not to comment, instead winding the conversation down and waiving them off with a promise to keep an eye out for a blue-grey Austin.
Gene led them out, not dropping his hand until it was necessary to do so to get into the car. Once inside he shot a quick glance in Sam’s direction, gauging his reaction.
Sam felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth and the answering smirk on Gene’s face was equal parts relief and a dare. Well shit, Sam though, now grinning openly. Would he ever learn not to underestimate the man?
***
By the end of the afternoon, however, Sam’s momentary good humour had all but evaporated. No one had seen a 1962 Austin Cambridge, not Big-Chris or Lenny or Mickey “Three Fingers” Sullivan over at Sullivan’s Repair Shop.
They were outside the station, sitting in the parked car. Gene was smoking a cigarette, looking oddly peaceful despite the sweltering heat.
“I don’t want to go inside.” The words came out mumbled. Sam was leaning his head against the dashboard, fully aware of sounding like a petulant kid but beyond caring. Going in meant filing an official report on how a high-ranking member of the CID managed to get an unmarked police vehicle stolen from right in front of his flat.
A bark of laughter from the driver’s seat startled him to the fact that he’d said the last bit out loud. “Well, when you put it like that…”
Sam’s head snapped up so fast he gave himself whiplash. “If I remember correctly, it was you who…”
“Alpha One this is base.” The radio came to life with a burst of static. “Are you there, sir?” Phyllis’ voice called over the ether, not overtly concerned about keeping to official call signs as per usual.
“What is it?” Gene grabbed the mouthpiece
“There’s a message for you from PC Gromley…” Phyllis sounded puzzled.
“Yeah?” Sam watched with interest as the older man came to attention.
“He said to tell you… This is strange, sir. I’d think he’s playing a prank, only…”
“Out with it already. They quicker you relay the message, the quicker you can get back to your cuppa.”
“Yeah, well, at least I don’t have to hide my drink in the bottom drawer every time the Super comes by.”
“Who’s hiding? The message, Phyllis, today.”
With a long-suffering sigh Phyllis recited it. “PC Gromley rang and said to tell you that he’s got what you asked for and that as far as he was concerned you were now even.”
“And did he by any chance mention where he was?”
“He said debts were paid where they were created and that you would know where to find him.”
“Thanks, luv.”
Gene dropped the radio and turned over, flashing him a grin to rival a shark’s. “Cheer up, Sammy-boy. What once was lost has now been found.”
Without a further explanation he started the car and peeled out of the parking lot. It took Sam no time at all to recognise the slow tune he was humming under his breath. It was the same one his mum used to sing on Sundays.
Sam laughed. Fucking, yes! Amazing Gene, indeed.
***
Ten minutes later they squealed to a halt behind an abandoned warehouse. It was one of many littering the docks, the crumbling remains of economic prosperity bound for degeneration for another two decades before the booming nineties would bring a new spark of life to the area.
Sam fumbled with the seatbelt, already running before he was half way out of the door. Standing in the middle of the dusty yard was his car, in one piece and looking none too worse to wear.
A man in his late forties was leaning against it, sweating profusely in his uniform, his beer belly barely contained by the wool jacket. PC Gromley chuckled heartily as Sam all but threw himself on the hood, coming perilously close to petting it. He’d never thought he’d be so happy to see the hunk of scrap metal again.
Gromley was relating the story of how he knew someone who knew someone else who used to do a little free enterprising in Sam’s neighbourhood so when Hunt had called in a favour, it’d merely taken some good old-fashioned footwork to track down the missing car.
“I wouldn’t sit in the back before you’ve given it a good clean, mind.”
Sam peered in through the window but could see nothing amiss. “Why?”
“Well, let’s just say that the reason I was able to get my hands on the car was because the punk who nicked it was otherwise occupied.” Seeing the blank incomprehension on their faces Gromley clarified. “With his bird.”
Oh.
Oh eww.
On the other side of the car Gene was cracking up again, laughing so hard there were tears running down his face. “Oh man, Sam. I gotta thank you, mate. I haven’t had this much fun since the time I got to rough up Warren
“Hey! And how many times have I told you not to… Oh, you know what? Never mind!” He could let some things slide. After all, he got his car back. Besides, it was Warren, who'd probably deserved it.
***
The day ended much more pleasantly than it had started. The Railway Arms was packed, the hot weather ensuring people were thirsty and perhaps a bit more rowdy than usual. Sam and Gene were sitting in the corner, drinking steadily toward sweet oblivion and attempting to talk over the noise cresting over them in waves of meaningless sound.
After Sam had wondered out loud if he should go back to the warehouse to look for bodies, Gene had finally relented and explained how it was that Gromley fit into the picture. Apparently, some ten years prior Gene had helped him with a delicate situation involving Gromley, his girlfriend, his girlfriend’s no-good boyfriend and some fifty crates of alcohol of questionable origin, housed in the very same warehouse. Not something Sam felt any inclination to force his morals on.
There was, however, another issue of fundamental unfairness that had yet to be addressed. He pointed an unsteady finger at the older man sitting opposite him. “You know what the worst part is?”
“What?”
“I’ve had that car on “loan”…” He seemed to have some trouble with muscle control and the air quotes came out looking like he was trying to take flight. “…ever since I got here and this is the first time it’s seen any action.” Sam stared into his drink sorrowfully. “And it wasn’t even by me.”
“Stop moping, Tyler. I’ve seen how all the birds look at you.” There was an almost imperceptible pause as Gene’s eyes dropped to the table, before lifting up to meet Sam’s. “Quite a few of the fellas, too. You could get your leg over whenever, wherever, you wanted. Including that crummy car.”
Huh. Sam blinked slowly, processing the unspoken implications.
There had been quite a few unexpected things today and dammit if they all hadn’t come from one DCI Hunt. Moreover, Sam was starting to sense a certain theme developing here.
“Maybe.” The older man opened his mouth to protest but Sam silenced him with a shushing motion, managing to knock over the ashtray. Not that it mattered. “But maybe that’s not what I want. Not just that, anyway.”
“Yeah? What is it that you want then, Sam?”
It was a good question. Straightforward but layered like the man who asked it. Too bad he didn’t have a complete answer to give.
“What I want right now, Gene…” The name came out with a deliberate drawl. “…is another drink.” Sam passed over his empty pint glass, nodding pointedly toward the bar. “With you.” He added when the other man made no move to get up.
There was a short silence, just long enough for Sam to think he’d said too much or not enough, before Gene reached over the table and clapped him on the shoulder.
“Well, hell, Sammy. That I can do.”
Sam watched him make his way to the crowded bar, feeling unexpectedly at peace. A simple drink would be enough for tonight, the more complicated answers - and there certainly were some, he’d just been too blind to see even the possibility of a question until today - would keep for now.
THE END