Off the hook by fawsley, green Cortina with Chris, Ray, Sam, Gene
Title: Off the hook
Author: fawsley
Characters: Chris, bit of Ray, bit of Gene/Sam
Rating: green Cortina
Warning: flokey stuff and divness
Word Count: Whitehall 1212
Disclaimer: all the property of the BBC and Kudos
Off the hook
‘They’re still neither of ’em answerin’ their phones...’
Chris replaces the receiver and looks enquiringly at Ray, wonders how what he’s about to say will go down with the self-imposed acting head of CID.
‘Maybe, well, perhaps, shouldn’t one of us, yer know, go round and see if they’re, well, if they’re, okay...?’
His voice tails off as he sees the confident glow fade from Ray’s expression, wishes he’d kept his gob shut, but then again he’s worried by this strange lack of both Boss and Guv half way through the morning.
Ray stares at him sadly for a moment, then suddenly he’s chewing his gum again with renewed enthusiasm.
‘Well done, Chris lad! Was waitin’ for yer to work that one out for yerself.’
He roots in a jacket pocket and tosses something Chris’s way.
‘Off yer go an’ see if yer can find either of ’em. I’ll ’old the fort ’ere whilst yer gone. Radio in if there’s any news.’
Chris scrabbles under his desk for the fallen keys, hits his head in all the excitement.
‘I can drive yer car, Ray? Really?’
‘Seein’ as it’s you, Chris, yer can. Now on yer way, DC Skelton, an’ just you remember to keep in touch with any developments.’
*´¨)
¸.•´¸.•*´¨) ¸.•*¨)
(¸.•´ (¸.•´
First stop, the Boss’s flat.
It’s the nearest, and the prospect of rousing an overslept Boss is somewhat more appealing than the alternative.
Chris knocks, tentatively at first but then more forcefully. Tries calling, shouting, even resorts to ‘Police! Open up!’ but to no avail. He’s been here when the Guv has shouldered the door down in one easy manoeuvre, but Chris only finds himself bounced back and sitting on the floor against the opposite wall. He doesn’t try again.
Next stop, the Guv’s house.
The Cortina’s outside which is a good sign. Probably. Possibly.
He drives past slowly, goes round the block and drives past again, then parks up a few doors down, sits and waits. After a few minutes he drives on again to the end of the road, u-turns, and comes back to his parking space, facing the right way this time.
Nothing happens. He’s not sure whether he should radio Ray to tell him this or not. Is nothing a development? He rather thinks that he should do something, and the only thing to do is knock on the door.
But when he does, the door opens of its own accord. Closed, but the Yale hadn’t actually caught. Chris pushes it open a little further and peers inside.
‘Guv?’
There’s no reply and no sign of life.
What there is is a mess.
The Guv’s famous coat is puddled at the foot of the stairs as if it had aimed for the newel but failed dismally.
The staircase itself is draped with assorted items of clothing, some of which are more than familiar. Chris picks his way through the debris as he steals upwards.
There’s the Guv’s pink shirt, the one he was wearing yesterday, an upside-down white loafer, a tie, half a bottle of Scotch (not clothing, Chris reminds himself, but as much a part of the Guv as to be so), an alarm clock (presumably flung angrily onto the stairs from the bedroom, dial cracked and hands drooping sadly at six-thirty), and the Boss’s black leather jacket.
Pair of ‘em been out on a bender. Chris grins, thinks about giving them a shocker of a wake-up call, but then considers his future career and decides against the idea.
Slowly he creeps to the top of the stairs and into the back bedroom, following the distinctive sound of contented snoring.
And that’s when he really wishes that the whisky bottle was up here with him now rather than down there on tread number five.
The Guv is on his back, Boss curled up in his arms, head on his shoulder, both stark naked, both sporting smiles that would put any self-respecting Cheshire cat to shame. The air is thick with a distinctive combination of sweat and cum, enough to make Chris start to shake with panic until he remembers that his mum isn’t going to be the one changing these particular sheets, though the thought flashes through his mind that he’s forgotten to hide his porn stash properly and he makes a little choking groan. Not much, not very loud, but sufficient to catch a pair of ever-alert ears.
The Boss twitches and grumbles in his sleep, fidgets enough to disturb his companion. Chris freezes in horror, praying that neither of them fully wakes up. But the Guv just tightens his hold, mutters ‘Sam... love...’ and plants a kiss upon the Boss’s forehead, then dozes off again before finishing and so remains firmly sealed, lips to skin, looking extremely happy with the whole situation.
Chris manages to breathe again before he falls over then tip-toes back the way he came, rescuing the Scotch along the way and depositing himself on the bottom stair, wondering what the hell he’s supposed to do now.
There’s an odd constant whining noise and Chris looks around expecting to see nothing less than a demented dog, only to find the telephone receiver dangling from its cord, hall table askew and disarranged, no doubt another victim of last night’s chaotic arrival.
He downs more whisky and listens to the connections clicking through his brain as a plan slowly forms.
*´¨)
¸.•´¸.•*´¨) ¸.•*¨)
(¸.•´ (¸.•´
Chris drops Ray’s keys onto his desk.
‘All sorted,’ he announces, as casually as he can.
‘So what was up?’
‘Oh, well, dunno about the Boss, think ’e was just crashed out after too many stiff ones…’
He gulps audibly as the words leave his mouth.
‘Couldn’t raise him at all...’
Shit, he’s not even trying to do this.
‘But, ah, the Guv, erm, tried phonin’ ’im again before I got to ’is house and ’e answered this time. On ’is way now. Said ’e’d swing round the Boss’s place an’ pick ‘im up, give ’im a right bollockin’...'
Bloody hell.
‘Lightweights!’ Ray sneers, determined to enjoy the last few minutes of his superior status.
Chris heads off to snaffle as much in the way of restorative tea and biscuits as he can.
*´¨)
¸.•´¸.•*´¨) ¸.•*¨)
(¸.•´ (¸.•´
When the Guv storms through the double doors into CID, the Boss wide-eyed and nervous in his wake, Chris doesn’t know where to look, buries his head in his work and ends up getting through more reports in one afternoon than he has in the past week.
When the Guv hoists the Boss from his chair by the collar and lambasts him for going against orders yet again, for flagrantly challenging his DCI’s authority yet again, Chris doesn’t know what to think, begins to wonder whether he fell asleep over his paperwork, whether what he thought happened this morning was in fact only a dream.
When the Guv gets in another couple of pints plus whisky chasers and settles back down next to his DI in their own particular corner of the Railway Arms, Chris remembers the Boss trying to explain body language to him, the secrets it could give away, and everything that made absolutely no sense at the time suddenly has meaning as clear as any bell.
Chris grins to himself, and raises an unseen toast to the pair of them.
Author: fawsley
Characters: Chris, bit of Ray, bit of Gene/Sam
Rating: green Cortina
Warning: flokey stuff and divness
Word Count: Whitehall 1212
Disclaimer: all the property of the BBC and Kudos
Off the hook
‘They’re still neither of ’em answerin’ their phones...’
Chris replaces the receiver and looks enquiringly at Ray, wonders how what he’s about to say will go down with the self-imposed acting head of CID.
‘Maybe, well, perhaps, shouldn’t one of us, yer know, go round and see if they’re, well, if they’re, okay...?’
His voice tails off as he sees the confident glow fade from Ray’s expression, wishes he’d kept his gob shut, but then again he’s worried by this strange lack of both Boss and Guv half way through the morning.
Ray stares at him sadly for a moment, then suddenly he’s chewing his gum again with renewed enthusiasm.
‘Well done, Chris lad! Was waitin’ for yer to work that one out for yerself.’
He roots in a jacket pocket and tosses something Chris’s way.
‘Off yer go an’ see if yer can find either of ’em. I’ll ’old the fort ’ere whilst yer gone. Radio in if there’s any news.’
Chris scrabbles under his desk for the fallen keys, hits his head in all the excitement.
‘I can drive yer car, Ray? Really?’
‘Seein’ as it’s you, Chris, yer can. Now on yer way, DC Skelton, an’ just you remember to keep in touch with any developments.’
*´¨)
¸.•´¸.•*´¨) ¸.•*¨)
(¸.•´ (¸.•´
First stop, the Boss’s flat.
It’s the nearest, and the prospect of rousing an overslept Boss is somewhat more appealing than the alternative.
Chris knocks, tentatively at first but then more forcefully. Tries calling, shouting, even resorts to ‘Police! Open up!’ but to no avail. He’s been here when the Guv has shouldered the door down in one easy manoeuvre, but Chris only finds himself bounced back and sitting on the floor against the opposite wall. He doesn’t try again.
Next stop, the Guv’s house.
The Cortina’s outside which is a good sign. Probably. Possibly.
He drives past slowly, goes round the block and drives past again, then parks up a few doors down, sits and waits. After a few minutes he drives on again to the end of the road, u-turns, and comes back to his parking space, facing the right way this time.
Nothing happens. He’s not sure whether he should radio Ray to tell him this or not. Is nothing a development? He rather thinks that he should do something, and the only thing to do is knock on the door.
But when he does, the door opens of its own accord. Closed, but the Yale hadn’t actually caught. Chris pushes it open a little further and peers inside.
‘Guv?’
There’s no reply and no sign of life.
What there is is a mess.
The Guv’s famous coat is puddled at the foot of the stairs as if it had aimed for the newel but failed dismally.
The staircase itself is draped with assorted items of clothing, some of which are more than familiar. Chris picks his way through the debris as he steals upwards.
There’s the Guv’s pink shirt, the one he was wearing yesterday, an upside-down white loafer, a tie, half a bottle of Scotch (not clothing, Chris reminds himself, but as much a part of the Guv as to be so), an alarm clock (presumably flung angrily onto the stairs from the bedroom, dial cracked and hands drooping sadly at six-thirty), and the Boss’s black leather jacket.
Pair of ‘em been out on a bender. Chris grins, thinks about giving them a shocker of a wake-up call, but then considers his future career and decides against the idea.
Slowly he creeps to the top of the stairs and into the back bedroom, following the distinctive sound of contented snoring.
And that’s when he really wishes that the whisky bottle was up here with him now rather than down there on tread number five.
The Guv is on his back, Boss curled up in his arms, head on his shoulder, both stark naked, both sporting smiles that would put any self-respecting Cheshire cat to shame. The air is thick with a distinctive combination of sweat and cum, enough to make Chris start to shake with panic until he remembers that his mum isn’t going to be the one changing these particular sheets, though the thought flashes through his mind that he’s forgotten to hide his porn stash properly and he makes a little choking groan. Not much, not very loud, but sufficient to catch a pair of ever-alert ears.
The Boss twitches and grumbles in his sleep, fidgets enough to disturb his companion. Chris freezes in horror, praying that neither of them fully wakes up. But the Guv just tightens his hold, mutters ‘Sam... love...’ and plants a kiss upon the Boss’s forehead, then dozes off again before finishing and so remains firmly sealed, lips to skin, looking extremely happy with the whole situation.
Chris manages to breathe again before he falls over then tip-toes back the way he came, rescuing the Scotch along the way and depositing himself on the bottom stair, wondering what the hell he’s supposed to do now.
There’s an odd constant whining noise and Chris looks around expecting to see nothing less than a demented dog, only to find the telephone receiver dangling from its cord, hall table askew and disarranged, no doubt another victim of last night’s chaotic arrival.
He downs more whisky and listens to the connections clicking through his brain as a plan slowly forms.
*´¨)
¸.•´¸.•*´¨) ¸.•*¨)
(¸.•´ (¸.•´
Chris drops Ray’s keys onto his desk.
‘All sorted,’ he announces, as casually as he can.
‘So what was up?’
‘Oh, well, dunno about the Boss, think ’e was just crashed out after too many stiff ones…’
He gulps audibly as the words leave his mouth.
‘Couldn’t raise him at all...’
Shit, he’s not even trying to do this.
‘But, ah, the Guv, erm, tried phonin’ ’im again before I got to ’is house and ’e answered this time. On ’is way now. Said ’e’d swing round the Boss’s place an’ pick ‘im up, give ’im a right bollockin’...'
Bloody hell.
‘Lightweights!’ Ray sneers, determined to enjoy the last few minutes of his superior status.
Chris heads off to snaffle as much in the way of restorative tea and biscuits as he can.
*´¨)
¸.•´¸.•*´¨) ¸.•*¨)
(¸.•´ (¸.•´
When the Guv storms through the double doors into CID, the Boss wide-eyed and nervous in his wake, Chris doesn’t know where to look, buries his head in his work and ends up getting through more reports in one afternoon than he has in the past week.
When the Guv hoists the Boss from his chair by the collar and lambasts him for going against orders yet again, for flagrantly challenging his DCI’s authority yet again, Chris doesn’t know what to think, begins to wonder whether he fell asleep over his paperwork, whether what he thought happened this morning was in fact only a dream.
When the Guv gets in another couple of pints plus whisky chasers and settles back down next to his DI in their own particular corner of the Railway Arms, Chris remembers the Boss trying to explain body language to him, the secrets it could give away, and everything that made absolutely no sense at the time suddenly has meaning as clear as any bell.
Chris grins to himself, and raises an unseen toast to the pair of them.