Fic: When You Were Young (2/5), green cortina, dakfinv
Title: When You Were Young (2/5)
Author: dak
Word Count: 2036 (this part); 5940, so far
Rating: Green Cortina
Warnings: angst, mild swearing
Summary: Sam has an accident, in 1973, that renders him with the mentality of a 4 year old. Will Gene be able to cope?
A/N: So, part two was running away from me, so I'm going to split it into two parts, and now there's four parts. Or something. I can't believe the huge lack of angst in this part. There must be something wrong with me. Thanks for all the feedback! Mr. Cotton and the SASG Missus both make appearances here. Please enjoy!
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5
“Careful now. Watch your step, love,” she held his hand as he limped through the doorway and into the foyer.
“This...this’s like my house...’cept, ‘cept the kitchen, that’s over there an’, an’ the stairs are back there,” he panted, moving stiffly. “Wait. No. That’s like me old house. The other house it’s...uhm...we’ve a lot of houses,” Sam finished sadly.
“Put ‘im in the front room,” Gene barked from behind, lugging a set of suitcases in with him. “Been ranting and raving ‘bout watching telly since I told him he was leaving hospital.”
“I think the United match is on soon. Would like to watch that?” The Missus asked.
“I’m not watching those poofs,” Gene snarled, tossing the luggage to one side and stripping off his driving gloves.
“Good thing I wasn’t asking you,” she argued back, leading Sam to Gene’s chair.
“What’s a poof?” Sam asked earnestly.
“You are,” Gene shouted from the hall.
“Gene!” She scolded.
“I’m a poof?” Sam wondered aloud.
“No, dear. You’re not,” she smiled, patting him on the shoulder.
“But Mr. Hunt, but Gene said I was.”
“I wouldn’t believe everything Mr. Hunt tells you, sweetheart.”
“Margaret! Where’s me whisky?” Gene’s voice echoed from the kitchen.
“Look, Sammy!” She switched on the television. “Isn’t that Bobby Charlton?”
Sam’s attention was immediately fixed on the flickering screen, leaving Margaret free to scold her husband. Gene was rummaging through various cabinets, disrupting every bit of organization she maintained. She rolled her eyes and walked to the unopened bottle sitting in the middle of the counter.
“Thanks,” he grumbled as he grabbed it from her.
“You were supposed to be back an hour ago,” she crossed her arms.
“Had to stop at the chemist’s. Bloody moron behind the counter took twenty minutes just to read his prescriptions, let alone fill ‘em.” Gene poured himself a healthy glass, which she took from his hands before he could drink it. “What?”
“His medications?” She held out her other hand. “I told you I’d be in charge of all that.”
Gene reached into his coat pocket and handed over a crumpled, brown paper bag.
“This is full of sherbet fountains,” she raised an eyebrow.
“Oh.” He checked his other pocket and handed her a different bag, taking back his sweets.
“There any he needs to take now?” She asked, setting down the whisky and sorting through the proper bag.
“I don’t know. You said you’d be in charge of all that,” he sipped from the glass and she sighed, lining up the bottles on the counter.
“When are you going to tell them?” She asked softly, wounding the silence that had surrounded them.
“Soon,” he mumbled, taking a sip.
“You’ve been saying ‘soon’ for a fortnight,” she argued.
“I know.”
“They have a right to know.”
“I know woman. Bloody hell,” he ran his fingers through his hair. “What do you want me to do? Take him round the station? Pop down the pub?”
“You best not be giving him alcohol,” she warned. “Not with the amount of pills he’s on,” she eyed the prescriptions lining the counter. “They’ve already been asking questions. Phyllis has been hounding me almost every day, trying to figure out what’s going on. I don’t know how long I can keep feigning ignorance, Gene.”
“I’ll figure summit out,” he grumbled.
“No. No!” Sam screamed from the front room. Margaret spun around in worry, but Gene waved it off.
“Chelsea probably scored is all,” he brought the glass to his lips.
“Leave me alone!”
That time, Gene dropped the glass on the counter and launched himself in Tyler’s direction. “Sam?” He shouted.
Tyler was sitting in the middle of the floor, his back to the television, alternately hugging his arms around his knees and cupping his hands over his ears. Gene crouched in front of him, trying to unwind Sam’s body and make eye contact, nearly getting a face full of plaster for his trouble.
“Sam? Sammy, it’s Gene. Look at me.”
“No, no, no, no,” he violently shook his head.
“Margie, get Mr. Cotton.”
“Who?”
“The sheep in the red suitcase!” Gene turned back to Sam. “Sammy. Sammy, calm down. You’re okay.”
“No. No no no no,” he looked up. “I don’t want her here,” he pleaded with Gene.
“Mrs. Hunt’s alright. Give ‘er a chance.”
“No no no no no. I like Mrs. Hunt.”
“Is this what you’re looking for?” Margaret hurried back into the room. Sam immediately outstretched his arms as she walked forward with the sheep. He grabbed and hugged it tightly, burying his face in the fabric.
“There’s a good lad,” Gene stroked his head as Sam continued to shake. “Now, why don’t you sit in the chair and watch some more telly?”
“No!” Sam screamed and leapt to his feet. “I don’t want to watch telly anymore. No not never!” He paced back and forth, nearly stumbling every other step.
“What do you want then, Sam?” Gene slowly rose, keeping a sharp eye on his DI’s movements.
“Not telly. Home. Go home. Not here. Here alone,” he babbled, then caught his foot on the carpet, tripping into Gene.
“Okay, okay,” Gene held Sam as he began to cry. “You’re tired aren’t yeh? Long day, eh? You want to see your room?”
Sam nodded into his chest.
“He needs those pills now, luv,” he told his wife as he helped Sam walk to the stairs. They moved slowly up the steps and into the spare room. After much coaxing, Sam crawled into bed, Mr. Cotton tucked under his arm, and swallowed his medication before slipping into a light doze.
“Is he alright?” Margaret asked cautiously as Gene closed the bedroom door.
“Doc says he gets confused sometimes. Don’t know what sets ‘im off,” he ran a tired hand over his face.
“You’re doing the right thing, Gene,” she reassured him, clasping her hands in his. “But you don’t need to do it on your own. Tell his friends. Take him to the station.”
“You’re not always right, you know,” he sighed, bringing her palm to his lips and kissing it softly.
“Only most of the time,” she smiled.
*
“I’m goin’ to the station. I’m goin’ to the station. I’m goin’ to the staton. I’m goin’ to see p’licemen and p’lice women cos I’m goin’ to the station. I’m goin’ to the station,” Sam sang, grinning like a loon as he bounced up and down in the Cortina.
“Yes, Tyler. For the millionth time, you’re going to the police station. Now that we’ve established that, will you please shut up?” Gene gripped the steering wheel tightly.
“ ‘S not nice to tell people to shut up. You should say ‘scuse me or please be quiet an’ can I hold a gun?”
“I said please, and absolutely not.”
“Night stick?”
“No.”
“You’re no fun,” Sam pouted, crossing his arms.
“Yes I am.”
“No you’re not...wouldn’t even let Mr. Cotton come...” He muttered under his breath.
“Mr. Cotton did come. He just has to stay in the car.” Gene sighed and rolled his eyes as he pulled the Cortina to a stop outside the station. “No gun. If you’re good, I might let you play with the handcuffs.”
“Handcuffs? Aw brilliant!” Sam bounced in the chair, waiting impatiently for Gene to help him out of the car. “Gene?” He asked as the door was opened.
“Yeah?”
“Who’s Joni?”
“Joni? What made you think of her?”
“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “Who is she?”
“Don’t worry ‘bout that now,” Gene told him, holding out his hand.
“But--”
“Look! We’re at the station!” Gene pointed out with false excitement.
Sam’s eyes went wide. “Oh, wow!” He gasped as he climbed out of the car. “Look, Gene. Gene, look! It’s a p’lice car. An’ there’s a p’liceman, an’ there, an’ there...” he spun around, pointing at every plod he saw.
“That’s right, Sammy,” Gene forced a smile as he deflected the odd looks from passing bobbies. “Now let’s get inside before they arrest you for lewd behavior.”
“ ‘Kay,” Sam bounded up the stairs, as much as he could. “Oh, can I see the cells, too? That’s where you put the bad guys, right? I don’t never want to be a locked in a cell. Well, ‘less I did summit bad, cos then I’d have to. But I don’t want to be a bad guy. I want to be a good guy. Cos the good guys always win an’ I don’t like to lose...” Sam babbled as he ran ahead of Gene.
The Guv sighed, feeling a massive headache coming on. Even injured and out of his mind, Tyler was still a wound up ball of energy. As he followed him up the steps, he caught sight of the stitches and shaved patch of hair where the shunt had needed to be inserted into Sam’s skull. Even on the drugs, Sam must have been in pain, he had too many still healing wounds not to be, but he didn’t complain once. He never said if something hurt worse than it should, or if anything was bothering him. Either he was pain free, or he was keeping all the hurt to himself. Gene wondered if maybe Tyler hadn’t changed that much at all.
Lost in thought, he couldn’t stop Sam before he ran straight up to Phyllis. “Gene, look! Look, Gene! It’s a p’lice woman!”
“DI Tyler...” the Desk Sergeant started uncertainly.
“Are you in charge? You look like you’re in charge. Do you want to sign me cast?” He stuck out his right arm. “No one’s signed it yet,” he waited eagerly.
“Guv, what--”
“Later,” he barked. “C’mon, Sam. Into the lift.”
“ ‘Kay,” he shrugged cheerily and followed Gene. “Bye!” He waved to DS Dobbs.
“Bye,” she answered back, confusion stamped all over her face.
“Sam, remember what I told you,” Gene reminded him as they rode the lift to the third floor. “Let me talk to them first.”
“ ‘Kay,” Sam said, distracted by the buttons. “What’s this?”
“Don’t touch that,” Gene slapped his hand away.
“ ‘Kay. What about this?” He pointed to another button.
“No! Christ. Can’t you stay still?”
“ ‘M sorry, Gene. ‘M really, really excited,” he whined.
“Surprised you haven’t wet yourself yet,” Gene muttered as they stepped out onto the floor.
“What?”
“Nothing. Now, just keep your mouth shut, until I say so, okay?”
“ ‘Kay.” Sam remained perfectly silent as he followed Gene down the hall and into CID, where an impromptu game of footie was immediately halted after the ball nearly hit Tyler in the head.
“Guv,” Ray nearly swallowed his ciggie. “We were just--”
Sam ran up to Ray, holding the now captured football.
“Boss...” he started.
“Are you a poofter?” Sam immediately asked.
“What?” Ray’s stare immediately turned deadly.
Sam shrugged. “We were watching the news last night, an’ the man on the telly, even though I din’t want to watch telly, he had a moustache an’ Mr. Hunt, an’ Gene, he said, he said only poofters had moustaches an’ you have a moustache, so you must be a poofter. But that’s okay, cos I’m a poof, Gene says, so maybe we can be mates. Here’s your ball back. Can I play? Is that evidence?” He asked, pointing to a plastic bag on Chris’ desk, immediately running over to examine it. “Aw, brilliant!”
As Sam toyed with the bag, which turned out to be Skelton’s leftover breakfast, the whole of CID was rendered speechless.
“I told you he was a bit off, didn’t I?” Gene addressed the stunned crowd. “Get back to work,” he ordered. The team shuffled into action, all eyes still lingering on Tyler as he continued to examine the items on Chris’ desk, including the DC’s latest issue of “Just Jugs.”
“In me office, Tyler,” Gene hurried past, expecting Sam to follow. He didn’t. “Sam?” He doubled back.
“Gene, I feel funny,” he said, staring at the magazine and beginning to rub the crotch of his trousers.
“Christ’s sake.” Gene grabbed him by the arm and dragged him away from the images of nude women, securing him inside his office. It was destined to be a long day.
________
Part 3