Fic: Gray Matter (4/4) COMPLETE, green cortina, dak and culf
Title: Gray Matter (4/4)
Authors: dak and culf
Word Count: 2800 this part, 12,351 overall
Rating: green cortina
Warnings: angst, a bit of slighly disturbing imagery
Spoilers: set after 2.08
Pairing: Sam/Gene
A/N: That's it! It's all done. I'm serious this time.
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3
“I know this. I know. Don’t tell me. Shit. What was it? Wait. Wait! It was the...the three of hearts?”
“Right again, sir,” Annie smiled as she revealed the matching card to Sam. “You went twenty-four for fifty-two today.”
“Still less than half,” Sam griped as he leaned back against the pillows.
“But better than yesterday and certainly better than last week! Always the pessimist, aren’t you?” she chided as she packed the cards away.
“Until my short term memory is back to normal, I think I’ll continue to remain a bit skeptical towards my recovery,” he sighed as picked at the blanket on his legs.
“You have been doing so much better since they moved you back to Manchester, DI Tyler. It’s just going to take some more time, is all,” Annie smiled encouragingly.
“Yeah, and I”d be doing even better if they discharged me,” Sam moped, staring at the blank hospital walls.
“They will when you’re ready, Sam. Right now, though, you still...”
“I still need twenty-four hour supervision in case I walk off the end of a pier,” he crossed his arms and pouted, blushing slightly.
“It’s only for a little while longer,” she pat him tenderly on the arm, then grabbed her purse. “I have to get back to the station. Will you be alright until DCI Hunt comes round after work?”
“Me and these four walls will be brilliant,” he rolled his eyes.
“There’s no need to get sarcastic with me, sir. I’m not the one that knocked you on the head,” Annie scolded.
“Sorry,” Sam softened, feeling guilty, “It’s...very frustrating, all this.”
“Then stop pouting and keep up with your exercises,” she ordered. “Only one keeping you here is you.”
“I know. You’re right. Thank you,” he smiled.
“Well, you’re welcome. Good day, sir.”
“Bye Annie.” He watched her leave then picked up his ever faithful note pad, marking down her visit.
*
Gene collapsed so heavily into the chair, Sam was surprised it didn’t break.
“Rough day?” he asked, eyebrows raised.
“Bein’ one man down in a busy month tends to do that. ‘Specially since Chris can’t take care of the paperwork half as fast as you,” Gene grumbled, stretching out in the poor, abused chair.
“Aw, was that a compliment?” Sam smirked.
“Who came to see you today?” Gene asked. Sam reached for his notes, but Gene slammed his hand on them before he could grab the pad. “No cheatin’.”
Sam pursed his lips and crossed his arms.
“Well?”
“I’m thinking,” he pouted.
“Should have me answer by next week then,” Gene mocked.
Sam sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Annie,” he finally stated. “Wait. No. No, Annie came yesterday but she couldn’t come today because...shit. They told me this. She couldn’t come today because she was working a case with Geoff. No. Clive. No. Vince. Vince, yeah, it was Vince, wasn’t it?”
“Close enough,” Gene confirmed. “So, who came then? Who told you?”
Sam thought hard, trying to picture his afternoon visit. “Ray. No. Chris. Chris. It was Chris.”
“You sure?”
“Absolutely.”
Gene picked up the note pad an started flipping through. “You’re wrong.”
“Shit,” Sam smacked the mattress with his fist.
“Shoulda stuck with your first instinct, Sammy-boy,” Gene chided.
“Ray? Oh come on. Why would I ever think Carling would come to see me?” Sam argued.
“Not about who, Tyler. It’s about you trusting your instincts, which you don’t. Though, they’re right more often than not,” Gene kept skimming through the notes.
“And you know this because....” Sam waited for his answer.
“Cartwright told me how much you second guess yourself during all those little brain exercises of yours. Says your first answer’s usually right but you always doubt yourself,” Gene set the notebook on his gut.
“It never feels right,” Sam remarked glumly.
“Cos you don’t trust yourself,” Gene told him.
“And how am I supposed to do that?” Sam snapped, feeling a migraine coming on.
“First of all, you can rid o’ this.” Gene took the note pad and tossed it out the window.
“Hunt!” Sam shouted and threw back his sheets, limping quickly to the window. “You bloody, ignorant...I need that!”
“No you don’t,” Gene leaned next to the window, hands in his trouser pockets. “Relying too much on them little notes of yours. How’s your brain s’posed to flex its muscle if you don’t try and remember on your own?”
“That was pointless, you know. I can buy another one,” Sam snarled still peering out the window.
“No you won’t. Not if you want to get out of here,” the Guv remarked casually.
Sam’s head snapped up. “What are you saying?”
“ ‘M saying, docs told me I can sign you out any day now. Get you back to your own flat, into your own clothes, long as I promise to keep an eye on yeh.”
“You’d do that?” Sam looked at him hopefully.
“Need me DI back sooner than not, and I’m probably as sick of this place as you are, Dorothy.”
“Gene...” Sam tried to grab his hand but Gene pulled away, resting a hand on his bony shoulder instead.
“Not here, Sam,” he warned carefully, giving the lad’s shoulder a light squeeze. “C’mon. Get your kit. Let’s get you home.”
Sam nodded sullenly and withdrew to the small closet on the other side of the room.
*
Gene had pulled up to Tyler’s flat and followed him up the stairs. As the creaking door swung open, Gene nearly regretted not having Cartwright come round and do a bit of cleaning before sending Tyler back to the dump. It had been relatively tidy before he’d departed on his little misadventure but after a few months of disuse, a heavy layer of dust coated all in sight and the food left in the fridge was probably more than a tad off.
“Home sweet home,” Sam sighed as he walked in and tossed his small bag on the wobbly cot.
“Right. Need anything?”
Sam slowly puttered around the room, shaking his head every now and then as he ran his finger through the dirt. “No. Think I’ll be fine.”
“Good. Right. Guess I’ll be off then.’
That grabbed Tyler’s attention. “Wait. You’re leaving?”
“Promised the missus I’d be home for dinner.”
Sam turned blank and cold. “Right. Can’t forget about the wife.”
“Sam...”
“No. You have your duties. Go on then. Leave. I’ll be fine.” He turned his back on Gene.
Gene hadn’t screwed up enough courage to tell Sam about their conversation on the pier. He’d told Sam he’d found him there and brought him back to South Shore, but not that Sam had revealed any of the pain he was keeping bottled up inside. He knew he should have. He just couldn’t. It was placing a nice wall between them and Gene was too much of a man to try and tear it down.
“I’ll come back later. Tonight. See how you’re faring without all them pretty nurses hanging on your every word.” It was the wrong thing to say but Gene tried not to care.
“Thought you’d know by now I don’t give a shit about pretty nurses,” Sam sneered and strode into his kitchen.
“Well you didn’t seen to keen on the alternative last time you had it shoved up your jacksie,” Gene snapped. “Oh sorry. I forgot. You probably don’t remember. Leaked out that little crack in your brain box, did it?”
Sam had his back turned, but Gene could see him gripping the kitchen counter so tightly, his knuckles were turning white. “Thank you for bringing me home, Guv,” he said tersely. “Feel free to see yourself out. I might show up for work tomorrow, if I can remember how to get there.”
If Gene was one to regret, he would’ve regretted walking out the door.
*
There was nothing like a good plate-breaking fight to put things in perspective. He’d been the good husband, come home for dinner on time, and she’d still found some reason to start her raving and ranting. Maybe he shouldn’t have mentioned that the stew tasted a bit off or that she could try and put a little a make-up on once in awhile. Whatever it was, in a flurry of tears, screams, and broken dinnerware, she was out the door, suitcase in hand. Off to her mother’s for who knew how long.
Gene slowly cleaned up the mess, he’d certainly seen worse, then tried to settle down his armchair with a nice, soothing whisky nightcap. He casually glanced at the clock and realized it had been three hours since he’d left Tyler. At present, the lad’s best record for perfect memory recall, as the doctors called it, was a half hour. After that, he began to lose details. The memory would start to become fuzzy until it would remain in his brain partially, obscured, or not at all. It was worse when Sam was under stress.
Gene sipped his whisky, then stood and walked upstairs, replaced his slippers with the worn, white loafers, then walked back downstairs, grabbing his keys and coat and heading out the door.
There was no sound coming from Tyler’s flat as Gene stood outside the door. No television, no radio playing that rubbish Sam always listened to. He stood up straight, knocked forcefully, and waited. And waited. He knocked again and waited. The little animal in his gut started chewing on his insides and Gene knocked again.
“Tyler? You in there?”
No answer.
“God help you if you’ve wandered off again, cos I ain’t going to go look for you,” he lied. After another second’s pause, Gene put his shoulder where his mouth was and lifted Tyler’s door off the hinges. Sam was there, standing in the center of his flat, facing towards the window, staring at his right hand.
“Sam?”
Upon hearing his name, Sam looked over at Gene, eyes already watering.
“I can’t remember,” he whispered painfully.
Gene hurried inside and closed the door as best he could. “What? What can’t you remember, Sam?” he asked surprisingly gently as he crossed the room.
“I...I was going to do something,” Sam spoke slowly. “But I can’t remember what it was,” he stared at Gene, as if his Guv somehow knew what he was trying to think of. “I was...you dropped me off and then...I was here,” Sam looked at the floor where he was standing.
Gene took him by the shoulders, ready to guide him towards a chair, when he noticed the fresh burn on Tyler’s palm. “Sam, what’s this?” He took the hand, careful to avoid the burn. “What happened?”
Sam looked from his hand to Gene to the kitchen, but could find no answer. “I can’t remember.”
“Try,” Gene encouraged and walked him to the kitchen. “What d’you see?”
Sam blankly stared around the small space until his eyes came to rest on a pan sitting on the stove. “I,” he closed his eyes, desperate to remember. “I was going to make something to eat.”
“Good. What else?”
“I left the kitchen, then I came back and...” Sam opened his eyes, and Gene could see them fill with anger. He pulled away from Gene and stormed back towards his bed.
“What is it, Sam?”
“I forgot I turned the stove on. That the pan was hot!” Sam shouted at himself. “I grabbed it, wanting to wash it. I forgot that I was bloody cooking!” He kicked at the cot with his bad leg, then doubled over as the pain coursed through his body. Gene was on him in an instant, helping him sit. “I’m useless,” Sam admonished himself, elbows on knees and fingers grasping his short hair.
“You’re going to get better, Sammy. These brain things take time,” Gene sat next to him, knowing first hand the bed could hold both their weight.
“Everyone keeps saying that and I’m sick of it. How do they know? All I have is their word that I’m improving and what good is that if I can’t see it for myself?”
Though his face was covered, Gene could hear him crying. Cautiously, he reached over and put a hand on Sam’s knee. When it wasn’t shrugged away, he kept it there and started talking. “Not hallucinating anymore.”
He heard a slight change in Sam’s breathing, but the man remained silent.
“When they first brought you in, you were seein’ all sorts of stuff. Don’t know what exactly. You never knew to tell anyone but it’s what sent you out to that pier. That all stopped, once we brought you home.”
Gene had started running his hand slowly up and down Sam’s leg, trying to calm him. Sam still remained silent.
“And you recognize me now.”
That caught Sam’s attention, and he lifted his blotched, red eyes to meet Gene’s.
“Took you weeks to do that. I’d be there and you’d keep telling me to go find meself. Din’t know quite what to do about that.”
“I’m sorry,” Sam said softly. “That must have hurt.” He stared at Gene’s hand on his thigh but made no comment towards that.
“Can’t say it felt all warm an’ cozy,” Gene agreed. “But you stopped all that, too, after...” He swallowed hard and didn’t continue.
“After what?” Sam asked. When Gene didn’t answer, Sam placed his hand on top of the one on his leg, holding it firmly. “Gene, after what?”
Gene shifted, and with his free hand, pulled a piece of paper out of his coat pocket, then handed it to Sam. Tyler took it in both hands and Gene looked away as he unfolded the crossword puzzle. “You told me why you were in Blackpool. Called yourself about a dozen of those names in the process.”
Sam rose from the bed, eyes glued on his self-hating vitriol, and walked to the window.
“You don’t remember,” Gene continued, “but you told me. All of it. Why you were there. How you still felt ‘bout what you did with Morgan.”
Sam collapsed into the chair by his little table, still staring at the puzzle, hands shaking. “It’s not true,” he said quietly. “I don’t feel--”
“You do, Sam. I saw it. You feel like an arsehole when you got no right to. You keep beating yourself up over this, won’t be none of you left. Nearly lost you twice cos of that misplaced guilt of yours so you’d do well enough to let it go,” he got it out all in one breath while staring at the opposite wall of the flat. He closed his eyes waited, for what he didn’t know. After what seemed like eternity, he felt the bed sink beside him.
“We had a fight. Before you left,” Sam spoke.
“An’ you ran off to Blackpool,” Gene confirmed.
“No,” he corrected. “Today, before you left. After you dropped me off.”
Gene shifted uncomfortably. “Was hoping you’d forget about that.”
“Nearly did.”
He felt Sam’s unburned hand reach into his own.
“I don’t want to hate myself over this but--”
“Then don’t.” Gene opened his eyes and stared at Sam.
“It’s not that simple,” Sam shook his head and looked away.
“For someone what can’t remember what he ate for breakie, you think ‘bout twice as much as should. I’m your Guv. I’m tellin’ you to stop bein’ a guilt-ridden prat. So, stop bein’ a guilt-ridden prat.” Sam still held the puzzle paper in his other hand. Gene took it. “See these things? You’re none of these things, Sam.” He tore up the paper and let the scraps float to the floor.
“Really?”
“You keep asking me that, I’m bound to change me mind.”
Sam smiled.
“C’mon,” Gene rose. “Let’s get you summit decent to eat.”
“Gene?” Sam called from the bed.
“Yeah?”
“When did you get here?” he asked quizzically. “Ow!” Sam hissed as his right hand brushed against the bed. “What happened to my hand?” He looked around the room. “And how did I get to my flat?”
Gene felt his stomach sink, or maybe it was his heart, as he realized he’d lost Sam all over again. Again. “Checked you out this evening. Just came by to grab a few things, ‘fore we headed home.”
“Home?”
“Missus is out of town for a bit. Thought you best you stay with me. Least for a few days. Make sure you don’t do anything stupid.”
“Okay,” Sam agreed. “Thanks, Guv,” he smiled solemnly and began to pack his things.
Gene drove home quickly, but not quick enough, as he sighed and explained to a confused Sam where they were why. As they watched the telly together, Gene wondered how many times he’d have to absolve Sam of his guilt before his DI could remember to forgive himself.