The pledge by fawsley, green cortina with Sam, Gene, Ruth, Heather
Title: The pledge
Author: fawsley
Rating: green Cortina for language, angsty in parts
Characters: Sam/Gene, Ruth, Heather
Word Count:2100-ish
Disclaimer: All the property of BBC and Kudos
Notes: A sort of follow-on to Spit and promise which you do need to have read first in order to understand Sam and Gene in this one. Not quite what I'd intended as I've not spent as long on it as I would have liked, but it was either a case of writing something or big-time whining about the current state of things, so I wrote.
The pledge
Birthdays were a bit of a non-event these days. Gene didn’t want any fuss, was content with a bottle of single malt, maybe a meal out, a celebratory shag of course, and Sam in turn was happy to forget his own not-at-all special days. Especially with middle-age creeping up so fast and, even worse, with the additional memories of another time that was now this time, another place that was this place. Another Sam Tyler out there somewhere, too excited to sleep the night before, waking up far too early, rushing downstairs first thing to where his presents were stacked up on the living room coffee table, tearing open the wrapping paper to find…
What would little Sammy Tyler find this year? That was part of the problem. Despite whatever trauma it was his brain had gone through, big Sam Tyler still had an excellent memory, recalling perfectly every childhood birthday and what it had brought. He didn’t like thinking about it but somehow every year he did, and it never got any easier.
This year he would be thirty-nine or, looking at it another way, he’d be six. And Sammy Tyler’s sixth birthday had been the best one he ever had, the one when Mum pulled out all the stops and did him really proud. That was the year he got a Z Cars annual and an Etch-a-sketch and a Mud LP and a Manchester United jigsaw (the one that later on Jimmy Nicholl’s left kneecap went missing from) and best of all, most wonderful of all, a new football kit with boots that looked just like the ones Steve Coppell wore.
Then there had been the afternoon’s party. How on earth had they crammed ten kids into what Sam now realised had been such a tiny house? Not only that but played Musical Chairs (to the sound of Mud) and Blind Man’s Buff and Hunt the Thimble into the bargain. And then all trooped upstairs into what he’d thought was Mum’s bedroom (not Mum and Dad’s bedroom, not any more) but which turned out to have been transformed into a magician’s secret lair where they were treated to wonderful trick after wonderful trick and Sam had almost decided against becoming a policeman after all.
Mum and Auntie Heather had laid on a spread the likes of which he’d never seen before. Sam was sure the table had groaned and buckled under the weight of all those sandwiches and sausage rolls and jellies and trifle and biscuits and cake. Mum had laughed at how he’d stood stock still, mouth wide open until Auntie Heather popped a beautifully manicured crimson-nailed finger beneath his chin and gently closed his jaw for him. Nine tired but happy children had left the Tyler household replete, slices of jam-and-buttercream-filled sponge cake neatly wrapped in paper napkins, and not even Haggis Hagan had been sick for once in his life.
There never had and there never would be a birthday as perfect as that of 1975. Sam could picture it all as if it were yesterday.
Though in fact it would be a week on Saturday.
*´¨)
¸.•´¸.•*´¨) ¸.•*¨)
(¸.•´ (¸.•´
Gene had gone on another twenty yards, still gracing Tyler with words of wisdom regarding the proper Gene Genie procedure for solving the Chollerton robbery when he realised that he was alone. Turning tail he retraced his steps, grouching and grumbling all the way, finding Sam frozen to the spot outside one of Portland Street’s seedier establishments.
If Sam had been six and this had been a sweetshop Gene might have understood the reaction, but neither was the case: Tyler was hurtling towards forty and this was a pawnbroker’s. He appeared glued to the shop window, hands flat against the glass, nose almost similarly so, a look of shocked confusion upon his face that Gene had long ago learned meant Trouble with the same capital T that stood for Time Travel.
‘What?’ he asked, eyes screwed up to scrutinise the window display in an attempt to identify the cause of Sam’s distress.
Books, LPs, a saxophone, make that two saxophones, at least three guitars of various shapes and sizes (did everyone in Manchester want to be in a pop group?), a half-decent tuxedo, too many not-decent-at-all shoes, a motley collection of probably knocked-off jewellery, most of it undoubtedly paste…
’What? What is it Sam?’
One hand slowly detached itself from the glass and pointed shakily at an open jewel case given pride of place between a cuckoo clock and a typewriter.
Sam’s voice seemed to come from far away, from a different time and place.
‘Gran’s diamonds. Know them anywhere. Those are Gran’s diamonds...’
‘Probably just look like ‘em. Come on Sam, forget it.’
Sam swiped away Gene’s attempt to pull him back to the here and now.
‘Fuck it Gene! I know what they are and they’re Gran’s diamonds. You can see the chip on the case where Mum dropped it when she was a kid. Wanted to borrow them to be a fairy princess, told me the story a million times. And I know the necklace anyway! Even if Mum never wore it she let me look at it enough times. I know the stones and I know the clasp. Gran’s diamonds…’
Gene rubbed at the smeary glass and peered into a gloomy interior, tried the door but to no avail.
‘It’s closed. We’ll come back another day, see if we can sort it out. Come on Sammy, time to head for home.’
Sam was more than reluctant but in the end there was nothing else he could do.
Gran’s diamonds. In hock. It was all so wrong that just thinking about it made him feel sick.
*´¨)
¸.•´¸.•*´¨) ¸.•*¨)
(¸.•´ (¸.•´
‘Are you going to eat that or not?’
‘Sorry… Not feeling very hungry.’
‘You’ve been pushing the same forkful around your plate for ten minutes. I go to all the bloody trouble of cooking for you for once and then you can’t be arsed to eat it. Great! Thank you very much indeed! Won’t bother again!’
‘It’s not… Sorry, Gene… I just…’
‘Can’t get your mind off a string of fake sparklers which bear a passing resemblance to something you haven’t seen for over thirty years. Right?’
‘Yeah, I mean no! Wrong! They are Gran’s diamonds and they’re real! I fucking well know they are. Would know them anywhere, even if I haven’t seen them for… Shit! Oh shit!’
‘Now what?’
*´¨)
¸.•´¸.•*´¨) ¸.•*¨)
(¸.•´ (¸.•´
‘Gone. Fucking gone…’
Sam sat at his desk with head in hands and the weight of the world upon his shoulders.
‘Couldn’t get away any earlier and then when I did they’d fucking gone. Shit!’
‘Don’t kick the furniture Sam, there’s no budget for any more if you wreck it. Did you ask about, well, who had…’
‘Wouldn’t tell me anything. Tried flashing my badge but he was wise to that one.’
Gene placed the conciliatory hand of a DCI on his DI’s shoulder. Sam leaned in against the touch only as much as he dared.
‘Probably wasn’t them at all Sam, just looked like them and…’
‘Shit Gene! How many times do I have to tell you? It was them all right. Mum pawned Gran’s diamonds to buy me a birthday. How fucking shite do you think that makes me feel? All these years remembering what I thought was one of the best days in my life when all the time it was that that was fake!’
‘Course it wasn’t fake, even if that was the case. Which it wasn’t. She gave you a great birthday because she loved you and that’s all that bloody matters. Grow up, Tyler! Anyway, maybe it was your Mum who bought them back…’
Sam shot up out of his seat, quivering with rage.
‘With what? With fucking what exactly? She blew it all on my bloody birthday! We were poor, Gene. Fucking poor! And I never saw Gran’s diamonds again.’
And with that he swept through the double doors of CID and disappeared.
Gene knew better than to follow.
*´¨)
¸.•´¸.•*´¨) ¸.•*¨)
(¸.•´ (¸.•´
‘Sorry, love. I’ve calmed down a bit now. Sorry I was such a bloody prat.’
Sam stretched out from where he’d been curled up on the sofa, patted Gene’s favourite cushion back into shape from the afternoon’s angry hurling it had been subjected to.
Gene sat himself and two beers down, opened one and passed it across.
‘S’okay. Understand. Sort of.’
‘I know you get upset by all the, you know, time stuff.’
‘Rather think it was you who did the getting upset, Sammy-boy.’
Sam dropped his head and grimaced.
‘Yeah, you’re right. Sorry. And you were right about the necklace too. Christ! I’ve been a fucking idiot about the whole thing, haven’t I?’
A laugh and a hug and a swig of beer made so many things good again.
‘You have that, you twonk. And what did you mean, right about the necklace too?’
Sam gulped his beer enthusiastically, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve and belching quietly before replying.
‘That it wasn’t Gran’s after all. ’Cause if it was and Mum pawned it then there’s no way she’d ever have been able to afford to buy it back. But it was there, after all.’
Gene frowned and paused in raising his bottle to his mouth.
‘Eh?’
‘I’d forgotten. Completely forgotten. It only came back to me while you were out.’
‘What did, Sam?’
‘Auntie Heather’s wedding. Something old, something new. She wore Gran’s diamonds for her something old. Mum had the photo up for years. The diamonds were there all the time, I just never saw them. She couldn’t have pawned them at all.’
‘Told you. Now just forget about it, okay? No more ruddy time travel crap. Bloody hell! Sarah Jane never has this much trouble with Doctor Who! And now it’s your turn to cook, Sammy - hop to it!’
Sam grinned his trademark face-splitting grin, saluted, and hopped kitchenwards.
Anything to take his mind off the whole palaver, Gene thought as he drained his bottle. Hopefully forever. He certainly wanted to forget all about it himself. Even thinking about it made him feel sick.
*´¨)
¸.•´¸.•*´¨) ¸.•*¨)
(¸.•´ (¸.•´
The last person Mrs Tyler ever expected to find on her doorstep that afternoon had been DCI Hunt. But he was always welcome, even if he did seem particularly nervous on this occasion. She and Heather were just sitting down for a nice cup of tea. No cake today though. Not enough in the housekeeping for that. Not with the big day racing up to meet them.
DCI Hunt fidgeted so much Ruth thought he was going to drop his cup and saucer. The silence between them grew more and more uncomfortable and she and Heather exchanged furtive glances trying to encourage the other to say something. At last it was the man himself who stood up and spoke.
‘Just don’t say anything, all right? No questions asked and no answers given, understood? I’m a copper, after all.’
Ruth and Heather looked at each other with wide eyes before nodding.
‘S’all above board, nothing shady going on. Got that? Just returning certain property to its rightful owner.’
A fumbling search of first one then another pocket finally produced an all-too familiar jewel case, which was when Ruth screamed and in clamping her hand over her mouth spilt her tea all over the rug.
By the time mopping up operations had been concluded DCI Hunt had his coat on and was almost out of the door, muttering something about having to get home to his other half, but then he grasped Ruth by the arm.
‘Don’t you dare do that again! Promise! Keep them safe, for the future, you know…’
Ruth was torn between throwing her arms around the big detective in gratitude and giving him a taste of the back of her hand, but he looked so full of sorrow himself she couldn’t bring herself to do either.
‘I will. Promise,’ she managed to whisper.
‘Good. That’s… erm… good. Right then.’
A curt nod and a strange sort of smile as he shook her hand.
‘I’ll give them to Heather’ she decided, a broad smile lighting up her face. ‘They’re as much hers as mine. Sammy and me, we’re always moving around, they’ll be safer with her. Save them up for Sammy’s lucky bride on his wedding day!’
DCI Hunt nodded again, an odd look upon his face, and turned to go, pausing only as a yelling gang of small boys came hurtling down the deserted street in hot pursuit of a battered football.
He turned back suddenly, pleading urgently.
‘Don’t tell him!’
0o0
A bit of a Christmas special: The time traveller's lover
Author: fawsley
Rating: green Cortina for language, angsty in parts
Characters: Sam/Gene, Ruth, Heather
Word Count:2100-ish
Disclaimer: All the property of BBC and Kudos
Notes: A sort of follow-on to Spit and promise which you do need to have read first in order to understand Sam and Gene in this one. Not quite what I'd intended as I've not spent as long on it as I would have liked, but it was either a case of writing something or big-time whining about the current state of things, so I wrote.
The pledge
Birthdays were a bit of a non-event these days. Gene didn’t want any fuss, was content with a bottle of single malt, maybe a meal out, a celebratory shag of course, and Sam in turn was happy to forget his own not-at-all special days. Especially with middle-age creeping up so fast and, even worse, with the additional memories of another time that was now this time, another place that was this place. Another Sam Tyler out there somewhere, too excited to sleep the night before, waking up far too early, rushing downstairs first thing to where his presents were stacked up on the living room coffee table, tearing open the wrapping paper to find…
What would little Sammy Tyler find this year? That was part of the problem. Despite whatever trauma it was his brain had gone through, big Sam Tyler still had an excellent memory, recalling perfectly every childhood birthday and what it had brought. He didn’t like thinking about it but somehow every year he did, and it never got any easier.
This year he would be thirty-nine or, looking at it another way, he’d be six. And Sammy Tyler’s sixth birthday had been the best one he ever had, the one when Mum pulled out all the stops and did him really proud. That was the year he got a Z Cars annual and an Etch-a-sketch and a Mud LP and a Manchester United jigsaw (the one that later on Jimmy Nicholl’s left kneecap went missing from) and best of all, most wonderful of all, a new football kit with boots that looked just like the ones Steve Coppell wore.
Then there had been the afternoon’s party. How on earth had they crammed ten kids into what Sam now realised had been such a tiny house? Not only that but played Musical Chairs (to the sound of Mud) and Blind Man’s Buff and Hunt the Thimble into the bargain. And then all trooped upstairs into what he’d thought was Mum’s bedroom (not Mum and Dad’s bedroom, not any more) but which turned out to have been transformed into a magician’s secret lair where they were treated to wonderful trick after wonderful trick and Sam had almost decided against becoming a policeman after all.
Mum and Auntie Heather had laid on a spread the likes of which he’d never seen before. Sam was sure the table had groaned and buckled under the weight of all those sandwiches and sausage rolls and jellies and trifle and biscuits and cake. Mum had laughed at how he’d stood stock still, mouth wide open until Auntie Heather popped a beautifully manicured crimson-nailed finger beneath his chin and gently closed his jaw for him. Nine tired but happy children had left the Tyler household replete, slices of jam-and-buttercream-filled sponge cake neatly wrapped in paper napkins, and not even Haggis Hagan had been sick for once in his life.
There never had and there never would be a birthday as perfect as that of 1975. Sam could picture it all as if it were yesterday.
Though in fact it would be a week on Saturday.
*´¨)
¸.•´¸.•*´¨) ¸.•*¨)
(¸.•´ (¸.•´
Gene had gone on another twenty yards, still gracing Tyler with words of wisdom regarding the proper Gene Genie procedure for solving the Chollerton robbery when he realised that he was alone. Turning tail he retraced his steps, grouching and grumbling all the way, finding Sam frozen to the spot outside one of Portland Street’s seedier establishments.
If Sam had been six and this had been a sweetshop Gene might have understood the reaction, but neither was the case: Tyler was hurtling towards forty and this was a pawnbroker’s. He appeared glued to the shop window, hands flat against the glass, nose almost similarly so, a look of shocked confusion upon his face that Gene had long ago learned meant Trouble with the same capital T that stood for Time Travel.
‘What?’ he asked, eyes screwed up to scrutinise the window display in an attempt to identify the cause of Sam’s distress.
Books, LPs, a saxophone, make that two saxophones, at least three guitars of various shapes and sizes (did everyone in Manchester want to be in a pop group?), a half-decent tuxedo, too many not-decent-at-all shoes, a motley collection of probably knocked-off jewellery, most of it undoubtedly paste…
’What? What is it Sam?’
One hand slowly detached itself from the glass and pointed shakily at an open jewel case given pride of place between a cuckoo clock and a typewriter.
Sam’s voice seemed to come from far away, from a different time and place.
‘Gran’s diamonds. Know them anywhere. Those are Gran’s diamonds...’
‘Probably just look like ‘em. Come on Sam, forget it.’
Sam swiped away Gene’s attempt to pull him back to the here and now.
‘Fuck it Gene! I know what they are and they’re Gran’s diamonds. You can see the chip on the case where Mum dropped it when she was a kid. Wanted to borrow them to be a fairy princess, told me the story a million times. And I know the necklace anyway! Even if Mum never wore it she let me look at it enough times. I know the stones and I know the clasp. Gran’s diamonds…’
Gene rubbed at the smeary glass and peered into a gloomy interior, tried the door but to no avail.
‘It’s closed. We’ll come back another day, see if we can sort it out. Come on Sammy, time to head for home.’
Sam was more than reluctant but in the end there was nothing else he could do.
Gran’s diamonds. In hock. It was all so wrong that just thinking about it made him feel sick.
*´¨)
¸.•´¸.•*´¨) ¸.•*¨)
(¸.•´ (¸.•´
‘Are you going to eat that or not?’
‘Sorry… Not feeling very hungry.’
‘You’ve been pushing the same forkful around your plate for ten minutes. I go to all the bloody trouble of cooking for you for once and then you can’t be arsed to eat it. Great! Thank you very much indeed! Won’t bother again!’
‘It’s not… Sorry, Gene… I just…’
‘Can’t get your mind off a string of fake sparklers which bear a passing resemblance to something you haven’t seen for over thirty years. Right?’
‘Yeah, I mean no! Wrong! They are Gran’s diamonds and they’re real! I fucking well know they are. Would know them anywhere, even if I haven’t seen them for… Shit! Oh shit!’
‘Now what?’
*´¨)
¸.•´¸.•*´¨) ¸.•*¨)
(¸.•´ (¸.•´
‘Gone. Fucking gone…’
Sam sat at his desk with head in hands and the weight of the world upon his shoulders.
‘Couldn’t get away any earlier and then when I did they’d fucking gone. Shit!’
‘Don’t kick the furniture Sam, there’s no budget for any more if you wreck it. Did you ask about, well, who had…’
‘Wouldn’t tell me anything. Tried flashing my badge but he was wise to that one.’
Gene placed the conciliatory hand of a DCI on his DI’s shoulder. Sam leaned in against the touch only as much as he dared.
‘Probably wasn’t them at all Sam, just looked like them and…’
‘Shit Gene! How many times do I have to tell you? It was them all right. Mum pawned Gran’s diamonds to buy me a birthday. How fucking shite do you think that makes me feel? All these years remembering what I thought was one of the best days in my life when all the time it was that that was fake!’
‘Course it wasn’t fake, even if that was the case. Which it wasn’t. She gave you a great birthday because she loved you and that’s all that bloody matters. Grow up, Tyler! Anyway, maybe it was your Mum who bought them back…’
Sam shot up out of his seat, quivering with rage.
‘With what? With fucking what exactly? She blew it all on my bloody birthday! We were poor, Gene. Fucking poor! And I never saw Gran’s diamonds again.’
And with that he swept through the double doors of CID and disappeared.
Gene knew better than to follow.
*´¨)
¸.•´¸.•*´¨) ¸.•*¨)
(¸.•´ (¸.•´
‘Sorry, love. I’ve calmed down a bit now. Sorry I was such a bloody prat.’
Sam stretched out from where he’d been curled up on the sofa, patted Gene’s favourite cushion back into shape from the afternoon’s angry hurling it had been subjected to.
Gene sat himself and two beers down, opened one and passed it across.
‘S’okay. Understand. Sort of.’
‘I know you get upset by all the, you know, time stuff.’
‘Rather think it was you who did the getting upset, Sammy-boy.’
Sam dropped his head and grimaced.
‘Yeah, you’re right. Sorry. And you were right about the necklace too. Christ! I’ve been a fucking idiot about the whole thing, haven’t I?’
A laugh and a hug and a swig of beer made so many things good again.
‘You have that, you twonk. And what did you mean, right about the necklace too?’
Sam gulped his beer enthusiastically, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve and belching quietly before replying.
‘That it wasn’t Gran’s after all. ’Cause if it was and Mum pawned it then there’s no way she’d ever have been able to afford to buy it back. But it was there, after all.’
Gene frowned and paused in raising his bottle to his mouth.
‘Eh?’
‘I’d forgotten. Completely forgotten. It only came back to me while you were out.’
‘What did, Sam?’
‘Auntie Heather’s wedding. Something old, something new. She wore Gran’s diamonds for her something old. Mum had the photo up for years. The diamonds were there all the time, I just never saw them. She couldn’t have pawned them at all.’
‘Told you. Now just forget about it, okay? No more ruddy time travel crap. Bloody hell! Sarah Jane never has this much trouble with Doctor Who! And now it’s your turn to cook, Sammy - hop to it!’
Sam grinned his trademark face-splitting grin, saluted, and hopped kitchenwards.
Anything to take his mind off the whole palaver, Gene thought as he drained his bottle. Hopefully forever. He certainly wanted to forget all about it himself. Even thinking about it made him feel sick.
*´¨)
¸.•´¸.•*´¨) ¸.•*¨)
(¸.•´ (¸.•´
The last person Mrs Tyler ever expected to find on her doorstep that afternoon had been DCI Hunt. But he was always welcome, even if he did seem particularly nervous on this occasion. She and Heather were just sitting down for a nice cup of tea. No cake today though. Not enough in the housekeeping for that. Not with the big day racing up to meet them.
DCI Hunt fidgeted so much Ruth thought he was going to drop his cup and saucer. The silence between them grew more and more uncomfortable and she and Heather exchanged furtive glances trying to encourage the other to say something. At last it was the man himself who stood up and spoke.
‘Just don’t say anything, all right? No questions asked and no answers given, understood? I’m a copper, after all.’
Ruth and Heather looked at each other with wide eyes before nodding.
‘S’all above board, nothing shady going on. Got that? Just returning certain property to its rightful owner.’
A fumbling search of first one then another pocket finally produced an all-too familiar jewel case, which was when Ruth screamed and in clamping her hand over her mouth spilt her tea all over the rug.
By the time mopping up operations had been concluded DCI Hunt had his coat on and was almost out of the door, muttering something about having to get home to his other half, but then he grasped Ruth by the arm.
‘Don’t you dare do that again! Promise! Keep them safe, for the future, you know…’
Ruth was torn between throwing her arms around the big detective in gratitude and giving him a taste of the back of her hand, but he looked so full of sorrow himself she couldn’t bring herself to do either.
‘I will. Promise,’ she managed to whisper.
‘Good. That’s… erm… good. Right then.’
A curt nod and a strange sort of smile as he shook her hand.
‘I’ll give them to Heather’ she decided, a broad smile lighting up her face. ‘They’re as much hers as mine. Sammy and me, we’re always moving around, they’ll be safer with her. Save them up for Sammy’s lucky bride on his wedding day!’
DCI Hunt nodded again, an odd look upon his face, and turned to go, pausing only as a yelling gang of small boys came hurtling down the deserted street in hot pursuit of a battered football.
He turned back suddenly, pleading urgently.
‘Don’t tell him!’
0o0
A bit of a Christmas special: The time traveller's lover