Fic: No Fear of Falling (3/?), white cortina, by little_cello
Title: No Fear of Falling (3/?)
Author: little_cello
Rating: White Cortina
Word count: 2500 ish
Characters: Sam, Gene, Warren
Summary: Yet more wings. Enter the big bad villain.
Notes: I failed to mention this before, but HUGE THANKS to talkingtothesky who is an amazing beta reader and helps improve my fics so so much. Without her none of this would be making much sense. Enjoy!
( Prologue)
( Chapter 1)
Chapter 2
The days and weeks passed agonizingly slowly.
Every morning, Sam opened his eyes, hoping that he would magically wake up in a hospital bed instead of the dreary flat in 1973, with the bed that hurt his back so badly that he sometimes considered just sleeping in the armchair, or even on the floor. Every morning, he was disappointed.
The days weren't much better. When they were in company, Gene behaved as though their wings didn't exist - which was fair enough, because no one else could see them. Apart from Phyllis down at the front desk, who sported a pair of wings that made her look like a grumpy grey owl, Sam hadn't spotted any other winged individuals in the police force. In public, it was necessary to make as little a deal of it as possible.
This meant, however, that there was nothing else left that gave him and Gene any kind of connection. They fought nigh on constantly. While Sam acknowledged that his DCI had much more experience with the whole wing business, Sam knew that he was a good detective - he had worked hard to become chief inspector at such a young age. He knew how to police, and these people lacked the finesse and efficiency in investigations he so appreciated in his team back home.
And Christ on a bike, Gene was infuriating most of the time. Moody, alcoholic, nicotine-addicted, and the way he effortlessly broke every single convention of political correctness before the day was finished sometimes left Sam speechless. Sam had been aware of the fact that the 70s hadn't been as fun and games as nostalgia made them out to be, but Gene Hunt seemed to be the embodiment of everything wrong with that decade. They clashed and argued and struggled with each others' concepts and opinions on policing, and at the end of the day, somehow, cases got solved and criminals arrested (and given a hiding, more often than not).
Sam had never found work to be this stressful. If it hadn't been for Annie's calming influence, he probably would be in a constant state of exasperation. Annie simply made him feel better. He had noticed that whenever she came by his desk to chat with him, his wings settled into a more relaxed pose than they usually did around non-winged people. Sam was grateful for these little rays of sunshine, as he liked to think of his conversations with her. They were moments of reprieve, helping him forget his discomfort and longing to wake up from all of this.
He encountered several other winged humans as well. One of them, a hearing-impaired young man called Leonard Pitt, proved to be the key witness in a case that became rather personal for Sam. A result of that case was that he and Gene saw eye to eye more often. It seemed that for the two of them to reach common ground, they first needed to bloody each others' noses. Sam didn't relish the thought, especially not if it meant that he was starting to assimilate. He still wanted to go home more than anything else - granted, he would be the only human being with a pair of wings in the entire world again, but at least he would be home. It was an environment he knew how to navigate. Here, in 1973, there were pitfalls everywhere.
One of these pitfalls presented itself on a hot June morning. Strange dreams were something Sam had gotten used to here - nurses and doctors talking to him, dreams of the eerie girl in her red dress. But this time, he had dreamed of Ivanhoe. Sam was convinced that Ivanhoe had always been able to see his wings. Normally he would ignore them, but sometimes, he would paw at the feathers. And sometimes, when little Sam was curled up in bed, Ivanhoe would lie down behind him and lick across the coverts. It was one of the most comforting things Sam had ever experienced.
And now Ivanhoe seemed to have led him to his parents' current residence in 1973. Sam walked through the neighbourhood like he still was in a dream. Everything was familiar and yet it seemed disconcertingly unreal, a feeling that was reinforced by the heavy silence and the heat.
The spell was broken when Sam heard the sounds of a scuffle - grunts, punches. He snapped into action. Off duty or not, he was a police officer, and he would have no law-breaking on his watch; especially not this close to what was once his home.
**
What should have been a simple case of bodily assault quickly spiralled out of control. Upon hearing about the arrest, Gene pulled Sam aside, filling him in on exactly who Charlie Edwards worked for: a local businessman by the name of Stephen Warren, who enjoyed 'cordial relationships with the police'.
'He's bent,' Sam said, struggling to accept the implications.
'Bent as a fishhook,' Gene confirmed, matter-of-factly. Sam could feel his heart hammering away in his chest. Checks and balances. Institutionalized corruption, in other words.
**
Charlie Edwards, already callous when Sam had arrested him, was downright smug when he picked up his belongings. Seeing him leave the station with that smug grin on his face was both humiliating and infuriating. Gene blocked every attempt Sam made to talk about it. The day passed in a tense atmosphere - although, Gene's invitation to a 'quiet little pub' did give Sam some hope that he would still be able to address this whole Warren business. He might even have a better chance to get through to Gene than if he confronted him in front of the entire team.
However, Sam's hopes proved to be in vain. The Cortina screeched to a halt in front of a club, 'The Warren' written in neon letters above the crowded entrance.
'What're we doing here?'
'Furthering your education so you don't start a war.'
Sam's feathers bristled as anger rose inside him. 'I want nothing to do with it.'
Gene gave him a strangle look then; his own wings were drawn tightly to his back, folded so thoroughly that they seemed glued together. 'You are to do with it.'
When they entered the club, Gene immediately ushered him over to an upstairs area, but even as they hurried through the crowd Sam was taken aback by how many off-duty police officers he spotted. Even Annie was there, stopping him to chat for a few seconds. However, Sam couldn't concentrate on her. His attention was being drawn to several large and smaller cages, prominently placed throughout the dance hall. Inside them, girls were dancing, further stimulating the people around them.
At first, Sam thought that the wings on their backs were fake - the shape was all off, and they weren't as large as Gene's or Phyllis'. Then, as one of the girls turned her back to him, Sam realized his mistake. The wings were real, no doubt about it, considering the way they swayed in time with the music.
What had made them look odd was the fact that they were all pinioned. They still looked pretty and groomed, some of them even sprinkled with glitter (for whose benefit, Sam couldn't tell - there were no other winged people in the room), but they were mutilated without a doubt. Sam felt sick as Gene pulled him away from Annie, up the stairs. When they reached the door, he tapped his DCI's shoulder.
'Those girls-'
Gene cut him off. 'Don't say anything. What he does is his business, not ours. We're here because you need to apologize, and nothing more than that, got it?'
Sam couldn't believe what he was hearing. 'I'm not--'
But Gene had already pushed open the heavy double door and pulled him inside.
Sam yanked his arm free of Gene's grasp, opening his mouth - and stopped, his eyes widening. They had entered a room draped with dark red velvet and lit by lights of the same colour, seeming to go on forever; even so, it felt claustrophobic. At the end of it stood a large desk, and behind that desk stood a man who at first glance reminded Sam of a vulture, perching and waiting for its prey to move, ready to strike. His black wings rose up high behind his back, looking imposing and powerful even half folded. No doubt this was Stephen Warren.
The man himself - beady eyes, curly hair - wasn't someone who under normal circumstances would have intimidated Sam, but there was something about his wings that made Sam want to shrink back, to turn around and leave. His wings bristled, and to Sam's horror that elicited a reaction from Warren; he raised his chin slightly, eyes glinting as though he had just seen something extra delicious.
Next to him, Gene quietly cleared his throat, and Sam felt a gentle nudge at his back. At the same time, Warren's voice drifted towards them, smooth and yet carrying well through the room.
'Ah, Mr Hunt. Do come closer.'
Sam forced himself to walk. Gene didn't look at him, but he remained by his side as they both stepped up to the table, while Warren poured whiskey into three tumblers.
'So this is the Boy Wonder?' Warren said, glancing up and at Sam, who managed not to flinch. Up close, the bulk of Warren's wings was even more threatening; Sam thought he could see them move gently, like some great beast breathing in and out. It was difficult not to stare at them, and when Sam concentrated on Warren's face, he saw amusement and... something else that he couldn't identify, but made his skin crawl and his feathers bristle visibly. However, realizing that the other man wasn't taking him seriously made Sam stand up straight, his discomfort starting to make way for irritation. Wings or not, this man was a criminal, possibly even the head of a syndicate.
He still wasn't going to apologize.
'Just doing my job,' he said, somewhat stiffly. Warren looked at him, eyebrows raised slightly, a small smile playing around his lips.
'A curious little bird you've caught yourself there, Gene' he said, addressing the DCI, whose expression remained unreadable as he gave a non-committal grunt. Sam was used to Gene being less than supportive of him, and it didn't bother him usually, but in this situation he couldn't help but feel a pang of betrayal. He'd already admitted to Sam that he took the odd backhander, but somehow, Sam had assumed that Warren and Gene were on more equal footing.
Right here, right now, Stephen Warren clearly held the higher position. It made Sam feel unsafe, exposed, especially with how hungry the other man looked, his gaze returning to Sam time and time again.
'I heard you had an unfortunate encounter with one of my employees,' the man continued, his tone conversational as he offered Gene a drink, who took it without a word.
Thinking about Charlie Edwards' arrogance, his slimy grin, Sam's expression hardened, and he let that anger strengthen his voice. 'I saw a man assaulting another man, and I did my job.'
Gene finally spoke then, but his voice sounded unusually apologetic. 'He's very big on doing his job.'
Warren's eyes never left Sam's. 'I'm glad to hear it.'
**
It was Edwards who apologized, in the end. Sam ended up reluctantly dancing with one of the pinioned girls - she seemed happy enough, but looking at her wings left Sam feeling faintly ill. He threw away the cigar as soon as an opportunity presented itself.
Later that evening, Gene took Sam down to the canal, which wasn't too far away from The Warren. The cool evening air did wonders to clear his mind a little, after the noise and crowd of the club, and after the way Warren hadn't let Sam out of his sight until the moment the heavy leather doors had closed behind him and the two girls who had all but dragged him away.
'Those girls had their wings cut down.' Sam said, glancing over at Gene to see how he would react.
Gene didn't react at all. He looked straight ahead, his expression as unreadable as ever.
Sam stopped in his tracks, crossing his arms. Gene still walked a good few yards ahead before coming to a halt as well and turning around, annoyance clear in his motions.
'What?'
Sam raised his chin slightly, his jaw tense with anger. 'Doesn't it bother you? Even one bit?'
Gene looked at him in a way that suggested he didn't (or rather, pretended not to) know what Sam was talking about, which irritated him even more. Playing dumb in a situation like this...
'What happened to being a deputy to the law? Eh?' Sam nodded back in the direction they had come from. 'There's a man back there who lives off bribery and taking advantage of young women, who cuts their wings--'
Gene interjected, his voice ringing out over the stagnant water of the canal, 'You can get off your high Hyde horse right now, Sam. Whatever goes on in that club of his isn't our business, and whatever those girls agreed to is their bloody responsibility. Bloody hell, we're not supposed to be nannies!'
Somehow, they had once more ended up in each others' personal space; this time, it had been Sam who had crossed over to stand right in front of Gene, his wings bristling and puffing up.
'No, we're supposed to be the good guys! We're supposed to be protecting people who need our help and not tolerate scumbags like Warren!'
'You're talking about things you don't understand,' Gene spat, but it struck Sam as strangely put-on. He couldn't explain that feeling to himself, until he noticed something: Usually, during an exchange like this, Gene's wings would spread out to their full span, making Sam feel small and insignificant. Right now, however, they were very nearly flattened out against the ground. It was almost as if Gene was subconsciously admitting if not defeat, then the fact that he wasn't comfortable with this whole affair...
And indeed, as soon as Gene realized what Sam was looking at, he turned around abruptly, shaking out his wings and walking on.
'Get a move on. I want to be done with this before tomorrow morning.'
Sam remained where he was, staring at his DCI's back. He knew what he had seen. Something was bothering Gene about this, bothering him deeply. It was almost as if he wasn't as content with the arrangement between the police force and Warren as he pretended to be.
But Sam also knew that he wouldn't get anything out of him yet. However, he didn't plan on letting that stop him from finding out.
**
Later that night, in the pub, Sam found a wad of money in his pocket. Deeply disturbed, Sam had tried to get rid of it, but Gene had stopped him from doing so, tried to convince him that it was the most normal thing and Sam should take it and shut up.
But Sam couldn't. When everyone else had left, he was still sitting by the bar, staring at the rolled up notes. First the sight of those girls, their wings mutilated, and now this... it was enough to make Sam feel physically ill. He had become somewhat comfortable with his existence in 1973, but now it all felt so wrong again. He didn't belong here, and this place was bad for him. He had become a police officer to do the right thing, to protect people in need... And yet here he was, reluctantly but obediently stuffing the money into his pocket before leaving the pub, Nelson switching off the lights behind him.
( Chapter 3)
Author: little_cello
Rating: White Cortina
Word count: 2500 ish
Characters: Sam, Gene, Warren
Summary: Yet more wings. Enter the big bad villain.
Notes: I failed to mention this before, but HUGE THANKS to talkingtothesky who is an amazing beta reader and helps improve my fics so so much. Without her none of this would be making much sense. Enjoy!
( Prologue)
( Chapter 1)
Chapter 2
The days and weeks passed agonizingly slowly.
Every morning, Sam opened his eyes, hoping that he would magically wake up in a hospital bed instead of the dreary flat in 1973, with the bed that hurt his back so badly that he sometimes considered just sleeping in the armchair, or even on the floor. Every morning, he was disappointed.
The days weren't much better. When they were in company, Gene behaved as though their wings didn't exist - which was fair enough, because no one else could see them. Apart from Phyllis down at the front desk, who sported a pair of wings that made her look like a grumpy grey owl, Sam hadn't spotted any other winged individuals in the police force. In public, it was necessary to make as little a deal of it as possible.
This meant, however, that there was nothing else left that gave him and Gene any kind of connection. They fought nigh on constantly. While Sam acknowledged that his DCI had much more experience with the whole wing business, Sam knew that he was a good detective - he had worked hard to become chief inspector at such a young age. He knew how to police, and these people lacked the finesse and efficiency in investigations he so appreciated in his team back home.
And Christ on a bike, Gene was infuriating most of the time. Moody, alcoholic, nicotine-addicted, and the way he effortlessly broke every single convention of political correctness before the day was finished sometimes left Sam speechless. Sam had been aware of the fact that the 70s hadn't been as fun and games as nostalgia made them out to be, but Gene Hunt seemed to be the embodiment of everything wrong with that decade. They clashed and argued and struggled with each others' concepts and opinions on policing, and at the end of the day, somehow, cases got solved and criminals arrested (and given a hiding, more often than not).
Sam had never found work to be this stressful. If it hadn't been for Annie's calming influence, he probably would be in a constant state of exasperation. Annie simply made him feel better. He had noticed that whenever she came by his desk to chat with him, his wings settled into a more relaxed pose than they usually did around non-winged people. Sam was grateful for these little rays of sunshine, as he liked to think of his conversations with her. They were moments of reprieve, helping him forget his discomfort and longing to wake up from all of this.
He encountered several other winged humans as well. One of them, a hearing-impaired young man called Leonard Pitt, proved to be the key witness in a case that became rather personal for Sam. A result of that case was that he and Gene saw eye to eye more often. It seemed that for the two of them to reach common ground, they first needed to bloody each others' noses. Sam didn't relish the thought, especially not if it meant that he was starting to assimilate. He still wanted to go home more than anything else - granted, he would be the only human being with a pair of wings in the entire world again, but at least he would be home. It was an environment he knew how to navigate. Here, in 1973, there were pitfalls everywhere.
One of these pitfalls presented itself on a hot June morning. Strange dreams were something Sam had gotten used to here - nurses and doctors talking to him, dreams of the eerie girl in her red dress. But this time, he had dreamed of Ivanhoe. Sam was convinced that Ivanhoe had always been able to see his wings. Normally he would ignore them, but sometimes, he would paw at the feathers. And sometimes, when little Sam was curled up in bed, Ivanhoe would lie down behind him and lick across the coverts. It was one of the most comforting things Sam had ever experienced.
And now Ivanhoe seemed to have led him to his parents' current residence in 1973. Sam walked through the neighbourhood like he still was in a dream. Everything was familiar and yet it seemed disconcertingly unreal, a feeling that was reinforced by the heavy silence and the heat.
The spell was broken when Sam heard the sounds of a scuffle - grunts, punches. He snapped into action. Off duty or not, he was a police officer, and he would have no law-breaking on his watch; especially not this close to what was once his home.
**
What should have been a simple case of bodily assault quickly spiralled out of control. Upon hearing about the arrest, Gene pulled Sam aside, filling him in on exactly who Charlie Edwards worked for: a local businessman by the name of Stephen Warren, who enjoyed 'cordial relationships with the police'.
'He's bent,' Sam said, struggling to accept the implications.
'Bent as a fishhook,' Gene confirmed, matter-of-factly. Sam could feel his heart hammering away in his chest. Checks and balances. Institutionalized corruption, in other words.
**
Charlie Edwards, already callous when Sam had arrested him, was downright smug when he picked up his belongings. Seeing him leave the station with that smug grin on his face was both humiliating and infuriating. Gene blocked every attempt Sam made to talk about it. The day passed in a tense atmosphere - although, Gene's invitation to a 'quiet little pub' did give Sam some hope that he would still be able to address this whole Warren business. He might even have a better chance to get through to Gene than if he confronted him in front of the entire team.
However, Sam's hopes proved to be in vain. The Cortina screeched to a halt in front of a club, 'The Warren' written in neon letters above the crowded entrance.
'What're we doing here?'
'Furthering your education so you don't start a war.'
Sam's feathers bristled as anger rose inside him. 'I want nothing to do with it.'
Gene gave him a strangle look then; his own wings were drawn tightly to his back, folded so thoroughly that they seemed glued together. 'You are to do with it.'
When they entered the club, Gene immediately ushered him over to an upstairs area, but even as they hurried through the crowd Sam was taken aback by how many off-duty police officers he spotted. Even Annie was there, stopping him to chat for a few seconds. However, Sam couldn't concentrate on her. His attention was being drawn to several large and smaller cages, prominently placed throughout the dance hall. Inside them, girls were dancing, further stimulating the people around them.
At first, Sam thought that the wings on their backs were fake - the shape was all off, and they weren't as large as Gene's or Phyllis'. Then, as one of the girls turned her back to him, Sam realized his mistake. The wings were real, no doubt about it, considering the way they swayed in time with the music.
What had made them look odd was the fact that they were all pinioned. They still looked pretty and groomed, some of them even sprinkled with glitter (for whose benefit, Sam couldn't tell - there were no other winged people in the room), but they were mutilated without a doubt. Sam felt sick as Gene pulled him away from Annie, up the stairs. When they reached the door, he tapped his DCI's shoulder.
'Those girls-'
Gene cut him off. 'Don't say anything. What he does is his business, not ours. We're here because you need to apologize, and nothing more than that, got it?'
Sam couldn't believe what he was hearing. 'I'm not--'
But Gene had already pushed open the heavy double door and pulled him inside.
Sam yanked his arm free of Gene's grasp, opening his mouth - and stopped, his eyes widening. They had entered a room draped with dark red velvet and lit by lights of the same colour, seeming to go on forever; even so, it felt claustrophobic. At the end of it stood a large desk, and behind that desk stood a man who at first glance reminded Sam of a vulture, perching and waiting for its prey to move, ready to strike. His black wings rose up high behind his back, looking imposing and powerful even half folded. No doubt this was Stephen Warren.
The man himself - beady eyes, curly hair - wasn't someone who under normal circumstances would have intimidated Sam, but there was something about his wings that made Sam want to shrink back, to turn around and leave. His wings bristled, and to Sam's horror that elicited a reaction from Warren; he raised his chin slightly, eyes glinting as though he had just seen something extra delicious.
Next to him, Gene quietly cleared his throat, and Sam felt a gentle nudge at his back. At the same time, Warren's voice drifted towards them, smooth and yet carrying well through the room.
'Ah, Mr Hunt. Do come closer.'
Sam forced himself to walk. Gene didn't look at him, but he remained by his side as they both stepped up to the table, while Warren poured whiskey into three tumblers.
'So this is the Boy Wonder?' Warren said, glancing up and at Sam, who managed not to flinch. Up close, the bulk of Warren's wings was even more threatening; Sam thought he could see them move gently, like some great beast breathing in and out. It was difficult not to stare at them, and when Sam concentrated on Warren's face, he saw amusement and... something else that he couldn't identify, but made his skin crawl and his feathers bristle visibly. However, realizing that the other man wasn't taking him seriously made Sam stand up straight, his discomfort starting to make way for irritation. Wings or not, this man was a criminal, possibly even the head of a syndicate.
He still wasn't going to apologize.
'Just doing my job,' he said, somewhat stiffly. Warren looked at him, eyebrows raised slightly, a small smile playing around his lips.
'A curious little bird you've caught yourself there, Gene' he said, addressing the DCI, whose expression remained unreadable as he gave a non-committal grunt. Sam was used to Gene being less than supportive of him, and it didn't bother him usually, but in this situation he couldn't help but feel a pang of betrayal. He'd already admitted to Sam that he took the odd backhander, but somehow, Sam had assumed that Warren and Gene were on more equal footing.
Right here, right now, Stephen Warren clearly held the higher position. It made Sam feel unsafe, exposed, especially with how hungry the other man looked, his gaze returning to Sam time and time again.
'I heard you had an unfortunate encounter with one of my employees,' the man continued, his tone conversational as he offered Gene a drink, who took it without a word.
Thinking about Charlie Edwards' arrogance, his slimy grin, Sam's expression hardened, and he let that anger strengthen his voice. 'I saw a man assaulting another man, and I did my job.'
Gene finally spoke then, but his voice sounded unusually apologetic. 'He's very big on doing his job.'
Warren's eyes never left Sam's. 'I'm glad to hear it.'
**
It was Edwards who apologized, in the end. Sam ended up reluctantly dancing with one of the pinioned girls - she seemed happy enough, but looking at her wings left Sam feeling faintly ill. He threw away the cigar as soon as an opportunity presented itself.
Later that evening, Gene took Sam down to the canal, which wasn't too far away from The Warren. The cool evening air did wonders to clear his mind a little, after the noise and crowd of the club, and after the way Warren hadn't let Sam out of his sight until the moment the heavy leather doors had closed behind him and the two girls who had all but dragged him away.
'Those girls had their wings cut down.' Sam said, glancing over at Gene to see how he would react.
Gene didn't react at all. He looked straight ahead, his expression as unreadable as ever.
Sam stopped in his tracks, crossing his arms. Gene still walked a good few yards ahead before coming to a halt as well and turning around, annoyance clear in his motions.
'What?'
Sam raised his chin slightly, his jaw tense with anger. 'Doesn't it bother you? Even one bit?'
Gene looked at him in a way that suggested he didn't (or rather, pretended not to) know what Sam was talking about, which irritated him even more. Playing dumb in a situation like this...
'What happened to being a deputy to the law? Eh?' Sam nodded back in the direction they had come from. 'There's a man back there who lives off bribery and taking advantage of young women, who cuts their wings--'
Gene interjected, his voice ringing out over the stagnant water of the canal, 'You can get off your high Hyde horse right now, Sam. Whatever goes on in that club of his isn't our business, and whatever those girls agreed to is their bloody responsibility. Bloody hell, we're not supposed to be nannies!'
Somehow, they had once more ended up in each others' personal space; this time, it had been Sam who had crossed over to stand right in front of Gene, his wings bristling and puffing up.
'No, we're supposed to be the good guys! We're supposed to be protecting people who need our help and not tolerate scumbags like Warren!'
'You're talking about things you don't understand,' Gene spat, but it struck Sam as strangely put-on. He couldn't explain that feeling to himself, until he noticed something: Usually, during an exchange like this, Gene's wings would spread out to their full span, making Sam feel small and insignificant. Right now, however, they were very nearly flattened out against the ground. It was almost as if Gene was subconsciously admitting if not defeat, then the fact that he wasn't comfortable with this whole affair...
And indeed, as soon as Gene realized what Sam was looking at, he turned around abruptly, shaking out his wings and walking on.
'Get a move on. I want to be done with this before tomorrow morning.'
Sam remained where he was, staring at his DCI's back. He knew what he had seen. Something was bothering Gene about this, bothering him deeply. It was almost as if he wasn't as content with the arrangement between the police force and Warren as he pretended to be.
But Sam also knew that he wouldn't get anything out of him yet. However, he didn't plan on letting that stop him from finding out.
**
Later that night, in the pub, Sam found a wad of money in his pocket. Deeply disturbed, Sam had tried to get rid of it, but Gene had stopped him from doing so, tried to convince him that it was the most normal thing and Sam should take it and shut up.
But Sam couldn't. When everyone else had left, he was still sitting by the bar, staring at the rolled up notes. First the sight of those girls, their wings mutilated, and now this... it was enough to make Sam feel physically ill. He had become somewhat comfortable with his existence in 1973, but now it all felt so wrong again. He didn't belong here, and this place was bad for him. He had become a police officer to do the right thing, to protect people in need... And yet here he was, reluctantly but obediently stuffing the money into his pocket before leaving the pub, Nelson switching off the lights behind him.
( Chapter 3)