Fic: Steady As She Goes (41/86), Blue Cortina, dakfinv
Title: Steady As She Goes (41/86)
Author: dak
Word Count: 1960 this part; [76,486 overall]
Summary for Whole: After an accidental shooting at the station, Gene struggles to keep his team from tearing themselves apart while his and Sam's friendship is pushed to the limits.
Summary this Part: The start of a not quite relaxing weekend.
Rating: still Blue-ish Cortina, uhm, what's slightly darker than blue?
Warnings: angst, swearing, violence, violent imagery, minor drug use, mild sexual situations, self-harm for whole
Spoilers: 1.08; see each chapter for specific spoiler warnings
Pairing: mild Sam/Annie, Sam/Maya
Disclaimer: Belongs to BBC/Kudos
A/N: Giant thanks to everyone who's still reading. It keeps me writing. Please enjoy the angst!
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21 Part 22 Part 23 Part 24 Part 25 Part 26 Part 27 Part 28 Part 29 Part 30 Part 31 Part 32 Part 33 Part 34 Part 35 Part 36 Part 37 Part 38 Part 39 Part 40 Part 41 Part 42 Part 43 Part 44 Part 45 Part 46 Part 47 Part 48 Part 49 Part 50 Part 51 Part 52 Part 53 Part 54 Part 55 Part 56 Part 57 Part 58 Part 59 Part 60 Part 61 Part 62 Part 63 Part 64 Part 65 Part 66 Part 67 Part 68 Part 69 Part 70 Part 71 Part 72 Part 73 Part 74 Part 75 Part 76 Part 77 Part 78 Part 79 Part 80 Part 81 Part 82 Part 83 Part 84 Part 85 Part 86
There were no windows, nothing to let daylight in, but still he kept his eyes closed. A sliver of artificial light crept in under the door and even this was too much for his eyes to handle. He wasn’t sleeping. He couldn’t. He knew he must have at one point or else how could he have ended up in the bedroom, unless sleepwalking had been added to his growing list of abnormalities? He sincerely hoped not.
Yet whether he had slept or not was irrelevant because he was awake now. He had never slept before, he would never sleep again. A state of endless waking. The opposite of a coma. How ironic some part of his mind sneered.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
He lifted his hands to ears, cupping them to block out any other sound.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
There were no voices. He hadn’t heard the voices in ages. Maybe there had never been any voices.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
He wished the voices would return, even if they hadn’t existed in the first place.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
He liked that noise. It soothed him. Reminded him he wasn’t crazy.
Beep...Beep...Beep...
Then it faded away, disappearing, leaving him empty and alone, so utterly alone in this dark room. With barely a whisper he pleaded for it to return but it didn’t listen to him. His head never did what he told it to.
"Where is he?"
He winced at the sharp influx of noise, shouting echoing from downstairs. This was not the noise he wanted to hear. A low murmur responded, too low, too quiet to be distinct.
"I don’ care if ‘e’s sleepin’. I’m goin’ ta rip ‘is ‘ead off!"
Another noise, footsteps on the stairs. Oh please, he begged. His life would be so much easier if his head stopped getting in the way. The second voice was clearer now, following the first up the stairs.
"...begged me to get him out, remember?"
"I din’t know ‘e was goin’ ta attack Cartwright, did I? Worse than a dead lamb ‘e was in hospital."
He lifted his eyelids enough to look at the light under the door. Footsteps padded across the carpet, shadows obscuring the light.
"We’ll keep ‘im out for the weekend. See what happens."
"But Guv--"
"If it’s bad enough I’ll take ‘im back. But not to St. Mary’s."
A long pause. Maybe it was over now. He hoped so. Their voices were keeping the beeping away.
" ...’S not safe."
"I’m not exactly a wilting flower, Raymondo."
"No Guv."
"Check on Cartwright. Take ‘er to the flicks or summit. Or get Chris to do it if she don’t want you. Leave him to me."
Heads were nodded, hands were shook, treaties were signed, or whatever else it took to get the conversation to end. One set of footsteps walked away down the hall, down the stairs, out the door. The other remained and opened the bedroom door.
Sam was lying on the bed, all the covers kicked to the floor. His hands loosely covered his ears, his eyes half open and staring at the ceiling. He was still wearing his clothes from yesterday.
"Nearly noon. Want summit to eat?"
Sam breathed in response.
" ‘M goin’ out. Back in a few."
The door shut and the second set of footsteps were carried away.
*
A flash of green. Red. Trees. The woods. Fast. Everything moving so fast. He knew this. He remembered this. Green. Snap. Branches in the way. Red. This had already happened. Screaming. A scream. This had stopped. He’d stopped seeing this. Red blur. Blurred tress. Bright sky. "Where are you?" This was over. It should be over. Close now. So close. Red dress. Brown hair. "I don’t hate everything about this place." He didn’t. He did. He didn’t. He did. He didn’t want to. Did he? He didn’t know. Green. Bright. Bright blue. The woman. A man. Green. Brown. Blue. Red. "Where are you?" Screams. He hits. She falls. He knows how this ends now. He’d figured it out. Remembered the truth. The truth about everything. The truth about nothing. It was over. Wasn’t it? He hits her. She falls. He sees his face. His face. Not Vic Tyler’s. Not his father’s. His own. Locked in fury. Rage. She screams. His hand is raised. He’s going to do it again. He can’t stop himself. His hand, his fist, comes down...
"Annie!"
Sam shot up and wretched over the side of the bed. Yesterday’s stew and oatmeal came spilling out, the carpet absorbing the splatter. He heaved again, completely emptying his stomach. He stayed there, leaning over the side, until the cramps disappeared. Certain it was safe, he cracked open his eyes. Christ. The carpet was white. Gene was going to kill him. If his wife didn’t get there first.
The bag with his clothes was on a chair by the bed. He reached it without leaving the bed and pulled it to him. He tried to ignore the shaking of his hands as he dug around inside. He found a clean undershirt, set the bag to the side, and sat up. After swinging his legs off the bed, he gently lowered himself to the floor and used the undershirt to clean up the mess.
The smell was horrible and he had to use one hand as a mask while the other dabbed at the sick with his shirt. After two minutes he reluctantly decided he’d done the best he could with what he had. He pushed himself up to a kneeling position and used the bed frame to help him stand. Having the bed for support, he circled around the small room to the bin by the door. He dumped the soiled undershirt and sat back down on the mattress, searching the duffle for a fresh set of clothes. He almost smiled. She had packed his jogging kit.
It wasn’t hard to slip out of his loose jeans and shirt and pull on the warm, soft clothes. After changing, he stayed on the bed and tried to get his bearings. What time was it? Had Gene been by? Did he say he was going somewhere? Was he back now? Would he ever come back? His mind had cleared, albeit only slightly. He could formulate questions now, though the process of finding answers still eluded him.
He felt his body shaking. He couldn’t tell if it was worse or better than before. He had to try and think. Simple. Simple questions, simple answers. Was he hungry? Not really but he should eat. Should he go downstairs? Not by himself but this room was becoming claustrophobic. What did he want?
He collapsed his head in his hands, tears threatening to fall as he realized that answer. Goddamn 1973. Goddamn their caveman psychiatric methods. Goddamn Gene for putting him in that position in the first place. He was getting angry again. He couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t let the rage take over, no matter how easy it would be to give in. It would be easy. So easy to let the pain, the hatred wash over him. Consume him.
He lifted his head. He couldn’t. Not after what it had cost him the last time. But the more he woke, the more it hurt, the more he wanted it, needed it. What was it? Merrick had told him, he knew it. He had to remember. He had to know what he was dealing with. He had to know what he was begging for.
*
A solemn Gene open and shut his front door, tossing his keys to the side. If the damn Pakis behind the counter could learn to speak goddamn English it wouldn’t have taken him twice as long as it should have to grab a paper, smokes, and sherbert. He could only hope Tyler hadn’t died in the interim.
"Shit!"
The weary exclamation from the disembodied voice at the top of the stairs soon proved otherwise. Abandoning his shopping bag in the foyer, Gene strode over to the bottom of the staircase, shocked at what he saw. If he wasn’t so upset with the little tosser he could have laughed.
Certified health nut and germophobe Sam Tyler was sitting in fresh clothes, on the top step, trying to light a cigarette with hands shakier than a bloke with palsy during an earthquake. Sam threw another broken match to the floor, his fifth or sixth by the looks of it, and ripped another from Gene’s quickly diminishing matchbook.
"Those things’ll kill you," Gene dead-panned from his spot by the stairs, finally alerting Sam to his presence.
"Shut it," Sam grumbled.
"Care to explain why you’re committing GBH on those poor matches, Inspector?"
Unlit cigarette hanging from his mouth, Sam mumbled something Gene didn’t catch.
"Speak up Tyler."
Sam unskillfully removed the fag from his mouth. "Valium."
"What?"
"It’s...Merrick. What he...the..." He couldn’t get the words out and it bothered him. Gene could see that. His brain was working faster but it was still hard to coherently verbalize his thoughts.
"Valium," Sam abruptly finished the not quite there sentence, replacing the cigarette in his mouth and returning his attention to the uncooperative matches.
Gene climbed a few stairs. Sam didn’t protest, so he climbed a few more until he was sitting on the one just below Tyler. "And this junk causes my health inspector to take up so-called filthy habits, does it?"
Sam sighed and Gene barely suppressed a smile at seeing Sam’s patented "I can’t believe I need to explain this to you" expression. The tired inspector removed the cigarette once more and Gene watched the damaged brain trying to work.
"Valium...it’s hard to...it’s..." Sam ran a hand through his lengthening, unwashed hair. "Smoking...nicotine. S’posed to help...the withdrawal. It’s s’posed...I read it somewhere. You left...on the bannister." He motioned to the matches and cigarette pack. "Thought I’d...stupid. It’s stupid." Gene noticed the early signs of pouting. "Won’t work."
Gene took the matches from Sam’s hands. "Don’t know ‘less you try." He plucked out a fresh match. "Still want to try?"
Sam shrugged half-heartedly. Gene took that as consent and placed the cigarette between his own lips, striking the match and lighting the fag easily. He tossed the matches aside and took the cigarette from his lips, holding it out to Sam. "You ever done this before?"
Sam shook his head and, with great hesitation, took the lit Marlboro from Gene’s hand.
"Right then. Don’t breathe in too deeply first try. You’ll end up hacking up both your lungs. I did."
Sam almost grinned. He couldn’t imagine Gene not smoking, even as a toddler. He raised the cigarette to his lips and, nervously, took his first puff. He coughed only a little.
"How was it?"
"Awful," he choked out then took another drag.
"Best not make a habit of it then." Gene took off his driving gloves and lit one up for himself. They sat there on the stairs for several minutes, the only sound an occasional cough from Sam as they let the ash drop to the carpet and the smoke cloud above their heads.
Sam finished his and carefully examined the butt in his hands. "I don’t want to be my father," he whispered, tears sliding down his face. "He...became a bad man."
"You’re not a bad man, Sam. Not yet."
Sam didn’t seem to believe him. Gene stood but looked at his feet, not the man on the stairs, as he spoke. "But I know the feeling." Gene went off in search of an ashtray and food for them both, leaving Sam brooding at the top of the stairs.
It was going to be a long weekend.
_________
Part 42
Author: dak
Word Count: 1960 this part; [76,486 overall]
Summary for Whole: After an accidental shooting at the station, Gene struggles to keep his team from tearing themselves apart while his and Sam's friendship is pushed to the limits.
Summary this Part: The start of a not quite relaxing weekend.
Rating: still Blue-ish Cortina, uhm, what's slightly darker than blue?
Warnings: angst, swearing, violence, violent imagery, minor drug use, mild sexual situations, self-harm for whole
Spoilers: 1.08; see each chapter for specific spoiler warnings
Pairing: mild Sam/Annie, Sam/Maya
Disclaimer: Belongs to BBC/Kudos
A/N: Giant thanks to everyone who's still reading. It keeps me writing. Please enjoy the angst!
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21 Part 22 Part 23 Part 24 Part 25 Part 26 Part 27 Part 28 Part 29 Part 30 Part 31 Part 32 Part 33 Part 34 Part 35 Part 36 Part 37 Part 38 Part 39 Part 40 Part 41 Part 42 Part 43 Part 44 Part 45 Part 46 Part 47 Part 48 Part 49 Part 50 Part 51 Part 52 Part 53 Part 54 Part 55 Part 56 Part 57 Part 58 Part 59 Part 60 Part 61 Part 62 Part 63 Part 64 Part 65 Part 66 Part 67 Part 68 Part 69 Part 70 Part 71 Part 72 Part 73 Part 74 Part 75 Part 76 Part 77 Part 78 Part 79 Part 80 Part 81 Part 82 Part 83 Part 84 Part 85 Part 86
There were no windows, nothing to let daylight in, but still he kept his eyes closed. A sliver of artificial light crept in under the door and even this was too much for his eyes to handle. He wasn’t sleeping. He couldn’t. He knew he must have at one point or else how could he have ended up in the bedroom, unless sleepwalking had been added to his growing list of abnormalities? He sincerely hoped not.
Yet whether he had slept or not was irrelevant because he was awake now. He had never slept before, he would never sleep again. A state of endless waking. The opposite of a coma. How ironic some part of his mind sneered.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
He lifted his hands to ears, cupping them to block out any other sound.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
There were no voices. He hadn’t heard the voices in ages. Maybe there had never been any voices.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
He wished the voices would return, even if they hadn’t existed in the first place.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
He liked that noise. It soothed him. Reminded him he wasn’t crazy.
Beep...Beep...Beep...
Then it faded away, disappearing, leaving him empty and alone, so utterly alone in this dark room. With barely a whisper he pleaded for it to return but it didn’t listen to him. His head never did what he told it to.
"Where is he?"
He winced at the sharp influx of noise, shouting echoing from downstairs. This was not the noise he wanted to hear. A low murmur responded, too low, too quiet to be distinct.
"I don’ care if ‘e’s sleepin’. I’m goin’ ta rip ‘is ‘ead off!"
Another noise, footsteps on the stairs. Oh please, he begged. His life would be so much easier if his head stopped getting in the way. The second voice was clearer now, following the first up the stairs.
"...begged me to get him out, remember?"
"I din’t know ‘e was goin’ ta attack Cartwright, did I? Worse than a dead lamb ‘e was in hospital."
He lifted his eyelids enough to look at the light under the door. Footsteps padded across the carpet, shadows obscuring the light.
"We’ll keep ‘im out for the weekend. See what happens."
"But Guv--"
"If it’s bad enough I’ll take ‘im back. But not to St. Mary’s."
A long pause. Maybe it was over now. He hoped so. Their voices were keeping the beeping away.
" ...’S not safe."
"I’m not exactly a wilting flower, Raymondo."
"No Guv."
"Check on Cartwright. Take ‘er to the flicks or summit. Or get Chris to do it if she don’t want you. Leave him to me."
Heads were nodded, hands were shook, treaties were signed, or whatever else it took to get the conversation to end. One set of footsteps walked away down the hall, down the stairs, out the door. The other remained and opened the bedroom door.
Sam was lying on the bed, all the covers kicked to the floor. His hands loosely covered his ears, his eyes half open and staring at the ceiling. He was still wearing his clothes from yesterday.
"Nearly noon. Want summit to eat?"
Sam breathed in response.
" ‘M goin’ out. Back in a few."
The door shut and the second set of footsteps were carried away.
*
A flash of green. Red. Trees. The woods. Fast. Everything moving so fast. He knew this. He remembered this. Green. Snap. Branches in the way. Red. This had already happened. Screaming. A scream. This had stopped. He’d stopped seeing this. Red blur. Blurred tress. Bright sky. "Where are you?" This was over. It should be over. Close now. So close. Red dress. Brown hair. "I don’t hate everything about this place." He didn’t. He did. He didn’t. He did. He didn’t want to. Did he? He didn’t know. Green. Bright. Bright blue. The woman. A man. Green. Brown. Blue. Red. "Where are you?" Screams. He hits. She falls. He knows how this ends now. He’d figured it out. Remembered the truth. The truth about everything. The truth about nothing. It was over. Wasn’t it? He hits her. She falls. He sees his face. His face. Not Vic Tyler’s. Not his father’s. His own. Locked in fury. Rage. She screams. His hand is raised. He’s going to do it again. He can’t stop himself. His hand, his fist, comes down...
"Annie!"
Sam shot up and wretched over the side of the bed. Yesterday’s stew and oatmeal came spilling out, the carpet absorbing the splatter. He heaved again, completely emptying his stomach. He stayed there, leaning over the side, until the cramps disappeared. Certain it was safe, he cracked open his eyes. Christ. The carpet was white. Gene was going to kill him. If his wife didn’t get there first.
The bag with his clothes was on a chair by the bed. He reached it without leaving the bed and pulled it to him. He tried to ignore the shaking of his hands as he dug around inside. He found a clean undershirt, set the bag to the side, and sat up. After swinging his legs off the bed, he gently lowered himself to the floor and used the undershirt to clean up the mess.
The smell was horrible and he had to use one hand as a mask while the other dabbed at the sick with his shirt. After two minutes he reluctantly decided he’d done the best he could with what he had. He pushed himself up to a kneeling position and used the bed frame to help him stand. Having the bed for support, he circled around the small room to the bin by the door. He dumped the soiled undershirt and sat back down on the mattress, searching the duffle for a fresh set of clothes. He almost smiled. She had packed his jogging kit.
It wasn’t hard to slip out of his loose jeans and shirt and pull on the warm, soft clothes. After changing, he stayed on the bed and tried to get his bearings. What time was it? Had Gene been by? Did he say he was going somewhere? Was he back now? Would he ever come back? His mind had cleared, albeit only slightly. He could formulate questions now, though the process of finding answers still eluded him.
He felt his body shaking. He couldn’t tell if it was worse or better than before. He had to try and think. Simple. Simple questions, simple answers. Was he hungry? Not really but he should eat. Should he go downstairs? Not by himself but this room was becoming claustrophobic. What did he want?
He collapsed his head in his hands, tears threatening to fall as he realized that answer. Goddamn 1973. Goddamn their caveman psychiatric methods. Goddamn Gene for putting him in that position in the first place. He was getting angry again. He couldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t let the rage take over, no matter how easy it would be to give in. It would be easy. So easy to let the pain, the hatred wash over him. Consume him.
He lifted his head. He couldn’t. Not after what it had cost him the last time. But the more he woke, the more it hurt, the more he wanted it, needed it. What was it? Merrick had told him, he knew it. He had to remember. He had to know what he was dealing with. He had to know what he was begging for.
*
A solemn Gene open and shut his front door, tossing his keys to the side. If the damn Pakis behind the counter could learn to speak goddamn English it wouldn’t have taken him twice as long as it should have to grab a paper, smokes, and sherbert. He could only hope Tyler hadn’t died in the interim.
"Shit!"
The weary exclamation from the disembodied voice at the top of the stairs soon proved otherwise. Abandoning his shopping bag in the foyer, Gene strode over to the bottom of the staircase, shocked at what he saw. If he wasn’t so upset with the little tosser he could have laughed.
Certified health nut and germophobe Sam Tyler was sitting in fresh clothes, on the top step, trying to light a cigarette with hands shakier than a bloke with palsy during an earthquake. Sam threw another broken match to the floor, his fifth or sixth by the looks of it, and ripped another from Gene’s quickly diminishing matchbook.
"Those things’ll kill you," Gene dead-panned from his spot by the stairs, finally alerting Sam to his presence.
"Shut it," Sam grumbled.
"Care to explain why you’re committing GBH on those poor matches, Inspector?"
Unlit cigarette hanging from his mouth, Sam mumbled something Gene didn’t catch.
"Speak up Tyler."
Sam unskillfully removed the fag from his mouth. "Valium."
"What?"
"It’s...Merrick. What he...the..." He couldn’t get the words out and it bothered him. Gene could see that. His brain was working faster but it was still hard to coherently verbalize his thoughts.
"Valium," Sam abruptly finished the not quite there sentence, replacing the cigarette in his mouth and returning his attention to the uncooperative matches.
Gene climbed a few stairs. Sam didn’t protest, so he climbed a few more until he was sitting on the one just below Tyler. "And this junk causes my health inspector to take up so-called filthy habits, does it?"
Sam sighed and Gene barely suppressed a smile at seeing Sam’s patented "I can’t believe I need to explain this to you" expression. The tired inspector removed the cigarette once more and Gene watched the damaged brain trying to work.
"Valium...it’s hard to...it’s..." Sam ran a hand through his lengthening, unwashed hair. "Smoking...nicotine. S’posed to help...the withdrawal. It’s s’posed...I read it somewhere. You left...on the bannister." He motioned to the matches and cigarette pack. "Thought I’d...stupid. It’s stupid." Gene noticed the early signs of pouting. "Won’t work."
Gene took the matches from Sam’s hands. "Don’t know ‘less you try." He plucked out a fresh match. "Still want to try?"
Sam shrugged half-heartedly. Gene took that as consent and placed the cigarette between his own lips, striking the match and lighting the fag easily. He tossed the matches aside and took the cigarette from his lips, holding it out to Sam. "You ever done this before?"
Sam shook his head and, with great hesitation, took the lit Marlboro from Gene’s hand.
"Right then. Don’t breathe in too deeply first try. You’ll end up hacking up both your lungs. I did."
Sam almost grinned. He couldn’t imagine Gene not smoking, even as a toddler. He raised the cigarette to his lips and, nervously, took his first puff. He coughed only a little.
"How was it?"
"Awful," he choked out then took another drag.
"Best not make a habit of it then." Gene took off his driving gloves and lit one up for himself. They sat there on the stairs for several minutes, the only sound an occasional cough from Sam as they let the ash drop to the carpet and the smoke cloud above their heads.
Sam finished his and carefully examined the butt in his hands. "I don’t want to be my father," he whispered, tears sliding down his face. "He...became a bad man."
"You’re not a bad man, Sam. Not yet."
Sam didn’t seem to believe him. Gene stood but looked at his feet, not the man on the stairs, as he spoke. "But I know the feeling." Gene went off in search of an ashtray and food for them both, leaving Sam brooding at the top of the stairs.
It was going to be a long weekend.
_________
Part 42