Fic: Steady As She Goes (54/86), blue cortina, dakfinv
Title: Steady As She Goes (54/86)
Author: dak
Word Count: 2274 this part; [99,959 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 dysfunctional family shares breakfast and Sam asks Gene for something.
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: none here; see each chapter for specific spoiler warnings
Pairing: mild Sam/Annie, Sam/Maya, Gene/missus
Disclaimer: Belongs to BBC/Kudos
A/N: Back to a normal length chapter, though there is a lot of fluff in this part for my liking. I guess I'll have to bring back the angst soon... Please enjoy!
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
Shitty. Shitty. Shitty. That was the only word to describe how he felt. Maybe massively shitty, bloody shitty, or fuck-me-up-the-arse-with-pointy-sticks shitty, if he was allowed more than one word for it. It was late into the night and the duvet and sheets had not only been kicked to the floor but kicked, crumpled, stamped upon and shoved in the corner. He had already been forced to change his nightshirt once due to the amount of sweat seeping out of his pores and now it was beginning to look as if another would soon be needed.
It was the food. Food. Horrible, horrible food. All the goddamned food Gene had practically shoved down his throat since he took him from Annie’s. Wait. He’d taken him from Annie’s? When was he at Annie’s? What had happened there? Sam was desperately trying to remember despite the unnecessary pain thinking was causing. For some reason soup, water, and intense feelings of disappointment were all he could bring to mind.
Too much food. Too, too much. It was swelling up inside him. Massive, indigestible lumps just sitting in his stomach. He remembered some old girlfriend, someone before Maya. Maya...
Someone before Maya dragging him to see Seven even though he hated films about cops. When was that? But it reminded him of that. That first scene with the man at the table. That man bursting at the seams from too much food. His skin bulging, arteries bursting, and rotting under the dusty table a pail of thick, soupy vomit...
He barely made it to the toilet before Mrs. Hunt’s carefully prepared roast came spilling out. As Sam flushed away the first wave he tried hard to look on the plus side. At least he’d eaten Mrs. Hunt’s dinner before tossing it in the bogs. He clutched the sides of the bowl, breathing heavily and dreading another outpouring of partially digested foodstuffs. Surprisingly, it never came. After a good fifteen minutes of expectation he slowly rose from the floor, calculating each movement as every so often intense feelings of nausea racked through his weakened body.
Dragging himself to the sink, he opened the bathroom cabinets, blindly running his hands over the tiny shelves seeking Lucozade, Anadin, or any other non-habit forming medication that could make him feel like a human being again. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
"Fuck," he sighed. So if there was nothing in the bathroom where else could he look? Where. Where. Where. Where was he? What year was it? Crap. He pressed the palms of his hands hard into his eyes. Why was his brain being so bloody difficult? What year was it? He’d thought he’d gotten better. Where was he? Hadn’t he been better? Sam removed his hands and blinked the world back into view. He’d managed to hold back the tears this time.
Barely. He felt the inherent despair crawling just under his skin. Crawling and tearing, fraying his fragile nerves. Any moment. Any moment and it would be too much but something was holding him there. Keeping him together. He was afraid. Afraid of letting someone down. Someone. Who? His mum? Maya? No. Maya was gone. Everyone was gone. Who would he let down? Where was he?
A noise down the hall broke his reverie. Sam rubbed his hands over his face then opened his eyes once more. A bathroom. He was in a bathroom. Gene’s bathroom. Gene. He was at Gene’s. He was in pain and he was at Gene’s. Logically, if anyone knew where to find some painkillers at Gene’s house it would be Gene.
Hauling himself out of the bathroom, Sam let the walls support his weight as he walked towards Gene’s closed bedroom. Steadying himself on the hall table, he raised his hand to knock when he heard the noises. Not noises from inside his head but noises coming from behind the closed door. Sam quickly dropped his hand. No pain in the world could compare with what Gene would to do him if he opened that door at that moment. Quickly abandoning that avenue, Sam moved down the hall to the stairs.
Stairs were not his friend but they were his only hope. His stomach had been growling warning signs again and he needed to find something to settle the beast. Clinging to the banister like the last lifeboat off the Titanic, Sam slid his feet down each carpeted deathtrap. By the time he reached the bottom he was shaking, a mix of fear, excitement, and withdrawal.
Excitement soon disappeared and withdrawal took a backseat to fear as Sam realized that walking downstairs had pitched him into darkness. While Gene and his wife had been kind enough to leave the upstairs hall light on, they had not thought any first floor lights would be necessary overnight. The hall light was able to illuminate the stairs but was swallowed up by the dark by the time it reached the bottom landing.
This wasn’t his house. This wasn’t his flat. He couldn’t maneuver in the dark. He looked up the stairs. His stomach was twisting, his legs were burning, and his head was pounding. This had been a bad idea. Sam sat on the bottom step. He’d catch his breath. All he needed to do was catch his breath and then he’d go back up to bed. Just sit here, safely, on the steps and catch his breath. Let his legs rest. Let his body rest. Let his mind rest.
*
Mrs. Hunt yawned and tied her housecoat tight. After twenty-three years, she still made Gene breakfast every morning even though it meant always waking up before him. Of course, he didn’t have to know she sometimes went back to bed as soon as he left the house. Waking early, cooking breakfast, and waving Gene goodbye were all apart of her set morning ritual.
Tripping over a body at the bottom of her staircase was not. Regaining her balance, she looked down to see Sam curled up in the fetal position, sleeping restlessly next to the bottommost stair. She looked up the stairs then back at Sam, determining whether or not he’d tripped but there didn’t appear to be any sings of a fall.
Clutching her housecoat even tighter she entered the kitchen, flipped on the light, and lit the stove, warming the pan for Gene’s breakfast, before going back to Sam. She crouched down and lightly touched his shoulder.
"Sam?"
He immediately jerked away, recoiling from the touch until he realized who it was. "Mrs. Hunt? I...where..." he glanced around, just as confused as she was as to how he ended up downstairs.
"Good morning, luv. Do you want to get off the floor? It’s freezing down there." She held out her hand and Sam, still groggy from a poor night’s sleep, grasped it, using Mrs. Hunt and the banister to pull himself up. Without even asking she helped him hobble into the kitchen and sat him at the table.
Sam watched her like a lost puppy as she pulled butter and eggs from the refrigerator and started greasing the pan. She knew he was staring without even looking but turned anyway to check on him. "Goodness, dear. You’re making me cold with all that shivering. Would like a jumper or summit?"
Sam blushed as he stared at the familiar quake of his hands. " ‘S not from cold," he whispered.
Mrs. Hunt understood too well and knew better than to press the issue. She started to make some fresh coffee when they both heard a loud thump followed by some graphic cursing from upstairs.
"Gene’s awake," she smirked. "Will you want any coffee Sam?"
Sam shook his head, his eyes locked on some bananas on the counter. There was another thump and another curse. Sam looked at the ceiling above him. "Is he alright?"
"He’ll be better once he fixes my dresser," she said matter-of-factly, setting a glass of water down in front of him. "Every day he forgets to fix the drawers, I pull it out a little further from the wall. Genie’s always half-blind in the mornings and walks right into it." She took some cheese from the fridge. "I keep thinking he’ll take the hint but, well," she lowered her voice and spoke conspiratorially to Sam. "For a copper he’s a bit thick sometimes."
"Do you have any sausage?" Sam suddenly asked, just as she was about to break the first egg.
"I think I might have a little left from the other day." She examined the contents of her fridge, quickly finding what Sam asked for. "Ah! Here it is. D’you want me to heat this up for you?"
Sam looked away again. "No." He hesitated, itching to say more, so she waited. "You could mix it with his eggs. Like an omelette." He finally added.
"Sausage in with the eggs? That’s a bit adventurous for our Gene, luv," she chuckled.
"Do you have any green peppers?"
She eyed Sam with happy suspicion and went back into the fridge. "It’s your lucky day, Inspector," she smiled, pulling out a small pepper and placing it on the counter.
"You could dice it and add it in and..." but Sam stopped himself, fixing his eyes on the floor.
"What else?" She encouraged.
Sam shrugged, debating whether or not to speak. "The banana. Add a banana, too."
While the concept was intriguing, Mrs. Hunt was more than skeptical about her husband’s reaction to the idea. "Where’d you hear that?" She inquired with genuine interest.
"It’s a Jamaican recipe. But, he probably won’t like it, so never mind."
"Well, I think it sounds delicious. Why don’t you show me how it’s done?"
*
Gene flung back his bedroom door, straightening his tie and allowing the delicious smell of his wife’s breakfast to attack his senses. He took a step and paused. Something was off. The smell was familiar yet different at the same time. "What bloody women’s lib magazine has she been reading now?" He sighed, grabbing his suit jacket and marching downstairs. He barely made it off the staircase when he was grabbed and pulled back, prevented from entering his kitchen. "Have you gone completely mental..." he started but she shushed him.
"Come here!" She whispered excitedly, holding his hand and dragging him to the kitchen entrance way. "Look!" She whispered again, leaning into him.
Tyler was cooking. Tyler was cooking in his kitchen. Tyler was cooking in his kitchen, making his breakfast. He pulled his wife back into the hall. "You turned ‘im into a happy housewife?" He balked.
"He wanted to do it!" Gene sighed at her again. "Gene, don’t you see?" Apparently he didn’t as he waited impatiently for a proper explanation. "He wanted to do something. He wanted to help. Be active. Keep busy."
"This is good," Gene finally cottoned on.
"Of course it’s good you daft pillock! Now go in there, eat whatever he puts in front of you and, I know it’ll be hard, but save the derogatory comments for the scum of Manchester."
Her hopeful expression was enough to make Gene hold his tongue and so he struggled to restrain himself as he prepared to eat Tyler’s slightly disturbing breakfast.
*
"I want to go in with you."
Gene let out a harsh laugh. Sam was truly bonkers. "Maybe if you hadn’t dosed yourself up yesterday like the strung-out junkie you are I would’ve considered it."
Mrs. Hunt had cleared the dishes and gone up to change. Gene had been somewhat surprised by Tyler’s odd concoction, though he would never make fruit and eggs a habit. Sam himself had stuck with plain oatmeal and Gene could see him literally sweating over whether or not the food would actually stay down. The two men shared a cigarette at the kitchen table and the Gene wasn’t sure if the guilty look that had just passed over Sam’s face was due to his Guv’s latest insult or the fag he held awkwardly in his fingers.
"There’ll be a lot of fuss over DI Graham. And most likely new cases came in over the weekend. You could use a hand."
"You’re not ready," Gene said without needing to think about it. "You need to--"
"I need to go to the station!" Sam cut in, eyes closed to hide their pleading gaze.
Gene stared harder at him, rolling things over in his mind. Chris’ words in the pub the other night suddenly came back to him. Tyler liked working. No. He loved working. He lived for it. Would probably screw it six ways from Sunday if it were physically possible. He was a picky-pain and picky-pains needed something to pick at. Sam hadn’t been at work to pick at anything. Stuck at the hospital, at home, he’d only been able to pick at himself. If Tyler was at the station, well there was plenty he could at least try to do and Gene could keep an eye on him.
If Tyler focused on work, Gene saw the scars on his wrists...
"You will go nowhere except CID unless I give you permission. Not even the collator’s. And I don’t care if we have three armed blags, two hostage situations, and a single bloody bomb scare - you are strictly on desk duty. I’ll tie you down meself, needs must."
Sam nodded, trying not to think of the last time he’d been tied down. Gene saw his DI twitch at his choice of words and instantly regretted it, though he didn’t let it show on his face.
"Get some proper clothes on. Maybe you can at least look normal."
_______
Part 55
Author: dak
Word Count: 2274 this part; [99,959 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 dysfunctional family shares breakfast and Sam asks Gene for something.
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: none here; see each chapter for specific spoiler warnings
Pairing: mild Sam/Annie, Sam/Maya, Gene/missus
Disclaimer: Belongs to BBC/Kudos
A/N: Back to a normal length chapter, though there is a lot of fluff in this part for my liking. I guess I'll have to bring back the angst soon... Please enjoy!
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
Shitty. Shitty. Shitty. That was the only word to describe how he felt. Maybe massively shitty, bloody shitty, or fuck-me-up-the-arse-with-pointy-sticks shitty, if he was allowed more than one word for it. It was late into the night and the duvet and sheets had not only been kicked to the floor but kicked, crumpled, stamped upon and shoved in the corner. He had already been forced to change his nightshirt once due to the amount of sweat seeping out of his pores and now it was beginning to look as if another would soon be needed.
It was the food. Food. Horrible, horrible food. All the goddamned food Gene had practically shoved down his throat since he took him from Annie’s. Wait. He’d taken him from Annie’s? When was he at Annie’s? What had happened there? Sam was desperately trying to remember despite the unnecessary pain thinking was causing. For some reason soup, water, and intense feelings of disappointment were all he could bring to mind.
Too much food. Too, too much. It was swelling up inside him. Massive, indigestible lumps just sitting in his stomach. He remembered some old girlfriend, someone before Maya. Maya...
Someone before Maya dragging him to see Seven even though he hated films about cops. When was that? But it reminded him of that. That first scene with the man at the table. That man bursting at the seams from too much food. His skin bulging, arteries bursting, and rotting under the dusty table a pail of thick, soupy vomit...
He barely made it to the toilet before Mrs. Hunt’s carefully prepared roast came spilling out. As Sam flushed away the first wave he tried hard to look on the plus side. At least he’d eaten Mrs. Hunt’s dinner before tossing it in the bogs. He clutched the sides of the bowl, breathing heavily and dreading another outpouring of partially digested foodstuffs. Surprisingly, it never came. After a good fifteen minutes of expectation he slowly rose from the floor, calculating each movement as every so often intense feelings of nausea racked through his weakened body.
Dragging himself to the sink, he opened the bathroom cabinets, blindly running his hands over the tiny shelves seeking Lucozade, Anadin, or any other non-habit forming medication that could make him feel like a human being again. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
"Fuck," he sighed. So if there was nothing in the bathroom where else could he look? Where. Where. Where. Where was he? What year was it? Crap. He pressed the palms of his hands hard into his eyes. Why was his brain being so bloody difficult? What year was it? He’d thought he’d gotten better. Where was he? Hadn’t he been better? Sam removed his hands and blinked the world back into view. He’d managed to hold back the tears this time.
Barely. He felt the inherent despair crawling just under his skin. Crawling and tearing, fraying his fragile nerves. Any moment. Any moment and it would be too much but something was holding him there. Keeping him together. He was afraid. Afraid of letting someone down. Someone. Who? His mum? Maya? No. Maya was gone. Everyone was gone. Who would he let down? Where was he?
A noise down the hall broke his reverie. Sam rubbed his hands over his face then opened his eyes once more. A bathroom. He was in a bathroom. Gene’s bathroom. Gene. He was at Gene’s. He was in pain and he was at Gene’s. Logically, if anyone knew where to find some painkillers at Gene’s house it would be Gene.
Hauling himself out of the bathroom, Sam let the walls support his weight as he walked towards Gene’s closed bedroom. Steadying himself on the hall table, he raised his hand to knock when he heard the noises. Not noises from inside his head but noises coming from behind the closed door. Sam quickly dropped his hand. No pain in the world could compare with what Gene would to do him if he opened that door at that moment. Quickly abandoning that avenue, Sam moved down the hall to the stairs.
Stairs were not his friend but they were his only hope. His stomach had been growling warning signs again and he needed to find something to settle the beast. Clinging to the banister like the last lifeboat off the Titanic, Sam slid his feet down each carpeted deathtrap. By the time he reached the bottom he was shaking, a mix of fear, excitement, and withdrawal.
Excitement soon disappeared and withdrawal took a backseat to fear as Sam realized that walking downstairs had pitched him into darkness. While Gene and his wife had been kind enough to leave the upstairs hall light on, they had not thought any first floor lights would be necessary overnight. The hall light was able to illuminate the stairs but was swallowed up by the dark by the time it reached the bottom landing.
This wasn’t his house. This wasn’t his flat. He couldn’t maneuver in the dark. He looked up the stairs. His stomach was twisting, his legs were burning, and his head was pounding. This had been a bad idea. Sam sat on the bottom step. He’d catch his breath. All he needed to do was catch his breath and then he’d go back up to bed. Just sit here, safely, on the steps and catch his breath. Let his legs rest. Let his body rest. Let his mind rest.
*
Mrs. Hunt yawned and tied her housecoat tight. After twenty-three years, she still made Gene breakfast every morning even though it meant always waking up before him. Of course, he didn’t have to know she sometimes went back to bed as soon as he left the house. Waking early, cooking breakfast, and waving Gene goodbye were all apart of her set morning ritual.
Tripping over a body at the bottom of her staircase was not. Regaining her balance, she looked down to see Sam curled up in the fetal position, sleeping restlessly next to the bottommost stair. She looked up the stairs then back at Sam, determining whether or not he’d tripped but there didn’t appear to be any sings of a fall.
Clutching her housecoat even tighter she entered the kitchen, flipped on the light, and lit the stove, warming the pan for Gene’s breakfast, before going back to Sam. She crouched down and lightly touched his shoulder.
"Sam?"
He immediately jerked away, recoiling from the touch until he realized who it was. "Mrs. Hunt? I...where..." he glanced around, just as confused as she was as to how he ended up downstairs.
"Good morning, luv. Do you want to get off the floor? It’s freezing down there." She held out her hand and Sam, still groggy from a poor night’s sleep, grasped it, using Mrs. Hunt and the banister to pull himself up. Without even asking she helped him hobble into the kitchen and sat him at the table.
Sam watched her like a lost puppy as she pulled butter and eggs from the refrigerator and started greasing the pan. She knew he was staring without even looking but turned anyway to check on him. "Goodness, dear. You’re making me cold with all that shivering. Would like a jumper or summit?"
Sam blushed as he stared at the familiar quake of his hands. " ‘S not from cold," he whispered.
Mrs. Hunt understood too well and knew better than to press the issue. She started to make some fresh coffee when they both heard a loud thump followed by some graphic cursing from upstairs.
"Gene’s awake," she smirked. "Will you want any coffee Sam?"
Sam shook his head, his eyes locked on some bananas on the counter. There was another thump and another curse. Sam looked at the ceiling above him. "Is he alright?"
"He’ll be better once he fixes my dresser," she said matter-of-factly, setting a glass of water down in front of him. "Every day he forgets to fix the drawers, I pull it out a little further from the wall. Genie’s always half-blind in the mornings and walks right into it." She took some cheese from the fridge. "I keep thinking he’ll take the hint but, well," she lowered her voice and spoke conspiratorially to Sam. "For a copper he’s a bit thick sometimes."
"Do you have any sausage?" Sam suddenly asked, just as she was about to break the first egg.
"I think I might have a little left from the other day." She examined the contents of her fridge, quickly finding what Sam asked for. "Ah! Here it is. D’you want me to heat this up for you?"
Sam looked away again. "No." He hesitated, itching to say more, so she waited. "You could mix it with his eggs. Like an omelette." He finally added.
"Sausage in with the eggs? That’s a bit adventurous for our Gene, luv," she chuckled.
"Do you have any green peppers?"
She eyed Sam with happy suspicion and went back into the fridge. "It’s your lucky day, Inspector," she smiled, pulling out a small pepper and placing it on the counter.
"You could dice it and add it in and..." but Sam stopped himself, fixing his eyes on the floor.
"What else?" She encouraged.
Sam shrugged, debating whether or not to speak. "The banana. Add a banana, too."
While the concept was intriguing, Mrs. Hunt was more than skeptical about her husband’s reaction to the idea. "Where’d you hear that?" She inquired with genuine interest.
"It’s a Jamaican recipe. But, he probably won’t like it, so never mind."
"Well, I think it sounds delicious. Why don’t you show me how it’s done?"
*
Gene flung back his bedroom door, straightening his tie and allowing the delicious smell of his wife’s breakfast to attack his senses. He took a step and paused. Something was off. The smell was familiar yet different at the same time. "What bloody women’s lib magazine has she been reading now?" He sighed, grabbing his suit jacket and marching downstairs. He barely made it off the staircase when he was grabbed and pulled back, prevented from entering his kitchen. "Have you gone completely mental..." he started but she shushed him.
"Come here!" She whispered excitedly, holding his hand and dragging him to the kitchen entrance way. "Look!" She whispered again, leaning into him.
Tyler was cooking. Tyler was cooking in his kitchen. Tyler was cooking in his kitchen, making his breakfast. He pulled his wife back into the hall. "You turned ‘im into a happy housewife?" He balked.
"He wanted to do it!" Gene sighed at her again. "Gene, don’t you see?" Apparently he didn’t as he waited impatiently for a proper explanation. "He wanted to do something. He wanted to help. Be active. Keep busy."
"This is good," Gene finally cottoned on.
"Of course it’s good you daft pillock! Now go in there, eat whatever he puts in front of you and, I know it’ll be hard, but save the derogatory comments for the scum of Manchester."
Her hopeful expression was enough to make Gene hold his tongue and so he struggled to restrain himself as he prepared to eat Tyler’s slightly disturbing breakfast.
*
"I want to go in with you."
Gene let out a harsh laugh. Sam was truly bonkers. "Maybe if you hadn’t dosed yourself up yesterday like the strung-out junkie you are I would’ve considered it."
Mrs. Hunt had cleared the dishes and gone up to change. Gene had been somewhat surprised by Tyler’s odd concoction, though he would never make fruit and eggs a habit. Sam himself had stuck with plain oatmeal and Gene could see him literally sweating over whether or not the food would actually stay down. The two men shared a cigarette at the kitchen table and the Gene wasn’t sure if the guilty look that had just passed over Sam’s face was due to his Guv’s latest insult or the fag he held awkwardly in his fingers.
"There’ll be a lot of fuss over DI Graham. And most likely new cases came in over the weekend. You could use a hand."
"You’re not ready," Gene said without needing to think about it. "You need to--"
"I need to go to the station!" Sam cut in, eyes closed to hide their pleading gaze.
Gene stared harder at him, rolling things over in his mind. Chris’ words in the pub the other night suddenly came back to him. Tyler liked working. No. He loved working. He lived for it. Would probably screw it six ways from Sunday if it were physically possible. He was a picky-pain and picky-pains needed something to pick at. Sam hadn’t been at work to pick at anything. Stuck at the hospital, at home, he’d only been able to pick at himself. If Tyler was at the station, well there was plenty he could at least try to do and Gene could keep an eye on him.
If Tyler focused on work, Gene saw the scars on his wrists...
"You will go nowhere except CID unless I give you permission. Not even the collator’s. And I don’t care if we have three armed blags, two hostage situations, and a single bloody bomb scare - you are strictly on desk duty. I’ll tie you down meself, needs must."
Sam nodded, trying not to think of the last time he’d been tied down. Gene saw his DI twitch at his choice of words and instantly regretted it, though he didn’t let it show on his face.
"Get some proper clothes on. Maybe you can at least look normal."
_______
Part 55