Fic: Coffin For Sam (4/13), blue cortina, dakfinv
Title: Coffin For Sam (4/13)
Author: dak
Word Count: 1755 this part; [6462 overall]
Rating: blue cortina
Pairing: Okay, I admit it, there's some heavy-handed Sam/Gene wink-wink/nudge-nudge, especially in this part, but no direct slashing of the boys
Warnings: angst, just a teeny-tiny bit o' blood
Spoilers: Set after 2.02 (yeah, I've changed it), so consider anything before that fair game
Summary: When Sam has only 36 hours to live, will Gene and the team be able to catch the perpetrator and save their DI before it's too late?
A/N: This is a response to a plot bunny posted by ausmac. Premise and title taken from the "Starsky and Hutch" episode "Coffin For Starsky." Have the day off so I thought I'd get this done before the daily Starbuck's run so that I can spend that time writing what I'm supposed to be writing. (Though I think Sam would be happier if I wasn't writing this at all.) 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
If there was one thing Gene Hunt despised more the Manchester United it was hospitals. He never let on, of course, because nothing as inane as a hospital would ever bother Gene Hunt, but there was something in the smell. To him it smelled like death, which he thought was completely absurd because the main job of a hospital was to prevent such an occurrence.
He remembered when he was seven and his gran had her stroke, Mum had forced him and Stu to come with her to hospital everyday until Gran came home. It took weeks. He thought he’d never get the smell out of his clothes.
“Hungry?”
“You can’t really be thinking of food right now.”
Gene shrugged as he and Sam leaned back against the lift wall, waiting to be taken to the sixth floor. “Not all of us are complicated women, Samantha.”
“Not all of us our ruled by our stomachs.”
“Maybe if you were, you could finally put some meat on them twiggy little legs of yours.”
“How often do you look at my legs?”
“Whenever I’m about chuck ‘em down the stairs.”
“All the time, then.”
“If you weren’t in so much girly pain right now Tyler, you’d be pinned against that wall so hard, your face would permanently resemble an English Bulldog’s fanny.”
“Another male bonding exercise, Guv?” The lift doors opened and the men exited side by side. Gene had to slow his pace so Tyler could keep up. “I should try and eat to keep my energy up. Maybe something light, like a salad?”
“ ‘M not buyin’ you a salad for your last meal, you nancy poof,” he grumbled.
“Didn’t know you were buying at all, Guv.” Could not even death prevent that smug, know-it-all, piss-taking grin? Apparently yes as Sam had to stop halfway down the hall as he was overcome by a coughing fit. Gene helped him to the wall where he could partly support himself but still the attack nearly sent Tyler to his knees. Gene kept his hands on Sam’s shoulders as he slowly composed himself.
“ ‘S what you get for mocking my hospitality,” Gene grumbled as he helped Sam straighten himself up.
“Sure taught me a lesson,” Sam’s voice was raspy from the effort. He pushed Gene away and continued to march down the corridor.
“Maybe you shouldn’t be movin’ around so much.”
“Room 627. Here we are, though the uniformed officer outside pretty much gives it away,” Sam reached inside his jacket, pulling out his warrant card. “Detective Inspector Tyler. This is DCI Hunt. We’re here to speak with Mr. Hicks.”
*
Mr. Hicks had to be woken from one of his fourteen daily naps in order to speak with the detectives. Granted, the man was on his deathbed but that wasn’t keeping Tyler from prancing about. At least not yet.
“Mister Hunt,” the feeble, old man drew the words out in long, harsh tones. Up until that point, Gene hadn’t thought it possible to say “Hunt” with more than one syllable. A battle-axe of a nurse adjusted his pillows and helped his stiff body into a more upright position. She stayed no longer than she had to, disappearing as soon as her task was done. Gene couldn’t blame her.
“And...who is this fine, young fellow?” He questioned, peering at Sam. Gene had the sudden urge to rip out both the man’s eyeballs.
“How’ve you been Marty? See you found a way to stay out of gaol after all.” Gene stuffed his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. He could break this man in seconds.
“What can I say, Gene? I’ve always been lucky,” he started coughing and Gene waited impatiently for the faker to quit it.
“Hope you’ve been keepin’ busy. Can’t be much fun lyin’ here on your own all the time. At least in gaol you had all those pretty boys to look at.” Gene wasn’t sure when he had blocked Hicks’ view of Sam and he wasn’t sure why he had.
“Well, from what I heard, good ol’ Harry will be joining me shortly.” The sick man wheezed and right then Gene didn’t care if he was already dying. He wanted to feel his flaxen, waxy, flaky skin under his fingers, ripping it right from his hollowed bones.
“Guv.” Sam called from the back of the room before Gene could even make a fist. Hunt knew they had no time for a not totally necessary beating.
“What else have you heard, Marty?”
“What do you mean?”
Sam started coughing. Gene resisted the urge to turn and check on him, pretending everything was alright.
“My, my. Your man there doesn’t look too well. Maybe he should get in bed with me.”
That punch was most definitely necessary. Gene was surprised when Hicks’ blood wasn’t as yellow as his skin. “What did you do to him?”
The hoary man delicately wiped the trickle of blood from his lip. “Absolutely nothing, Mr. Hunt. How could I? Trapped here in this sterile prison.”
“You may be trapped but you can still talk. And give orders.”
“I did nothing of the sort. What makes you think I’d stoop so low?”
Gene grabbed him by the hospital gown and hoisted his light body halfway out of the bed. “Scum like you can’t sink any lower.”
“Why would I bother? Honestly Gene, you and Mr. Woolfe beat me fair and square. I made a mistake and you caught it.”
Gene started to lower him back on the bed.
“Now, if you had taken to fitting me up for the conviction, that would be a different matter but for once you didn’t take to that. Bravo.”
Hunt released him fully and stepped back from the bed, barely containing the rage hidden beneath the surface. In his gut, he knew it wasn’t Hicks and he wished, at that moment, that he could be like Tyler and deny his instincts.
“I don’t have much longer, Mr. Hunt. They tell me a month at the most. I don’t want to waste the rest of my life taking another.”
Hicks was never a killer. Gene knew that for a fact. Rarely ever beat his own men. Gene himself probably did that more than Hicks had.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more assistance.”
Gene couldn’t even look at the old blaggard anymore. He just wanted to get out of there. Out of the room. Out of the hospital. Without even an insulting goodbye Gene turned to leave and Sam wasn’t there. It was a small room, no furniture except for Hicks’ own bed, nothing Sam could have collapsed behind. Gene fled the room turning an angry fist on the stationed plod.
“DI Tyler. Where’d he go.”
“He said the loo, sir. He went down that way,” the bobby pointed to the left and Gene took off, bursting into the first men’s room he found. It was empty, save one leather jacketed ponce, leaning precariously over a urinal.
“You couldn’t tell me where you were goin’? How old are you, four?” Gene’s moment of panic passed.
“I didn’t know I needed permission to use the toilets. Who are you, my mother?” Sam replied painfully.
“Well hurry it and zip up your todger. This brilliant lead of yours is deader than Roger Delgado after a Sunday drive.”
“I...can’t.”
“What? Bust your trousers, too? This just isn’t your day, Sammy.”
“I can’t...pee.”
“Oh.” Gene leaned against the sinks. “You sure?”
“Yes I’m bloody sure!” Sam yelled.
A passing visitor entered, readying himself to use the facilities, but Gene shoved him back out. “Bogs are closed,” he grunted and flipped the lock on the main door. When he looked back at Sam, the waning man had one arm draped over the top of the urinal, his head rested in the crook of his elbow. He was so close to the bowl he might as well of been sitting in its lap.
“...c’mon...c’mon...” He urged himself but it didn’t seem to be working. “You standing there doesn’t really help,” he called back to Gene.
“Not like I haven’t already seen it. And, if you’re forgetting, I did do National Service.”
“Yeah well I didn--” Sam lost his grip on the porcelain and fell to the floor, landing on his back. “Shit.” Gene went to his side but Sam kept waving him away with one arm while he used his other to cover his face. “Shit,” he said again and Gene realized he was sobbing.
“We should get you off the floor,” Gene said softly.
“I have never been more humiliated in my life,” he said between tears. Gene wanted to tell him that being found naked and cuffed to the bed by your DCI and the WPC you kept making googly eyes at was probably a much more humiliating situation but decided it would be for Tyler’s benefit if he kept that information to himself.
“It’s out of your control, Sam.”
“Well it shouldn’t be. I should be able to control everything that happens to me, here, in this place.”
Gene was in Cartwright territory now and damned if he knew how to handle it as well as she could. “Let’s get you off the floor.” So he didn’t even try. He braced himself behind Sam and helped him into a sitting position. When Sam felt confident enough, Gene helped him to stand then allowed Tyler to put himself away.
“Do you want to try again?” Gene nodded to the urinal.
“I’d rather just leave. If Hicks is a dead end, we’ve got more work to do.”
“Maybe you should stay.”
“Where?”
“In hospital.”
Sam scoffed and walked shakily to the door.
“It can’t be good for yeh, all this movin’ about. We might get more time if we--”
“I will not be coddled!” Sam’s nose was bleeding again. He didn’t notice, or didn’t care, and unlatched the door, yanking it open.
“You’re not alone on this Sam.” Gene reminded him, or was it a warning?
Sam looked at his watch. “Three-thirty. Nearly twenty-four hours left. I will not spend my last twenty-four hours in hospital. Can’t stand the smell,” he muttered.
“How about the pub then?”
“The pub?” Sam repeated and Gene thought Tyler would laugh in his face. Instead he wiped his bloody nose on the back of his jacket sleeve and coughed into his hand, both actions draining even more color from his pale face. “The pub sounds like a really good idea, Guv.”
______
Part 5
Author: dak
Word Count: 1755 this part; [6462 overall]
Rating: blue cortina
Pairing: Okay, I admit it, there's some heavy-handed Sam/Gene wink-wink/nudge-nudge, especially in this part, but no direct slashing of the boys
Warnings: angst, just a teeny-tiny bit o' blood
Spoilers: Set after 2.02 (yeah, I've changed it), so consider anything before that fair game
Summary: When Sam has only 36 hours to live, will Gene and the team be able to catch the perpetrator and save their DI before it's too late?
A/N: This is a response to a plot bunny posted by ausmac. Premise and title taken from the "Starsky and Hutch" episode "Coffin For Starsky." Have the day off so I thought I'd get this done before the daily Starbuck's run so that I can spend that time writing what I'm supposed to be writing. (Though I think Sam would be happier if I wasn't writing this at all.) 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
If there was one thing Gene Hunt despised more the Manchester United it was hospitals. He never let on, of course, because nothing as inane as a hospital would ever bother Gene Hunt, but there was something in the smell. To him it smelled like death, which he thought was completely absurd because the main job of a hospital was to prevent such an occurrence.
He remembered when he was seven and his gran had her stroke, Mum had forced him and Stu to come with her to hospital everyday until Gran came home. It took weeks. He thought he’d never get the smell out of his clothes.
“Hungry?”
“You can’t really be thinking of food right now.”
Gene shrugged as he and Sam leaned back against the lift wall, waiting to be taken to the sixth floor. “Not all of us are complicated women, Samantha.”
“Not all of us our ruled by our stomachs.”
“Maybe if you were, you could finally put some meat on them twiggy little legs of yours.”
“How often do you look at my legs?”
“Whenever I’m about chuck ‘em down the stairs.”
“All the time, then.”
“If you weren’t in so much girly pain right now Tyler, you’d be pinned against that wall so hard, your face would permanently resemble an English Bulldog’s fanny.”
“Another male bonding exercise, Guv?” The lift doors opened and the men exited side by side. Gene had to slow his pace so Tyler could keep up. “I should try and eat to keep my energy up. Maybe something light, like a salad?”
“ ‘M not buyin’ you a salad for your last meal, you nancy poof,” he grumbled.
“Didn’t know you were buying at all, Guv.” Could not even death prevent that smug, know-it-all, piss-taking grin? Apparently yes as Sam had to stop halfway down the hall as he was overcome by a coughing fit. Gene helped him to the wall where he could partly support himself but still the attack nearly sent Tyler to his knees. Gene kept his hands on Sam’s shoulders as he slowly composed himself.
“ ‘S what you get for mocking my hospitality,” Gene grumbled as he helped Sam straighten himself up.
“Sure taught me a lesson,” Sam’s voice was raspy from the effort. He pushed Gene away and continued to march down the corridor.
“Maybe you shouldn’t be movin’ around so much.”
“Room 627. Here we are, though the uniformed officer outside pretty much gives it away,” Sam reached inside his jacket, pulling out his warrant card. “Detective Inspector Tyler. This is DCI Hunt. We’re here to speak with Mr. Hicks.”
*
Mr. Hicks had to be woken from one of his fourteen daily naps in order to speak with the detectives. Granted, the man was on his deathbed but that wasn’t keeping Tyler from prancing about. At least not yet.
“Mister Hunt,” the feeble, old man drew the words out in long, harsh tones. Up until that point, Gene hadn’t thought it possible to say “Hunt” with more than one syllable. A battle-axe of a nurse adjusted his pillows and helped his stiff body into a more upright position. She stayed no longer than she had to, disappearing as soon as her task was done. Gene couldn’t blame her.
“And...who is this fine, young fellow?” He questioned, peering at Sam. Gene had the sudden urge to rip out both the man’s eyeballs.
“How’ve you been Marty? See you found a way to stay out of gaol after all.” Gene stuffed his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. He could break this man in seconds.
“What can I say, Gene? I’ve always been lucky,” he started coughing and Gene waited impatiently for the faker to quit it.
“Hope you’ve been keepin’ busy. Can’t be much fun lyin’ here on your own all the time. At least in gaol you had all those pretty boys to look at.” Gene wasn’t sure when he had blocked Hicks’ view of Sam and he wasn’t sure why he had.
“Well, from what I heard, good ol’ Harry will be joining me shortly.” The sick man wheezed and right then Gene didn’t care if he was already dying. He wanted to feel his flaxen, waxy, flaky skin under his fingers, ripping it right from his hollowed bones.
“Guv.” Sam called from the back of the room before Gene could even make a fist. Hunt knew they had no time for a not totally necessary beating.
“What else have you heard, Marty?”
“What do you mean?”
Sam started coughing. Gene resisted the urge to turn and check on him, pretending everything was alright.
“My, my. Your man there doesn’t look too well. Maybe he should get in bed with me.”
That punch was most definitely necessary. Gene was surprised when Hicks’ blood wasn’t as yellow as his skin. “What did you do to him?”
The hoary man delicately wiped the trickle of blood from his lip. “Absolutely nothing, Mr. Hunt. How could I? Trapped here in this sterile prison.”
“You may be trapped but you can still talk. And give orders.”
“I did nothing of the sort. What makes you think I’d stoop so low?”
Gene grabbed him by the hospital gown and hoisted his light body halfway out of the bed. “Scum like you can’t sink any lower.”
“Why would I bother? Honestly Gene, you and Mr. Woolfe beat me fair and square. I made a mistake and you caught it.”
Gene started to lower him back on the bed.
“Now, if you had taken to fitting me up for the conviction, that would be a different matter but for once you didn’t take to that. Bravo.”
Hunt released him fully and stepped back from the bed, barely containing the rage hidden beneath the surface. In his gut, he knew it wasn’t Hicks and he wished, at that moment, that he could be like Tyler and deny his instincts.
“I don’t have much longer, Mr. Hunt. They tell me a month at the most. I don’t want to waste the rest of my life taking another.”
Hicks was never a killer. Gene knew that for a fact. Rarely ever beat his own men. Gene himself probably did that more than Hicks had.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more assistance.”
Gene couldn’t even look at the old blaggard anymore. He just wanted to get out of there. Out of the room. Out of the hospital. Without even an insulting goodbye Gene turned to leave and Sam wasn’t there. It was a small room, no furniture except for Hicks’ own bed, nothing Sam could have collapsed behind. Gene fled the room turning an angry fist on the stationed plod.
“DI Tyler. Where’d he go.”
“He said the loo, sir. He went down that way,” the bobby pointed to the left and Gene took off, bursting into the first men’s room he found. It was empty, save one leather jacketed ponce, leaning precariously over a urinal.
“You couldn’t tell me where you were goin’? How old are you, four?” Gene’s moment of panic passed.
“I didn’t know I needed permission to use the toilets. Who are you, my mother?” Sam replied painfully.
“Well hurry it and zip up your todger. This brilliant lead of yours is deader than Roger Delgado after a Sunday drive.”
“I...can’t.”
“What? Bust your trousers, too? This just isn’t your day, Sammy.”
“I can’t...pee.”
“Oh.” Gene leaned against the sinks. “You sure?”
“Yes I’m bloody sure!” Sam yelled.
A passing visitor entered, readying himself to use the facilities, but Gene shoved him back out. “Bogs are closed,” he grunted and flipped the lock on the main door. When he looked back at Sam, the waning man had one arm draped over the top of the urinal, his head rested in the crook of his elbow. He was so close to the bowl he might as well of been sitting in its lap.
“...c’mon...c’mon...” He urged himself but it didn’t seem to be working. “You standing there doesn’t really help,” he called back to Gene.
“Not like I haven’t already seen it. And, if you’re forgetting, I did do National Service.”
“Yeah well I didn--” Sam lost his grip on the porcelain and fell to the floor, landing on his back. “Shit.” Gene went to his side but Sam kept waving him away with one arm while he used his other to cover his face. “Shit,” he said again and Gene realized he was sobbing.
“We should get you off the floor,” Gene said softly.
“I have never been more humiliated in my life,” he said between tears. Gene wanted to tell him that being found naked and cuffed to the bed by your DCI and the WPC you kept making googly eyes at was probably a much more humiliating situation but decided it would be for Tyler’s benefit if he kept that information to himself.
“It’s out of your control, Sam.”
“Well it shouldn’t be. I should be able to control everything that happens to me, here, in this place.”
Gene was in Cartwright territory now and damned if he knew how to handle it as well as she could. “Let’s get you off the floor.” So he didn’t even try. He braced himself behind Sam and helped him into a sitting position. When Sam felt confident enough, Gene helped him to stand then allowed Tyler to put himself away.
“Do you want to try again?” Gene nodded to the urinal.
“I’d rather just leave. If Hicks is a dead end, we’ve got more work to do.”
“Maybe you should stay.”
“Where?”
“In hospital.”
Sam scoffed and walked shakily to the door.
“It can’t be good for yeh, all this movin’ about. We might get more time if we--”
“I will not be coddled!” Sam’s nose was bleeding again. He didn’t notice, or didn’t care, and unlatched the door, yanking it open.
“You’re not alone on this Sam.” Gene reminded him, or was it a warning?
Sam looked at his watch. “Three-thirty. Nearly twenty-four hours left. I will not spend my last twenty-four hours in hospital. Can’t stand the smell,” he muttered.
“How about the pub then?”
“The pub?” Sam repeated and Gene thought Tyler would laugh in his face. Instead he wiped his bloody nose on the back of his jacket sleeve and coughed into his hand, both actions draining even more color from his pale face. “The pub sounds like a really good idea, Guv.”
______
Part 5