Unbroken
Title: Unbroken
Rating: Blue Cortina, for language
Pairing: Sam/Gene (sort of)
Word Count/Length: 1050-ish
Notes: posted for the lifein1973 re-watch-a-thon, Episode 1 - many thanks to my betas, the brilliant 45eugenia and the divine gritsinmisery
Summary: There's a moment in the first episode that always makes me wonder, and I wrote this to answer the question it raised for me.
Warning: canon character death (sort of) and spoilers for Ashes to Ashes
He sat in the car. Waiting. They'd told him to wait. His instructions were to get the most ordinary, nondescript vehicle he could lay his hands on, and this poncy little Vauxhall Cavalier certainly fit the bill. Nothing like a real car, this one. His dead auntie could probably outrun it.
He finished his bacon sarnie, tossing the wrapper out the window and reaching into his breast pocket for a fag. For fucking years people had been telling him those things would kill him, but the joke was on them: he couldn't die. Not yet. He had one last job to do.
He checked his watch. Not time yet. He switched on the radio, trying to ignore his nerves, trying to ignore the bile and adrenaline rising in his throat...trying to find something decent amid all the gangsta rubbish that called itself music these days. People didn't know what real music was anymore. Back in the day, if someone had talked over a bit of a drumbeat and called it a song, they'd have been laughed off the airwaves. But in this flipping day and age, it passed for 'hip'.
He sighed. A bunch of bloody sissies, that's what the world had become. Everything was so bloody PC this and PC that. Everywhere you looked there was spineless language, no smoking, crap food, crap music, crap telly, and crap porn. No wonder Tyler had wanted to leave. He fiddled with the radio dial, secretly hoping to come across some Roger Whittaker on an oldies station.
Finally, he gave up. He took a long, deep draw on his fag, exhaling smoke at the endless traffic and trying not to think. He didn't have to do this. He could just say bollocks to the lot and let the bastards do it without him. But deep down, he knew there was no way he could walk away from this.
Almost in answer to his thoughts, a new song came on the radio. It was an old American gospel tune:
May the circle be unbroken
by and by, Lord, by and by...
Irritated, he reached down and switched it off. "Alright, you bastards," he muttered under his breath. "Don't rub it in. I'm bloody here, aren't I?" Yes, he was here. It might be ripping his fucking guts out, but he was here.
And then, suddenly...so was the Jeep.
He straightened in his seat, instantly alert. The light grey SUV matched the description he'd been given. He watched it closely, and sure enough, it was almost sideswiped by a red minivan before pulling off to the side. Right in the middle of the road. He gave a disapproving grunt. Tyler, you fucking twat... He swallowed, hit hard by a sudden rush of emotion. Twenty-six years. It had been twenty-six years since...
He cleared his throat. No time for going all Dorothy now. This had to happen. It had already happened. He tossed his fag out the window and revved the Cavalier's motor. One good thing about the poncy little blue matchbox: it had a quiet engine. Tyler wouldn't hear a thing.
He shifted into first gear. The Vauxhall rounded the corner, sighting its prey like a circling shark.
A man gets out of the Jeep - an achingly familiar figure in an unfamiliar suit.
The man leans down into the Jeep's window. Distracted. Upset. So lost in his own emotions that he never even hears the blue Vauxhall speeding towards him, its driver closing his eyes at the last moment so he will not see the impact.
But he still hears it.
***
For a long time, there is silence. He can't move. Not yet. If he just sits here, absolutely still, then he won't have to think about what he's just done.
In his world, Sam is already gone. Has been for the last twenty-six years, ever since that fucking bank heist and the empty car in the river. But if he'd said no, if he'd refused to do this, then he and Sam would never have met, and he'd lose whatever memories he had left of the fussy little git. He would lose Sam Tyler forever.
Fucking bollocks to that.
Finally, he opens the door. He's in his mid-seventies now, but he still moves like the old Manc lion he once was. He walks over and kneels down beside the crumpled figure on the pavement.
Sam's eyes are closed. Christ, he looks like a kid. The old man reaches out an unsteady hand to touch the face that he hasn't seen for a quarter of a century...but Sam's not there. He's thirty-three years away, starting a journey that hasn't happened yet: a journey that happened half a lifetime ago. Soon he would be entering the CID squad room, throwing a wobbly over his desk...and meeting his new DCI for the first time.
The old man's steely blue eyes give nothing away as he leans down to whisper in his DI's ear. But something in his voice is broken.
"See you soon, Sammy boy."
There are sirens in the distance. The ambulance is coming. The old man takes one long, last look...shots fired officer down oh Sam you fucking prick why didn't you listen to me?...and then slowly climbs back into the Vauxhall. He drives away and doesn't look back.
He could have said no. When the men from Hyde came to tell him what had to be done, he could have told them to go fuck themselves, and take their posh fancy Dago suits with them.
Could he, hell. Whatever else they said about paradoxes and nancy-boy science, the plain truth was that the thought of someone else killing Tyler made his blood boil. They had no right.
They didn't love the scruffy bastard like he did.
He drove to an abandoned lot. Cut the sedan's engine. Leaned his forehead against the steering wheel, gripping it tight in spite of the arthritis in his hands.
It was done. The circle was unbroken. The past would happen just like it was supposed to.
And Sam was gone for good.
For the first time in twenty-six years, DCI Gene Hunt closed his eyes and wept.
Q
concrit and feedback welcomed!