Release

[qthebadwolf]

Title: Release
Rating: Red Cortina (for upsetting scenario)
Word Count/Length: about 2,500
Characters: Sam and Gene
Warning: Canon character death/disappearance
Summary: Gene just can't let Sam go.


I'm not going to lie to you, Marge: this one is pretty bleak. I noticed that Gene Hunt really doesn't like letting people go - as he told Alex, "no one leaves here until I say so" - and just took that to its logical, horrible extreme. Was also thinking about my favorite theory of What Really Happened to Sam, ie, he's handcuffed naked to the bed in Gene's basement for disobeying orders...and thought that if the writers ever actually did go in that direction, it would probably end up looking something like this.

If nothing else, I reckon this story will make whatever actually does happen in the finale seem a lot better by comparison. :)

Right. Everyone duly warned? Then let's go.




Let me go.

It’s funny how the last words you hear from someone can be almost comforting. Even if you were having a blazing row, at least they were words. Not the dull, accusing silence that greeted Gene every evening.

Each night he got home from work, and each night, Sam would be there, exactly where he’d left him. He’d stopped fidgeting around so much since Gene had added the straps to the bed. Anyone walking in unawares would have thought he was running a torture ward in some kind of shithole Third world prison, but it wasn’t as bad as it looked. Really. He’d had to add the straps to stop the poor bastard hurting himself. More than once Gene had come home to find Sam on the floor, bleeding where he’d banged his head from falling off the cot. And the last thing Sam needed was another clonk on the bonce.

Gene plodded down the stairs and tossed his keys onto the end table. “Alright, Sammy boy?” No answer. As usual. Just silence.

Gene set about his evening routine, a schedule he had followed ever since that day at the river: get Sam out of bed, move him around, and clean him up if need be. Prop him up on the sofa. Put some nosh in the blender - usually a bit of whatever Gene was having himself - and then spoon it into Sam’s mouth with one hand while he ate his own tea with the other. Normally this happened in front of the telly. It was easier that way...he could stare at the anchor woman’s tits instead of Sam’s blank, vacant eyes.

Let me go.

He had to look sharpish sometimes, though. Sam would generally swallow the food as long as it was blended to a soggy pulp and didn’t need chewing, but there had been a few bad moments when he seemed to forget how...and Gene had had to stick the spoon far enough back in his throat to trigger his gag reflex to make him bolt down the soupy grey mush.

It’s not right. All these people...good cops, and you’re keeping them all trapped here...for what? Because you’re lonely?

Gene held up the water cup and put the bendy straw in Sam’s mouth. Sam drank. Gave him a spoonful of bacon sarnie mush. He swallowed. Gene grabbed a napkin and wiped the corner of Sam’s mouth to make sure none of the food fell out. Then he scooped up more sarnie soup and shoveled it in, followed by the water. Lather, rinse, repeat. Eventually their evening meal was finished and cleared away.

“Alright, Sammy boy. Time for yer bath.”

He pulled one of Sam’s arms across his own shoulder and hooked his other arm around Sam’s waist, dragging him into the toilet. He weighed almost nothing now. Sam had always been a skinny streak of piss, but before, back when it first happened, he’d still had some weight to him. He’d still been solid. Now it seemed like if you got behind him and blew, he’d float across the room like a feather.

I know, Gene. I know what you are. I know what all this is.

It wasn’t fair. If Sam hadn’t gone snooping...maybe it wasn’t perfect, this little haven they all had here in limbo or Hell or whatever you wanted to bloody call it, but it sure as hell beat the alternative. At least, that’s what any sane, right-thinking person would have thought. But Tyler, the pernickety little sod...

“But this isn’t real, Guv!”

“You what? You’ll feel my boot up your arse in about two seconds flat if you don’t stop talking this bloody rubbish; see how ‘fake’ that feels!”

Sam had gotten that infuriating look on his face...one of many, he had scores; but the one he used when he was being patient trumped them all.

“Guv...I don’t want to argue. It’s just...it’s time. It’s time for me to go. I can’t stay here. I’ve had a great innings, more than I would have had otherwise. I know that. But now...I’m starting to see things.”

“Oh, what, you mean besides your dead cat and the voices in the telly and that little blonde tart with the mime doll?”

“Clown.”

“Same thing!”

Sam sighed. “That’s not gonna work, Guv. I don’t need to fight anymore. I don’t need you to keep me fighting anymore. That’s what I’m trying to tell you...I’m seeing things. Stars. Like a starfield.”

Gene’s head snapped up. “What?”

“Like the sky at night. Only it goes on forever. And it’s...calling to me. Telling me it’s time. Time to come home.”

All of Gene’s brusque swagger left him. He took a step towards Sam, suddenly as tightly coiled as a panther stalking its prey, his steely blue eyes fixing his DI with a gaze that could freeze lava. “Sam. You listen to me. You want to see stars? I’ll throw you down the fucking stairs, you can see all the bloody stars you like. But whatever it is you think you’re seeing? Forget it. It doesn’t exist. The only thing past that little starfield of yours is a great. Big. Nothing. This is all there is. End of.”

Sam rubbed his eyes. “But that’s just it! This isn’t the ‘end of’ anything! It’s something instead of an end! Why fight it so much, Gene? I’m dead. You’re dead. We all are. The sooner we all face that, the sooner we can move on to wherever we’re supposed to go. Even if that’s nowhere.”

Gene’s hand shot out and grabbed Sam’s arm below the shoulder. “Now look here, Ravi Shankar. I don’t care if you think this is limbo or Star Trek or Planet of the bloody Wombles! You’re here now, so you man up, and you make the best of it. Understood?”

Sam scowled indignantly at Gene’s hand on him and jerked his arm away. “Let me go!”

“You’re going nowhere.”

But Sam was already out of Gene's office and halfway to the corridor. “I can’t talk to you when you’re like this, Guv. But you know I’m right. This place is a prison, and the worst part is, you’re your own head warden!” And he walked out, leaving the rest of CID to wonder what the hell that had all just been about.

Gene glared at them. “Haven’t you all got things to be doing?” He stormed back into his office, slamming the door shut behind him...and suddenly looked down.

Sam had left his jacket on the chair.

The tub was nearly half full now. Gene killed the tap and sudsed up a flannel in the warm soapy water. He’d given his little brother Stuart plenty of baths when Stuie was a baby and their old man was drunk. He wasn’t ashamed of doing the same for Sam. Still, though, he was glad no one from CID could see him doing this. Might get the wrong idea. He tried not to look at Sam as he scrubbed the cloth brusquely over his body, hard enough to leave patches of red in places. Not that it mattered. Sam’s eyes never seemed to focus on anything anyway these days, least of all his DCI.

Gene rinsed Sam off and checked that his head was still propped up firmly on the towel cushioning his neck before pulling the bath plug. Then he kept an eye on him while the tub drained. Gene had learnt his lesson early on...one time coming back to find Sam’s head slipped down under the water was one time too fucking many. He never filled the tub more than a few inches now, and never, ever left Sam alone in it.

That had been his mistake in the first place, of course. Leaving Sam on his own.

“Tyler! You listen to me you little scrotum, do not go anywhere near those blaggers!”

“They’re coming right at me, Guv; it’ll take you ages to get here. I’m going in.”

“Tyler! You stay put, that’s an order! Tyler?...Tyler?” He pounded his radio. “SAM!!!”

Nothing. Silence.

When the tub was empty, Gene toweled Sam off. He always started with his head first...he didn’t like looking at Sam with his hair all wet and water dripping down his face. It reminded him too much of the riverbank.

He’d gotten there ages before anyone else. Just in time to see the car go in; to dive in after it; to fish Sam out and pull him to shore. Sam was breathing, just. Blood gushed out of a nasty looking wound in his forehead.

“Come on, Sam. Stay with me.” Gene cradled Sam’s bleeding head in his lap. “Plod are on their way, they’ll call a bus.”

Sam’s eyes fluttered open. “Guv...” No. Not this. Gene had done this far too many bloody times. Had held too many good officers in his arms; listening as they breathed their last confessions in his ears. Not Sam too. Not his DI, not his partner; not his little deputy dawg.

“Stay with me, Sam. Come on. You’re like a bloody terrier when you get yer teeth into summat, now put some of that stubborn-git bloody-mindedness to use and hang on!”

Sam’s breath took on an unpleasant gurgling noise. “Guv...” His body was alarmingly limp, like something had gone out of him...like a puppet with its strings cut. The gurgling grew louder, but Sam managed to get the words out in a strangled whisper:

“Gene...let me go.”

It wasn’t the same way he’d said it before. Not angry. Not get-your-hands-off-me indignant. It was gentle; almost tender. Gene wished it weren’t. He liked Sam being pissed off at him a hell of a lot better than he liked being asked to give up his best mate in this or any other world.

There were sirens in the distance. Gene held on, but he could feel that strange scary something slipping away...and finally watched it disappear altogether as the light left Sam’s eyes and he was still.

Gene checked. Sam was still breathing. That was something, at least. The sirens were getting closer. If the hospital got their hooks in Sam then that was it; pull the plug, oh-DCI-Hunt-why-delay-the-inevitable. Fucking bollocks to that. He wasn’t giving up on Sam. He wasn’t giving up.

Gene held on.

By the time backup arrived, Sam lay curled in the boot of Gene’s car: unconscious but safe, and still breathing. Plod never found his body and assumed the current had washed him away.

End of.

Fresh from the bath, Gene dragged Sam back into the main room and lay him down on the bed. Then he pawed around for an old t-shirt and some boxers to put on him for pyjamas. Sam had never worn pyjamas before the accident, and it seemed wrong somehow to put them on him now. But for Gene, it mattered. God forbid, if someone should come in and find a naked man strapped to the bed...pyjamas meant that Gene was looking after him. Pyjamas meant that someone fucking cared for him.

Gene found the clothes and held them in one hand for a moment. He stared down at Sam’s painfully thin body, his ribs and hipbones almost poking up through his skin. “Tyler?” He sometimes thought Sam could hear him. Could hear, and just chose not to answer. “Tyler!” Would be just like the stubborn little git, really...playing possum just to teach him a lesson.

Well, if he was playing, the game had gone on far too bloody long.

“Sam?”

Gene made a fist, then thought better of it and slowly opened his hand. He drew back...hesitated...looking at Sam’s blank face...and then swung his arm down, pulling the slap a little bit just like he always did, never quite hitting Sam with his full strength. Come on, Sam. Wake up. Sam’s head jerked to the side. There was no other response. Gene hit him a second time, still nowhere near as hard as he could. Nothing. The only reaction was the stinging blush rising in Sam’s cheeks where the blows had landed, and the water welling up in his eyes. Gene drew his hand back again come on Sam you prick talk back to me give me one of your lectures read me the rulebook like a sissy swotty girl just do SOMETHING you selfish little shit I know you’re in there WAKE UP!!...but with a monumental effort, he managed to lower his arm. He knew if he hit Sam again now, he might not be able to stop.

Gene let out a harsh, painful breath. After a moment he reached down with the corner of the bedsheet and wiped Sam’s streaming eyes, running a sleeve across his own while he was at it. Sometimes he walked in and found Sam’s eyes watering like that after he’d been staring at the wall for bloody hours on end. Was probably just a dust allergy or something. Gene dressed Sam in the t-shirt and boxers and gently tucked the bedclothes around him. He took each of the pillows and plumped them up before putting them back under Sam’s head. As he finished with the last one, he paused for a moment, the pillow inches from Sam’s face.

It would be so easy. He would only have to hold it down for a moment. Sam wouldn’t even struggle. Hell, it was what he wanted...what he’d asked for.

Let me go.

But Gene couldn’t. He just couldn’t. He could face a whole prison full of rioting scum; could face a dark warehouse full of unknown suspects lying in wait for him; could face down a speeding car threatening his officers and pull away a split second before it ran him over. But he could not, would not let Sam go.

He tucked the pillow gently under Sam’s head. After a moment, he pulled the straps up from the floor and re-fastened them over Sam’s chest, waist, and legs. Just tight enough to make sure he wasn’t going anywhere. Then he turned up the telly, just like every night, so he wouldn’t have to hear the unspoken plea radiating from the bed in the middle of the room.

Gene sat down on the sofa. Poured himself a Scotch. Stared at the grainy grey and white phantoms on the screen, not really seeing them, waiting to get drunk enough to fall asleep.

Thank god for the whiskey, he thought. These days, it was his only form of release.


Whew! Let's all have a nice watch of the Life on Mars 1x02 hospital dust-up scene to wash that one out of our brains, shall we?

Q