+ we could steal time + part one : just for one day

Sam turned the corner sharply, almost losing his balance, and kept on running, chasing one John Delan, guilty of a series of store robberies, car theft and assault. And resisting arrest. He’d stopped checking to see if the others were keeping up with him, but he could hear Chris’ pants behind him and the sound of his uncoordinated running. Delan stumbled slightly and Sam took his chance, forcing his legs to go faster and finally managing to reach him, pouncing on him from behind and sending them both sprawling on the ground. He grimaced as his knuckles scratched on the pavement, his whole hand burning with the pain, but he held fast on Delan, who was trying to wriggle out from under him. Delan thrust back his elbow, and even with the awkward angle managed to hit him just above his eye, pain exploding all through the right side of his face, extracting a surprised cry out of him. Delan scrambled up and made to run once again, but Sam was determined not to let him slip out of his grasp and managed to hold onto a leg until he too was once again standing and ready to beat the hell out of the guy – because honestly, as Gene had pointed out earlier, he was a nasty bugger – when it happened. In the grapple of limbs he lost sight of one of Delan’s arms but felt it when he was hit in the chest, open palm, well-aimed and powerful. He heard Chris’ strangled and breathless ‘Boss!’ and the screeching of brakes. Oh shit, he thought, not again. * * * Sam knew he was in a hospital, but he also knew for certain that he was still in ’73. He’d known as soon as he’d regained consciousness, the smell of cigarette smoke and Scotch was very telling. “You shouldn’t smoke in here, Guv,” he said, his voice barely audible, even to his own ears. “Head caved in, eyes not even opened and he’s still a pestering arsehole,” came the gruff reply, “You probably talk in your sleep, too.” Sam opened his eyes and glared at him, or tried to, his head hurt too much, “I’m awake.” Gene was sprawled on a chair, his feet propped up on the bed, a couple of buttons open on his shirt and his tie loosened. He had a flask in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Sam knew how much those chair were uncomfortable, but Gene looked like a man enjoining a quiet evening in front of the telly in his living room at home. He looked calm and relaxed, and not really impressed by Sam’s current condition. “Bet you could, though.” “What?” “Flap yer mouth even in yer sleep,” Gene said moving the fingers of his right hand as if to illustrate the point. Sam really wasn’t in the mood and let that go, choosing to assess his injuries instead. His right arm was in a cast and with the fingers of his good hand he touched the bandage on his forehead and then the back of his head. He flinched both times, the pain noticeable even above the numb aching that had settled all over his body, and when he raised his eyes again Gene was watching him with a frown. “What’s the verdict?” Gene inhaled cigarette smoke and pursued his lips, “Broken arm, bruised ribs. And yer head’s now more scrambled than it used to be,” he concluded, carelessly flicking the still lit butt on the ground. He shrugged, “It was quite a flight, actually. Yer brain would be a smear on the asphalt if it weren’t for your hard head.” Sam glared at him even if it hurt, because the situation obviously warranted it, “The concern literally dripping from your words overwhelms me.” Gene seemed to consider that, then stood up and grunted, stretching his arms. A few joints popped and Sam inwardly winced, he must have spent a lot of time on that chair. “We nicked the bastards, though.” Sam frowned. Bastards? “What do you mean bastards? I thought we established that Delan worked alone.” Gene opened his mouth in what was more the imitation of a shark than a grin. A hungry shark. “No. But the other bloke could have been Santa Claus himself for all the happy snow he had in the car.” Sam blinked stupidly at him, “Cocaine? You’re kidding me.” “Nope,” Gene smirked, “You seem to attract trouble everywhere you go, Sammy-boy. Reckon we could let you roam free around the city and follow you to see what happens.” For a terrifying moment it seemed like he was actually considering that, but then he shrugged, “Nah. Wouldn’t be worth all the paperwork and the sick days.” “Ha bloody ha. Once again your concern moves me.” Gene put on his coat and predictably lit another cigarette. “Where are you going?” “You’re not a drooling vegetable-” “It’s vegetative. Vegetative state.” “Whatever. You’re no more a blabbing twat than usual, so I’m going to the pub.” “What? And leave me here?” Gene gave him a look, “You twirled into the air like a bloody ballerina and you look like you’ve been gettin’ in fights with walls. And losing. But you’re still alive and likely to start annoying me again in no time. So I’m going to the pub and drink some booze to brace meself for that.” There was a pause and Gene looked expectantly at him, presumably to see if he was going to argue. Sam said nothing. “I see we’re clear,” he said at last, then before turning, “Cheers.” “How long was I out?” he called. Gene stopped and stood with his back still to Sam, “Six hours,” he replied and left. * * * “Welcome back, Boss!” Chris exclaimed with a big grin, then frowned and seemed unconvinced, “Should you be back so soon?” “I’m alright,” he replied, shrugging and immediately regretting it when it jolted his ribs. “Uh, all right,” Chris replied, but he stood there, hovering. Sam raised his eyes and met Ray’s, the other man nodded at him and for him it was probably a welcome back as warm as a hug. Sam nodded back. He’d just sat at his desk to go over his reports when Gene’s office door slammed open and the man himself bellowed, “Tyler! You bloody idiot! The hell you doin’ here? I thought we said a week!” Sam opened his mouth, then closed it. Then he thought about it and tried again. As it was the decision was taken from him, as Gene came forward, grabbed him by his good arm and manhandled him – albeit rather gently, for Gene – into his office. The door slammed closed, but with the volume Gene was using it wasn’t like it would serve as privacy. “Out with it.” Sam shuffled his feet a bit and fixed his gaze upon the dozens sheets of paper scattered on the desk, just to look at something. Something that wasn’t Gene. He hung his head, “I was bored,” he admitted, finally. “You were…bored?” Gene still sounded angry, a bit incredulous as well. Sam glared at him, “Have you seen the place I live in? Playing Russian roulette would be more entertaining than look at my wallpaper all day, every day. For a week,” the last word came out whinier than he would have liked. Gene sat down, “I’ll agree with you on that.” Sam sat down too, “I’m glad I have your approval.” The door opened an inch and Chris’ head poked in, his eyes going from one man to the other to gauge the level of volatility in the room. Evidently he’d lost the draw to tell them whatever news he was bringing. “Uh, Guv,” he said, eventually deciding to stop on Gene, “We got a call. Murder.” Gene nodded but made no move to stand up, there was a long awkward moment during which the both of them stared at Chris expectantly. It got no result, except maybe making the young DC fidget more. Gene rolled his eyes, “I’ll be with you in a moment.” Chris seemed relieved at that and nodded, disappearing a second later. Sam wriggled a bit on the chair, trying to find a comfortable position, then gave up and stood again, “These chairs are bloody uncomfortable.” Gene looked at him, “Chose them meself.” “So that no one can sit there long enough to annoy you?” “Seems to work, doesn’t it?” Sam stood for a moment, then sat on his desk, grinning smugly. “Oi! You’re messin’ with me papers!” Gene exclaimed but made no attempt to retrieve said papers. “Your papers are a mess. I await with fear the day I’ll have to sort through this to get a report. You’ll probably need a search party to find me.” Gene looked like he was about to retort with some insult or maybe just plain swearing, but he gave him a look and smirked slowly. Sam suddenly became very, very worried. His previous smugness replaced by uncertainty, he frowned at Gene and sat up straighter. Gene sat back and waved vaguely at him, “Then why don’t you sort this…’mess’ out while me and the lads go and check that possible murder?” Sam gaped at him, “You can’t-” but Gene was gone. * * * Sam observed the three neat piles he’d managed to sort out, his good hand resting on his hip. He sat down on Gene’s chair and squinted a bit, the one in middle actually covered his visual of half of the door. He sighed and hung his head. It had taken him a good three hours just to collect the files on the desk and the ones he’d picked up from the floor – not to mention the one Gene had put as some sort of makeshift wedge under a leg of the desk – and separate them following some kind of logic. Now he was actually kind of tired, and hungry too. The door opened and Gene came in, the pause in his strides the only indication that he’d noticed him, “You still ‘ere?” Sam glared at him, but it went unnoticed, as Gene walked around him to get to the bottle of Scotch in his drawer. When he closed it a bit too forcefully, the files on the desk swayed dangerously and Sam hurried to steady them once again. “Careful!” Gene took a glass, then thought about it and took another. He considered Sam’s work and nodded at him, “You done?” “Nope. I just finished sorting them,” he explained, shaking his head when Gene handed him his glass, “I’m taking painkillers, I shouldn’t-” He hadn’t finished the phrase before Gene emptied Sam's glass into his with a shrug. Sam pointed at the files on the left, “That’s the To Archive pile,” then at the one on the right, “That’s the To Sign pile.” Gene didn’t seem impressed at all, he sipped his Scotch and smacked his lips, then pointed at the one in the middle, “What’s that?” “The Everything Else Pile.” Gene considered it for a minute, then he raised his eyebrows at him, “You were really bored,” he concluded, a little surprised. Sam shrugged and hissed, his arm curling protectively over his ribs. Gene put his glass on the desk and turned towards him, “Lunch?” * * * It was nearly three in the afternoon when Sam paused during his sorting out the mess of Gene Hunt’s desk and realized that he was a DCI – well, a DI – and not a secretary. He let the files drop from his hands and they landed on the desk with a meek fwap. He had taken a few steps towards the door, only to turn back and go back to Gene’s desk. He rummaged through the drawers and took his Scotch, looking around the room for a place to hide it. That done, with a satisfied smirk and feeling accomplished, he made his way to his own desk and sat down to go over the notes of their current case. And thank God for Chris and his detailed note taking, because if it were for his Guv the only thing he’d know at present would be that Jimmy ‘Eye’ Darvell was a poor bastard and that he certainly didn’t need another hole in his head. Of course, reading Chris’ notes warranted remarkable abilities both in the fields of interpretation and imagination. A smattering of hieroglyphic deciphering skills didn’t hurt, either. From what he’d gathered, squinting at the chicken scrawl, Jimmy ‘Eye’ Darvell had been found in a back alley near his house by a neighbour. Cause of death was a single gunshot wound – and Sam had to spend some time, because it looked more like a doodle or a spasm, instead of ‘gunshot wound’ – to the back of his head. He turned the page to see if there was more, but the only words were ‘witnesses not suspects!’ written in big, clear block letters. There also was, at the bottom of the page, a small sketch of a stick figure with a moustache that could only be Ray. Sam shook his head and his lips curled into a smile. So, who the hell was Jimmy Eye? From the words Gene had used earlier during lunch, Sam had guessed he’d been a criminal of some sort, but since he’d…’arrived’ here he’d never heard of him. He could look in the archives, but he was probably going to end up swallowed by the mountains of paper. If they’d told him, he’d never have believed there would be a time when he'd give almost anything to have access to Windows. Even Windows ME. But that was a path that could only lead to despair. A phone ringing somewhere in the building shook him out of his reverie, and pushing his thoughts of the future – Present? Hallucinations? Coma? – away, he grabbed Chris’ note pad and went to find Phyllis. He leant on the front desk, Phyllis was nodding thoughtfully, “Jimmy Eye kicked it, didn’t he?” Sam nodded, “Everyone here seems to have known him, except me. What can you tell me?” Phyllis shrugged, “Worst burglar I’ve ever seen.” Sam frowned, “What do you mean?” “He always got caught. Or almost caught. Never managed to steal much. Was a real gentleman, though,” she stamped down on some papers with a force that made Sam wince, then resumed, “Called everyone by name ‘ere and never gave any problems.” “If he hardly succeeded, how did he manage to sustain himself?” Phyllis gave him a look, “His wife. She works at the post office.” Sam nodded and tried to write down the new information he’d gathered, but he wasn’t used to the cast yet and the results were less than admirable, his writing barely more legible than Chris’. He grimaced and put his pen down, giving up. “I thought you were sorting out the Guv’s office.” Sam scowled and closed the pad with an angry gesture, “He can sort his own mess out. I’m not his bloody secretary.” Phyllis gave him a rather unimpressed look, “If you say so, Boss.” Sam was about to reply to that when the door burst open and in came two PCs pulling and at the same time trying to restrain a man that was bigger than the two of them put together. A third PC rushed in after them, his truncheon ready but with no openings to act. Sam left the front desk to help them, but all he received for his efforts was an elbow to his aching ribs. He was sent sprawling on the floor, stunned and breathless by the sudden flare of pain burning in his right side. This day was just getting better and better. * * * The door to the lockers room burst open with a subtlety that bore the mark of Gene Hunt, his voice bellowing to the room at large, “Tyler!” Sam sighed and meekly raised his good hand and called him over to the bench he was lying on, carefully breathing in and out. A shadow obscured his light and Gene was everything he could see when he squinted up at him, “Guv,” he said. “Sleepin’ on the job, Gladys?” Gene said, “Up and at ‘em, we got work to do.” Sam shook his head, “I have no intentions of getting in the vicinity of your desk in the near future, Guv.” Gene grabbed his arm and pulled him into a sitting position, stopping and doing it a tad more gently when Sam hissed in pain, “Last time I checked you were a DI, not a bloody secretary.” Sam tried to convey all of his hatred through one glare, but Gene seemed unfazed. Actually, he was smirking at him, “So, you startin’ fight with the big boys now?” he asked, then clicked his tongue and shook his head in a disapproving manner, “A little girl like you, in your condition.” Sam stood gingerly up and resumed with his glaring, “How come you suddenly want me on the investigation when this morning you left me here, doing virtually nothing?” Gene shrugged, “You wanted to teach me a lesson so badly, I had to let you,” he smirked at him, “Learned yours?” Sam said nothing and just followed Gene as he went towards the door, “Ladies first, Tyler,” he said, holding the door for him. One of these days Sam was going to win one – just one, that was all he wanted – and it would be grand, because now even if he was right, he didn’t win at all. Gene always managed to be quite right in his own way. “So, what do I have to know?” he asked, reaching his Guv’s side. Gene’s face assumed a thoughtful expression, “Lessee,” then it cleared, “Oh, right. Jimmy Eye copped it.” “That’s it? I already knew that!” “You know everything, then, fully briefed ye are,” Gene smiled unpleasantly, “We can go to the pub.” “You can’t-” Sam drew in a calming breath, “Witnesses? Evidence at the scene?” “No and no,” Gene answered, then seemed to think about it, “Actually, the plonk found something, but forensics have got that. And even if it’s for their hero DI Sam bloody Tyler, it’s still gonna take a while. So, pub?” Without waiting for a reply Gene started walking again, leaving Sam behind and forcing him to speed up to catch up with him, “What about his wife?” Gene groaned and stopped, then swirled around to face him, “What do you think I’ve been doing all day? Goin’ around all higgledy-piggledy? Of course I spoke with his wife, but she knows nowt. Now how about you stop bein’ a pillock and come to the pub for a pint?” Sam stayed where he was, glaring at him, Gene glaring back. In the end he won, because Gene sighed like he had the whole weight of the world on his shoulders and threw open his arms. Sam smirked in triumph. * * * Sam rubbed his eyes in defeat. Helen Darvell was faring rather well, considering her husband had just been murdered. She wasn’t crying her eyes out, at any rate, she just kept talking. Sam sank back into the uncomfortable sofa, trying to find a position that didn’t make his bum go numb and waited for a gap in Mrs Darvell’s monologue to take the reins of the conversation. He hadn’t been lucky so far, but he was optimistic. She had to stop and breathe sooner or later. By now they knew everything about Jimmy Eye’s life up to his 36th year of age and they were about to enter into his 37th, but they were still far from the day of the murder, or night as it was. Sam had long stopped trying to keep on an interested face when Mrs Darvell had dived into a long and detailed discussion about Jimmy Eye’s preferences in regards of brands of tea, and beside him Gene had a fake smile plastered on his lips, but his eyes were miles away, his mind probably already in the pub, waiting for his body to join it. Mrs Darvell coughed and Sam was so distracted that he almost lost his chance, “Mrs Darvell!” he exclaimed a little breathless and she gave him a strange look. He cleared his voice and tried again, “When I said we wanted to ask a few questions about your husband, I meant about last night.” “Oh,” she quietly said and seemed to fold in on herself, looking so small that Sam almost told her to resume the tale about Jimmy Eye’s 37th birthday. “Did your husband have any enemies? Someone who may have wanted to hurt him?” he shook her head, “I know my husband has – had – his faults, but he was no villain. A real gentleman.” Sam nodded, “Alright, Mrs Darvell, has your husband been acting strangely, lately? Think about it, even the smallest thing could be vital.” She nodded, frowning and biting her lower lip in deep thought. “There might be this little thing,” she said at last, unconvinced. Sam sat up straighter and subtly elbowed Gene in the ribs to shake him out of his reverie. “A few days ago,” she frowned again, “I think it was Wednesday, because I remember I’d just came home from July’s and I go over to her house every-” “Mrs Darvell, please,” Sam interrupted her before she could launch into another endless monologue. “Right,” she nodded, “Anyway, I came home and he was…I don’t know. I knew he’d been doing one of his- visits. We never really talked about it, but he’s my husband and I know him. Knew him,” she trailed off and Sam sent a glare in Gene’s direction, in case he wanted to be his usual rude self. His Guv sat silent, though, his arms crossed over his chest. After a moment, she resumed, “He looked kind of shaken, and when I asked him what he was worried about, he said that he’d seen two men.” “Two men?” Gene said, “That’s it? Two men doin’ what? Hanky pankin’? Killin’ someone?” “Talking,” she said, a bit miffed, “He saw two men talking.” Sam blinked, confused, “Did he tell you where he saw these to men…talking? Or what they were talking about?” “No, but I’ll tell you one thing, DI Tyler,” she said, leaning forward and lowering her voice, “He was scared.” Sam was about to ask another question, when Gene stood up and grabbed the collar of his jacket, heaving him up as well. Sam tried to take his leave from Mrs Darvell as fast as he could, because Gene was already in the car and any minute now he would start the engine. Fast, however, was a concept that eluded the widow’s mind and it took Sam three attempts and the promise to come back to get the secret recipe of her special biscuits – he’d made the mistake, earlier, of praising them over tea and of admitting he too liked to cook when he had the time. In the end, his Guv’s bad manners saved the situation for once, as he started honking and bellowing, his chest halfway out of the side window. Mrs Darvell let him go and stood in the doorway, waving and smiling until they were out of sight, which wasn't very long at the speed Gene was going. “You know,” he started conversationally, “They won’t break the sound barrier on land speed until the nineties.” Gene shot him a look but said nothing, his attention back on the road to avoid the pedestrians, either brave or stupid enough to even attempt to cross the road when Gene Hunt was driving. Sam snorted, “What? No remarks about Mrs Darvell, for whom logorrhoea is too mild a word? No quirks about,” he gestured vaguely with his left hand, “Princess Samantha exchanging secret recipes with her friends?” Gene raised his eyebrows at him and smirked, “You seem to be doin’ well on your own,” he grinned wider, “Samantha,” then he shrugged, “As for Helen, I’ve known her for a few years now, she’s always been wordy like. Balanced out her husband, never said a word more than necessary the old bastard.” Sam sank against the seat, head thrown back and eyes closed against the forming of a headache. “She’s just lonely,” Gene said quietly, starling him, “Been married for a long time, she’s not used to bein’ alone again.” Sam watched him carefully, not sure how to handle this new information or the fact that Gene had volunteered it, out of the blue. It was unsettling, this trust that Gene seemed to have placed just on him, the small glimpses of his more serious side that only he got to witness. His Guv was facing ahead, though, and after a while Sam gave up, closing his eyes and reclining his head backwards. "Yeah," he said, and the rest of the journey was spent in silence. * * * He’d been actually sleeping for once, calm and peaceful, if a bit limited in his movements because of his still healing injuries. Of course, it wasn’t destined to be. He was roused around two am – as he had occasion to check, later – by a pounding on his door that could only be Gene’s. “Yeah?” he asked to the closed door, scratching his chest through the worn vest. “Who d’ya think it is Susan?” came the bellow, “Derren bloody Nesbitt?” Sam rubbed his eyes and decided to be just thankful he hadn’t kicked in the door, even in this neighbourhood he was starting to get wary glances every time he had to put up the bloody thing once more. Just as he’d supposed, as soon as he’d opened the door in came DCI Gene Hunt, a bit unsure in his steps and stinking slightly of booze, even if not as much as his best – or worst – levels. “The missus is away until Wednesday,” he said and burped. “You’re drunk,” Sam said, accusingly, because it was two in the morning and bloody hell if he didn’t have the right to be whiny. Gene disregarded him with a dismissing sniff, barely glancing at him. He dropped his coat in Sam’s arms and kicking off his shoes, he let himself fall on the bed, the old springs letting out a horrible squeaking in protest. “Hey!” Sam exclaimed, “I was sleeping there!” “Now you aren’t,” came the reply, muffled by the pillow – his pillow – and before Sam could reply, soft snoring could be heard all through the flat. Sam stood still in the middle of the room for two good minutes, his hand gripping the coat close to his chest, the door open. Finally, he sighed in resignation, kicked the door shut, hung the coat and tried to find a comfortable position on the chair. At seven am he gave up and went to the small kitchenette to get breakfast ready, his body sore and his mood dark. When Gene woke up not much later, he actually seemed kind of baffled at his own presence in Sam’s flat, but he said nothing and Sam sulked in silence. The plates landed with a clatter on the small table, “Reckon you don’t sleep alone, either,” he muttered, and when Gene stiffened he knew he’d hit the mark. Gene didn’t comment though, and attacked his breakfast with his head lowered, more shovelling down food than actually eating it. After a while Sam sighed, put down his fork and acted in what must have been a momentary lapse of reason – because he certainly hadn’t intended to cut any slack at all to the man who’d kicked him out of his own bed and obliged him to sleep on the lumpy chair. He stood up and started rummaging through all the drawers to find a marker, feeling Gene’s eyes following his every movement. The search was long, because even if his place was quite far from being roomy, the last time he’d used a marker was- actually he didn’t remember, but he was sure he had one, an entire box in fact. He’d bought it when he’d seen the brand in a store, the Proustian sensation of holding the cardboard box in his hands bringing him back years, to his childhood. Which was about now, actually. His Guv finally gave in, “What’re you doin’?” “A-Ah!” Sam exclaimed, brandishing the box and a triumphant smile. Gene frowned at him, the fork suspended on the way to his mouth. “You wanna sign my cast?” “What for?” Gene asked, as if the mere thought was unconceivable to him. Sam’s smile fell, “It’s just a…thing. Like a get well soon card. Means nothing, but it’s nice anyway.” Gene was still frowning, but he gestured to the box still clutched in Sam’s good hand, “Give me the green one,” he said, gulping down the last of his breakfast. * * * Monday morning he was feeling better, and the bruises on his face were finally fading. Sam strolled into CID feeling rested for the first time in a very long time. Apart from Gene on Friday night, there hadn’t been other interruptions – certainly not in the future or Test Card Girl departments – and the rest of his weekend had sailed by at a nice pace. He draped his jacket over the back of his chair, sliding his cast in the sling, and when he raised his eyes he saw Chris tilting his head sideways, intently looking at him or rather, at his arm. “What’s that, Boss?” he finally asked. “The Guv signed my cast,” he shrugged, “You wanna sign it too?” Chris seemed undecided whether of not to be excited at the prospect, but mainly he just managed to look confused, “When did the Guv-” A heavy hand landed on Sam’s shoulder, startling him, and he really should have heard Gene arriving, but the man was surprisingly sneaky sometimes. “Sign his bloody cast, Chris,” Gene said, lighting a cigarette, “And draw some hearts and flowers, will ya, so he’ll feel pretty.” Chris frowned, pen already in hand, “I’m not good with flowers, Guv, but I can draw ‘em little suns.” Gene gave him a look, “You can draw ‘em little tits for all I care. Just do it so we can get on with the bloody job,” he said, dropping his hand from Sam’s shoulder and disappearing into his office. Five minutes later Sam joined him with reports to sign and two new additions to his Cast of Fame, a dark-haired stick figure holding what looked like a notepad which presumably represented Chris, and a block-lettered, pink ‘POOFTER’ written just above his wrist – Ray, obviously, he hadn’t been able to get away in time. Gene saw both of them but made no comment, nodding at the papers in Sam’s hand, instead, “What are those?” “Interview reports. From,” he checked the name, “Lewis Porter, the neighbour who found Jimmy Eye’s body. And the notes I’ve transcribed from our visit to Mrs Darvell, as well.” It had taken him most of Friday afternoon, but now he’d more or less adjusted to his cast, even if his calligraphy was still suffering from it. Gene barely spared a glance to the folder as Sam let it fall on his desk, choosing instead to fix his eyes on Sam once again, “So that’s what you were doing, instead of comin’ to the pub,” he said, almost accusingly. “I had some free time,” Sam shrugged, “I’m on pain medication, I can’t drink alcohol anyway.” “You have no life.” “You don’t know the half of it,” Sam muttered, his good mood rapidly dissipating. “You’re always workin’, writin’ every itsy bitsy thing you do and double signin’ every itsy bitsy thing you write,” Gene mimed writing in the air, “Went to loo today, wiped me arse four times!” Sam grimaced, “It’s procedure. It’s-” “You can shove your bloody-” “Shut up and listen!” Sam exclaimed, vehemently, “It’s transparency! We record everything we do or say, that’s the only way to insure that we stay afloat. Because I bet you didn’t write in your report how exactly you convinced Wavely to give us the suspect’s address last week, did you?” Gene just glared at him, “That’s what I thought. If we record everything, it’ll be there, black on white, incontrovertible!” “So you writin’ things saves our arses,” Gene said, and his tone clearly showed his opinions on the subject. “Well, yes. In a manner of speaking.” Gene snorted, “’Course you do,” he leaned forward, his elbows on the desk, “Never felt the need before, never had problems.” Sam shook his head, “You’re always acting on the premise that everything will stay the same. Nothing ever does, I should know. Just a few years, Guv, a lot of people will be involved and you don’t want to be caught in the mess, trust me on this.” Gene pursued his lips, “You seem to know a lot of things.” “I do,” Sam said, and suddenly felt the impulse to do something quite reckless, “I could tell you who’s gonna win the World Cup.” “Yeah, and you’re in a coma in 2006,” Gene deadpanned. Sam sat up straighter, “How do you-” Gene raised his eyebrows at him, “The plonk told me. Around the time you almost got Ray blown up.” Sam hung his head and rubbed his face, “It was not an IRA bombing.” “So it wasn’t. Still was a bomb, though.” Sam had nothing to reply to that, because what could he say? Gene was right after all. “So, Madame Divine. Tell me, where I’m gonna be in 2006?” “You won’t reach 2006 if you go on drinking and smoking like that,” he replied and as if to spite him, well definitely to spite him, Gene lit himself a cigarette with a wide, theatrical gesture. Sam glared at him, “And it doesn’t work like that. I didn’t even know you existed before I came here. You probably come out of an obscure part of my psyche, anyway,” he concluded, muttering. Sam kept looking at the floor, feeling like he’d finally crossed that line, he’d gone and overdone it, in hindsight it hadn’t been his brightest idea ever, and he’d had a lot of pretty stupid ideas, even before arriving here, the Guv already thought he was a nutter, but to give him the actual evidence. Gene puffed at his cigarette for a while, “So what? I’m the overweight homophobe and you’re the nutty pain in the arse with an obsession for paperwork and science.” Sam looked up at him and cracked a smile, “You say that as if it were a bad thing.” “It is,” Gene continued, “because you’re still here pesterin’ me to death instead of getting’ out of ‘ere and do the bloody paperwork you love so much.” Sam put up his hands in surrender and got up to leave. “Oi, Tyler,” Gene called him back when he was on the threshold, “Who’s gonna win the World Cup?” Sam grinned, “Not gonna tell you, but it won’t be England.” Gene scowled and muttered something that sounded like ‘bloody useless’, and Sam went to sit at his own desk, still grinning like a loon. Everybody in the room was probably staring at him by now, because you don’t voluntarily squabble with the Guv, and most of all you don’t look happy about it later. Sam didn’t care much, though, they’d talked about the future and he was still walking around free and not in a nutty house, as Gene’d have called it. Assuming this was real, of course. Although being committed to an asylum by an hallucination had an underlying irony that could hardly be surpassed. He was brought back by the sound of drawers being opened and closed coming from Gene’s office. Sam grinned knowingly to himself and mentally started counting. At twenty-seven Gene’s office door burst open, “Tyler!” his Guv bellowed, “Where in the bloody hell is my Scotch?” * * * Two hours later he wasn’t grinning anymore and even if Gene’d never admit it, Sam was sure this was just to get back at him for the Scotch thing. Gene had arrived or rather, stormed by the front desk where Phyllis was signing his cast, and without a word he’d tossed him his jacket and grabbed his collar, dragging him away while Phyllis was still writing. Her S was now a long black line that went around his forearm. Now, in the car Sam was trying to tie his brace behind his neck, clearly an exercise in futility as he went careening against the car door when Gene went around a corner adopting a rather sharp angle, his head hitting the glass, “Bloody hell!” Gene shot a glance at him, “Put yer seat-belt on.” “Thank you, Captain Obvious,” Sam replied, putting his seat-belt on though, and leaving the brace to a later moment, when they weren’t doing the Rally GB anymore. Gene kept sneaking glances at him, though, and after the third time he caught him looking sideways, Sam decided it was getting annoying, “What is it, Guv?” Gene’s eyes shot forward and stayed fixed on the road, he pursued his lips, “Are you… alright?” Sam frowned, “What do you mean?” “Are you daft?” Sam glared, “Not particularly.” “Could’ve fooled me,” Gene muttered, then louder, “Well? Answer the question.” He tried to cross his arms, forgetting once again about the cast, then gave up and settled for gripping the handle with his left hand to keep his balance, “I’m alright,” he said, “Even though sleeping is not ideal with my ribs and considering that somebody kicked me out of my own bed,” he paused, sneaking a glance at Gene. Disappointingly, though, he seemed unfazed, “Not that it’s much more comfortable to begin with,” he admitted finally. The car screeched to a halt and he made to get out, but Gene grabbed his jacket by the lapels and gave a powerful tug. Sam fell back on his seat, losing his balance and almost tumbling against his Guv. “You bloody-” he started, but Gene tugged once again, this time at his collar, and looked straight into his eyes, and that was a determined look if he’d ever seen one. “If you utter a word of that to anyone…” he trailed off, but his grip tightened, now seriously threatening his ability to breathe. Sam shrugged his hands off and was surprised when they went easily away, willingly. “Of course not,” he hissed, then just because he could, he added, “But next time you don’t wanna sleep alone it’s your house Guv, I bet there’re actual rooms there!” Sam didn’t wait for a reply and got out, trying to straighten his jacket and slamming the door with more force than necessary. He started walking down the pavement, not looking back to check, but hearing the other car door slam shut. He could feel the scowl still on his face and forced himself to relax, but the Guv was really- He stopped and waited for the other man to catch up with him. “Was wonderin’ where you were hurryin’,” Gene said good-naturedly, reaching his side and smirking down at him. “I don’t know, do I?” Sam snorted, and wasn’t that the truth. “I don’t know what crawled up your jacksie, Tyler, but you should quit with all this ‘woe is me’ martyr crap. I’m gettin’ tired o’ that.” Sam gave out an incredulous laugh, “You are getting tired? You? What about me?” he stepped into Gene’s space, poking a finger into his chest, but Gene batted his finger away and took a step forward himself, forcing Sam to back away. “Shut it, Tyler! I’m willing to put up with yer babblings when we’re in private, but I won’t tolerate it while we’re working, I’m telling ya! Because you just about used up all of my patience after what ‘appened with Ray! And I’m this close to give you the thumpin’ you deserve!” “Ah! As if that’d be news!” Sam spat, face to face with him, furious, “I knew you weren’t over that! You were way too calm during the whole deal. Well, too calm for you.” “One of us had to be rational!” “Oh, right because you were! Harassing Irish people just because a bomb was involved!” “You had no proof! And yeah, there was a bomb involved! In fact you were wrong!” “But I was right, because it actually wasn’t the IRA!” “Ah right, you feel all nice and good because you were right-” “It’s you that can’t seem to feel good if I’m not wrong!” “An officer got almost killed because you wanted to prove you were right when, in fact, you weren’t!” Gene hissed into his face, and Sam stumbled back a bit under the force of it. Gene was right, but Sam had been so sure, positive that everything was alright, and that was the problem, wasn’t it? The fact that he was from 2006 and carried a baggage of thirty years worth of future knowledge, certainly didn’t mean he knew everything. A woman frowned at them and hurried down the road carrying her shopping bags, and turning every few steps to cast worried glances in their direction. Predictably, Gene turned to check her arse, thus breaking or at least relieving a bit of the tension between them. “Listen, Tyler,” his Guv said, turning back to him, “Because it’s the first and last time you’ll hear me saying this.” Sam opened his mouth, but Gene gripped his arm, “Damn you, Gladys, listen for once in your bloody life.” Sam complied, shutting his mouth, but he kept glaring at him. “You have the barmiest ideas I’ve ever heard, sometimes they work and sometimes they don’t. Now, I don’t care if they come from that future you fancy so much, or just because you hit your head once too many and things got all scrambled up in there, but-” Gene tightened his grip when he saw Sam was about to reply, “But if you’ve got one, you come to me before you go off all by yerself. There’s no place for lone rangers ‘ere and it’s not good for the team, you ignoring my authority and being all rebel like, understood? I said, understood?” Sam freed himself from his grasp, “Yeah, right. I am the bad influence for the team! What about you? You’re just about the perfect role model.” “I’m not sayin’ you are a bad influence, I let you keep Chris after all. And Cartwright’s in the team now, isn’t she? I’m just sayin’ that if you have a problem or a hunch or whatever that crap is, you come to me and we…discuss it in private. I won’t you have you goin’ around like you’re Mr. Know-It-All when actually you know nowt!” Sam shook his head, “Discuss? That’s what you call it? I call it wallslamming.” “Remember Tyler, very little patience left,” Gene said, narrowing his eyes and pressing his thumb and index finger together as if to illustrate the point. “How come I should be the only one? Why don’t you try compromising with me?” “Because I’m the Guv and we do things my way. Sometimes, though, I’m willing to listen to what you have to say, if it’s worth enough.” “Generous, aren’t you,” Sam snorted. Gene nodded, “I see we’ve come to an understanding. Good,” he took hold of Sam’s shoulder and spun him around, “Let’s go and meet Cheeky Mickey.” “Cheeky Mickey?” Sam frowned, “You know all sorts of interesting people.” * * * Sam had never met Cheeky Mickey before and as far as snouts went, this one had to be most unlikely. Michael Bowley, as his full name was, looked no more than sixteen, wore clothes that were too big for him, and belonged to a courtyard playing football, rather than the street corner where they met him. “DCI Hunt,” he greeted, then turned to Sam, “And DI Tyler.” “Do we know each other?” Sam frowned. “I know things,” Mickey replied, grinning in a way that might have explained his nickname, “‘S me job.” Sam snorted sceptically, “You don’t look a day over sixteen. A bit too young, don’t you think?” “I dunno, sir,” Mickey frowned in concentration, as if trying hard to remember something, “You got them bruises when Johnnie D pushed you right onto Tommy Raven’s car, didn’t you? Nasty bloke that one by the way, cut his stuff with the most unbelievable things.” Sam frowned, there had been nothing on the papers about the way Raven had been arrested, “How do you-” he turned to Gene, “You told him.” Gene shook his head, though, and Mickey smiled, “I know about that thing with Mrs. Tyler, as well. You on her husband’s side, by the way? A cousin?” Sam stiffened, “You shut up about her!” he almost yelled, but his Guv took a step closer and glared at him. Sam put up his hand and sighed, “Alright, alright. You’re good.” “Told you he was,” Gene smirked and seemed strangely proud of that, “Now that we’ve got your approval, Doris, can we get our arses in gear?” Cheeky Mickey smirked at Gene’s name calling and Sam sighed again, resigned. He had no dignity anyway, apparently he was having an affair with his own mother. Without counting the kinky sex while drugged thing. He wondered if Mickey knew about that, as well. His life had never been this…peculiar in 2006. Nor sleazy, for that matter. Gene nodded at the boy, “So what’ve you got for us?” Mickey’s face became suddenly dark and he sneaked glances right and left, as if to make sure they weren’t being watched. “Word is Jimmy Eye’s been done because he saw somethin’ he shouldn’t ‘ave.” Gene frowned, “What do you mean?” Mickey squinted up at him, “You spoke to Helen. You should know.” “He just saw two men talking,” Sam said, shaking his head. The boy nodded, “Somethin’ big is goin’ on and they want to keep it a secret.” “What’s going on and who’s they?” “Can’t help you there, DCI Hunt,” Mickey shrugged, “All I can give you is the address of the house Jimmy was ‘visiting’.” Sam nodded and wrote down the address, Gene tossing the boy some quids. Mickey nodded at them, took his bike and left. “How come he knows all that stuff?” Sam asked, as they were going back to the car. “He has good ears and hangs out all the right places.” Sam lingered a bit, leaning on the roof with his good arm, car door opened, “A man murdered just because he’s seen two men talking?” he shook his head, “I don’t like this, Guv.” "Me neither," said Gene, without looking at him, "And Mickey didn't know much. Can't be good." * * * As it turned out, it wasn’t good. The morning air was cold and cutting. Sam wrapped himself tighter into his leather jacket trying to preserve some of his body heat, the right sleeve empty, flapping idly against his side. He followed his Guv as he went to speak with a young PC. “Who found him?” Gene asked, his face dark and his voice low. The PC nodded in the direction of a man a few feet from them, currently speaking with Chris and Annie, “A passer-by, sir.” Gene nodded and made his way to the body, his lips pressed in a thin line, almost invisible, his face a deep scowl. Sam could do nothing but follow him in silence, his own face feeling tight. Cheeky Mickey was sprawled on the ground face down and would have looked asleep, if not for the wound on the back of his head and the pool of blood around him. Sam knelt next to him, inspected the wound – bullet wound – and looked for evidence, but there was nothing around or on Mickey’s body that couldn’t have come from a regular Mancunian back alley. No footprints, no defence wounds, nothing. Sam looked up at his Guv, they had no proof but it couldn’t be a coincidence, “This is serious,” he said. “No shit,” Gene spat. A particularly loud cry coming from the mouth of the alley made both of them turn. There, held back by their team, was a dark-haired woman struggling to come through. Gene swore under his breath and visibly braced himself. “That’s his mother?” Sam guessed, but Gene didn’t reply. He just gave a curt nod and made his way back to the others. Sam looked one last time at Mickey’s body, at the coagulated blood, then he stood up as well. When he reached them, Gene was saying in the softest tone of voice Sam had ever heard him using, “You can’t go there, Mrs. Bowley.” “He’s my baby, I jus’ want t’see him. He’s my child, my Mickey,” she pleaded, tears on her cheeks, trying to look over Gene’s shoulder, “I have to- Mr. Hunt, I-” Annie arrived at his side and offered him a small smile, “Poor woman.” Sam nodded and watched as Mrs. Bowley finally broke down, holding onto Gene’s arms, her forehead against his chest. Sam closed the few feet of distance between them and gently touched her shoulder, “I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Bowley,” he said softly, “Maybe you could come down to the station and answer some questions?” Annie shot him a look, but Mickey’s mother nodded and let herself be led away to one of the cars, Annie’s arm comfortingly around her shoulders. Sam turned to Gene, he was lighting a cigarette, his hands slightly shaking. “It’s not your fault,” he said, leaning sideways a bit. Gene said nothing but shifted his weight on his right side, their elbows barely brushing against one another. They stood still for a few moments, then Sam moved his arm and knocked Gene’s wrist lightly with his, “We should go and check that address Mickey gave us,” he said quietly. Gene nodded, tossed his half-smoked cigarette away and nodded again, more determined. He took a step forward and, hands on his hips, addressed everyone, “Alright, listen up, lads!” he cast a glance at Annie, “And lady. I’m really, really upset right now. I want everyone who’s not a complete twat working on this case. I don’t care what you have to do, but by God get some results, because you won’t ever remember what your beds look like until this bloody bastard’s rottin’ in a cell for the rest of his bloody life. Understood?” everyone nodded, some more convinced than others, “Good. Ray, you stay here, Tyler you’re with me,” he concluded, turning and going to the car. “Great motivational speech, by the way,” Sam said, later. “Shut up,” he hissed, “I’m very, very annoyed. If I get me hands on the bastard who did this…” he trailed off, but if the squeaking leather as his hands gripped the wheel and his clenched teeth were anything to go by, Sam wouldn’t have been surprised if the man who’d done this wouldn’t survive to see the trial. If they managed to catch him, of course. “We’ll get the bastard, Tyler,” Gene said, as if reading his thoughts, “We’ll get him and mark me words when I say I’ll enjoy every kick I’m gonna put in ‘im.” For once he didn’t comment on Gene’s methods, because this was personal and he certainly wasn’t the most objective copper when it came down to dealing with personal matters. Sam sighed, “We have to consider the possibility that the killer may not be the same man who killed Jimmy.” “He’s the same bastard,” Gene said, and his tone allowed for no objections. “It’s highly probable, yes,” Sam conceded, “But we don’t have any proof of that yet. We have to keep a wide spectrum.” Gene hit the wheel with his hand, “Both were killed the same way, and both knew too much about some big secret!” “I know!” Sam exclaimed, “But we have to keep in mind that the two murders might have nothing to do with each other, because otherwise we have a professional killer on the loose. And frankly-” Gene abruptly braked and Sam had frightening eye-to-eye with the dashboard, the belt tugging painfully against his chest and sparing him a flight through the windshield. “What the-” but Gene turned wild eyes on him, “Guv?” “Helen,” he said and left an inch worth of tyres on the asphalt as he did a U-turn and peeled away at breakneck speed. * * * Everything went fine for once, when they knocked on her door Helen answered, looking fairly alright. She smiled and invited them inside to join her for breakfast, and they had to wait an hour before the PCs Gene had requested arrived. It was a very long hour, and when they walked away from the house, Sam’s head felt a bit woozy. “She gave you that recipe?” Gene asked with a smirk, before getting in the car. Sam rubbed his face, “She did.” “Now you know what to bring when Phyllis is havin’ her cuppa.” “I’ve got a headache.” “You poor little darling!” “Sod off.” Gene snorted and started the car. * * * The door swung shut hanging just by the one remaining hinge, the other perished under Gene’s vicious attack, despite Sam’s protests. The house was empty. Not empty as in not inhabited – even though it actually was – but empty as in, well, empty. Gene sniffed, hands on his hips, as he surveyed the living room, no furniture in sight. Sam stepped down the stairs and leant over the banister, “Nothing upstairs either,” he said, shaking his head. “Well, bollocks,” his Guv said and he looked really gob smacked. “We should call forensics,” Sam said, not really convinced, “Not that I think they’d find something, but…” he trailed off but Gene nodded, anyway. Sam reached his side and mirrored his position, leaning on the wall, staring at all the emptiness in front of them. “Makes no sense,” Gene said, “Jimmy Eye was the worst burglar ever lived, but even he couldn’t be that useless and choose an empty house to break into.” “Maybe it wasn’t when Jimmy visited.” Gene turned to look at him, “You suggesting someone came here and took everything away so that we won’t find anything?” Sam shrugged, “Reckon if they hired a professional killer to get rid of everyone who knew something, they could’ve done that, too,” he took out his legal pad and went over the notes. “According to Helen, Jimmy Eye was here on the 14th and was killed the night of the 17th. And we didn’t know the address until Mickey gave it to us yesterday, the 21st. They’ve had a week to get rid of everything and clean the house.” Gene coursed loudly and Sam seconded the feeling. Seven days. Could have as well been seven years, the trail would be ice cold by now. In Sam’s time they could have gone over the flat and the bodies with a comb, and sooner or later they’d have found something, a hair, a speck of blood, DNA. But now- Sam looked down at his hands, he wasn’t even wearing gloves for God’s sake, and Gene wasn’t faring much better, his leather driving gloves hardly comparing to clean, latex ones. Sam flipped idly the pages on his pad, waiting for Gene to decide the course of action, when suddenly he remembered something. He straightened up and leafed through the pages with his left hand. “Ha!” he exclaimed, having found the page, “That’s what I thought!” Gene frowned down at him and he turned the pad to let him read his notes, his Guv squinted at them, “I can’t read it, who wrote that? Chris?” Sam grimaced a bit and studied his calligraphy, “Ah, yes,” he cleared his throat, “Anyway, you said Annie had found something at scene, what was it?” Gene’s face cleared, “Yeah, a bit of somethin’.” “Oh well, that clears it, then,” Sam said, but the sarcasm suffered a bit when he stumbled sideways, under the force of Gene’s pat on his shoulder. “Let’s go, Sammy-boy,” Gene said, going back to the car, long strides and his face set in a determined scowl. After a few tries Sam gave up trying to leave the front door in a semblance of normality and just shut it behind him as well as he could, hurrying down the steps to get in the car. “One of these days,” he said as he buckled the belt, “You’re gonna break one door too many, and there’ll be hell to pay.” Gene shot a glance at him, “Well, no one was gonna answer anyway.” * * * First thing they did when they were back at the CID was go over the reports of Cheeky Mickey’s crime scene, Gene sprawling on his chair at the desk, Sam leaning on a file cabinet behind him and Chris going to and fro, bringing reports and evidence. “That multitasking thing you’re teaching him?” Gene said, when Chris had left for the third time, having forgotten Jimmy Eye’s autopsy report, “Not working.” Sam sighed, “Last year all of your evidence would have been spattered with his lunch. I’d say this is an improvement.” Gene stilled and raised his eyes from the folder in his hands, he didn’t turn to look at Sam, though, “A year.” “Sorry, Guv,” Sam frowned, “What?” “It’s been a year since you arrived,” Gene said, turning to look at him with unreadable eyes. Sam did the math and whistled, “Uh, yeah, actually. Will be a year next week,” he said, blinking, it didn’t feel real. A year. He was in 1974 now, had been for quite a while. How hadn’t he noticed the days, the weeks, the months passing by? He wondered how long had passed in 2006, it was a bit like dog years actually. Coma years. He shook his head to clear his mind and looked up at Gene, “Thinking about the good old times when I wasn’t here, Guv? Everything much simpler, eh?” There was something in Gene’s eyes he couldn’t decipher, then his Guv snorted and went back to his file. Sam waited a bit to see if he would say something, then went back to his own reports. Not that there would be anything new from yesterday, or last week. “You piss me off, Tyler, more often than not,” Gene suddenly said, “But don’t think, not even for a moment, that I’d rather you weren’t ‘ere.” Sam gaped at him and almost jumped in surprise when Chris came back, carrying a folder in his hands. “Doctor’s doin’ the autopsy on Cheeky Mickey,” he informed them, chewing on a gum, “Nothin’ wonky looking, except for the, uh,” he sneaked a glance at Gene who glared darkly at him, Chris swallowed nervously and stumbled back a bit, even if he was standing still. Sam nudged Gene’s foot with his boot to get him to lay off Chris and cleared his throat, “Except for the gunshot wound?” Chris nodded at him, “Right, uh,” he put the folder on the desk as if it was burning his fingers, “Here’s Jimmy Eye’s autopsy report.” “Thanks Chris, you can- No, actually wait,” Chris looked at him expectantly, “Annie found something at Jimmy Eye’s crime scene…” he trailed off, seeing Chris was now frowning, confused. “Smallish bit of paper,” Gene intervened, “Coloured, shiny.” Chris nodded, “Oh, right, Guv. I’ll get it,” he said and off he was again. Sam observed Gene, and wanted so badly to ask about what he’d said just a minute before, but the moment was gone. And maybe he was even a little afraid, because Sam could’ve said the exactly same thing regarding Gene. He had more or less adjusted to the seventies, he still felt like an outsider, but at least he didn’t feel like he was an alien. And suddenly a year had gone without him noticing, and maybe he wanted to go back to 2006, but this time was starting to feel like home, as well. He’d bought new wallpaper that didn’t look seizure- inducingly ugly last week, and he’d planned to put it up on the week-end, only to postpone indefinitely until his arm wasn’t in a cast anymore. He was saving money to buy himself a real bed, he’d started buying new records – well, new for the seventies – he was thinking about going to some concerts. The past year had been a lot of things, crappy, unbelievable, insane, funny, but one of the best of his life, as well, he felt like he’d really lived it. Sam smiled slightly, “You piss me off, too, Guv,” he said. Gene said nothing but nodded, because they were also on the same wavelength more often than not. The companionable silence lasted only for a few minutes more, until Chris arrived again and handed them a small plastic bag containing a no more than half an inch wide scrap of paper. Sam thanked him and Chris left. They stared at the bag, Sam leaning over Gene’s shoulder and snatching it away. He turned it in his hands, tilted his head on one side, then on the other. “Well, this looks like…” he frowned. “Havana. It’s a brand of cigars.” Sam glared at him, “I knew that.” Gene nudged his cast, smirking, “Sure you did.” Sam ignored him, “They’re expensive.” “And very hard to find.” “Did Jimmy Eye smoke cigars?” Gene shook his head, “No. Couldn’t have afforded ‘em, anyway.” “Must belong to the killer, then.” “Or to anyone else that could’ve walked there.” Sam turned to look at him, “Aren’t you Mr. Positive today?” Gene just sniffed at him, “Right. Anyway, it rained the day before Jimmy Eye was killed and this would have been washed away.” Gene sighed and seemed to consider it, “Well, it’s not like we’re goin’ anywhere, might as well try with this.” Sam nodded, “How many shops you reckon sell this brand?” “A few.” “I’ll get the list ready,” he said, lips pressed in a determined line. Gene took the back from his hands, “Leave it to Chris, you’re buying me dinner.” Sam raised an eyebrow at him, “The missus is away a whole lot these days, isn’t she?” Gene defiantly raised his chin, “And that’s your business how?” * * * They’d decided against going back to the CID, as it was already late anyway, so Gene had driven Sam home and they were now parked, just outside Sam’s flat. Sam smacked his lips like a cat, the flavour of their dinner still lingering pleasantly in his mouth. He sneaked a glance at Gene, and he too seemed satisfied. “So, Guv, liked it?” he asked, maybe a bit too smugly. Gene shrugged, “Wasn’t bad.” Sam accepted that and opened the door, but lingered and Gene turned towards him, “What is it, Tyler?” “Fancy a drink, Guv?” Gene gave him a deadpan stare and Sam snorted, “Right. Come on up, then.” In hindsight it’d been both the most idiotic and the best thing Sam could have possibly done in his life. Well, to be fair, it wasn’t like it was just Sam’s fault – or merit – after all. But something happened, with Gene holding the glasses steady, while Sam clumsily poured Scotch left-handed, he wasn’t sure what exactly, but there was a meeting of glances and a hesitation. And Sam must have seen something in Gene’s eyes, something that made him close his eyes, tilt his head slightly backward, and he waited, thinking that maybe it had been a trick of the light and he was making a fool of himself. But there was warm breath on his face and he inhaled the scent of Indian food and cigarettes, and he sighed, in frustration or relief, he didn’t know. He expected a kiss, but Gene’s lips slid down his cheek, to his neck, they were dry and he could feel them slightly trembling against his skin, but there were no kisses. Sam suddenly moved, circling Gene’s neck with his left arm and tugging him forward, his hand still holding the bottle of Scotch, his cast now squeezed between them. Gene’s hands went to his hips to steady them, and he too was still holding the glasses, the smooth surface cold through Sam’s shirt, but the fingers there burning hot. Sam buried his face into Gene’s neck, against the coat he hadn’t taken off thinking he’d be staying just for a drink, and he breathed in his Guv’s scent, the cigarettes, the Scotch, that impossible seventies cologne – what was it? Old Spice? – and he sighed, gliding his lips over the warm skin, the tip of this tongue barely tracing patterns. Gene made a sound and turned his head and Sam turned sideways, too, and their mouths brushed against one another, but Gene continued his journey along his other cheek, once again down his neck. Sam gasped quietly, but it echoed loudly in the room, the only sound their deep, laboured breaths. Then Gene took a step backwards, slowly trailing his hands upwards, to rest on Sam’s neck, gently, the glasses he was still gripping now warm having absorbed Sam’s body heat. Gene leaned his forehead against his and Sam finally opened his eyes, looking into glassy blue ones, their lips barely an inch apart, sharing the same air. “Sam,” Gene whispered, his voice cracking, almost breaking Sam’s heart. He let go of him, then, and left, abandoning the glasses on the shelf above his bed. Sam walked to his bed and sat down hard, the bottle of Scotch still in his hands. Sam couldn’t understand really, and he’d tried, he’d tried so hard. Couldn’t figure it out, though. He knew it was attraction, he was open-minded enough to admit it, he noticed blokes sometimes, nothing to say there. He just couldn’t understand this…intensity between them. He’d never use the word attractive to describe Gene Hunt, but his body seemed to think differently. Even leaving out external appearances – which were far from ideal – his Guv was a sexist and racist bastard, and okay, man of his time and all that, but that couldn’t explain the rudeness, the violent behaviour, the callousness. And yeah, he was loyal and sometimes funny as well, and he seemed to trust Sam implicitly, even with all of his screw-ups and ‘nutty moments’ as Gene called them, and- Sam rubbed his face tiredly, “Bloody hell,” he muttered against his fingers. It was attraction alright. * * * The morning after, Sam spent what it felt like hours staring at Gene’s office so hard he was afraid he’d wore out his eyes, willing himself to stand up and confront him and get rid of this feeling of impending doom hovering in the air. He frowned and turned his head to survey the room, sure he’d heard something, then he realized it had been the faint beeping of hospital machines. How long had it been since he’d last heard anything from 2006? He racked his brain, but couldn’t remember. What did that mean? Did that mean he was slipping deeper into the coma? Did it mean he was dying? And if so, what would be the repercussions here, now? Chris arrived at his desk, interrupting his thoughts, and gave him a sheet of paper with what looked like addresses written on it, “It’s the shops.” Sam frowned at him, “What?” “The list you asked me for, Boss, the shops that sell that brand of cigars in Manchester.” “Right, thanks Chris,” he said, taking the sheet and standing up, having finally obtained a good excuse to go and see Gene. In the end everything resolved in a kind of anti-climax, Gene barely glancing at him as he went on shaving, “Hey, Gladys, don’t you look lovely today, eh?” Sam wasn’t really sure that was a compliment, maybe because he’d seen his face in the mirror that morning and he looked quite far from lovely, the sleepless night adding to the stress of the latter days. “Uh,” Sam started rather stupidly, because he’d braced himself for everything, from Gene beating him to a bloody pulp to Gene ignoring him, but he hadn’t expect this, he hadn’t expected normal behaviour, “Chris gave me the list.” Gene cleaned his face with a towel that had seen much better days, “What list?” Gene had missed a spot just under his ear, and Sam couldn’t take his eyes off it, “Uh, the shops that sell those cigars.” His Guv nodded and tightened the knot on his tie a bit, “Alright, then,” he said, throwing the towel on the desk and grabbing his coat. Sam took the towel and went to clean the white spot, Gene stiffened at his sudden move and Sam met his eyes, not knowing what he’d read in them, but he was surprised when he saw them widening, burning hot. He swallowed, “You missed a spot,” and his hand trembled slightly as he wiped at it. Gene shrugged his coat on and gestured for Sam to go first, Sam cleared his throat and took a step towards the door. It might have been just his imagination, but a hand brushed at the small of his back, gently prompting him forward, and Sam almost jumped. Bloody hell, “Normal behaviour, my arse,” he muttered. “Sorry, what?” “Nothing,” Sam said and Gene shot him a glance, then there was that hand again, more noticeable now, and Gene was still looking at him, and they were standing there with the door open, for God’s sake. “Well?” Gene asked, tilting his head towards the door, but Sam knew he wasn’t referring to that, and damn him but he nodded. Gene grinned, “Alright.” “Alright,” Sam repeated and went to his desk to fetch his jacket. What the fuck were they doing? Alright, he’d said, alright. Jesus. * * * The list wasn’t actually that long, only a few names in fact, Gene and Sam taking one half, Ray and Annie the other while Chris was left in charge to oversee the still ongoing door to door enquiries about Cheeky Mickey’s death. In his enthusiasm to get started with his task as quickly as possible he stumbled into a chair, knocked over Bill’s reports from his desk and almost poked out a young PC’s eye. Sam was still smiling when he got in the car, shaking his head. Then suddenly he was not, the cold knot from earlier back to squeezing his gut once again. He sneaked a glance at Gene and thought what the hell, the worst he could do was punch him and he already did that on weekly basis, anyway, “So, Guv, what was all that, back in the office?” Gene didn’t reply for a long time, and when he did it betrayed nothing about what he was thinking, “Not here, Sam.” “Why? No one’s here but us, and anyway you seemed to have no problems performing in front of an audience, earlier.” Gene’s head turned sharply, his hand shooting forward, and for a moment Sam thought he was really going to punch him in the face, here in the car. The hand stopped, though, and Gene pointed a menacing finger at him, his face set in a snarl, angry eyes shining, “Not now, then. Not when we’re working!” he hissed, stabbing the air between them with his index finger. Sam narrowed his eyes, “Once again, you seemed to have no problem earlier.” Gene looked like he was about to say something, but relaxed and lowered his arm, seeming to deflate and it felt unnatural to Sam. Gene Hunt just didn’t walk away from arguments, especially if he didn’t have the last word. Of course, it could all be a ruse to mess with Sam’s head, but when he looked at him, though, he instantly knew it was nothing of the sort. “What is it, Gene?” he quietly asked, after a while. Gene continued to drive as if he hadn’t heard him and only when they stopped – barely – at a red light did he reply, his eyes on the road, his hands squeezing the wheel, “I don’t know what’s going on.” Sam nodded and fixed his eyes on the pavement beyond the side window, “Me neither, Guv,” he said, then added displaying a boldness he didn’t really feel, “But I’m willing to see where it goes, if you are.” Gene seemed to consider that, then snorted, but said nothing anyway, and after a few minutes Sam leaned back against the seat, feeling like he’d eaten something gone bad. And yet, back at the CID, Gene had seemed so sure, so…daring. The tyres screeched and the car came to a halt, bumping against the sidewalk, half in and half out of the road. Sam just groaned, refraining once again from commenting on Gene’s constant breaking of the road rules. “You make it sound so easy,” Gene said suddenly, and Sam’s hand froze on the handle. “It’s not, Guv,” he whispered, because this was 1974 and gays were still poofters and even for him it was hard to adjust to the idea of being attracted to a man, much less Gene Hunt. “That has never stopped you before, though, has it,” he finished, throwing open the door. “This is serious, Tyler!” Gene exclaimed. Sam looked at him over the hood, “I know.” Gene slammed his fist on the metal, then glared at him, “I’m married.” “What? You’re afraid I’m gonna ask you to divorce?” Sam snorted, but Gene’s eyes widened, “Jesus, Guv, I’d never want that!” “Right, because having an affair with me DI, a bloke, is so much better!” Sam gaped at him, then shook his head in disbelief, “From what I’ve gathered it’s not like you snub chasing the occasional skirt, Guv,” he said. “Yeah, ‘occasional’ and ‘skirt’ bein’ the keywords there,” Gene replied, leaving Sam speechless. Gene walked around the car and reached his side, looking forward, his lips pursued, “Let’s go check that shop, eh?” he said, nodding to the sign. Sam wiped his mouth and nodded. They were just a few feet away when Phyllis’ voice came over the radio. “Come through Alpha One,” Gene said, leaning over the open window and grabbing the phone. “Cheeky Mickey’s mum is here, Guv,” Phyllis said, “She’s asking for you.” Gene sighed and rubbed his face. “You go, Guv,” Sam said, “I’ll stay here, talk to the owner.” Gene considered that, but nodded at Sam, “Roger that, Alpha One, tell her I’m comin’. Over,” he put the receiver back into the car and looked at Sam, “Sure you can handle it, Gladys?” “I’ll take a cab to the CID,” he said, then considered, “Better make it a bus. I’ll see you later.” Gene nodded and got in without a word, the car peeling away even before Sam had the time to lean away from it. * * * The door jingled when Sam entered, and the only man in the shop – the owner presumably – turned to greet him with a smile. He was around forty, average looking, nothing remarkable about him, except maybe for the purplish shirt he was wearing, but that was more a seventies thing, Sam figured. “How can I help you?” he said, still smiling politely. As soon as the man – Gavin Kemp according to the files – saw his badge, his whole demeanour changed, “I know nunthin’!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t even ask-” Kemp ran behind the counter and hid behind it, in a rather childish way, actually. Sam had to lean over it to see him properly, now sitting in a corner and cowering. Sam frowned, confused, “I’m here just to ask some questions, Mr. Kemp.” But the other man went on, loudly begging, “Please! I don’t know nuthin’! It was me brother- in-law, he said it was an easy thing, that he wasn’t gonna go to the police! But I knew we was goin’ to be in trouble!” “Your brother-in-law?” Sam repeated, “What has he got to do with anything?” Kemp raised his head to look at him, he frowned, then slowly stood up, to lean on the counter, his position mirroring Sam’s, “You’re not here for Gamble’s stolen car?” Sam blinked at him, “I’m here about a cigar.” Kemp swallowed, “Oh.” “Yeah, oh.” * * * Gene reached him, just outside the Lost and Found, “Car theft, huh?” he puffed at his cigarette, “We really should let you out in the city.” Sam ignored him and cleared his voice, reading from the file in his hands, “Gavin Kemp, 42, admitted to having to do with the disappearance of one Nicholas Gamble’s car. Daniel Alexander, Kemp’s brother-in-law, currently unreachable, is presumed to be the mind behind the theft.” Gene snorted, “If you could call it that.” Sam ignored him and went on, “Alexander has a nice record-” Gene snatched the file from him, “Murder?” Sam dropped his hand and rolled his eyes, “No. Car theft, car theft and, oh, guess what? Car theft. There’s also a robbery or two in there, just for the sake of variety.” Gene closed the folder and nodded to the closed door, “They did it, case closed. Why’re we wastin’ time here, then?” “Because,” Sam said, taking the folder back, “I hadn’t had the time to ask about the cigar.” “Why?” “He hid behind the counter.” His Guv looked at him for a moment, then shook his head, “I swear, before you arrived here, some things just didn’t happen.” “You’re telling me.” Gene threw the door open and strode in, “Hiya, Gavin!” he exclaimed and Kemp jumped and almost fell out of his chair. Sam started the tape recorder and sat down, laying the pad and his pencils down, “So, Mr. Kemp,” he began, only to be interrupted by Gene. “Now, listen to me, Gavin,” he said, low and menacingly, “I don’t give a shit ‘bout your little, thieving self, what I want is to catch a murderin’ bastard.” Gavin was absolutely terrified by now, blinking his widened eyes rapidly and progressively leaning back as Gene leant forward. They remained like that for a long minute, until Gavin squeaked and squeezed his eyes shut. Gene tossed some photos on the table and Sam recognized Jimmy Eye and Cheeky Mickey, “You can’t do this, Guv,” he hissed, moving forward to gather them, but his wrist was seized in a crushing grip. “Look at the damn photos, Gavin!” Gene yelled, slamming his palm on the table and making Kemp yelp, he opened his eyes, though. Only to close them again and covering his face with his hands, letting out another squeak, “The bastard who killed these people bought a cigar in your shop. Havana. Do you know who that is?” Kemp didn’t answer and just shook his head, “It was just a bloody car!” Gene shot up, his chair falling back, and Sam had had enough. He gathered the photos as well as he could and he hooked Gene’s arm with his cast, tugging him outside. “Just what the hell’s your problem, Guv!” he exclaimed as soon as they were outside. Gene paced to and fro, “The cigar came from Kemp’s shop.” Sam shook his head, “How can you be so sure?” “Ray and Cartwright found nothing,” he replied, “It’s him.” “Or it could be from one of the other shops on our list!” Sam exclaimed. “I’ve got a hunch.” “Yeah, right,” Sam rubbed his eyes, “And even if it’s him, you can’t do that, he’s got nothing to do with the murders! He just sells cigars!” “And steals cars on his spare time, apparently.” Sam hung his head and leant back against the door, “I know this is a hard case, Guv, but going off like that certainly won’t help.” Beside him, Gene lit a cigarette, “How did it go with Mickey’s mother?” Sam asked, softly. Gene paused on his drag, then released cigarette smoke slowly, “She lost it when she saw the body.” Sam nodded and said nothing. They stood there in silence, Gene calmly smoking, then Sam’s hand went to the knob, “You alright now?” Gene nodded, “I’ll be as delicate as if he were a bloody baby, Tyler.” Twenty minutes and a piece or two of thrown furniture later they had a name, Greg Duval. “Well,” Sam said, staring down at the letters on his pad, black on white, “Never heard of him. You?” Gene shook his head, frowning, “No idea.” * * * Sam leaned forward on the bar, almost folding around his Scotch, “So, what’s the word so far, Guv?” Gene was sitting beside him, his back to the bar, his eyes carefully going over the rest of his team, sitting at the tables, drinking and playing poker. He sniffed, “Nothing for now,” he said, taking a sip from his glass, “Wouldn’t hold my breath, though. Everyone’s quiet.” Sam nodded and turned his head to look at him, “After what’s happened to Cheeky Mickey, I don’t really blame them.” Gene emptied his glass and slammed it on the counter, gesturing for Nelson to come over with a refill. Sam watched as he drained his glass once more and when it was clear he wasn’t going to stop soon, he grabbed his wrist and took his glass away. “We’ve got to work tomorrow,” he said, “And I’d rather have your usual charming self than a hung-over cranky bastard.” Gene frowned at him, “An’ where’s the difference?” “You stink less.” Gene snorted and since he had no glass anymore, he took Sam’s instead and thrust it in Nelson’s direction, “Dying of thirst here!” “Look, Guv,” Sam started, determined, snatching away the now refilled glass and turning so that his body was between Gene and the Scotch. Behind the counter, Nelson was standing with an amused expression and his arms crossed over his chest, and when Sam looked at the others, everyone was watching the scene with great interest. “You bloody-” Gene grunted, grabbing his shoulder and spinning him around, but Sam was faster and dodged the hands that came for the glass. He used the momentum to twirl both of them around and, leaving the glass on the counter, he pushed Gene in the direction of the backdoor. A moment later they were standing outside, in the cold evening air, Sam with hand on his hip, barring the way back inside, and Gene blinking down at him, “For the life of me, Tyler, I have no idea what the hell just happened,” he said, and promptly took a sip out of one of his hip flasks. Sam groaned loudly, “You’re hopeless.” Gene smacked his lips with a rather satisfied air and offered the flask to him. Giving up, Sam accepted, but before he could give it back, his Guv cursed in rage and started kicking the empty crates stashed against the wall. Panting, Gene leaned back against the wall, and Sam reached his side, leaning against the wall as well, on his left shoulder, though, so that he could look at him. “We’ll get him, Guv,” he said, after a while. Gene snorted and shook his head. “We’ll get him,” Sam repeated, more convinced, “He’s sure of himself and because of that he’ll make a mistake.” Gene smiled slightly, but it was kind of bitter, “And we’ll be there to kick his arse, won’t we?” Sam nodded, “Yeah,” he replied, then after several minutes because nothing else was coming, “You should go back inside.” “What about you?” Sam shrugged, “I’m gonna head home.” Gene nodded but didn’t move and Sam, not knowing what to do, closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the wall with a sigh, the cold surface a welcome relief for his now ever- present headache. The sudden touch of a cold hand against his neck startled him and his eyes flew open. Gene was looking at his own hand on Sam’s neck as if he couldn’t believe it was there, the thumb brushing against his jaw, Sam breathed, “Guv,” he said. “Shut up, Sam, or I won’t be able to-” and then Gene kissed him, right then, in the open, and Sam wondered how much had it cost him, how much- Sam moaned quietly and opened his mouth wider, meeting Gene’s tongue with his, sliding over it, his hand tugging down at his shoulders, Gene’s hands at his neck and around his hips. He stumbled back a bit and the kiss broke briefly, only to be started again as Gene blindly followed him, pressing him against the wall. It wasn’t that cold anymore. When Gene’s hand groped down his front and settled on his crotch, though, Sam gasped and pushed at his chest, creating more space between them and effectively breaking the kiss. “What?” Gene frowned, “Don’t you like this?” he asked and gave a tentative squeeze. Sam gasped, his knees almost buckling. It had taken Gene a bit to come to terms with this, but once done he apparently had no qualms about having sex in public with his male DI. “Not here,” Sam said, pushing at him so that he could come away from the wall and stand straighter. “Where then? Inside?” Sam rearranged his clothes and adjusted his trousers so that his erection wouldn’t show much, “I’m going home,” he said, and at Gene’s frown he clarified, “You’re welcome to join me whenever you want.” Gene grinned wolfishly at him and Sam laughed softly, feeling light-hearted for once, “See you later?” he asked, handing back the hip flask. “You can bet yer scrawny arse on that, Gladys,” Gene replied, taking the proffered flask from his hand and heading back inside. “And no kicking my door down!” Sam called out to him. Gene just waved at him and disappeared inside. Sam turned the corner and disappeared from 1974. End of part one. * * *