satyricon au go go

Life on Mars

Sam was gripping the bed as though he was about to fall out of it. He felt dizzy and ill. The bottom had just dropped out of his world. Just when he thought he could really live here, just when he thought he was making a difference, that he had friends, a lover, a life, a purpose, just when he thought he'd cracked it, he'd lost it all.

He'd lost his father, Annie and Gene, all in one terrible day. He'd messed up badly, and, worse, it had been his second go at it. His second chance, and he'd fucked it up completely. He couldn't do anything right, everything had gone wrong and he'd really lost it. Nothing had mattered in the end. Not Gene, not Annie, not his job. He'd just wanted his father to stay this time.

But it hadn't worked out that way. It had just rolled over him like a giant boulder and he couldn't save his father or himself. He was useless. Worse than useless, and they'd all seen it. He'd completely lost it, turned a gun on his best friend and raved like a lunatic. He thought he could pick up the pieces, but he couldn't. They were just being polite. It was like waiting for the other shoe to drop, and it was driving him mad.

Gene was upset with him, there was no hiding it. He just wasn't saying anything. Sam would actually rather have Gene just thump him and get it over and done with. But Gene was treating him with kid gloves, pretending it had never happened, and it was driving him crazy. Crazier.

Sam rolled onto his side, frowning into the distance, lost in thought.

Gene kissed his bare shoulder softly.

"Alright?"

No answer.

Gene rolled onto his back and exhaled loudly. It was always like this. Gene's wife would piss off to her sister's, which she did more and more these days, and Gene would take Sam off to the pub with him, get a few drinks into the uptight little bastard and then bring him back here. They'd fuck each other in every room, on every surface, in every way they could imagine, all limbs and lips and fingers and tongues and pricks, until they'd finally tumble into Gene's marital bed, still grappling with each other.

Sam wouldn't care where he was then, when his blood was up, but afterwards, that old Catholic guilt would start to kick in. Sam would go all quiet and sulky, and in about an hour or so, maybe less, after a really good brood, Sam would be up and moving through the house like it was a crime scene, removing all forensic traces of himself, washing the sheets and any glasses he'd drunk out of, anything he'd touched, wiping down every surface. Sam's many little ticks now included this little Howard Hughes ritual, and Gene was really tiring of Sam's crazy nonsense.

Gene put up with it, all of it, because Sam made him a better man, and he knew it, but he had his limits and Sam had pushed over them today. Sam had been violently insubordinate and he'd talked like a crazy man, but that was nothing new. Sam had also got the drop on Gene and put a gun in his face, and that was new.

Gene couldn't make himself believe that Sam would have pulled the trigger, but it had made him see Sam the way the plonk did: no longer as a quaintly eccentric but clever little bastard, but a confused and dangerous lunatic.

Sam had really, really scared him and now the shock of it had subsided, now in the empty quiet of night, he couldn't stop thinking about it.

Neither of them could.

Sam was lying on Gene's side of the bed, and the pillow he was clutching was heavy with Gene's scent, and he breathed deep, finding it a comfort, even though the man himself was just a few centimetres away.

"Sam?" Gene called again, but Sam just burrowed deeper in the bed, giving no answer.

"Sam."

Frustrated, Gene rolled Sam over to face him.

"What's going on in there?" Gene asked, tapping Sam's forehead lightly.

"You worry me at times, Sam, you really do," he carried on, having no answer. "What happened today, we'll talk no more about it. The plonk's right, you're under stress. New city , new rules, that bump on your noggin and whatever that slag slipped you, it's messed you up, made you unsteady. This case got under your skin, did your head in. I knew it, I should have pulled you off it but I needed that famous Sam insight. I needed you, Sam, and you let me down. Then you put that gun in my face. I know you didn't really mean it, but I still filled my britches all the same. I'm not going to do anything, but I think you should see somebody."

Sam sat up in Gene's bed. "Is this official?" he demanded. "Shouldn't we be doing this at the station?"

"No, I thought it were better if I handled it quietly."

"Handled me, you mean."

"Yes, if you want to take it like that. You're as temperamental as old gelignite and I never know which way the wind's blowing with you Sam, so yes, I thought a quiet word was best."

"And the beers and the shag, that was just to butter me up first, yeah?"

"No, that was to show you there were no hard feelings. And since when have I needed an excuse to shag you rotten?"

Sam didn't say anything. He just pulled on his shorts and stalked out of the bed. Gene was closer to the door, though, and he trapped him, catching him and pushing him back.

Sam's eyes flashed and Gene tensed, ready for Sam to hurl himself at him, but all the fight just fell out of Sam, and he sank back against the wall, exhausted and miserable.

"I think you should take a week off, Sam."

"A week?"

Gene sucked in some air, not wanting to do this here or now, despite having started it.

"You were out of line today, Sam. Things were said and done in the heat of the moment. I understand that. My point is that you were out of order, and you gave me a bloody great scare."

"Sorry."

Gene ran a hand through his hair impatiently.

"I know you're bloody well sorry, Sam. That's not the point. It can't happen again, Sam. What you did, back there, I could have you suspended or kicked out, and I should have me own head read for not doing it. You're under stress, so I'm told, so I let you get away with it, but it has to stop, Sam. I can't keep covering for you."

"Get away with it? You're letting me get away with – what? Since when were you such a paragon of good and gracious behaviour?"

Gene pulled himself a little taller, a little more intimidating, annoyed now.

"I let you get away with a hell of a lot. I'm always covering for you."

Sam swung around to face him.

"Covering for me? Well, don't do me any favours."

"Oh, but I do, Sam. I cover for you all the time."

Gene was leaning back against the papered wall with his arms folded.

"You? Do me favours?" Sam scoffed, but Gene just kept his face like stone.

"Why?" Sam demanded.

"Why do you think?" Gene shot back, arms still folded.

Sam blinked. Sam's mouth opened and closed.

"Because we're shagging?" he almost squeaked.

"Bingo."

He saw that Gene was serious and shook his head angrily.

"Well, don't."

"Don't what? Don't shag you or don't cover for you, because I'd be happy to stop covering for you, Sam, as soon as you stop behaving like a raving lunatic."

"A what?"

"You heard. This whole touched in the head act, I was willing to go along with it, because you had concussion, because all the really bright ones are always weird, and because you were you, Sam. You make me a better man, a better copper. I'd have gone to the wall for you. But Cartwright told me what you said, and then you waved a gun in my face. I'm pretty sure you didn't mean it, but you really scared me, Sam. I'm saying this now, here, so we don't ever have to talk about this again."

"Annie told you."

"Everything."

"And you believe her?"

"That you're barking mad? Yes. I don't know what's going on with you, Sam, but you have to sort it out. This case obviously touched a nerve, but you need to be able to keep your feelings in check on this job."

"Can you?" Sam shot back.

"We're not talking about me. I didn't draw a gun on my superior officer and let a dangerous villain escape." Gene shifted against the wall. "Look, just promise me you won't ever do it again and we'll call it done."

"Don't do me any more favours," Sam shot back, full of venom.

"Don't worry, I won't," Gene shot back, equally angry.

"You don't believe me," Sam sulked.

"How can I, Sam? It's impossible…"

"You didn't even try," Sam accused, and his eyes swelled with tears. The next moment those tears were spilling over, flowing down his face in freefall.

Oh, bloody hell.

"Are we breaking up? Are you breaking up with me?" Sam's face just crumpled.

"No. Yes," Gene admitted. "It can't go on, Sam. Not with you like this. I'm responsible for you and I can't let it get in the way. I can't be compromised. You taught me that. I have to do this right. I have to be your DCI first."

"Why?"

"Why?" Gene sucked in his breath. "What if I have to make what happened today official? What if it comes out? All of it."

"You think I'd tell? About us?"

"You mean you'd lie to cover it up? You'd perjure yourself?"

"Yes."

Gene sighed heavily. "That was my point, Sam. You just made it for me."

Sam's look was just pitiful, but Gene pressed on.

"I can't trust my own judgement, and I certainly can't trust yours right now. It's no good, Sam. It's not the way I wanted this."

"How – how did you want…this?" Sam managed to ask.

"Without you waving a gun in my face for a start."

"I didn't mean it," Sam pleaded, wishing now for the thousandth time he could take that minute back, those seconds that had ruined everything.

"I know," Gene agreed softly. "Things were said and done in the heat of the moment. I understand that. My point is that you were out of order and you gave me a bloody great fright. I needed you there, as my DI, and you just went completely barmy on me. It's not good enough. I need to be able to trust you, and I can't."

"I'm sorry," Sam whimpered.

"I know." Gene sighed.

"What's going on with you, Sam?"

"I don't know. I just wanted to make things right."

"He was a villain. There was nothing you could have done to save that family. It wasn't your fault. Don't take it so hard."

"Can't help it," Sam sulked bitterly, knowing Gene could never understand.

"How old were you when your father left?" Gene prodded, understanding more than Sam gave him credit for.

"Four."

"Shit. I'm sorry, Sam."

"Right." Sam tossed away his sympathy petulantly.

Gene reacted as if struck, face hardening but his eyes watering as if stung.

"I said I was sorry, Sam. Don't go getting on your bloody high horse. I could have you kicked off the force, but I'm trying to understand."

"Always the DCI."

"I have to be. If you can't separate work from whatever, why should I?"

"What do you mean I can't separate work from my private life? I've done nothing but."

"What about that plonk? Keeping a bit on the side?"

Sam's face pinched with pain.

"She's just a friend. I just want someone to talk to."

"Someone who isn't me. Way I hear it, you tell her all sorts. She thinks you're mad."

"I probably am. I need to work stuff out, I don't know where I am, or what I'm doing here."

"None of us do, Sam. But it hurts to think that you can't trust me."

"I wanted your respect," Sam uttered, miserably, eyes downcast.

"But not my trust. It works both ways, Sam."

"You don't understand. You could never understand."

"You won't tell me. You won't let me in. I'd go to the wall for you, and you won't even tell me what's got you so wound up."

"You won't believe me."

"I don't want to hear about the silly stuff, I want to know what's crawled up you, why you went all doolally on me. The real reason. Tell me now, Sam, or it's over. All of it."

"I…" Sam just floundered. Nothing he could say would make Gene understand.

"Right," was all Gene said, and Sam just fell apart.

Sam paced around in tight circles, pounding his fists against the side of his head.

"Why should I care? You don't exist. This is just some never-ending nightmare and I'm breaking up with a figment of my imagination. It doesn't matter what you say. You're not real. You can't hurt me."

"Is that what you think?"

"None of this is real. It's just some coma induced nightmare and one day I'll wake up and I'll forget all about this. I'll forget all about you."

Gene was stung. Sam's words could draw blood when he wanted them to, and he wanted them to.

"Shut up. Just shut up. You do my head in, you do. I've just about had it up to here with your shite. You need to get yourself sorted out. Now."

"Is that an order?"

"If you like."

"Can't. Won't. I don't belong here. This isn't where I'm supposed to be. I had another life. I remember it. I was a DCI and it was 2006 and there was Google and iPods and sushi…"

"Will you listen to yourself, Sam? You're talking nonsense. What the hell is sushi?"

"Raw fish. You eat it."

Gene gave him a horrified look. "You what? You reckon they eat raw fish where you come from? Then count me out, Sam. I'm not going there."

"You don't have a choice," Sam muttered under his breath. "No more than I did about ending up here." If he really was in 1973, then Gene had about as much choice in moving forward as he did in moving backwards. Sooner or later he'd catch up with himself, again. It made his head ache and he winced.

Gene was just shaking his head. He'd dealt with some nutters in his time, but this was taking the biscuit.

Sam saw that look.

"You don't believe me."

Gene glanced down, then up. "I listen to you. Some of what you say makes sense, about policing. You're very bright, and you, how did you put it, you think outside the box. That's fine. But sometimes, Sam, you think outside the bloody room. I thought you were just weird, because brain boxes like you always are, but Cartwright thinks you're ill. She says you're delusional. From what I've seen, I'd have to say I agree. You're smart Sam, of that I have no doubt. You're clever and cunning, but it all gets mixed up in here," he tapped his head. "You try too hard to think like them, you get confused. You lose yourself, Sam, and you lost it today."

"You don't believe me."

"You've stared too long into the abyss, Sam."

"You don't believe me."

"You're confused, that's all. That bump on your head, it scrambled your noggin, though I bet you were always an odd duck. We'll get you sorted out, don't worry."

"You don't believe me."

"We'll get you some pills, Sam. You'll be as good as new."

"You don't believe me."

"Sam, have you ever listened to yourself? You're not making sense. How can I?"

"How do I know what's going to happen then? Marc Bolan's going to die in a car crash, Maggie Thatcher will be PM, some nutter will shoot John Lennon and Clint Eastwood will win Oscars for directing. You want more? How about Ronald Reagan will become President of the United States , Arnold Swarzenegger, no, wait, you don't know him. There will be this band called the Sex Pistols…"

"Sam, stop it. Listen to yourself. Ronald Reagan? President?"

Sam just suddenly cracked and burst out laughing. Long, hysterical laughter.

Now Gene was the one who wanted to cry. Sam had completely lost it, right here in his bedroom. He gently enfolded Sam in his arms, rubbing up and down his back in soothing circles.

"Come on, we'll get some tea into you. You'd like that? A nice hot cup of tea? It's been a bad day and we've both had enough. Come on, love. Come and have a cup of tea with me."

Sam missed most of what Gene had said. He just let himself be led gently downstairs to the kitchen, Gene's hand always in the small of his back, guiding him.

Once into the kitchen Sam seem to snap back into a small semblance of his old self, the normality easing him into routine. He liked sitting in Gene's kitchen. They'd spent many hours here, going over cases, but mainly just talking, enjoying each other's company, much to the exclusion and annoyance of Gene's ball and chain, as he called her.

"Does she know?" Sam asked, taking two cups down from the middle cupboard without having to hunt for them.

"Who?" Gene asked, not really paying attention, then he got it, a second later. He shrugged. "Don't know. Don't care."

That was cold, but Sam suspected the embers of Gene's marriage had long since turned to ashes.

"What if she said something?"

"She won't. She'd rather turn a blind eye than admit the truth. She always has. Besides, you're my DI. It's like being bloody married to you anyway."

"Are we? Is that what we are? Partners?"

"You tell me, Sam. You're the one who sets all the rules."

Sam didn't say anything. He didn't feel like he made the rules about anything. He felt like a stupid sockpuppet in somebody else's twisted little theatre, he didn't know the rules of the game and they kept changing on him, so he couldn't win. No matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't win. He was trapped here and he wanted to go home, home to where he knew the rules and knew himself and knew what was expected of him. He just wanted to go home. He sank down in the chair with his head in his hands.

While the kettle took its own sweet time boiling, and while Sam sat there sniffling quietly to himself, Gene occupied himself with a rummage through drawers and cupboards in search of something.

Sam was on the verge of begging him to just stop, every crash and clatter a blow to his jagged nerves, when Gene stopped anyway, having found what he was looking for. It was slipped into his trouser pocket and the tea was quickly attended to, snatching the screaming kettle off the stove, seeing how it made Sam wince.

A few minutes later and Gene thumped a mug of hot sugary tea down in front of Sam. A bottle of scotch followed, with a small measure dribbled into his tea, just to warm him up, Gene said.

Gene fished out what he'd slipped in his pocket and Sam could now see it was a small, thin brown glass tube, an old fashioned, child friendly pill bottle. Gene flipped the lid off with his thumb and shook out a little white pill onto his palm, and then carefully placed the pill down in front of Sam.

"What's that?" Sam asked blankly.

"Valium. They're the wife's," Gene added, before Sam could shoot him another look. "Take it, Sam. It'll settle you down, help you sleep. You just need a decent night's kip."

"You really believe that?" Sam accused, glaring at Gene through narrowed eyes. "That I'll wake up tomorrow and everything will be back to normal?"

"Today," Gene corrected, glancing at his watch. Gene could see he wasn't making any headway. It was like trying to have an argument on a merry-go-round. The moment he thought he'd talked Sam around into seeing some sense, Sam would just snap right back to the beginning again.

"Just drink your tea," he sighed, growing tired.

He expected another argument, but none was forthcoming. Sam drank his tea and swallowed his valium like a good little boy.

What could it hurt, Sam thought to himself as the bitter taste slipped briefly over his tongue. Things were already fucked up. He'd fucked up badly, and he'd fucked it up with Gene. Sam couldn't forgive himself for that, or anything he'd done today. The man he had been, the man he remembered being, he would have been far less understanding of his own actions than Gene had been. What a turn out for the books, that a man like Gene was the more charitable. It was shocking, and it was shaming to Sam.

Gene was undoubtedly the better man.

Sam wanted to love Gene for his kindness, his loyalty, his protection, but Gene could not and would not believe anything that Sam believed, and Sam could not forgive him for that. He wanted Gene to understand all of it, even if he didn't himself. He wanted Gene to believe in him. If Gene couldn't, well, Sam just couldn't trust him, and their friendship had no real basis at all.

Sam realised that he knew very little about the man sitting across the table from him, and it scared him to death. Even now, he didn't know what Gene was going to do, now that Sam had told him the truth, or the truth as Sam knew it.

Gene shook a cigarette out of the packet, slipped it between his lips and lit it. Without thinking, he automatically offered the packet to Sam, and was surprised a second later when Sam reached forward and pinched one.

"Thought you didn't smoke," Gene accused.

"Don't. Used to. Had to quit."

Gene raised an eyebrow, wondering why.

"They don't allow it where I'm from. At least, not indoors. I got sick of shivering in damp doorways, so I gave up."

"Barbaric," Gene reacted with real feeling.

Sam leant forward and Gene lit his cigarette for him. Then Sam leant back in his chair and took a really good, deep, long drag. He hadn't been kidding about having to quit against his will, at least. That had been the inhalation of a pleasure long denied. Sam tilted his head back and let the smoke slowly curl out towards the ceiling.

It was the most erotic thing Gene had ever seen. All he wanted to do right at that moment was leap across the table and devour Sam's mouth, smothering that long, thin throat with hard, sucking kisses, grazing his mouth on that darkening stubble as he licked over Sam's skin.

Gene felt his skin prickle and he took another puff to cover himself. Now was not the time. Or maybe it was. Maybe another good, hard shag was just the answer for Sam. Stop him thinking too much. Just make him feel. Make him grind out Gene's name as Gene rode him roughly into the table…

Gene took another shaky puff. This wasn't getting him anywhere, except hard.

"You wanted to talk?" he prompted, knowing deep in his gut that he was going to regret this. So far, the less he knew about Sam, the better, but there was no escaping that Sam just wasn't like other boys.

"You want to know the truth?" Sam asked, sucking hard on his cigarette. "You can't handle the truth," he quoted, grinning like a maniac, unnerving Gene.

"Try me," said Gene in his best police interview voice.

"All right." Sam stubbed out the cigarette. "I was a DCI in 2006."

Gene snorted, at both the rank and the date.

Sam carried on, regardless.

"We'd brought in Raimes for questioning on those murders, only it turns out it wasn't him, he just knew the killer, it was Kramer. I didn't know that then. I stuffed up, badly. I took Maya off the case because I thought our relationship was interfering with the work."

"Funny that," Gene interrupted.

Sam ignored him. "She went after Raimes by herself, and they got her. I don't know what happened to her, if she's alive or dead, because on the way back from the crime scene, I was hit by a car and I woke up in 1973. Not in a hospital. Here. I don't know why. I thought I could change the past, make everything right, but I couldn't."

"Was that what today was about? You honestly think–"

"Vic Tyler is my Dad, yeah. He left, I never knew why. Now I do, and I still couldn't stop it. I was the cause. I didn't fix it, I made it happen."

"You made Tyler a porn dealing murderous little scumbag?"

"No, I–"

"He used you, Sammy. He saw your weakness and he used it, made you think he was like your Dad, that's all. You're just overtired and confused. You're seeing things, making connections that aren't there."

"Seeing things, am I? Then how do I know so much. How did I know so much about Kramer? How do I know who the Yorkshire Ripper is? How do I know that the IRA are going to detonate a bomb in the city in 1996? Your city."

"Stop. Enough, Sam," Gene pleaded, standing up, wanting to leave but unable to.

"I told you. I knew you didn't want to hear it," Sam accused bitterly.

"For God's sake, Sam." Gene leant heavily on the kitchen chair, wanting to throw it, wanting to smash it into pieces. He just wanted it to stop.

"You don't want to hear it," Sam accused again, bitter.

"No, I don't. I don't want to hear another word. You're a bright boy, Sam, but when you start going on like this, I just want to sit on you until you start making sense."

"You don't believe me."

"How can I?"

"You don't believe me!" he screamed. "People are going to die. I can stop things happening, if you just listen to me."

"Listen to yourself. You said you couldn't even save your own father."

"You won't listen to me."

"I can't. It's a delusion. It's just a delusion, Sam. It's not real. This, this is real."

Gene pounded the table with his fist.

Sam shot up in fright, knocking over the chair, suddenly scared. Gene terrified him like this, turning nasty on him.

Gene shoved the chair out of the way and stalked around the table towards Sam.

"Now either you're going to start making sense, or I'm going to have to start pounding some sense into you," he threatened.

Sam flailed at the air and backed away, shaking his head, as though trying to push everything away, not just Gene.

"No. I can't do this. I won't do this. Not any more. I'm tired of this. I want to go home. Now."

"Fine. I'll drive you," Gene offered, fed up.

"No, not here. Home." Sam emphasised the word. "I want to go home," he pleaded, tears rolling down his face.

"Right." Gene announced with finality. "You want to give up, quit, go home, then go, just go. Get out of my life and go back to wherever the hell you came from. Go back to Hyde. See if I care. Go back to Hyde and forget you ever met us."

The savage bitterness of his tone struck Sam hard, and he wept some more, rubbing at his eyes and nose. He was crumpled over, lost and alone and unwelcome.

"I'll go," he sniffled.

"Fine. There's the door." Gene nodded sharply at the kitchen door. "Off you go then. Bye."

Sam slumped back against the wall.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Why are you? What's wrong with you, Sam? What happened to make you like this? You won't tell me anything, you won't tell me the truth, you won't let me help."

"You don't believe me."

"That you're from the future? Not unless you've parked your police box in the street, and I don't see one out there. You've lost it, Sam. It's 1973. You're my DI. Why can't you just accept that? What is so bloody terrible that you can't live in the real world?"

"I can't." Sam gazed tearfully around the room. "None of this is real. None of this can be real."

"If I'm not real, Sam, then I can't bleed, and you're making me bleed. It doesn't matter that it's breaking my heart, seeing you like this. It doesn't matter because my feelings don't matter. I wish I could fix it for you, whatever's wrong, I really do. You're a bright boy, Sam. Surely you can see how it sounds?"

Sam just blinked at him dully.

"You're not real, so it doesn't matter what you say. You're just another voice in my head."

"Am I? Is that all I am to you? "

Gene had to turn and walk several steps away from him because he was going to thump him, thump some badly needed sense into the little twat.

"You're not real." Sam was covering his ears in distress. "I wish you'd just go away and leave me alone."

"That can be arranged," Gene promised ominously.

"Just shut up," Sam pleaded.

Enough. Gene grabbed him and slammed him into the wall.

"Is this real? Does this feel real?"

Sam just stared at him so Gene slammed him up against the wall again, enough to rattle his teeth, and then kissed him, hard.

Sam tried to push him away, scrabbling at him, then, just as quickly, was clinging onto him, desperate.

It ended back in the bedroom. Sam was lying on his side, turned away from him, silent in reproach. There would be bruises, later, Gene was sure of that.

Gene was lying flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling, but not seeing it. This wasn't what he wanted, or how he wanted it.

All he had ever hoped for was to wake up the next morning beside Sam, slip out quietly for the morning paper and a packet of fags, then come back and find Sam still curled up in the bed, sleeping the deep sleep of the decently shagged. Then he'd wake his sleeping beauty with just one, perfect kiss.

Only it wasn't going to be like that. It was never going to be like that. Sometimes he felt like he'd been waiting for Sam all his life, but right now, he couldn't believe he'd fallen for such an utter nutter. It just wasn't going to work and he knew he had to do something. He just didn't know what. None of his options appealed to him. In fact most of them made chewing on his own gun seem reasonable.

He let out a lengthy sigh and felt Sam tense up over on his side of the bed. So, not asleep yet.

Sam said nothing, letting the silent tears roll where they may.

Gene's breathing deepened into snores at last. Sam waited in the dark for several long minutes, counting off the snores until he was sure Gene was fast asleep, then he slipped from the bed, pulling on his trousers and dressing as quietly as he could.

Easing down the stairs, snatching up his shirt and coat as he went and stepping over the creaky second last step, he paused at the door.

He placed his hand flat on the door, leaning heavily on it. He couldn't do it. He couldn't just walk out. Terror of the unknown and the fear of loneliness gripped him hard. Without Gene, without his work, he had nothing. He'd be lost. He hated Gene, but he needed him, too. If he walked out now, he'd be walking away, and it was a long, cold, dark and hard walk home.

Right now, he wasn't sure he wouldn't be tempted to walk in front of a bus. Not that they were running at this hour. A lorry, then. He just wanted out of this nightmare. He leant more heavily on the door. He was tired of fighting. Nothing he did seemed to make a difference. There didn't seem to be any rhyme or reason as to why he was stuck here. The universe had just fucked up his life, for no reason at all, and that was hard to accept. And he'd tried so hard, to fit in, to adapt, to make a difference, to make it count for something.

He just couldn't see a reason for why this was happening to him. Had he been a bad person? Had he been good? Could he change things, and if not, why bother? Why was he here? Was any of it real? Did it matter at all, anything he thought, felt or did? He couldn't decide if he should stay or if he should go. Which was better or worse, and did it really matter in this limbo he was trapped in?

Hell, he needed a drink. First and foremost, he needed a drink. It was cold and dark out there, and he needed fortification, especially tonight. He was not sure he could walk out of that door otherwise. He glanced back at the kitchen. With a heavy sigh he threw his coat over the rail and walked back into the kitchen.

The bottle of scotch was still sitting on the table, and after one drink Sam decided he needed another, and then another. He gathered up every bottle he could find and sat down at the table, in front of his own personal bar, and began to pour. Then he gave up pouring and started drinking straight from the bottle. And when he'd finished that one, he'd open the next one, then another, and then another.

Sam let the empty bottle of vodka fall and roll across the table in a half hearted semi circle. He broke the seal on the next bottle and started sucking it down, too, in heavy gulps, until he'd drained it. This one he tried to stand on its neck, but it wouldn't and fell over, so he left it standing with the scotch bottles in an abandoned and disapproving little crowd.

He cracked the lid on the next bottle and started gulping it down, not even tasting it any more, like a man dying of thirst, unable to quench it. He let that bottle roll away and opened the next one.

Slowing a little as the alcohol seeped through him, Sam poured himself a large glass of vodka, drank it down in one gulp, and then poured another. He flipped the lid off the bottle of little white pills and scattered them across the table like Smarties. He rested his chin on the edge of the table, now really feeling hammered by all the scotch, brandy and vodka, and played idly with the pills, moving them about into abstract patterns with his finger.

"One pill makes you larger, and one pill makes you small..." he sang to himself softly. He picked one up on the tip of his finger and considered it. "And the ones that mother gives you don't do anything at all."

-o-

It was past three when Gene woke, surprised he'd fallen asleep. He glanced over to where Sam should have been sleeping, but found only sheets.

Bloody hell. He pulled himself up, pulled his trousers on and blundered out of the bedroom, pausing at the top of the stairs to scratch himself and yawn.

"Sam?" he called softly, peering out into the dimness. There was some light coming from downstairs.

"Sam!" he called more loudly, beginning to hope that the bugger hadn't slipped off home.

Gingerly, Gene stepped down the stairs, picking his way through the debris of discarded clothes, plucking up his tie and stuffing it in his trouser pocket as he went. He picked up his shirt from the banister and slipped it on, buttoning it loosely, fully resigned to having to drive around Manchester looking for Sam. There was no way he could just sit around with Sam out there somewhere on his own, not in the state he was in.

What it must have been like before he had Sam in his life, making everything so complicated, stirring up everyone and everything? He couldn't even imagine life without Sam, let alone remember it. He couldn't remember the man he'd been before he met Sam, and a part of him didn't want to. It had been another life, playing by different rules, beating up poofs instead of lying on his back crying like one. Only Warren had known, and Sam had solved that problem.

It took one to know one, Gene supposed. Warren had known about Sam. The prozzer had been as much about sticking it to Gene as it had been sticking it to Sam. Warren had known exactly what Sam was to him. The tragedy was that Sam didn't. For some reason Sam just couldn't make that connection.

As he came down another step, Gene could see Sam's coat, still hanging where it had been tossed over the stair rail, and a step later, he could see the kitchen light was still on. His heart leapt for a moment of its own accord with the hope that Sam hadn't left him, after all, before his chest tightened again and he knew Sam had just probably left the light on when he'd walked out, uncaring about other people's electricity bills. A bit thoughtless was Sam, on occasion. A little too wrapped up in his own world. No, a lot. Too much. Gene had never known anyone who lived in his head as much as Sam did.

Gene started walking towards the front door, but then he paused and turned back to the kitchen, just to make sure Sam had really gone. He half hoped to find Sam just sitting there, nursing a cup of tea, waiting for him, but he knew he was kidding himself.

"Sam?" he called more loudly at the kitchen door. He carefully opened the door a crack further and fell to a dead stop as he took in the scene: furniture still askew, the table strewn with an untidy straggle of empty bottles. It looked like just about every bottle in the house had been emptied, including his pride and joy, his best bottle of twelve year old scotch.

"Fucking bastard. I will kill him," he promised out loud. "I'm going to murder that little…" he began, when he took a step and saw Sam, already crumpled on the linoleum floor.

"Sam!" He ran around the table, almost tripping and skidding in his haste. "Sam!"

Gene could barely dial 999 his hands were shaking that much. He demanded an ambulance, he pulled rank on them and he didn't care. Guessing the amount Sam had drunk, he knew coffee and a cold shower weren't going to do it.

"Yeah, and I think he's taken something. He looks comatose. You'd better bloody hurry."

He slammed the phone down and saw the pill bottle on the table. Shit.

Gene reached for the empty bottle, still rolling on its side across the table, and stopped short when he saw that Sam had spelt out a word in the remaining pills: BYE.

Gene swept the suicide note angrily off the table, letting the pills fly and scatter in a brief rain across the linoleum.

Gene grabbed the phone again and dialled the poisons line. He was halfway through giving the operator all manner of abuse as she wasn't helping him when he dropped the phone with a crash. Sam had started to turn blue. He wasn't breathing any more.

"You bastard, don't you dare leave. You don't get out of it that easily, you little fucker..." Gene was screaming at him, telling him to stop messing about and wake up, all the while trying to force air into Sam's lungs and push down on Sam's chest, the way he'd seen Sam doing it.

"Where the fuck is that ambulance?" Gene pleaded to the empty kitchen. "I'm losing him, and you can't take him away from me, that isn't fair. I need him here, with me. Sam, please, don't leave me. Don't go. Sam, please, wake up. Stay with me. Stay, please, stay."

-o-

Sam could hear hisses and beeps, and muffled voices, and he could feel the sting of needles in his arm. His chest was sore, his head ached and he coughed and gagged slightly, his throat raw from having tubes shoved down it.

"Doctor, I think he's waking up."

Sam winced as his eyes were violently pulled open and a blinding light shone in them.

"Good pupil reaction," a male voice agreed. "I think he might make a full recovery, but only time will tell for sure. Sam needs to want to get better. You can talk to him, if you like, but don't tire him out. It was very touch and go there for a while. He's very lucky to be here at all."

The world went dark again and Sam tried to open his eyes by himself, but seemed to lack the energy or willpower, still being dragged down by a deep, dark heavy sleep, a though he were drowning and he had bricks in his pockets, unable to swim upwards, no matter how hard he tried.

"Sam, Sam? Can you here me? Come on, Sam, wake up, I know you can do it."

Pushing himself forward with one last, desperate burst, Sam opened his eyes and saw Gene, leaning over him, looking haggard and unshaven and very, very worried, and behind him, a dull hospital room full of antiquated equipment. He was still stuck in 1973.

Sam's face crumpled and he closed his eyes again, letting the tears fall freely, unable to bear it.

"Steady now, there's no need to fall to pieces," Gene was struggling to sooth him, his hand cupping Sam's face tenderly, his thumb stroking Sam's cheek. "You're all right. Everything's going to be all right."

Sam angrily turned his face away.

"No, I don't want to be here. I want to go home."

"To what, Sam? You wanted to come here, so something must have made you want to leave home in the first place. Do you really think you'll find what you're looking for if you keep running every time the going gets hard? Be a man, Sam, stand your ground. Stay with me. Whatever's going on in that noggin of yours, we can sort it out. But you have to want to get better, Sam. You have to at least try."

Sam looked at him suddenly and viciously.

"I don't belong here."

"Yes, you do. You tried to kill yourself, Sam. That's the coward's way out. By law I can keep you in here for as long as like, so long as I think you're a danger to yourself and others. You're staying here, Sam, until I say otherwise, or until you tell me what's really going on in that head of yours."

"You don't want to go there, trust me," Sam warned bitterly.

"You won't even try. Obviously something about Vic Tyler reminded you of your Dad, and I'm sorry about that. Tyler is a right proper bastard and he fooled all of us. He turned you around, he used you, he made it so you didn't know up from down, I understand that, Sam, it happens. Men like that, they get in your head, they play with you, they tell you lies. He took whatever you were feeling and he used it against you and that wasn't fair, Sam, but don't you think you're overreacting, just a bit?"

There wasn't any answer.

"You're a grown man and an officer of the law," Gene continued, exasperated. "Try acting like one. If you keep going off your nut every time somebody lies to you, well, it's going to be hard being a copper, isn't it?"

Sam just glared at him.

"You're a good policeman, Sam, but you can't let blokes like Vic get to you. You can't. You won't last, if you do."

"Don't care. Don't want to. I want to go home. Now."

"No!" Gene snarled at him, unable to keep his temper under check any longer. "You're not going anywhere, Sam. I know they're just itching to stick electrodes up your arse and fry your brain and right now I'm more than inclined to let them, you selfish, self pitying, ungrateful little bastard. After everything I've done for you – you just don't care, do you? You don't want to be here? Fine. But getting out of here isn't going to be that easy. I'm going to leave you here tonight and I want you to think long and hard about what you want, Sam, and whether you want to stay or go. But I'll tell you right now, I'm about ready to wash my hands of you."

"Gene–" Sam begged tearfully. "Don't leave me alone. Please. Don't leave me."

Gene didn't soften at the tears. He looked gut punched and angry.

"You've got some cheek, asking me like that, after what you did. I've had it, Sam. Sort yourself, or not. Go back to Hyde, top yourself, I really don't care any more."

"Gene..." Sam started to plead, but Hunt turned on him, furious.

"Don't. Just don't. Don't even talk to me. You've made your bed, Sam. Now you can lie in it."

He slammed out of the room, leaving Sam alone in the dark.

Sam lay there for several long seconds, trying to find the breath to breathe, and then he began to sob. Long, wracking sobs, crying for everything that had happened to him: waking up here, learning that his father was a piece of shit, but most of all out of sheer and utter terror that he'd ruined everything with Gene, and he couldn't bear it here without Gene, and he knew that now. Finally, and too late.

-o-

Gene glanced up to find Sam Tyler framed in his doorway, paused, hesitant on the threshold, shrugging off Skelton's welcome and almost everything else, Sam's eyes locked hard on Gene, his face nervous and twitchy.

Gene kept his expression neutral, but his eyes softened, unable to help himself. He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out to glasses, setting one down slightly forward and pouring a small measure of scotch into it.

"That's the last time I invite you over," Gene admonished softly. "You didn't half leave the place in a right state."

"What did you–?"

"Tell the wife? That you got completely bladdered and mistook the valium for aspirin. That's what happened, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Sam smiled, relieved, going with the lie. "That's what happened."

"Right." Gene settled it. "Can't leave you alone for a minute, can I?" Gene shrugged heavily, as though shouldering his burden.

"No," Sam agreed, still smiling and looking relieved.

Gene had actually said very little to his wife. They'd barely spoken except in monosyllables since the day she'd come home to find Gene sitting shattered on the kitchen floor amongst broken glass and overturned furniture, eyes red rimmed and raw, stinking of smoke and scotch and clutching a near empty bottle. She'd found the bed a mess and Sam Tyler's coat still hanging on the banister. She'd not asked any questions because she didn't want to hear the answers.

Gene adopted much the same tactic now. He didn't ask how Sam was feeling, he just wanted to assume that if Sam was here, he must be all right. Sam had made his choice and he was here. That was all Gene needed to know, for now.

He pushed the half glass towards Sam.

"So, you came back," he observed casually, pouring his own scotch.

"I had nowhere else to go."

"Yes, you did. You can stay or go, it's up to you. You don't have to stay, Sam, but there are far worse places you could be in, and it's not so bad here, is it? You wouldn't want to leave us, would you Sam?"

Gene stopped twisting the lid back on the bottle, his eyes meeting Sam, needing an answer to that last question.

"No," Sam agreed, walking forward at last. "I'm not going anywhere." He picked up his glass and sank into his seat, opposite Gene, sinking back and feeling more comfortable, more like he belonged here, for whatever reason.

"Good." Gene slapped his hand down on his desk, deciding the matter closed. "That's what I want to hear. You're a clever lad, Sam. I need you on my team."

"Just clever?" Sam teased, tilting his head to the side coquettishly.

Gene caught his smile. Everything was going to be all right.

"Don't push your luck, Sammy boy," he growled affectionately, but his eyes spoke his real feelings, his hunger for Sam. He gave Sam a searing once over and Sam just chuckled, reaching for his scotch. It was okay. They were okay.

Sam relaxed back into his chair, sipping his scotch. Gene was crazy about him. It was going to be all right. He could live here, with Gene. He could make a life here. He knew that now. His old life started to fade into memory. His new life was just beginning.

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