Archive of Our Own ^beta

January 1981

There had been no dreams, at least not that he could recall. Nor had there been any visitations to another world, some deeper layer of his consciousness, or even a parallel universe.

In fact, for the two weeks Sam had lain unconscious, he hadn’t even been aware of time passing by. Even now, over a fortnight since he’d awoken from the coma, his last memory before blacking out was pounding at one of the windows of the Cortina as it had sunk further and further to the bottom of the canal, the water flooding in from every side. Everything he could recall was in fleeting snatches. He remembered the sound of Tim Masefield’s car slamming against the Cortina, but retained no visual of it. He remembered the violent spinning and crashing before the final plunge into the icy water. Somehow, he didn’t remember injuring his arm, but it was definitely broken now. And he certainly didn’t remember his rescue by the courageous narrowboat owner, or the resuscitation attempt that was likely responsible for his cracked rib.

Waking up had been nothing like it was in 2007, an event he still had only the faintest trace recollection of. This time, he could feel everything: the sterile chill of the hospital room, the shocking, heavy burden of his limbs, the fluctuating pain. And there was a lingering ache in his chest owing to a bout of infection that had threatened to finish him off, and which he’d been thankfully unconscious for most of.

Now that he was finally lucid and able to stay awake for a decent amount of hours between sleeps, he was all-too aware of the slowness of his recovery. He was grateful to be alive, but knew there was still a long road ahead of him. And he had no idea what it was going to look like.

At the time, the choice to return to 1973 had held a distinct pathway for him. He could finally embrace the world he felt truly alive in, be with Annie, and commit himself fully to working for Gene and the rest of CID.

This time around, there hadn’t exactly been a choice to make. Sam had—against all odds, according to his doctors—pulled through fairly quickly without any knowing input of his own. And now, the pathway before him was not clear.

Nearly eight years ago, Sam would have woken up a copper either way. Today, it was possible he would never work in policing again.

Today, Sam had assumed, Annie might be able to give him some idea. He had only a distant plan of regaining his strength and then fighting his case, with the vast majority of his concentration on the former at the moment. Knowing if anything had been discussed about his future at the station might help to broaden his focus.

But when Nurse Johnson had finally announced that he had a visitor, it wasn’t Annie, but Gene who marched in through the door behind her.

It wasn’t entirely a shock to see him. Sam had detected his forceful presence right from the early days of his awakening, and they’d shared at least one conversation he remembered quite well. That last visit, he’d thought Gene looked as if he’d lived a lifetime since Sam’s crash. He’d swapped his old camelhair coat out in favour of a new black one. He was looking rather worn and tired, and was noticeably leaner about the face, as if he’d been missing meals. When Sam had first blearily registered the latter change, he’d pitied Gene’s wife for the doubtless terrible moods he must have been coming home in, before eventually remembering that she’d left him two years prior. Gene’s temper had been CID’s problem ever since. Exclusively Sam’s, on occasion.

It had been several days, perhaps as long as a week, since Gene’s last appearance. His features were still marred by stress, but his eyes were no longer blood-shot, and he was clean-shaven. There was a renewed vigour about him as he successfully ousted Nurse Johnson by grunting something about police business, before depositing himself importantly in the chair next to Sam’s bed.

“Masefield’s already in prison,” he was currently gloating. “Bit difficult for him to claim no involvement when his face looks as if it’s been run over. Jones was begging the same, but he’s already been implicated in three other robberies, so he’s bound to get done for one of them. Several court cases coming his way, along with a divorce, so I’m told. Some people just have their priorities sorted for the new year, eh?”

Sam was making a valiant effort to keep his head up: it and his entire upper frame were still inclined to slump forwards in a leaden mass. “I gather you collared Masefield?” he said dryly, his voice rather rough.

“Yes, I—” Gene stopped, then rolled his eyes. “Memory’s still like a sieve, then?”

“You mean you’ve told me already?”

“More than once. And of course I got the bastard. Had to get him back for the car.”

Wincing, Sam tried to recall if Gene had mentioned the Cortina before now, but was unable to. “Sorry about that.”

“So you should be.” Gene placed a gloved hand over his heart. “I entrust you with my prized possession and what do you do?” His gaze hardened. “Land it in the canal. In winter, no less.”

Sam was not able to match his energy, even as he protested. “In my defence, it’s not like I steered it in there. He rammed into me.”

Gene tutted. “Excuses, excuses, Tyler. Fact remains, the car’s had it.”

Sam’s heart clenched. “I know.” The Cortina really was gone, he thought. And he had a growing suspicion it wasn’t the only thing. Their banter felt strained, and Gene was building up to the point. Sam could hear it in his voice.

Rubbing his forehead distractedly, Gene reached into his coat pocket, retrieving his silver lighter. Cradling it in one palm as if assessing its weight, he finally announced, “I took the job in London. Fresh start and all that.”

It was if all background noise ceased. The footsteps outside, the clicking of machinery, and the distant echo of inaudible conversation all seemed to fade away. Everything stopped. It was only Gene’s voice, harsh from cigarettes and most likely a poor night’s sleep, that could be heard. Sam stared up at him.

“Ray and Chris are coming too,” Gene was saying, frowning over at the window for a second. “Couldn’t get rid of the tossers. Cartwright’s staying. Think she’s glad to see the back of me.”

Sam listened, numb from the resounding shock that Gene Hunt was actually leaving Manchester. His beloved city.

“Wow,” was his stunned response after a few moments. “That’s…. That’ll be a change.”

Gene looked at him then, a peculiar expression on his irritable features. “’Course, you’ll be coming too, once we get you out of this dump.”

Gaping at him, Sam was sure he must have misheard.

“I’ll ask when you can travel, then you can come with me.”

“Gene—?” Sam began, still trying to figure out how he was going to put his next question.

Ignoring him, Gene continued: “I can clear out your flat while we’re waiting. Get all your clothes and that. Pack up your frilly aprons.”

Sam shook his head as he tried to work out if Gene was playing around. “You do know I’m off work for a while?”

Gene snorted. “Right. Adding to all the weeks you’ve already been off, you lazy sod. Missed Christmas and all.”

Sam swallowed, wondering why Gene was behaving like everything was still the same. “I don’t think….” he said, his throat tight. “I don’t think I should come.”

“Oh?” Gene observed him with one of his more withering stares. “What will you do instead?”

Giving a feeble, one-sided shrug that probably resembled more of a twitch, Sam replied, “What would I do in London?”

“Get back on your feet and get on with it.”

“And it’ll just be the same as before?” Sam studied Gene’s reaction closely. “I’ll be able to slide into my old job just like that?”

Folding his arms stubbornly, Gene gave a single nod. “Don’t see why not.”

“So, did you put me forward for DI there?”

“Yes.”

Sam raised his eyebrows, the still-healing scratches and cuts on his face pulling uncomfortably. “…And?”

Gene stuck his chin out, sniffing. “I’ll see they give it you when you’re fit.”

Shaking his head, Sam sighed. “They won’t just hold a job for me. It won’t be your domain like it was here.”

“All right!” A sour expression twisted across Gene’s face. “Don’t rub it in.”

They both went quiet for a moment. Outside, a lone bird was twittering in the cold.

Sam was confused. He’d known Gene had been considering the transfer to London, but hadn’t been able to imagine him actually doing it. Now that he was, he would have assumed Gene would take the opportunity to leave him behind, what with all the difficulties between them lately.

But apparently not.

Finally, Gene inclined his head. “I don’t bet they’ll consider you for the role of DCI here, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he said, the words more bitter than hostile.

“You know that’s not it,” muttered Sam.

“So, what are you gonna do?”

“Get through recovery.”

“Oh, you are, are you? And how’s that gonna start when you can barely get your arse on the lavvy?”

Sam heaved another sigh, trying to swallow back a tickle that was rising in his chest and throat. “I’ll manage.”

“Cartwright’s got enough on her plate. She’s not playing nurse.”

“I know!” Sam snapped, before coughing wetly into his free arm. Annie was a sensitive topic, which he knew Gene was all-too aware of. Realistically, she was the only person he could expect to look in on him from time to time if he chose to remain in Manchester. But he hadn’t anticipated any sacrifice on her part to do so, and he would certainly never have asked her for it.

Gene ignited the lighter with a little brush of his thumb. He still didn’t reach for a cigarette: simply allowing the flame to dance about freely in the air as he scrutinised the doubtless pathetic picture Sam currently made. “But you need nursing.”

“I’ll be fine.” But even as the coughs subsided, Sam did not feel any conviction in his statement. He was weak, he felt perpetually tired and disoriented, and seriously doubted he would be able to carry groceries, let alone cook for himself. He would likely need several more weeks for his arm to heal, and he could not say how long it would take to restore his strength.

Gene sneered. “Your bravery overwhelms me. And while you’ve been lying there feeling sorry for yourself, I’ve worked everything out.”

Sam just eyed him warily.

Gene flipped the lighter lid back down, extinguishing the flame with a little clink. “Found a flat in London. Near the station.”

Brow furrowing, Sam said, “Okay?”

Leaning in, Gene spoke slowly, as if Sam was particularly stupid: “I. Found a flat. Fenchurch East area. Two bedrooms. Central heating. Fitted kitchen. Lovely.”

Sam glanced around the room and then back at him. Anticipation started rising in his chest once more. “You’re renting it?”

Gene pinned him with another shrewd glare. “Bought it, actually.”

Sam blinked. “Oh.”

“The house sold early last month. Didn’t fancy having some landlord’s nose in my business, so I bought this place.”

“And I assume you’re not moving Ray into your guest bedroom?”

“Don’t think I won’t knock your teeth out, Sam.”

Sam released a laugh of disbelief, lifting his one good arm to rub his eyes. “You want me to rent a room in your flat?”

Gene leant back slightly. “In a manner of speaking.”

“…Until I’m better?”

“If you like.” Gene cleared his throat. “If you’re comfortable enough… might as well stay.”

Sam finally lowered his hand to find Gene watching him. “You’re not serious.”

Shoving the lighter back into his pocket, Gene gripped the bed rail by Sam’s arm cast. “Come on, Sam. We both need a new start, and you want looking after. It’ll do us fine.”

Shaking his head, Sam looked away from him. “We can’t.”

Gene moved in to loom above Sam in the way he always did when his authority was being challenged. “Why?”

It took Sam a moment to catch his breath again. “I can’t. I can’t work and live with you.”

Gene’s piercing eyes narrowed. “That awful, am I?”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Sam laughed again. “Why are we even talking about this? This is crazy!”

“Most of the time that’s all you ever want to do!” Gene was practically fuming. “You were always happy to dig away into my business, weren’t you? Except when it was to do with us. Only then did you keep your gob shut!”

Alarmed, Sam said, “Because that’s different!”

“How?”

“You always said there was nothing to talk about.”

“Well, you gave me shit for just about everything else!” snarled Gene. “Anything else in the world, and you wouldn’t give it a bloody rest! You never even asked once about my wife!”

“I never wanted to disrupt anything.” Sam’s voice was barely above a whisper now, trying to keep the situation calm. “It wasn’t my place to get involved.”

Gene shook the rail, rattling the whole bedframe. “I seem to remember you had some involvement towards the end!”

“But you were the one who said it meant nothing, weren’t you?” Sam fired back. “I understood, Gene, and I respected it.”

Gene still looked utterly incensed. “Bloody hell, Sam, this is what I’m talking about! You’d fight me over Harry, over that scum Warren, but not on this?”

Sam gawked at him, speechless for a moment. He couldn’t believe Gene was actually complaining about him abiding by the very rules he’d laid down for them both.

From the very moment Sam had realised that Gene’s first, lingering touch on his waist had not been accidental, he had known they would only come together on a casual, secretive basis. He’d sensed the shame and anger rumbling away beneath Gene’s desire, ready to boil over into hatred if it was provoked.

Being told afterwards that it had been meaningless, and that it was not up for discussion, had almost come as a relief. For once, Sam had been able to see that confronting the issue would only have destroyed everything surrounding it. This, he’d said to himself, was the only way they could possibly move forwards.

Ever since then, following countless more meetings after—and even during, once or twice—work, Sam had maintained his side of their unspoken deal. He hadn’t complained. He hadn’t pointed out the unfairness of it, or Gene’s hypocrisy. He’d contented himself with the theory that maybe it was better this way. Having relationships in their profession could be difficult, and back when Annie had broken things off between them all those years ago, Sam had already doubted he would ever get married. His private encounters with Gene had always been risky, but at least their boundaries were distinctly marked, walling them off and protecting everything and everyone else.

Even when Gene had revealed that his divorce had been finalised, Sam had bought a round at the Railway Arms and said nothing outside of the commiseration he’d shared in front of everyone else. He hadn’t asked what had gone wrong in the marriage, or if there had been any fleeting hope of reconciliation. He hadn’t tried to persuade him that they could have something serious between them now. He hadn’t even made vague suggestions they spend the night together. He’d simply left his front door on the latch.

That was how it was done. That was how Gene wanted things, and Sam had yielded to it not out of fear of him, but of respect for him, and of the era he himself had chosen to live in.

And all this time he’d thought Gene had been appreciative of that.

“Listen,” he said, almost panting now he was so agitated. “I thought we were on the same page about this. I don’t have this… unshakable image to maintain like you. I don’t care if people aren’t sure what’s going on with me, or if they wonder why I’ve never been married or I don’t have a girlfriend. Ray makes gay-boy jokes about me all the time. But you?” He widened his eyes at him emphatically. “I know it’s not safe to mess about with other people’s private lives and reputations. Especially not in the seventies!”

“It’s nineteen-eighty-one, Sam,” growled Gene. “I’d say this is the coma talking, but then you never did know what bleedin’ year it was.”

Sam collapsed back against the pillow, the bedframe squeaking as his injured arm twinged unpleasantly. He was already exhausted. It was so utterly perplexing to be talking about any of this after almost four years of denial.

“Look….” Gene squinted in the direction of the door, a little awkwardness overtaking his rage. “Whatever I said before, forget it. Forget all of it.”

Groaning under his breath, Sam shuffled down slightly, pulling the blanket up to cover his chest and shoulders, which had grown chilly. “No, you were right.”

Gene didn’t even look smug at his admission. “What are you on about?”

“It was going to end at some point.”

Gene thumped the bed rail in frustration. “No, Sam!”

Sam looked at him incredulously. “Gene, I can’t live in some state of limbo with you! It won’t work if we’re in each other’s space all day. You don’t really want this. You made it clear enough times you don’t.”

“Sam—”

“Gene, it’d kill me.”

“I’ll kill you if you don’t shut up and listen!”

“Look, things got difficult here for you.” Sam squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will away the threatening tears. “London’s gonna be a huge change. And then there was the accident, and that file, and now you’ve lost your car, and—”

“Sod the bloody car!”

Sam flinched, opening his eyes.

Gene was red in the face, breathing heavily. His sharp pupils swivelled in the direction of the door, and he took a few seconds to steel himself before finally speaking again in a low, commanding rasp. “While it’s very honourable of you to try and protect me, Sam, I am capable of making my own decisions. And changing my mind. I’d have thought you’d understand that after nearly eight bloody years.”

Wanting to argue again, but with little drive to do so, Sam just observed him dazedly.

Gene’s eyes flashed angrily. “I can see you don’t believe me, you little prick! So allow me to correct you. Come with me. I’ll get you better, and I’ll get you your job back.”

Sam licked his dry lips, his voice cracking with fatigue. “Then what?”

There was a glint of what looked like fear in Gene’s gaze, and then he moved his fingers from the rail to where Sam’s left hand was clutching the sheets.

Sam shivered in astonishment. Gene’s touch was heavy, and he was sure he could feel the heat of him even through his leather glove and the blanket. His glare was still furious and definitely afraid, but it seemed more of a tentative fear than one of shame. Not fear of being caught, perhaps, but fear of being refused.

Trying desperately to return to rationality, Sam shook his head. “Gene… what would you even tell people? Chris and Ray and everyone?”

Gene snorted. “They’ll just think I’m helping the poor cripple out.”

“And once I recover?”

Squeezing Sam’s hand gently, Gene leant in again, a veritable fire in his eyes now. “Then it’s no one else’s bloody business.”

The message was clear, but Sam just couldn’t believe Gene had really thought it through. “And if you meet someone?” he asked.

Gene frowned. “You what now?”

“Someone you could actually be with? Everyone’s been waiting for you to find the next Mrs. Hunt, you know.”

“Don’t be so soft.” Gene glowered, his voice menacingly quiet. “Everyone’s so damn sure they know me, but you’re all wrong.” He stroked the back of Sam’s hand with his thumb. “I don’t fucking want anyone else.”

Sam felt like deer in the headlights, conscious only of how green Gene’s irises were, and the warm pressure of the contact between them. The door to the room suddenly burst open, making him jerk in surprise, and he looked over to see Nurse Johnson striding towards the foot of the bed.

“Is everything all right?” she asked, frowning accusingly at Gene. “I hope you’re not upsetting my patient, Mr. Hunt!”

Gene just snarled back at her, “You’re the one who just made him jump out of his skin, you daft cow!”

Nurse Johnson scoffed and looked at Sam expectantly. “Is he, Mr. Tyler?”

Sam glanced down at his chest. Gene hadn’t removed his hand.

“…No,” he replied, quite dumbfounded. “No, he’s not.”