talkingtothesky | 2007 Ficathon Entry

Written for the

lifein1973ficathon. I don't think I've captured the characters at all well, and this could probably do with a lot more work before I'm satisfied. But if I keep on picking at it I'll never be happy, so here it is, warts and all.

Title: The Destroyer of Worlds
Author: Mee!
Word Count: 3,447
Rating: Sorta PG, I think.
Pairing: Sam/Gene pairing, one-sided Sam/Annie and if you squint very hard you might see some impliedRay/Chris.
Summary: He can never go back. (AU ending for 2x08)
Warnings: Main character death and swearing.
A/N: Written for the lovely

missscarlet. At the time I didn't realise I was writing for the queen of deathfics! (I am not worthy! ;D) Many, many thanks to

tatlovestea, who beta'ed. Also to

lozenger8 who organised the ficathon! :D

He clambers over the rails, keeping low, a hand clasped firmly around the police radio. Behind him he can hear the sound of gunshots; the terrified screams and yells of his colleagues trapped in the train. Only a wooden shell protects four lives from raging bullets and Sam knows it’s not enough. He is their only chance now.

He reaches the entrance to the tunnel; he can’t see through to the other end and so he is cast in partial darkness. He stares. There is no light, no backup, nothing. Just him and the team and the gunmen. He lifts the radio to his lips to yell for help once more and-.

A hand grips his arm. Twists it so forcefully behind his back that despite his efforts to stay quiet, unnoticed, Sam cries out. The gun and the radio fall to the floor. He can barely make out over the shooting the distant voice of a man shouting: “One of them’s sneaked out!”

But the hands keep on twisting, until a jolt of white-hot pain tears through Sam’s shoulder and ripples all the way down his back, forcing him to his knees. Then he is pushed onto his face, unable to catch himself.

“Hello, Sammy.” His face pressed into the gravel, Sam feels all the remaining breath go out of him. And yet the adrenaline and desperation pumping through his veins, despite the lack of oxygen, is enough to allow him to roll over on his injured shoulder to face his attacker.

The clown smiles down at him.

“You want to go home, Sam. You were prepared to destroy him. But before you go, you can watch…” She flicks her blonde hair over her shoulder, wipes her dusty hands on her dress and skips away into the dark tunnel, clown in tow.

Then Morgan replaces her, hovering ominously over Sam, his moustache twitching into a sinister smile. “Well done, Sam. You’ve done it. You can come back home. Not long now…” He looks towards the train with something akin to satisfaction before striding off himself.

“Morgan!” Sam grits his teeth and grinds out, yelling into the darkness above his head. In one sickening moment he realises he’s been tricked. “You bastard! MORGAN!”

His only answer is the sound of gravel crunching under heavy boots, and then the click of metal somewhere near his chest. He looks back up to see yet another face leaning over him, but this one is masked. The gun hovers less than an inch from Sam’s ribcage. The gunman gives a chuckle. “No gettin’ away for you, Inspector.”

Two shots ring out at once, then comes a third in quick succession. The first shreds Sam’s chest to pieces; the second causes the man leering over him to crumple.

Despite the pain, Sam’s eyes remain forced open and so (just like she said he would) he has to watch as Chris’ face lights up just a fraction in victory for striking down Sam’s gunman. Half a second later, the third bullet whizzes through his neck and he is dead, too. Even from his position on the floor Sam can see the blood start to pour from Chris’ throat, his hands clutching at it, eyes wide. He falls.

And then everyone’s running.

Ray turns on his heel and advances on the remaining criminals. In blind fury he shoots them all down, one by one, but the last man fires just as Ray’s bullet strikes him and Ray doesn’t dodge. As he hits the rails, Sam can see him look over at Chris, and his expression is more terrible than Sam could ever describe.

Annie runs to Chris’ side; Sam sees her tears as she tries to help him, but there is nothing left for her to help. They cascade down her cheeks and drip steadily into the pools of blood at her feet, and then for a moment she looks over at Sam. “It’s all your fault, Sam,” he thinks he hears her say, but her lips haven’t moved and she’s looking between Ray and Chris, her despair evident.

“TYLER!” Sam doesn’t think he’s ever seen the Guv sprint so fast before. He can’t help but feel relief when his DCI makes it to his side without being gunned down. Sam’s tiredness catching up with him, the light begins to flicker lazily over him.

-----

Sam’s eyes are miraculously wide open when Gene reaches him, but it is less than a few seconds before they start to close.

“Oh, don’t you go dyin’ on me too, Sammy-boy!” Gene demands loudly, grabbing hold of the wrist that is not twisted out of all recognition and searching frantically for a pulse. He almost barks with relieved laughter when he finds one, despite its faintness. His stomach does another joyful back flip when, slowly but surely, Sam’s fingers close around Gene’s own.

“That’s it, Tyler. Keep fighting it like the picky ponce you are!”

And after a few agonisingly slow seconds, Sam’s eyes crack open. Gene could have hugged him then, had it not been for the blood spilling rapidly from Sam’s chest and Gene’s fears of hurting him further.

“Guv…” It is little more than a choked rasp, but Gene hears it as though coming from a megaphone.

“Shush, Sammy…” Gene breathes; a hand at the side of Sam’s face. “Don’t try to talk your way out of it; I’ll punch yeh lights out for this later! Just keep your eyes open, come on…I’m not losing anyone else today!”

But Sam, being his usual stubborn self, isn’t listening. “I’m sorry…wish I could…explain…I didn’t…didn’t mean to betray you, Guv…”

“Save it, Sam,” says Gene firmly. “We’ll talk about it when you’re through this.”

“Gene…” and Gene realises that Sam is shuddering violently, little terrified gasps coming from his lips. “I...I lo-.”

Sam’s eyelids flutter closed. His sentence disappears on the breeze, words scattered under the railway bridge like the droplets of rain that begin to fall and mingle with the blood.

“I know, Sam.” Gene whispers.

Then gently gathers Sam into his arms. And, face buried in Sam’s hair, for the first time since finding his brother lying stone cold on a street corner, Gene Hunt cries.

-----

Sam Tyler stands on the roof of the police station and looks out over the city. He takes in the changes to the skyline, wonders how everything can be so different and yet exactly the same. It’s all so alien to him: clean and tidy and organised, while still bustling with activity. Below him thousands of people are sitting in traffic jams or hurrying to catch trains, laptop case in one hand and iPod in the other. Fast, efficient, professional.

And somehow he knows he hates it. He misses the mess, the chaos; the white-knuckle, daredevil rides in the Cortina. He misses being able to have a punch-up without his opponent crying assault. He misses the good old-fashioned scotch and the banter down the pub. He misses being needed, being part of a team.

He knows there is a roof under him as he starts to run, so why can’t he feel his feet pounding against it? He knows there is a wind blowing; it lifts up his jacket tails, so why can’t he feel it rushing through his hair and stinging his eyes? He knows he is falling, can see the ground getting closer and closer, so why doesn’t his stomach feel like it’s in his throat?

He closes his eyes, bracing himself –

And then opens them abruptly when nothing happens.

And somehow he knows he hates it. He misses the mess, the chaos; the white-knuckle, daredevil rides in the Cortina. He misses being able to have a punch- up without his opponent crying assault. He misses the good old-fashioned scotch and the banter down the pub. He misses being needed, being part of a team.

He misses it, but he can’t go back.

Below him, the rush hour continues. Workers on their way home to their families. Sam knows there is a roof beneath his feet and he now also knows that despite feeling as though he’s walking on an imaginary surface, he has to keep his feet firmly stuck to it. And as Sam Tyler makes his way down off the roof, a car parked outside the entrance to the station plays a familiar tune:

“But her friend is nowhere to be seen,

Now she walks through her sunken dream,

To the seat with the clearest view…”

-----

It takes a long while before Gene realises there is a hand on his shoulder. He finally releases his grip on Sam, lowering him back to the ground and rearranging Sam’s broken arm so that Sam is no longer lying on it. He takes a moment to compose himself before turning to face Annie. Her face is streaked black and blotchy, but when she speaks her voice is steady and professional.

“I rang Phyllis, she’s sending a van over. I didn’t tell her…”

Gene nods, gratefully. “We’ll break the news to the others later. In the meantime, you make sure this doesn’t get anywhere near a journo, Cartwright. Got it?”

“Yes, Guv.”

She walks away and for the first time Gene surveys the carnage behind him.

There is blood, so much blood, blood and mud and bullets. Three of his officers are lying on this railway.

“I am my team.”

“If one of us falls, we all do.”

And finally, Gene Hunt is destroyed.

-----

Sam visits his own grave. He wonders idly who organised the funeral, if there was one. Annie, maybe? Not Gene, surely?

He decides it doesn’t really matter anymore.

The headstone is simple, nothing fancy. Just a plain inscription.

“DI Sam Tyler

1940-1973

A good, if occasionally irritating, colleague and friend.

A good man, he made a mistake and paid dearly for it.”

Sam could have laughed. And for a man staring at his own headstone that was even more insane than it appeared. The message sounded so much like it had come from Gene that the familiar ache suddenly became a gnawing hole that threatened to consume him from the inside out.

They had thought he was thirty-three. Sam isn’t sure whether to take that as a compliment or not.

He shakes his head, straightens up and begins to walk away.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sam sees an elderly woman entering the cemetery just as he is about to leave. Her hair is a rich, deep brown, flecked liberally with grey and at her side walks a young boy, clinging to her hand with all of his young strength.

“Gran, I think I saw a ghost!”

The woman looks down at the struggling child and sighs. “Come on, Sam. Nothing and nobody can hurt you, I’m here.”

Sam doesn’t even think about it. He forgets everything. He forgets that he’s supposed to be dead, forgets that the last thing he said to her was that he wouldn’t leave her.

“Annie!” He jogs over to her. She grasps hold of little Sam’s shoulders tightly and instinctively brings him closer to her as she looks around for the source of the voice. When her eyes settle on him, Sam think the world might have stopped turning. “Annie Cartwright?”

“Nobody’s called me Annie in over thirty years. I’m Annabel; Cartwright was my maiden name. And who are you, exactly? How do you know me?”

Sam thinks someone might have just ripped out his heart and stamped on it a thousand times.

“You don’t remember me? Annie, it’s Sam! Sam Tyler…”

She frowns at him. “Never heard that name before, sorry.”

Sam feels like he could cry. “Oh, ok. I’m sorry. I’ll let you get on.” He croaks; his throat dry. He turns away before she can see his tears.

At the gate, Sam turns back to look at her, just once more. He doesn’t understand. She is kneeling by the grave he has just vacated, young Sam hovering next to her uncomfortably.

-----

The next day he sees an old man in a ragged brown coat walking down the road from the off-license, cigarette in one hand and a bag full of what appear to be bottles of alcohol in the other. This time Sam is a little more cautious. He doesn’t bound up like a lost puppy; he watches and follows the man as discreetly as he can. He promises himself he will not tell Gene who he is, in case he is disappointed again.

Gene looks very different to when Sam last saw him, but then thirty years will do that to someone, unless they’re Sam Tyler. His hair is wispy and almost completely grey; Sam estimates that he’s lost at least half of it. Weight is also something Gene Hunt seems to have lost half of, but Sam doesn’t want to think about that. His fashion sense is something that hasn’t changed much, Sam notes dryly. Neither has the slight swagger in his walk, but with age it has become less pronounced.

But there is one big difference about him that catches Sam off guard more than anything else. He seems to be heading for the bus stop. The one thing Sam had always thought Gene to be was completely independent. He’d always been the sort of man who did his own thing and relied on nothing and nobody else. So the idea of Gene Hunt waiting for and getting on buses in order to travel was more than a little disconcerting.

Sam decides he can wait no longer and strolls over to the bus stop. He stands next to Gene and tries not to grin. There is a wind blowing that wafts the smell of the man’s aftershave towards Sam; there’s something else that hasn’t changed, Sam thinks.

He glances over at Gene, who is puffing idly on the cigarette and before he can stop himself Sam blurts out: “You do know those things will kill you, right?”

Gene actually looks affronted. “Do I look like I care? I’ll do whatever I bloody well like, thanks.”

Sam could really, really grin right now.

“So what are you doing at a bus stop, anyway?”

“Waiting for a bus, what does it look like, you fucking moron?!”

“Mind your language, sir.” Sam tries to regain some composure and look offended.

“Who the ‘ell are you, anyway? A copper?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” says Sam. “DI-,” he shakes his head, “DCI Tyler, at your service.”

“Well in that case, you should already know why I’m stuck out here rather than drivin’ me motor like the rest of the world,” says Gene gruffly.

“I’m afraid I don’t, sir.” It’s taking a lot of effort for Sam to remember to call him ‘sir’ instead of ‘Guv’.

“Got nicked for speeding, didn’t I! How the bleedin’ heck am I supposed to know what the limit is if they keep changing it every ten yards? I’m telling yer, those stupid camera things are rigged!”

Sam really does laugh this time. This is definitely Gene Hunt talking. He adds the speeding fine and apparent confiscation of car to his mental list of things that haven’t changed.

“Couldn’t you get a lift off someone, instead of waiting here?” Sam asks, thinking of Gene’s missus and whether she could drive.

“Are you offerin’?” asks Gene, unexpectedly.

Sam almost nods, and then remembers. “Oh no…I, er…can’t drive.”

Gene raises an eyebrow at him.

“I…had an accident,” says Sam stiffly. (And woke up in 1973 to find you.) “Dodgy shoulder.” He rubs it almost absentmindedly.

Gene shrugs. “Well, then. But nah, I’m on me own, I manage.”

Sam ticks the old independence on the list. He feels a pang of sympathy for the old man standing next to him, having to live alone, his old friends and family seemingly long gone. Except for Sam.

Gene is talking again. “I mean, the bloke I accidentally knocked into, he’s alright now. They let him out of hospital a couple of months ago. Shouldn’t have stepped into my lane like that, the dopey sod. Don’t know why I can’t have me car back…”

Sam’s insides have frozen up. “When did you have your car confiscated?”

Gene stops in his tirade and grunts at the question. “’Bout a year ago. Why d’you ask?”

“No reason,” Sam says shakily. So it was Gene who knocked him down all those months (or was it years?) ago? Gene who’d sent him into what Sam had thought was a nightmare? It was unreal. But then Sam had had enough of real and unreal to last him a lifetime, so he stopped himself from dwelling on it. Too much time had passed for Sam to be angry anymore.

He looks back up at Gene, only to find the other man staring back at him, intently. Sam knew that look. It was the look Gene had when he figured something out.

“Yer name’s Tyler, you said?”

Sam nodded. A tiny bubble of hope was beginning to blossom in Sam’s chest; had Gene recognised him? Would this prove once and for all that what Sam’s brain had created while in his coma had actually happened?

“Name sounds familiar,” is all Gene says.

“Yeah?” Sam feels the bubble shrink.

“I used to work with a bloke called Tyler…” for a moment Gene’s expression clouds over before he shrugs, looking away, and the moment is gone. “He was a copper, too. You could be related.”

Sam bites down hard on his lip to stop himself from saying what he wants to say just then.

Suddenly, Gene starts to cough. Great, hacking coughs that make him heave and splutter. He drops the cigarette and the bag of booze; the bottles clink and crack and shatter altogether. Gene uses one hand to steady himself against the bus shelter, the other to clap over his chest.

Sam feels the great, gnawing sensation return. Something is very wrong.

That is when Gene collapses, struggling to breathe and still clutching at his chest. Sam catches him just before he hits the floor; he is lighter than Sam expects him to be.

“Woah, Gene, I’ve got you.”

“Don’t you dare die on me, Gene!” Sam demands, ripping off his jacket and bundling it under Gene’s head.

“How you- know-m’name?” Gene hacks out, and Sam knows he’s broken his promise to himself, doesn’t much care.

“Shush, Gene. Don’t try to speak. You’re having a heart attack, but I’m gonna get help, ok? Just stay with me. It’s gonna be ok, Sammy-boy’s here.”

And Sam rips his mobile out of his pocket, thanking every deity he can think of that he has it again, and calls for an ambulance.

He grasps one of Gene’s wrists, feeling the irregular, erratic pulse there. Gene’s eyes are shut tight; he’s stopped coughing and is instead just struggling to breathe. Sam holds his hand tightly, stroking the back of it with his hand. “Slow, deep breaths, Gene. Calm, deep breaths.” And slowly, miraculously, Gene’s pulse begins to even out. “That’s it. Keep going.”

“Sam…” Gene croaks out, and Sam hears how thin and dry the breaths are becoming. Sam knows what Gene is trying to say; the memory hits him harder than the speeding car that started it all.

“I know, Gene. You too.”

It is not blood but the alcohol slowly sleeping through holes in the bag that the rain mixes with this time. Every drop falls on Sam with the weight of the guilt on his shoulders.

He gathers Gene into his arms, and face buried in his hair, Sam Tyler cries.

-----

When the ambulance eventually arrives, all they find is a man in a leather jacket kneeling on the pavement, tears leaking from his eyes as he clutches at something invisible. The paramedics spy the bottles of alcohol that lie next to him and shake their heads, sighing softly. Poor old Sam Tyler’s been drinking and having his hallucinations again.

They waste no time in helping him into the ambulance, and he puts up very little resistance. They do all they can to help him.

But Sam Tyler has been destroyed.

__________________________________________________________________________________________

The prompt was:

Something dark and depressing, a deathfic. Kill off who you like, just devestate me doing it!

I hope it's what you were looking for. :)