Fic: 36 Hours

[teyla]

Title: 36 Hours
Beta: euclase
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Violence, Rape
Pairing: Sam/Gene
Word Count: ~4300
Disclaimer: Life on Mars doesn't belong to me.
Summary: Warren gets off his charges, and he's carrying a grudge against Sam.

---

This shouldn't be happening. This was 1973, this was his bloody fantasy world, and this shouldn't be happening here.

They'd grabbed him Friday night, had broken into his flat and waited for him. Back at the station, save some week-end emergency, they wouldn't miss him until Monday.

Gene would have missed him. But Gene wasn't in Manchester.

For the first time in his life, Sam Tyler wished for a crime to be committed.

 

Warren. Of course it was Warren, how could it have been anyone else? Their case had been weak, and his lawyers had torn it to shreds. Sam had known he was out, but he hadn't paid it a lot of thought. Warren's empire was ruined; he was nothing but a run-down former king. Or should that be queen?

Fuck, watch your mouth, Sam. Stupid. Bloody stupid.

"I'll have none of that talk, Detective Inspector." Warren moved closer, the heels of his nineteen-seventy boots scraping on the concrete floor.

Sam shook his head to chase away the haze that had settled over his vision, and his stomach rolled. Someone grabbed him by the chin, and he blinked up into hard, dark eyes.

"You're in no position to get smart with me, Detective Inspector. I thought we had made that clear by now."

Edwards cracked his knuckles, and Sam squeezed his eyes shut just before the punch rocked his head back.

 

Sunday. It had to be Sunday by now.

Sam squinted up at the small narrow slit in the concrete wall above him, trying to determine whether it was light or dark outside. His eyes were swollen shut most of the way, though, and all he managed to make out were fuzzy shapes.

He rested his head against the wall. Fuck, but he was cold. Maybe it was night after all.

 

Someone grabbed him and hauled him upright against the wall. Sam tried to make out who it was, but had to close his eyes as pain exploded in the left side of his face.

"Hello again, Detective Inspector." Now two hands were holding him, long slender fingers, not at all like Edwards', cradling his chin, thumbs stroking his cheeks. "Such a shame, really. Such a terrible shame."

"Let... me go."

"I'd thought they'd at least have knocked on my door by now," Sam heard him say. "But they're leaving me alone. Could it be that no-one misses you, Detective Inspector?"

What day was it? Please let it be Sunday. He could live with no-one missing him during the weekend. At least he hoped he could.

"I'd miss you." There it was again, the thumb caressing his cheek. "If I were Gene Hunt, I wouldn't let you out of my sight. Such a pretty boy."

Slowly, Sam's wits were beginning to catch up. He forced his eyes open and looked around for Edwards. He wasn't there. It was just the two of them.

Sam reached out and pushed Warren away with all his might. The hand disappeared from his face, and he scrambled away towards a corner. "Don't touch me, Warren." This time, his words were clear. "Don't you dare."

There was a sound, and Sam took a moment to realize it was laughter. His heart was beating in his throat.

"Who's going to stop me? You?" The blurred shape that was Warren came closer, and the hard wall behind Sam wouldn't allow him to retreat any further. "I think I can take you, Detective Inspector."

Hands on his wrists, and a heavy body pressing against him, immobilizing. "The question is, can you take me?"

There was nothing he could do. Later, that was what he'd tell himself again and again. There was nothing he could have done. Warren snapped a pair of cuffs around his wrists, pulled him out of the corner and shoved him face down onto the floor. Cold concrete was pressing against his cheek, and he struggled, squirmed, until something hard connected with the back of his head and his vision greyed out.

When he came around he didn't know how much later, his trousers were gone, and he could feel the icy floor under his thighs and crotch. There was a thin line of pressure around his neck. He tried to move, and the pressure intensified, choking him.

"Don't make this harder on yourself than it has to be." Warren's voice, and there was a hand on Sam's arse, cold fingers running over the skin.

Sam stopped struggling and lay perfectly still. "Please don't do this." His swollen lips could barely formulate the words. "Please."

"Oh, don't cry, Sammy-boy. And here I was thinking you liked things a bit kinky." On the last word, Warren tightened the rope, and Sam's breath was cut off. A second later, Sam felt a splitting pain as Warren thrust a finger into him. He opened his mouth to scream, and sound followed a moment later as Warren loosened the rope.

"Please." Coughing and gasping, Sam wasn't sure he'd actually said it. The searing pain doubled when there was another thrust. Warren was now tearing and pulling with two fingers, and Sam could feel a wet warmth trickle down towards his balls.

"It's okay. Just relax, Sammy-boy. It'll be over much quicker that way."

Don't call me that. There was a moment of relief as Warren removed his fingers. Don't fucking call me that.

Any coherent thought was brutally eradicated by the agony that followed. Sam tried to scream again, to struggle, but the noose around his neck was tightened again, and a heavy weight on his back was holding him down. He choked, feeling his tongue swell up to twice its normal size, and surges of terrible, mind-twisting pain ran through him with every of Warren's thrusts. His vision greyed, sensations were moving further away from him, and then he could feel something tear deep inside him.

After that, there was nothing.

 

Pain. There was too much of it. Pain, and cold. He would never be warm again. There were voices, talking about finishing off the copper.

Please, he thought. Please, I beg you.

-###-

They'd known what they'd find wouldn't be pretty. The moment Chris had fished that cigarette butt out from under Sam's bed, the same brand that Warren's lapdog Edwards smoked, Gene had known that it wouldn't be pretty. He'd even prepared himself for the possibility of finding Sam face-down in the canal.

He hadn't been prepared for this, though.

"Chris, call an ambulance. Now!"

Chris tore his gaze away from the crumpled body on the floor and stared at Gene with wide eyes before he muttered, "Yes, Guv," and stumbled out of the room.

Gene dropped to his knees. "Sweet Mary mother of Jesus... Sam?" He reached out, but hesitated. He didn't want to hurt him. Any more than he'd already been hurt. "Come on, Sammy-boy, talk to me."

He finally did turn Sam onto his back, and he was glad that there was no one with him in the room, as he couldn't suppress a small sound of horror. "Oh my God. What did the bastard do to you?"

He pulled out his hankie, and with a hand that wasn't quite steady tried to clean away the blood and dried vomit on Sam's face. "Hold on, Sammy. Ambulance will be here in a minute. You'll be fine."

Sam's eyelids fluttered, and Gene froze. "Sam?"

Sam moved his bruised lips, and his eyes opened a crack to reveal two white crescents, but he didn't make a sound. The fingers of his right hand opened and closed, and Gene reached out to touch them. "It's okay, Sam. Just hold on. You'll be out of here in a minute."

Gene heard steps on the stairs leading down to the cellar room they were in, and he quickly snatched his hand back. A moment later, Chris entered. "Medics are here, Guv."

Gene got to his feet and turned around to see Chris being followed by two paramedics with a gurney. He stepped back.

"Just be careful with him, will ya."

 

"I'll have to talk to a relative. Is there anyone, a next of kin, wife, someone with a legal connection?"

Gene balled his fists in his coat pockets and narrowed his eyes at Sam's doctor who answered his stare with a level gaze. "He doesn't have anyone," Gene repeated. "Least no one I know of or could contact."

The doctor looked at him for a couple of moments before he raised his hands in a gesture of resignation. "Alright then. If you would step into my office, please."

Gene followed the doctor - a Dr. Roland Hopkins, although Gene had trouble thinking of him as anyone else but "that bloody arrogant tosser" - and sat down in one of the visitor's chairs. His eyes caught the telephone on the desk, and he considered briefly asking Hopkins to let him make a quick call to the station; he hadn't had time yet to check in with his team, since he'd driven from the crime scene straight to the hospital, leaving it to Ray to take Warren and Edwards back to CID. Gene was anxious to have a little talk with both of them, but it would have to wait. It wasn't as if there was any doubt that they were guilty. Gene just hoped that Ray would be as patient as well.

Hopkins walked around the desk and sat down in his chair, and Gene dismissed asking him about the phone. "So what's the deal then?"

"Detective Inspector Tyler was brutally assaulted -"

"No shit, Sherlock," Gene muttered, and Hopkins frowned at him.

"-brutally assaulted by at least two different people. He suffered severe bruising, multiple bone fractures and some internal bleeding. His injuries suggest that he was victim to a strangulation attempt. The fact that he was kept in a barely insulated cellar in his weakened state led to hypothermia. He was denied food and sufficient hydration for at least thirty-six hours. And there's something else."

Gene answered the doctor's severe look, careful to keep his face as stoic as possible as his stomach clenched at the mental images Hopkins' distanced report had conjured up. "Something else?"

"I believe DI Tyler was sexually assaulted."

Gene stared at Hopkins, his fingers tightening around the chair's armrests. He opened his mouth, closed it again. He had to look away for a moment before he could speak. "Are you sure?"

"Some of DI Tyler's injuries are quite unequivocal."

Gene took a deep breath and ran a hand over his face before he looked back at Hopkins, who lowered his eyes to the chart in front of him.

"We're keeping him sedated for now. It might still be a while until he wakes up. When he does, he might not even remember what happened. His mental state will have to be assessed, and according to the results, the appropriate steps will have to be taken."

"What's that without the psych bullshit?"

Hopkins looked up, and Gene wasn't quite sure if what he could see in the doctor's eyes was sympathy or contempt. "It means that at the moment, there's nothing anyone can do."

-###-

He hadn't gone back to the station. He'd wanted to - oh, how he'd wanted to - but he realized that Warren getting killed in an accident in Lost and Found wouldn't exactly be productive to the case. That might not have stopped him, but he knew as well that even if his reasons were beyond Gene, Sam wouldn't want the bastard dead.

So he'd stayed.

They put Sam in the ICU, next to a bloke who was hooked up to what had to be half the hospital's technical equipment. Next to him, the area around Sam's bed looked almost empty. No machines or tubing save for an IV. It made Sam look even smaller than he already was.

Gene wished Sam would wake up. He knew he was being stupid, but he couldn't help it. The nurses had cleaned Sam up, which made him look a little less like something the cat had left under the kitchen table, but Gene still wished for some sign of life. When he'd first seen Sam lying there on the floor in that cellar, he'd been so sure he was dead.

Gene quickly bent down and brought his lips close to Sam's ear, while at the same time he reached for Sam's limp hand that lay on top of the sheets. Sam's fingers were cold against his own, and he tried to cover as much skin as possible with his palm. "You're fine now, Sam," he said in a low voice so the nurses wouldn't hear him. "You're okay, you're at the hospital. Everything's gonna work out fine, you hear me? You just hang in there, and everything's gonna work out alright."

Ignoring the nervous little voice in the back of his head that kept telling him to watch out for the nurses, Gene planted a quick kiss on Sam's temple, one of the few places on his body that wasn't covered in bruises. Then he straightened up and crossed his arms.

"I'll be back later, Sam. Try to wake up for me then, okay?"

-###-

"He's been on the downhill course ever since Friday night. I've no idea what's causing it."

"We might be losing him."

"It's a terrible shame, isn't it. He shouldn't be dying at his age. He's such a pretty boy..."

Floating. Floating in a sea of light, bright white light, blinding him. Surrounding him. Not floating. Going under. Drowning.

"You're at the hospital. Everything's gonna work out fine, you hear me? You just hang in there..."

There was pain this way, pain and more light, but he knew the voice. If it just kept talking, kept letting him hear it, he could get out.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Tyler. We don't know what's causing it. We might have to prepare for the possibility that we're losing Sam..."

Lost. He was lost already, in this sea of light, caught between now and then. He reached out blindly and kept going, heading towards more light, a different sort of light.

"What'd they do to you, eh? Poor boy. Boys like you shouldn't be coppers, it's just no job for men like you. Now let's get this IV changed, shall we..."

Getting out. Heading further towards the light. The other light. The pain.

"I know you can't hear me, Sammy, but I want you to keep fighting. You've been doing so well, don't stop now. Keep it up, Sam, keep it together, Boss, she's been crying, and I didn't know what to do so I told her to get a cuppa, and she said I was..."

Sam blinked his eyes open, but quickly closed them again as an onslaught of light blinded him. "Mm-" His voice gave out and he tried again. "Mum?"

"Uh, er, no, Boss." The voice was familiar, but definitely not his mother. "It's me, Boss. Uh, me. Chris."

Sam took a moment to work through this information. Chris was talking again, saying that they'd tried to find his mum but they didn't have any phone numbers, and no wonder, that, because the area code had changed. "Where's Gene?"

"Ge- you mean the Guv?" Sam tried opening his eyes again - they wouldn't go far, but he did manage to pry them open a little bit - and squinted up at Chris, who looked anxious.

"Uh, he's at the station. He asked me to stay here. Sent Annie, too, only she's gone to get a cup of tea..."

Sam closed his eyes again. It was exhausting, looking up at Chris like that, and as darkness enclosed him, Chris' rambling moved further away, becoming a background buzz.

-###-

When he came around again, the effects of the drugs were wearing off, and the pain was much more than just a sensation at the outer fringes of his awareness. He tried moving his head, but quickly gave up as pain flared behind his temples. He licked his cracked lips with a tongue that felt and tasted like an old, dried up rag.

He felt a hand touching his shoulder. "Sam?"

He carefully cracked his eyes open and saw a dark, fuzzy shape looming over him. He tried to speak, but his throat wouldn't allow any sound to pass.

"S'okay, Sammy. You're in the hospital. Don't move around too much."

He tried to ask for some water - water would be good, something cool and wet on his parched throat - but the sound he heard himself make didn't really sound human, much less like any sort of meaningful words. He was about to try again when he felt something brush against his lips; it was a drinking straw.

"There you go, easy does it."

Making his lips close around the straw was harder than it should have been, and he spilled a little bit, feeling the cool liquid running over his cheek. He did manage to take a small mouthful, though, and it felt extremely good and soothing, until he swallowed. His throat constricted, and the sharp stab of pain made him cough, causing more pain in his chest and abdomen.

"Hey, hey, take it easy."

The water did have the desired effect of moisturizing his throat, and when he spoke again, the words sounded more like actual speech. "Gene? What -" He coughed again. "What's going on?"

"You've been hurt. We found you, brought you here to the hospital. You remember?"

Sam closed his eyes and cast his mind back. He'd been in the pub, having a drink with Gene and Annie and the guys, and then he'd left with Gene, seeing him off as they wouldn't be seeing each other this weekend with Gene having to testify in London. They'd said goodbye and he'd returned home -

Sam opened his eyes. "They were waiting for me. In my flat. They were waiting for me in my flat."

The hand was back on his shoulder. "I know, Sammy. Try not to think about it."

"He had a gun, Gene. I tried to get away, but he had a gun. He would have shot me."

"Shh, Sam." The blurred outline that was Gene came closer, and after a moment, Sam could make out his face, concerned eyes frowning down at him. "Don't think about it, okay?"

But he couldn't stop now, images flooding his mind, sensations, feelings. He'd been so scared. And angry. But mostly scared. They hadn't let off, had hit him again and again, until they'd decided that wasn't enough and had -

"Oh my God." His voice was thin, terrified, and he dug his fingers into the sheets. "Oh my God, Gene, I -"

"Sam." Gene's voice penetrated the drone in his ears. "Sam, look at me."

Sam sought out Gene's eyes that were still only a few inches from his own.

"I don't want you to think about this now. Okay?" Gene frowned. "Look at me. Tell me you can hear me."

"I can hear you." He could. He stared up into Gene's eyes, concentrating on the two dark orbs, letting them drown out anything else in his mind. "I can hear you."

"Good. Go back to sleep now, okay?"

-###-

Sam slept for most of the next few days, and Gene stayed with him for most of that time. He tried not to be too obvious about it, but there came a point where he didn't give a shit anymore about whether or not people thought that the Gene Genie seemed a bit too worried about his DI. He wasn't a DCI for nothing; most people would think twice before questioning him openly, and as for what they thought personally, Gene couldn't care less.

He left for periods of time when he had to do his job. Tuesday afternoon, he'd decided things had settled into perspective enough so he could dare to take Warren into Lost and Found. He did take a precaution in bringing Cartwright along instead of Ray. It proved to be a smart move, although part of Gene wished he'd hurt Warren more badly, and a small part of Gene might even have played with the idea of giving him a taste of his own medicine. He drew consolation from the fact that in restraining himself, he'd made sure that Warren was alive to enjoy close male affection from his prison inmates for quite a few years to come.

Now, after six days, the nurses had given up on trying to make Gene adhere to visiting hours, and this must have been the first week in a long time that Gene hadn't spent his late nights at the Railway Arms. He was starting to miss Nelson's fake Jamaican accent.

A noise from one of the other patients startled him, and Gene realized he had fallen asleep. He sat up and blinked in the dimness of the dark room, rubbing his stiff neck, when his eyes fell on Sam's bed. It was empty.

"Oh for..." Gene clambered to his feet. "Where's he gone now?"

Sam had got the okay from Hopkins to get up two days ago, and he'd done a few walking exercises with the nurses. They'd encouraged him to get up on his own, but so far, he hadn't done so.

It only figured he'd decide to change his mind at this ungodly hour.

Gene looked around, first for Sam, then for a nurse, but the only people around were the other patients, all of them fast asleep. He sighed and set off towards the door. Sam couldn't have gone far.

He hadn't. As Gene stepped into the eerie, dark hospital corridor, he spotted his DI's narrow frame hunched over the banister of the balcony at the end of the hallway. He frowned. Sam shouldn't be out there in the cold. Especially not when he was wearing nothing but that flimsy hospital gown.

The French door stood ajar and let out a mournful creak when Gene pushed it open. Sam didn't turn around, but Gene thought he could see his shoulders tighten.

"What're ye doing out here?"

"What're you doing out here? Shouldn't you be home with the missus?"

Gene pursed his lips and took a deep breath, then shrugged out of his coat and put it around Sam's shoulders. Sam didn't move or turn his head, not even when Gene stood next to him and leaned on the banister as well.

"I don't think the missus would appreciate me coming home and waking her up at this hour. Besides, she's used to me not coming home at night, isn't she."

Sam lowered his eyes, and Gene looked at him for a moment. In the darkness, the bruises were less obvious, but Gene knew what he was looking for. The thin, dark line was still visible, running around Sam's neck like a collar, lined by red scratches and rippling every time Sam's Adam's apple moved. Gene gritted his teeth and looked away. "You should go back to bed. Or at least back inside."

"I will." Sam didn't raise his head. "In a minute."

They were silent for a moment, and Gene considered calling the nurse to make Sam go back inside - not that he didn't approve of Sam finally deciding to get out of bed, but he could almost see his shoulders trembling underneath the camel coat - when Sam did look up and caught his eyes.

Sam ran his tongue over his lips. "Gene, can I -" He broke off.

Gene watched him attentively, and after a moment, Sam took a deep breath. When Gene saw the unusual brightness in his eyes, he immediately started to feel anxious. This wasn't his territory, this was DC Cartwright's area of expertise.

"Gene, can I talk to you?"

"I thought that's what we were doing, talking."

"No, I mean -" Sam turned his eyes away again. "I mean, talk. Me telling you things without you clamming up and being a goddamn bloke about it." Sam's voice was quivering now, but he soldiered on, disregardful. "I wouldn't ask you to do this, because you're the last person on Earth who should do it, but this is bloody 1973, and they haven't even sent a counsellor. It's been a week, and no-one's been in to see me. I can't imagine what people - what men - what they did in these days, but I know I can't do it. I can't just - pretend -"

"Hey." It didn't take much to interrupt Sam's choked stammering. Sam dropped his head, and Gene could see him hunching down even further as if he were trying to make himself as small as possible.

He reached out and put a tentative hand on Sam's shoulder. "I'm not gonna try and make you pretend nothing happened, Sam. I know I'm not exactly a psychology expert like Cartwright, but if you need to get stuff off your chest..."

Sam put his hands over his face, and Gene could hear him trying to stifle a sob. "I just need- " He swallowed and lowered his hands. "I just need to know you're there."

Maybe it was a sign that spending too much time with Dorothy had corrupted his behaviour, but for once, Gene felt he knew what to do. He didn't say anything, but reached out and nudged Sam's shoulder, then carefully pulled him into an embrace. Sam's skin was cold even through the hospital gown, and he was shivering, so Gene put his arms around him.

Sam pressed his face into Gene's chest. He didn't make a sound, but his shoulders were shaking, and after a moment, Gene could feel moisture soaking through his shirt.

"I'm here, Sam," he said quietly. "Don't you worry."