November 13th, 2007


Even the Nights Are Better, by Hambel. White Cortina

Title: Even the Nights Are Better
Author: hambel
Rating: Erm… White Cortina?
Words: Around 500

Spoilers: Final episode. So don’t read if you don’t want to be spoilt.
Summary: … Now that we’re here together…
A/N: Written for the Senses challenge. Not beta'd, so please sing out if you spot any mistakes or anything that doesn't make sense (pun unintentional).
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Sam finds the nights at home are the hardest. He wakes from his dreams in his double bed, to white walls and a stainless steel kitchen, and wonders who scraped off the garish wallpaper while he was asleep. Then he remembers; that was then, and this is now. He doesn’t live that life any more.
He gets through the day on auto-pilot; answering questions on procedure, checking records in the database, attending suspect interviews purely because no other senior officer is available. He’s on light duties until his psychiatric evaluation has been completed.
He stays late some evenings. That’s when the old members of ‘A’ division arrive. Carling brushes by him, knocking his shoulder and sneering, the habitual cigarette clamped between his thumb and forefinger. Chris sits down and taps away at a keyboard, although no words appear on the monitor screen. Annie perches on the corner of Sam’s desk, her leg swinging as she watches him working. None of them speak. He can’t see them, but he knows they’re there, watching him. Waiting for him.
He gets up to stretch his legs and stands by the place that used to be Gene’s door. He lifts his hand and splays his fingers, feeling the coolness of the glass that’s no longer there, before pushing it open and stepping over the threshold. A ghost of a smile forms as he walks up to where Gene’s desk should be, breathing in the scents of instinct, of teamwork and of friendship.
Gene is sat at his desk, large as – well, life, is the way the saying goes. But he’s definitely twice as disturbing. He doesn’t belong here, in 2006. None of them do. But they won’t leave Sam alone. Some nights this is all they do. They watch him, their eyes following him accusingly. Piles of paperwork that have been sorted through will suddenly fall to the floor for no apparent reason. Sam’s pretty sure it’s Carling pushing them, but it could just as well be Gene showing his disdain for the procedural duties in Sam’s world.
Help us, Sam!
Other nights he can feel their displeasure; a coldness directed at him that no amount of turning up the thermostat will alter. It’s no more than he deserves. He left them to die. He knows they did, because he’s seen the newspaper report. He dug it out even before he was officially fit for work. Jackie Queen’s scathing article on the ineptitudes of DCI Hunt and his team, all of whom perished in the train with him, carried no mention of Sam Williams, though. He supposed Morgan had something to do with that.
I don’t wanna be a policeman any more!
Tonight he can feel them stronger than ever. A whiff of cigarette smoke and the bitter tang of disappointment herald their arrival. He can feel them closing in on him, but when he looks round, there’s nobody there.
He’s not sure how to exorcise his ghosts.
He’s not sure he wants to.