kat_lair | 5 Things Meme - fic for oz_the

Title: Five Things That Make Sam Tyler Want To Stay
Author: Mistress Kat / kat_lair
Fandom: Life On Mars
Category: Gen (or very mild Sam/Gene in the last part if you’re so inclined)
Rating: PG
Word count: ~ 1400
Disclaimer: Not mine, only playing
Summary: Title says it all.

Author notes: This was supposed to a short writing exercise as an answer to oz_the_bobble’s request for my Five Things Meme. It sort of grew and is now pretending to be an actual fic. I blame Oz, because dude – this was really hard!

Five Things That Make Sam Tyler Want To Stay

1. “Encouraging mental reinstatement of physical and emotional context can significantly improve a person’s memory. Why don’t you try that, instead of firing off a question after question, and see if Mrs. Johnson can come up with a description of the assailant?”

The two young officers look at him blankly, clearly thinking he’s bonkers but not quite willing to come right out and tell him so to his face.

“Look.” Sam runs a hand through his hair, trying to think of a way to explain this. “You ever lost your keys?”

He receives uncertain nods for his trouble.

“What’d you do when that happens? You try to think what you were doing the last time you had them, perhaps coming from the shop, hands full of groceries. And maybe you try to remember what you were feeling as well. Like, if the bag broke and you dropped everything and that really pissed you off so you just flung the keys to the floor ‘cos you were too busy mopping up spilled milk.”

The officers blink at him in confusion, shifting awkwardly on their feet. Sam sighs and waits them out. Come on, come on, you can get this, it’s not that difficult…

Slowly the men’s faces clear as understanding dawns. Sam feels a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he waves them off to conduct what will hopefully be a more successful interview than the one he’d witnessed earlier.

The things he explained are familiar to him, boring even, routinely used in twenty-first century policing. But here and now, they are new and exciting. He is new and exciting; able to make a difference in a way that would have been virtually impossible in his old life.

Sometimes he feels guilty, like he’s plagiarising someone else’s idea, but he’s always careful not to give a name to what he’s doing, what he’s teaching others to do. It’ll take Fisher and Geiselman almost twenty more years to formalise the technique and he’s not out to steal anyone’s thunder.

Sam’s not interested in changing history after all, just the present.

2. “Hey, hey, hey! What's going on here?” Sam grabs the nearest kid by the scruff of his neck, pulling him from the tangle of flailing fists.

“Gerroff, gerroff!” The boy can’t be more than twelve, but he comes up fighting, blond hair flying every which way. His opponent looks slightly older but not by much, both of them so alike that they must be related.

“Who’re you then?” The older boy struggles to his feet, wiping blood from his nose with a gesture both defiant and unwittingly comical.

“Who am I?” Sam let’s the smaller kid go and watches as the two boys immediately gravitate together, turning to face him shoulder to shoulder. Definitely brothers, Sam thinks, smiling inwardly. He slips a hand to his pocket, whipping out his police badge with a flourish. “A copper, that’s who. Now settle down and tell me what's going on before I lose my patience.”

The boys stare at him, open-mouthed and clearly worried about how much trouble they’re in.

“’Twas nuthin, sir.”

“Just, uh, got a bit carried away.” The kids cast anxious glances around them, fidgeting under the scrutiny.

Sam considers his options, watching the two young boys grow steadily less confident. He lets them squirm a while longer before taking a deliberate step back. “All right then. I’ll let you go this time, but don’t be getting into scraps again, you hear?”

The boys nod their heads eagerly and then turn on their heels, running off with a speed that is gratifyingly fast. Sam can’t help but feel a certain amount of satisfaction about that, even though he knows it’s beyond petty to intimidate little kids.

Still, it’s a pleasant change, getting some respect. It seems being an officer of the law still carries some authority in 1973.

3. Sam bolts up in the middle of the night, eyes wide and unseeing. He rips himself out of the tangle of sheets, falling onto the floor in his panic. There’s a moment then – not long, less than five seconds – when he thinks he’s back in his old life, in his old flat, and the fear is like a metal band squeezing his insides with a relentless grip.

He barely makes it to the bathroom in time, bile already burning the back of his throat. The threadbare carpet digs into his knees painfully as he empties his stomach, sobbing and shaking and half-laughing in relief.

Sam can’t remember when the prospect of going back became worse than the prospect of staying exactly where he is. The absolute certainty of it is there though, cold and final like death. There is nothing for him to go back to, not anymore. Sometimes he thinks there never was.

The air is hot and humid, sticking to his skin like cobweb. Sam claws his way through it, lying down on top of the duvet with a groan. A glance at the bedside clock tells him the dawn is still hours away.

He won’t sleep again, not that night, maybe not even the next, too scared that the next time he’ll wake up he won’t be home anymore.

4. The butter melting on his toast gleams, salty and tempting, and Sam can almost feel it running down his tongue like molten sunshine.

It’s Sam’s day off and so far he’s done nothing but walk to the nearby bakery for fresh bread.

The weather is lovely and he thinks he might go to the park later on, find a quiet corner and nap under a newspaper for few hours. Then again, he might not.

Taking a huge bite of his breakfast, Sam chews blissfully, picturing old Mrs. Lewis kneading the dough in her tiny shop at the crack of dawn while the rest of the city was still asleep.

He has nothing to do and nowhere to go. No obligations, no duties, no responsibilities to worry about today. The universe may have stolen his old life, but it has given him a new one. It’s like being ripped from time has somehow gained him more of it, days and weeks and years stretching endlessly in front of him, to spend as he pleases.

Sam licks his lips, chasing the lingering taste of butter with his tongue. The quiet ticking of the clock is just background noise now, no longer carrying with it the crushing weight of missed opportunities.

He gets up and lights the grill again, cutting another thick slice from the loaf. Maybe he’ll make a pot of coffee too, or some eggs.

There’s plenty of time, after all.

5. “Hey, Boss! You made it!” Chris clutches his arm, half in greeting and half just to stay on his feet. Sam nods distractedly, letting himself be dragged toward the bar.

Stepping into Railway Arms is a full frontal assault to the senses, and as always Sam is momentarily overwhelmed. He pauses in the middle of it all, the currents of noise swirling around him, the colours blurring into each other until his eyes water, too full, too much, too soon.

“You better let the Guv know you’re here. He was asking after you. Not a good idea to keep him waiting.” Chris keeps talking, something about the case and the paperwork Sam volunteered to stay behind to do, but the words flow past him without making contact.

The smell of cigarette smoke and booze is so strong he can taste it, the press and heat of bodies making his skin tingle. Sam wants to spread his arms wide open, like a butterfly pinned down mid-flight, unable to do anything but accept the impossible.

On the other side of the room, Gene puts his cards down and lights a cigarette. His eyes find Sam’s, head tilting almost imperceptibly in silent acknowledgement.

It’s like breaking through the surface of water you never knew you were drowning in, his splintered senses clicking back into place, chaos turning into synchrony.

Sam gives a slight nod of his own in return. They won’t speak tonight. Hell, they probably won’t speak ever, at least not about anything that really matters. He knows this and doesn’t care.

He may be in a coma or he may be dead and he knows all this too and cares even less. Because the truth is, he’s never felt more awake or more alive than he does right then and there, standing in the centre of this small world he’s found himself in and not standing alone.