He is walking into CID, the gloomy bunker-style office filled with men celebrating solving their latest case. In the middle of the kerfuffle is Gene Hunt, king of the jungle with his servants around him, sat back with a smug look on his face and a large bottle of amber whisky on the desk next to him. DS Ray Carling, smoking like a chimney next to him, is relaxing against the desk, grinning as Gene makes some smutty comment to him and directing his look of superiority to DI Sam Tyler, sat just behind Gene, a cup in his hand and leaning back, giving DS Carling a look of scathing as the men trap each other in malevolent glares before looking back as the door bangs shut to mark the arrival of him and his squad.
Gene's eyes narrow, the long lashes almost trapping each other as he sits back and addressed him.
"You want a drink, Litton? 'Fraid we 'aven't got any Babycham."
The gag has the desired effect; he feels a little irritation of anger in his gut at the mocking looks from Gene's department.
"You knew those shooters were the real deal?"
His voice almost betrays the shock and irritation that he feels, but like every good copper he keeps it just about in check. Gene gives half a smirk, almost a lifetime goal for a man who smiles so little.
"Bloody 'ell, you really ARE a detective."
He opens his mouth to retaliate, his brain trying to cook up a retort that will have Gene speechless and his team avoiding his own's triumphant gazes. His eye is caught just as the start of something comes into his head, and he averts his line of sight to see a picture of himself in the newspaper on the wall next to Gene, with a crudely-drawn penis on his head and large misshapen breasts adhering to his chest.
His chest swells with indignation, the comeback line gone with his anger at the picture.
"That's very good…"
One slender, work-worn finger points to the picture, annoyance spreading over his face as Gene and his team turn, take in the picture and turn back with looks of mild amusement on their faces.
"When are you going to get it into your thick skulls that armed blags are mine?"
His vexation is nearing boiling point as Gene leans forwards, his own face showing anger.
"D'you mind? I nearly 'ad me brains blown out tonight!"
"Oh, would you 'ave noticed?"
The team behind him chuckle. Gene, his eyes still fixed on him, takes a swig from his cup of whisky, feigning disinterest but keeping the contest still engaged.
"If they were goin' for 'eavy blood loss, Gene, they should've shot you in the gut."
Gene, resentment now clear on his face, stands up sharply, sliding the cup onto the table, approaching his opponent. The two men approach each other, Gene's body squaring up for a fight, Litton's doing much the same but knowing his team are behind him.
"Hey. Mr Litton."
The new DI speaks up, still standing next to his chair, making no move to advance on him, calm as you please. He feels another surge of displeasure in his stomach.
"I think you'd better swallow it down."
He pauses, an almost boastful look on his face as he lifts his cup, mockingly toasting his team's adversaries.
"We 'ad a result. One-nil."
His chest fires up in a tidal wave of badly-suppressed anger as the team start chanting "one-nil, one-nil" at him, growing louder each time, grins appearing, his own team beginning to back down from the fight.
It's when one of the DCs steps forwards that he snaps.
And then he's fighting, punching, grabbing a telephone from a desk and using it as a weapon before the "bang" of being taken down by Gene and Sam reverberates through his head…
And now he's on the street, near the Railway Arms, watching Ray Carling stagger off towards his house and boding Gene goodnight (well, morning now), Gene turning away and just nodding in his DS's direction, turning to make his own way home, his step even and careful, not a stumbling wreck like Ray's.
His fingers, not under his control, find the pistol lodged in his jacket.
It's out and fired before he can realise what he's doing.
Gene crumples in the middle of the street; blood begins soaking from his stomach, creating a pool of sombre scarlet liquid, illuminated gruesomely by the street lamp above the injured DCI. Ray turns, a yelp of fright escaping from his mouth as he sprints to Gene, lifting him slightly off the pavement, gritting his teeth as Gene manages to squeeze his hand lightly, his consciousness ebbing away as his life pours from his punctured body…
And then he's pouring himself through his door, banging against the wall and falling into it, his body making harsh contact with the cool surface of the smooth paintwork.
It's then that he realises that this isn't a dream anymore.
"AHHH!"
Litton screams as he looks down at the discharged gun in his fingers, still bearing the traces of smoke, the barrel warm.
"I… I…"
Litton reaches up to feel his strangely heavy eyes. His fingers make contact with clumps of sleep around his eyes; travelling down, he is wearing his pyjamas and his jacket, bare feet stinging from running across the rough tarmac.
Realising what has happened, he rushes upstairs to get dressed, avoiding the bedroom in which his wife is sleeping peacefully and blessing the thick walls in his head as he grabs the clothes he was wearing today and pulls them on, not bothering to sort out his messy hair or the creases in the clothing. His appearance is no longer an issue; he has to get to the hospital, find out what he has done.
The car journey has never seemed longer. Every small delay flings him into mindless rage, and then once again cold dread and guild; by the time he parks haphazardly outside the hospital he is basted in cold sweat, his shirt soaked at the back and the armpits.
"Gene Hunt," he tells the reception desk. The woman escorts him through herself, her fingers brushing a cumbersome fringe from her eyes as she beckons to the door and goes back to the desk, her high heels echoing in his ears, the sound seeming to broaden and increase in volume, each one becoming the explosion of a bullet soaring from a gun…
His hand opens the door slowly.
Ray is there, his whole body hunched over, his eyes fixed on his Guv. Litton advances slowly, taking in the scene before him; Gene motionless, hooked up to all manner of machines, a tube making its way into his mouth, its only purpose to keep him breathing and his heart beating with a fresh supply of oxygen, a bandage coating his stomach, the only motion of his body the struggling rise and fall of his chest.
Bile rises in Litton's throat as he approaches the bed; Ray turns and sees him, his eyes widening with surprise.
"Litton? What're you doin' 'ere? 'Ow'd you know about the Guv?"
Litton pauses.
"I 'eard the gunshot from my window; I got dressed and came straight 'ere. Gene's a fellow officer, 'owever much we might dislike each other."
Ray's eyes narrow as he takes in Litton's clothing, the fateful jacket, the creased and worn fabric under it.
"I got dressed in an 'urry," Litton simply says by way of explanation. Pulling a chair forwards, bending his head to hide the guilt in his eyes, Litton sits down, his eyes taking in Gene's closed ones, his peaceful face, crowded by the tube and almost hatefully expressionless, as though the soul that controlled the face had gone. Litton can't prevent the hard swallow that comes as he realises that all of this was his own doing. Even though he frequently hates him and is hated back by him, Gene is a good man and Litton has done this to him.
But was he in control at the time? Litton hadn't known what he was doing; not in a million years would he have done what he did knowingly. It was almost like it was a dream…
He'd been in his pyjamas.
He'd had bed hair and sleep in his eyes.
He'd had bare feet.
He'd not been in control of his actions.
What the hell had he been doing?
Litton stares down at the unconscious man lying in front of him, breathing shallowly, his normal trait of filling the room he is in gone, replaced by an almost shrunken shell of the great Manc Lion, the DCI.
This was his doing.
He was no better than the criminals he tried to catch himself.
Suppressing tears, Litton stands and makes his way outside, stopping dead when he is approached by DC Chris Skelton and DI Sam Tyler, both holding handcuffs, their warrant cards outstretched in front of them.
"Derek Litton, I am arresting you on suspicion of attempted murder…"
Litton takes one look at them and bolts.
His chest is churning with confusion and fright and the unsettled feeling you get when your world has crashed down around you. He runs blindly, like a wild animal, no real destination, just trying to get away from them, to preserve what he is left with after the act he never meant to commit…
And then he is lost, and he is alone, and he is a man with nothing left to hide and no knowledge of what has happened to himself.
A/N: So… what do people think about it? I thought Litton deserved a story at least. If I get enough people asking me to carry on with this, I will. Thanks for reading, and please please please, review! I'm begging you here. Jazzola :)