I don't own any of the characters of course. Watch out for language and what are probably adult situations. I would place this sometime during Series 2.
Impermanence
This was not a permanent solution; every fibre of her being shouted that to him.
His chest ached.
She didn't rest with him. Wouldn't sleep more than an hour in the bed with him. Pulled her limbs from under his and ripped her gown from the floor, tugged it around her hips. He lifted one eye to her back, silhouetted in the light of the lamp from the living room that they never turned off.
Everything in a state of impermanence.
He closed his eye again and feigned sleep, breathed deeply. To be caught awake was to admit something. To be vulnerable.
He wasn't that.
She stood over him for 10 seconds.
20 seconds.
Who was fooling who with this? He refused to open his eyes. He waited to see what she would do, then hated himself for it.
He felt her hand in his hair, then rustling.
She had left the bedroom.
He wanted to break something.
The workers were angry, and who could blame them? The Welles Company had closed the factory Friday afternoon and told the workers not to bother coming back on the Monday. Chains went up, padlocks on the doors. Private security to protect the building that they wanted to sell. Two shifts of 150 workers each were without jobs; without prospects in Thatcher's London.
No notice.
No "thank you for your service".
He tapped his pen on his pad.
The chains were ripped off with crowbars and a truck last night and three small fires were set to the guard houses around the perimeter of the factory. Snouts had let it be known that meetings were being held. The local pubs were filled.
The room could seat 12 probably, with the large table and all the chairs. Now, it only sat the four of them. The other DCI's scratched notes or asked questions. They looked worried or angry or indignant.
He couldn't summon the interest either way. Let them riot. Let them break the whole city; fuck it. He let the pen drop to his pad.
They were dismissed.
He didn't want her to come.
He couldn't look at her or speak to her today either, so it was out of his hands really.
Not his bleedin' fault if she couldn't handle herself with the grubby mouth-breathers who were going to try to pound the shit out of 'em.
She was at her desk, and then she was up, walking to the kitchen. She was wearing a red blouse today, buttoned to the neck. That meant she'd want him to ask her about tonight.
He wouldn't though, not tonight.
He screwed the cap back on his bottle and let his shoulders slump.
They didn't have enough crash helmets, and he'd be shitted if he'd ever wear a bobby helmet again.
They were ordered to the ramshackle little pub a street away from the factory. They caught 20 or 30 of them as they were carrying armloads of moltov cocktails out the back door. They missed his head by only a little bit. Everything smelled of petrol. The dank little alley turned into a firepit, dustbins blocking the other end.
He didn't think when he was battering heads in; he didn't have to.
He liked the nothingness tonight.
He liked the stomping, which he never minded before. It was as a man should do; defending his patch against those that would rip it apart.
Only now, if he let himself think about it, he knew he'd feel regret. Some shame. There were ones only 16 or 17 years old. If things were different, Bolly'd be trying to hold him back. She thought he might be good, underneath it all.
So best to avoid that; thinking.
He brought his fist down on a fat bastard's face, felt the bones grind together.
In 1983 the Met did not send its few female officers to the front lines of a riot, but she wasn't about to let something as silly as a deep rooted systemic misogyny stop her.
She shook her head to try and clear her vision. Smoke stung her eyes and enveloped her. She closed them again, wiping one more time with her shirt.
They were to keep all their clothing tucked in and buttoned up; no loose shirttails to be grabbed at. There was no point, the uniforms they had distributed to CID were all men's, and large men's. Her trousers were torn at the knee where she had gone down over a broken parking metre. It would hurt like the devil later. She doubted that she'd dress it properly, not like she would if this were real, at home. It would scar, but what did that mean?
What happened to her body at the hospital?
Was it even there anymore?
Exhausting.
Her skin prickled at his presence.
He was behind her, pushing a fat man towards a panda. He had refused to wear the same as the rest of them. He was wearing black trousers, his blue shirt, and the reflective riot vest. From his left hand dangled a black baton.
She'd rather not feel this way.
He left the man with a uniform and turned to her. She moved to him.
His face was burning, a furnace. His skin was singed and his lip split. She meant to reach up and inspect it, but impulsively she wrapped her hand around the back of his neck and felt the sweat and the greasy soot there. His hair was plastered to his head and he closed his eyes. He swayed on his feet, then straightened. He held himself still and opened his eyes at her.
Blue.
He reached around and pulled her hand from his neck, gripping her wrist gently.
He let her wrist drop. Regarded her, then turned from her and walked back to the pub.
She wouldn't watch him go.
He saw himself in the plate glass, smudged. The smoke had coated his face and clothes; settled in all the creases around his eyes, baked into his neck and collar.
It was his grandfather, from the mines. Soaked shirt and filthy hands, sitting at the dinner table. Marking his grandson's face with coal dust when he smacked him one.
His grandfather was 57 when he died, stabbed to death outside a pub, much like this one.
Then it was his father, blood under his nails from the butchery. Staring back at him.
Foolishness in thinking anything made a difference most days.
His father was 48 when he died in a dirty hospital room, vomiting blood and black tar.
They were told to push towards the factory itself; most of the other workers had fled or been arrested, but about 15 more still barricaded themselves within the factory.
If they'd had strategy, it was surely abandoned now, as the factory smoked from more than 3 separate major fires inside. The fire brigade weren't cleared to go into the building yet.
A sobbing man, hysterical, gripped Ray's jacket. Of course he'd brought his boy. Why wouldn't you bring a child to a vicious, mindless event like this?
"Didn't know there'd be fires, did I? Just wanted to show him not to take shit from them- I didn't know, did I?" Ray looked at him helplessly.
Something else.
"She-"
Of course.
He ran into the side door and didn't think.
Don't think, because you can think after, if you really want to.
Find her.
He wasn't young, and it was getting harder to move. Breathing was difficult. He lifted an arm to his face, and tried to shield his lungs from the searing smoke. Hurt.
His chest hurt so much now.
Something creaked and groaned above him, loud over the burning sound.
He tilted his head up, but could see nothing.
Nothing.
He didn't care. He felt frenzied; self-preservation was a motion that he was going through. He stumbled on, through a corridor leading to what must be offices at the back.
A crack and then he felt his shoulder tear, excruciating pain knocked him to the ground.
Old man, lucky old man. His riot vest smouldered and his back was numbed. He shrugged it from his shoulder; his left arm wasn't responding like it should. He let it drop from him, stepping over it he could see that the reflective coating was burnt through in patches. His back was still numb. He couldn't think; he needed so badly to clear his head, he shook it, once, twice. Braced himself against the door. It was the last room; they would be there. He couldn't think any further than this.
Nothing else was possible.
He braced himself and kicked.
The door heaved inwards and splintered across the floor. He stumbled to one knee with the momentum, the walls weren't there to hold him up anymore.
Blackness. Noise.
Then nothing at all.
The noise stopped.
It felt good, being without.
He wasn't there anymore, because he was someplace else.
Her face, asleep, next to his. Beautiful, different from how she really looked. She was still, because she didn't want to be somewhere else. He was where she wanted to be.
They were in a bed, with blue sheets, and they smelled of laundry soap. He smelled her underneath it.
Light, there was light in the room; on his pillow. Across her face.
His hand rested around her stomach over the blue sheet. His blond knuckles and a silver ring.
Her hair across the pillow. Her leg moved against his.
Peace.
She loved him here, and he wanted to stay.
He smelled blood, and then his lungs hurt again, worse.
It wasn't real.
He heaved his head up, off his arm. Closed his eyes; they watered painfully. He wiped his face roughly against his shoulder. He pushed up against the wall and got to his feet.
A shape, in the corner.
It was her. Of course it was her.
She lay over a smaller bundle- a child. Moving, its chest moved underneath his hand.
He shifted his palm over to her chest, to her heart, felt. He ached.
Still.
Blackness.
He felt with his hands, scrambled across the wall, nothing.
Then, glass. A chair went right through it, although he couldn't remember picking it up.
Noise, people.
Air.
The fire roared and flowed through the ceiling beams above him, ash falling on her face. The child flopped in his arms, he brought it to the broken window, knocking the edges out with his elbow.
Light through the smoke, flashlights, headlights. He squinted down and saw hands reaching up. He let the child go.
She wouldn't move.
He pressed his face to hers, asked her to please, please move.
For him.
He could lift her, once more, he could do that.
His right arm gripped her shoulders, but his left wouldn't do what we wanted.
Foolish, useless.
Motherfuckin' useless boy.
She wasn't moving.
He tried to drag her, but fell to his knees instead. All smoke now.
His eyes hurt too much to keep open, so he didn't open them.
Felt the wall, and braced himself, slid down gracelessly beside her.
He'd wanted to do something, but it wasn't clear now. He shook his head, but nothing cleared.
She wasn't moving because she was asleep. He felt the sheets under his body.
Blue.
His grandfather's eyes.
His father's eyes.
His eyes.
The eyes of his son in his cradle beside the bed.
They said at the hospital that his shoulder was dislocated and covered in second and third degree burns. He had carried her to the window and used his good arm and shoulder to push her over the sill.
But he doesn't remember any of this.
He knows they put him in an ambulance first, because he tried to turn over his stretcher when he saw her still on the ground. He slid away for a minute, then remembers the doors closing , and she was still on the ground, but with a ring of attendants around her, all shouting and pumping.
He made noise, he roared. The straps strained against his good arm and chest.
She was dying on the ground; light from the fire illuminated the stillness in the middle of the pumping and running and yelling.
Blackness, nothing.
The doors still closed.
He bit his tongue to try to stay awake, but he still slid away again.
Useless.