Work Text:
Ray would bleed for this. Sam stared at the torn black leather... During their fight, the sergeant had gripped him tightly by the upper arms to throw him through the room, just before chucking one of the lockers after him. Must have ripped the jacket then. Looks like a triangle, gaping from the upper arm... Sam never thought that his beloved leather jacket might one day have to be replaced. That he might have to wear something else day in day out. He had gotten used to it that much, it felt like a second skin. And now his skin was bruised and torn. Not bleeding, of course, but damaged.
There were other signs of wear, no doubt. Lower on the same sleeve, something like a cigarette burn. A small round spot where the outer layer of the skin was missing. And of course there were creases and scratches, and the leather had become soft and almost frail around the shoulders and elbows. It had been worn a lot, obviously. Not only by Sam - it had had a life before. Sometimes Sam wondered who the jacket had belonged to previously, where it had come from - something which would remain a mystery forever, obviously. A small spot on the back where something had stabbed the leather on the right shoulder blade - most likely the brick of a wall, when its owner had been thrown against the rough surface, scraping too hard. Sam smiled - he might remember when that happened. The original lining seems to have been replaced at some point - might have been brittle and torn. There's no label, no sign of when and where and by whom the jacket had been manufactured originally. No way of telling how old it was, for how long it's been doing its duty of clothing a man. Of providing warmth (a little) and shelter, and an identity.
Sam wondered what would change if he had indeed to substitue this jacket now. He used to have another one here, brown corduroy. Found it in his wardrobe in that dingy flat of his. But it didn't last long - he only wore it the one time before Gene made him mop up June's blood with it. So that's one jacket down due to the Guv, and one due to DS Carling.
Sam hadn't even owned the thick sheepskin jacket he had worn to the abattoir they had stuck Charlie Edwards in. Had had to ask one of the CID lot to lend him a warm coat (he really needed to do some shopping before winter came).... Nor had the suit jacket he wore to the Twillings' party been his. He'd been undercover then, so not wearing his own clothes had felt like the right thing to do, had helped him get "into character."
But now, did he really want to wear anything else? The jacket had become part of him, was as much part of his identity in this world as his "crazy turns," the visits from the Test Card Girl, the flares and Cuban heels, his sideburns. His newly found love for whiskey, male companionship, hanging out with his colleagues at the pub after work... The worn leather fitted right in. He wondered how much he'd miss it if he indeed did wake up. He couldn't imagine wearing it in the real world... but he couldn't imagine NOT wearing it either. Wouldn't know what his colleagues in the future would think of him donning cool 70s gear in his free time, if he managed to find something similar in 2006 - on the job of course it would be a suit, nicely pressed, and a tie, as always. Growing his sideburns a little might be OK though. The thought made him smile.
He looked down onto the tear on his jacket's arm - he would find a way to fix it. Stitches? Glue? He'd ask Annie for advice. She might be a career woman but she was still a girl so she was his first port of call when it came to household skills in this place. Wouldn't do well to ask the Guv for help, he'd just call him a nancy boy for crying over his torn jacket.
Once the damage was fixed, he could concentrate on getting his own back from Ray, make him pay for it. He was sure he would find a way.