Work Text:
Gwen turns to her first customer of the day; it’s that nice DI Tyler, the new lad. He always looks sad, she thinks. No, maybe ‘sad’ doesn’t quite cover it – stressed? Yes, he’s often that, but no... Lost, maybe? Yeah, lost, that’s a bit more like it. She can’t work him out – he’s unfailingly polite (unlike most of the coppers in the station – even young Chris is getting a bit lippy, she’s noticed) and he seems quite smitten with Annie Cartwright (and she with him, or Gwen will eat her hat) and from the snippets of conversation she hears as she goes about her job he’s diligent to the point of obsession. But he’s not looking after himself, that much is obvious. Today he’s turned up at 7 o’clock, long before the rest of his department (the only time they’ll be here any earlier is if they’ve been on an all-nighter) and looking as if he hasn’t slept a wink.
‘What can I get you, love?’ she asks, resisting the impulse to pat his hand and tell him ‘not to worry, it’ll all come out in the wash.’
‘Uh...’ Tyler swipes a hand over eyes rimmed dark with lack of sleep. ‘an espresso, Greek yoghurt and a rye...’ he tails off as he registers Gwen’s expression.
‘I’m sorry, love – only got what’s on the menu,’ and she points to the peg-board notice on the wall to the right of the hatch.
Tyler’s face falls and for one harrowing second Gwen thinks he might be about to cry.
‘Look, Sir, I can rustle you up a coffee with extra cream, and you can have the top of the bottle for your cornflakes if you like...?’
He dips his head in acknowledgment and possibly embarrassment.
‘Thanks... Gwen. And please... call me Sam.’ He winces and puts a hand to his temple, rubbing away a headache. Or a hangover... Gwen knows what these coppers are like; they work and play hard.
‘It’s no trouble, Sam. You go and sit yourself down; I’ll bring it over when it’s ready.’ Sit down before you fall down, lad, she thinks. It’s quiet, this early, so there’s no-one else around to tease either of them about favouritism. Gwen has her favourites, everyone knows it – but DI Tyler looks as if he doesn’t need any more hassle. She watches from the corner of her eye whilst she’s preparing his breakfast as he drags his feet wearily across the floor to a table by the wall. He drops into the chair with a soft sigh and puts his head in his hands. Gwen turns away, feeling as though she’s intruding.
She seems to remember something about Tyler’s first day here... he was involved in a car accident on the way here from his old station, that was it. And only hours after arriving, he and Cartwright were up on the roof with him threatening to jump off. Now Gwen’s no expert but surely he should’ve had treatment for that? She remembers hearing talk of concussion and him being a ‘head case’ (Ray Carling, of course – that fella is very unforgiving of anything he sees as a weakness, and Tyler has been a prime target for Carling’s particular brand of humour). But he’s still here, so he must be alright as far as the DCI is concerned, mustn’t he? Gene Hunt might be a loudmouth but his heart is in the right place.
Suddenly aware that she’s drifted off into contemplation while the DI’s cornflakes grow soggy, she tuts softly to herself and makes her way across to Tyler’s table.
He has his back to her and as she walks around the table and places the mug and bowl down in front of him he starts, jerking forward and then upwards and Gwen realises that he’d fallen asleep. The mother in her refuses to stay silent and she sighs, placing her hand over his on the table.
‘DI Tyler... Sam... I know it’s none of my business, lad, but you look done in. Best place for you would be your bed, don’t you reckon?’
Tyler looks up at her with bloodshot eyes. ‘Been there all night, Gwen. Couldn’t sleep. Well, not properly.’ Gwen seems to expect more. ‘Nightmares.... you really don’t want to know.’ He looks down at her hand covering his as if he’s only just registered it.
Gwen gives it a motherly pat. ‘My son’d be about your age...’ she finds herself saying.
Tyler takes a swig of his coffee, wincing as it burns his throat. ‘Would...?’
Gwen nods briskly. ‘Aye. He died in a road accident two year since.’ She gives the table a wipe over with the tea towel she always carries slung over her shoulder, even though it doesn’t need it. She’s not used to talking about this. Few people at work know the circumstances and she prefers it that way.
Tyler’s hand reaches up and touches hers, a brief message of solidarity. ‘I’m very sorry to hear that, Gwen.’
She nods again, swallowing past the lump in her throat. ‘Thank you. Thing is, once a mother always a mother... and I might be speaking out of turn here, but you look as if you could do with a bit of mothering, Sam.’
He closes his eyes, as if remembering something before he focuses on Gwen again. ‘My Mum is...alive, but she’s a long way away...’ He stops, as if he’s said too much, and takes another gulp of the hot coffee.
‘I wasn’t meaning...’ horrified, she hurries to put things right.
Tyler smiles up at her, a strange, wistful smile that tugs at her heart. ‘I know you weren’t, Gwen. It’s OK.’ He indicates the mug and the bowl of cornflakes. ‘Thank you for this... really.’
Gwen gives the table a final wipe and puts a hand on his shoulder as she walks back to the counter.
‘You’re very welcome, Sam.’ She means to keep an eye on Sam Tyler from now on.
*