More Life on Mars fic
This is the sappiest and possibly the crappest thing I've ever written. At least, the sappiest and crappest thing I've ever posted. But it's definitely slash. Genuine, unequivocal man-on-man action. I'm very stoned right now, btw. That won't exactly serve as an excuse, because I wasn't stoned when I wrote most of it, but it's my excuse for inflicting it on other people. Usually I beg for concrit but this fic? Way beyond saving. I know it sucks in all the important ways and to be honest that's because I can't be bothered to work at it any more. We're going to consider this one a practise run, me practising implausibly sappy gay porn. ::Goes to put all her creative energy into Seasonal Spuffy entry::
1981. 7700 words. Beta'd by : kirsteena
The pub looked very different from the Railway Arms. Older, less clean and less tacky, paintings of London's great sights on the walls instead of darts team photos and local paper cuttings. The man should have looked different too. His hair was two inches longer than the last time they met, dirty blond threaded with grey, the suit shinier, the iconic camel-hair coat long ago sacrificed in the line of duty, the white loafers replaced with the latest trainers. But, trappings aside, Sam saw the very same man that left Manchester two years ago - a copper in charge of his kingdom.
The individual faces were unfamiliar but Sam recognised the cogs of DCI Hunt's team moving around him, the ritual of beer o'clock. The fog of cigarette smoke was the same, the beer, the whisky. Pound notes now in the ashtray in the middle of the table, the mark of inflation, but the same old game being played around it. Sam couldn't stop the grin that spread as Gene frowned at his cards, flicked ash in the direction of the youngster next to him in response to some unheard comment. It was hard to tear his eyes away and walk to the bar.
The girl behind it was no Nelson and Sam was still waiting patiently when a large hand landed heavily between his shoulder blades. In any other pub he might have tensed, swung round with a fist ready, but six years had taught Sam to recognise that particular violent greeting. He paused, eyes front, stretched, savoured, allowed the warmth of that hand to seep through his coat and into his skin.
"Whisky, Brenda, bottle of," Gene bellowed in his ear, and for a moment Sam thought it was one of his ever-changing nicknames but the girl behind the bar approached, with an air of weary martyrdom and a bottle of scotch. The hand came down again, shoulder this time, nearly displacing Sam from his stool, and he turned to grin at his erstwhile boss.
"You'd better not have been chasing your scum down to my patch, DCI Tyler," Gene growled, but he was smiling. Or as close as he got to it, mouth in its perpetual flat line, only the corners twitching up.
"Why's that, Guv? Afraid all these southern pansies 'ave turned you soft?"
Gene clipped him round the ear, of course, but Sam had been on the receiving end of many a smack and recognised that one for a show of affection. Gene reached past him to pour out a generous measure into both of the glasses Brenda had put on the bar.
"Cheeky little bastard. Don't think I wouldn't still wallop you one because of that extra letter in your title."
"Ah, good times," said Sam and his tone was ironic but the sentiment real. Gene picked up his glass and clinked it against Sam's.
"Good times," he agreed. "Punching you regular. I'll drink to that."
He settled on the stool next to Sam's, shoulders jostling companionably, and they shared a moment of nostalgic silence.
"There's no scum," Sam said eventually. "I'm on holiday."
Gene looked around him, taking in the slightly seedy pub décor with exaggerated surprise. "And this is the best you could do? Not exactly the English Riviera."
Sam shrugged, very aware his reasons for coming were far too sentimental to ever say them to Gene in plain English. "The Super's been on at me to take some leave, says I've accumulated too much holiday. And DI Morrison's champing at the bit for a chance to run the place - he puts in for DCI next month, wants to be able to write 'Acting DCI' on his record, even if it's just for two weeks. Didn't fancy a fortnight in Blackpool, so... here I am." He nodded to the rucksack on the floor beside the bar. "Travelling around a bit, seeing the country, looking up a few people."
"Oh aye? Planning on staying long?"
Sam shrugged again. Didn't say he'd got on a train in Manchester with no clearer plan that finding the nearest pub to Gene's new nick and seeing if Gene was in it. He'd resigned himself to taking a holiday, two years running CID's A division and he'd surely needed one, but when he'd sat down to decide how he'd like to spend a relaxing two weeks nothing had come to mind. As DCI he'd hardly had time to relax, had gotten out of the habit, spent his minimal spare time either thinking about the job or trying to forget it.
He'd made friends, girlfriends even, made a home in his new decade, but relaxing? Not so much. Not a single moment since his promotion, unless you counted a solitary daily keep fit regime, and even before all he could turn up was long nights in the Railway Arms with his Guv, getting slowly drunk. Not that there hadn't been long nights in the Railway Arms since, but Sam would hardly call it relaxing now he was the Guv, and for a long time DCI Hunt had left a big hole in the pub, his massive presence not easily replaced. It was a sad indicator of how Sam lived his job - in the eight years since he'd made his home in the past he'd not acquired a single hobby or outside interest and when he thought of relaxing all that came to mind was his former superior officer.
Gene narrowed his eyes and for a second Sam thought he'd been found out, but all he said was, "Got a flat just down the road, if you need a place to crash tonight."
Sam nodded his thanks and was relieved when Gene changed the subject. He gave him all the Mancunian updates, such as they were, amazingly little had happened since his departure. Chris had finally worked his way up to Sergeant, filling the gap left by Ray, on extended sick leave after a nasty shoot-out lodged a bullet in his thigh. DS Thompson, nee Cartwright, was studying hard for her DI exams, hoping to replace Sam's own ambitious replacement DI Morrison. Life trundled along in Manchester, dangerous sometimes and frequently grim but a new decade and indeed a new Prime Minister had wrought little change so far.
Gene introduced him to his new team and Sam tried to repress a stab of jealousy at the easy leadership that Gene never had to work at. The way his team flocked round him, vying for their DCI's attention. Whatever Gene's dire predictions about the state of the nation's capital when he'd left Manchester it was obvious he'd made a home for himself here.
Sam had been pleased when his application for promotion had been instantly accepted, but he would never have put in for it if the Guv hadn't decided he needed a new town and a new challenge. Life had been too good the way it was, constant almost despite the changes of people growing up around him, and though Sam knew he was worth more than Inspector, had been more than Inspector in his old life, he couldn't bear to be the one to break up their smoothly functioning team. In the end it was the Guv that had made the break, forcing Sam's hand and giving him a much easier choice - be his own boss or have a stranger walk in and take over his team. But now, sitting beside Gene after an absence of two years, Sam almost wished things back the way they were, crummy DI salary and all.
Of course, that could be the booze talking. Sam had switched back to beer after that first toast but even so was extremely well oiled when the barmaid called time. A Division's little corner of Manchester had become a much less hard-drinking place under Sam's rule and without the nightly practise with a DCI that insisted on chasers he didn't have a chance of keeping pace with his heavier friend.
It was Gene that kept him upright on the way out of the pub, one heavy arm round his shoulders. The walk back to Gene's flat was a very slow meander that wasn't quite long enough to sober Sam up, though he made most of it under his own steam at least. It was a drunken kind of déjà vu, a routine they'd practised a thousand times in Manchester, back to Sam's place back in those days when Gene had still had a wife at home. When Sam had finally taken the plunge, chosen the 1970s for better or for worse, he'd moved out of the shabby monstrosity the police had assigned him - but not very far. Still a handy distance from the station. And the pub, of course, a very handy distance when one or both of them were staggering. They were some of Sam's favourite memories, though he was loathe to admit it, the staggering and the nonsense arguments and the occasional violent scuffle. Fuzzy memories, it had to be said, but dear none the less. The anticipation of getting his DCI all to himself, that quiet, last nightcap before Gene staggered on home to his wife or passed out on Sam's sofa.
Gene's flat was not what he'd expected, from what he could see of it in the dark and through very tinted beer goggles. Not so different from Sam's place, clean but sparse, almost Spartan. As Gene had searched for his keys they'd been arguing some change in police procedure that Sam thought was a step towards the future and Gene the end of the world. Sam had had some good points, he was sure, though he was mostly too drunk to make them in any comprehensible way.
He was entirely unprepared for the way the mood changed once they were inside. One moment he was looking around him in the dim streetlight that filtered through the windows, marshalling his arguments, the next Gene was grabbing his arms, shoving him backwards. Sam gasped as his back hit the wall, widened his eyes as Gene leaned in close.
"You don't work for me any more, Sammy-boy. Know what that means?"
Turned out Sam's recollection of Gene had been much coloured by distance. He'd forgotten the out and out fear the man could instill in him, the unpredictability, pinning him against the wall with sheer force of will and Sam didn't know whether to expect that barking laugh or genuine violence.
"N-no."
"Means you're fair game."
He was far too drunk to read the signals, follow this sudden turn of events. Sam's puzzled mind was still stuck on work related lines, trying to guess what arrestable offence he might have committed, when Gene's mouth crashed against his. Sam let out a surprised little 'oh' that parted his lips and Gene's tongue forced its way inside. He tasted of whisky, sharper than the beer Sam had been drinking, the ashy flavour of his last cigarette still fresh. Gene kissed like he did everything else, determined, no holds barred, devouring Sam's mouth and Sam could do nothing but let him. Too startled to move even if he'd wanted to, and as he felt Gene's fingers digging into his jacket and skin he realised he didn't want to.
When Gene finally pulled back Sam sucked in the breath he'd forgotten about, almost dizzy with the lack of oxygen and the rush of something else. For several long moments all his conscious thought went into stopping his knees from buckling.
"You alright?"
The voice wasn't Gene's, too serious, too concerned. Sam blinked at him stupidly.
"Only a fella tends to move when you kiss 'im. One way or the other."
A cool draft wafted where Gene's heat had been pressed moments before, the cold prickled at Sam's damp lips. The hand at the back of his neck that had held him into that ferocious kiss gave him a little shake.
"Tyler?"
But try as he might Sam couldn't get his brain out of astonished blinking mode. Strong hands steered him across the small flat until something collided with his calves - a bed, Sam decided, as his backside hit the mattress. He closed his eyes, tilted his head back, waited for that whisky flavoured tongue. Was surprised a few seconds later when a glass appeared in his hand. By the time Sam opened his eyes again the flat was flooded with light and Gene was sitting in his one armchair, about as far from Sam as he could get in the small space. Sam went back to blinking.
"Did you... kiss me?"
Gene gave him a look that plainly said 'Duh.' Sam groped around in the beer-and-adrenalin fog inside his head to try and work out if that was a 'duh, yes' or a 'duh, you're hallucinating, you mad bugger.' The only clue was the way Gene wasn't punching him for the suggestion. That and the uncomfortable chafing in Sam's pants.
"You've never kissed me before," he said slowly, because this was a point he was sure of. There wasn't enough alcohol in the world to make him forget such an event.
Another look, condescending and cold. "Strange enough, Tyler, I make a point of not snogging my DIs, especially the boys. Nice recipe for all sorts of unpleasantness." Gene took a sip from his own glass, the glass that he must have filled while Sam was in that weird time warp drunk people get stuck in, and scratched at the side of his head. He looked faintly embarrassed. It took Sam a moment to place the expression, it was an unusual one to see on Gene's impassive face. "You came all this way," he added to the carpet. "Thought there might be a reason, is all."
"I didn't come for that," said Sam, because he hadn't. Hadn't dreamed for a second that 'that' might be on offer. He took a sip from the glass Gene had pressed into his hand and wondered how they'd got back to drinking when there'd been kissing and close body contact.
"Worked that out for myself, thank you," Gene snapped. He drained his whisky, kicked his shoes off and stood up. Sam felt a jolt of something dangerous as the DCI stepped towards him, flicked the light off, and puzzled disappointment when Gene crashed back down into the armchair.
"You take the bed, Tyler. I promise not to molest you."
Something had gone badly wrong here, Sam decided. There'd been kissing, definitely kissing, and now there wasn't. After the brightness of the overhead bulb he could barely make out Gene's silhouette in the chair but he didn't give the impression of a man preparing for passionate action. He looked asleep.
"You're not going to kiss me any more?" he asked stupidly.
"Jesus! Did I kill your brain? What happened to all that open-minded crap?"
"What happened to homophobic?" Sam snapped back, because responding to Gene's little digs was ingrained and far easier for his drunken self to cope with.
"Your word, Tyler, not mine. Thought you'd called me a bleeding fairy for a good few years after. Now drink your whisky and pass out, there's a good boy. It'll all be forgotten in the morning."
Obediently Sam took another swallow, but he didn't feel the least bit sleepy. And though he knew he was more than a little inebriated he didn't think there'd be any forgetting, either.
"And there's no more kissing?" he tried one more time, trying to keep the note of complaint out of his voice. Though really, why shouldn't he complain? It was a bit much to turn someone's world upside down with a kiss that was almost foreplay and then just go to sleep.
"There wasn't kissing. There was me shoving my tongue down your throat and you standing there like a piece of cardboard!" Mildly indignant, so much more Gene than embarrassment.
"I'm sorry," Sam said and the words were true, though wholly inadequate. If he'd ever imagined the Guv jumping him he might have imagined reacting with a little more suavity. But he wasn't apologising, just lamenting an opportunity he'd been too slow to grab with both hands.
"Oh fuck off, you great girl. It's no matter."
It does matter, Sam thought but didn't say. He struggled to find the words that might bring about more kissing, couldn't find them, so he struggled to his feet instead. Wasn't going to let go of a chance like that because he'd been a little slow on the uptake. Wanted to justify his lack of skills with the utter astonishment he had felt but structuring long and multiple sentences seemed beyond his reach while he was distracted by his penis.
Gene finally opened his eyes, wide, when he found himself with a lapful of Sam.
"Six years," he exclaimed, striking out at Gene with an open hand. It was a very susceptible force meeting an immovable object and Sam wobbled precariously. Strong hands gripped his shoulders.
"Sam-."
"Shut up. I worked with you for six years! And you never kissed me once! You can't just jump on someone out of nowhere and call them a lousy kisser."
"Sam-."
This time Sam shut him up the way he wanted to. If he'd been trying to prove what a magnificent kisser he could be then he failed miserably - this time was even messier than the last, teeth clashing, mouths wide open. But Sam didn't care about the blood he could taste in his mouth, didn't care if it was his or Gene's, because he could feel the solid warmth of Gene's chest beneath his hands and more, he could feel Gene reciprocating. He was running out of air when hands cupped his face and gently pulled him back. Green eyes met his with just the slightest hint of a frown.
"I wasn't slagging off your technique, you drunken little nincompoop. Ain't got nothing to prove."
It finally occurred to Sam where he'd gone wrong, why the kissing had stopped. How his frozen shock had been misinterpreted as distaste. He twined his fingers in Gene's, where they still rested lightly against his face, brought their joined hands down between them until Gene's palm was resting on his crotch.
"Does that feel like a lack of enthusiasm to you?"
Those gorgeous green eyes were boring into Sam, starting little frissions of excitement that worked down his spine and made his cock twitch.
"Feels like a man in need of a good shagging," Gene conceded seriously. He tightened his fingers round the bulge under his hand and then that searching glare dissolved into a wolfish grin. That grin had given Sam goosebumps for years. A kind of shiver he could never entirely classify as lust or fear.
"Fancy it, Sammy-boy?"
The sensible part of Sam's head would have pointed out no, that he had no idea what he was getting into and wasn't this all a bit sudden anyway? But he'd drowned that part in beer and lust and he could only answer with another kiss, his dick enthusiastically seconding the motion, hardening under Gene's forceful ministrations. He rocked against him, astride him, feeling Gene's answering interest poking his thigh, and kissed harder. Needing something but too drunk to put a plan into action, too aroused to do anything but kiss and push.
It was Gene who had to puzzle out their respective trouser fastenings while Sam clung on desperately, sucking on Gene's tongue with an unquenchable thirst. Gene's hand that freed him from the uncomfortable confines of his briefs, Gene who wrapped his fingers around both of their cocks, creating friction for Sam to thrust into. He retained his senses long enough to scrabble at Gene's shirt, sliding underneath to touch skin instead of cotton, never breaking that kiss. He could feel Gene's silky smooth erection thrusting against his and was soon lost in the feel of those fingers binding them together. No amount of wanting could make him hold back.
Sam was unaware of the mess he made as he shot his load onto both of their clothing, keening his pleasure into Gene's open mouth. Was entirely oblivious as Gene followed him over the edge with a guttural yell. When the stars cleared he only knew the strong arms holding him in place and the broad shoulder resting under his cheek, and even the sticky, damp mess between them wasn't enough to stop Sam falling asleep.
********
He was aware of it when he woke up, a painful tugging as the cushion beneath him shifted and tried to take his skin too. He whimpered as he was lifted slightly, leaving the odd pubic hair behind.
"Sorry Sammy," Gene's low voice muttered into his ear. "Got a couple gallons of booze wants to come out and you seem to be stuck to my stomach."
Sam snuffled into the curve of his neck and pretended to himself that he was still asleep until it was nearly true again. His cushion quickly gave up the idea of gentle persuasion and stood up, grunting with the effort of lifting Sam with him. Sam instinctively cuddled closer and was brought sharply back to his senses when he was dropped, back hitting something soft. He lay for a second, trying to piece together the hangover fragments and work out where he was.
Hands were moving his legs then his shoes disappeared, then there was the click of a door and the rustling of movement stopped. Gene's bed, his brain supplied, with a little more prodding and some lazy exploration of nearby textures, but no Gene. Still dark, and unless Gene had invested in a water bed, which seemed unlikely, Sam was still a little drunk. More feeling around told him his flies were open, his shirt crusty, confirming the almost impossible memory of frantic kissing and mutual groping and an explosion of pleasure. Usually a hint of the impossible would have set Sam wondering, analysing, but he was sleepy and relaxed and spent a few minutes first just remembering the sensation. It was fuzzy, but all good.
He was just starting to drift off when a second click brought him back to reality. Opening one eye he followed Gene's silhouette as he crossed the room. Felt the shift of the mattress as he sat down beside him, peeling off his shirt. It was tossed to the floor and Sam idly reached out to touch that broad freckled back, running his fingers up into soft blond hair. Gene leaned back into his touch a fraction before standing up to strip off his trousers and unceremoniously rolling Sam over to make room for himself. Sam found all that tempting, suddenly touchable skin under the same blankets he was sprawled on top of and managed to wake himself up enough to follow Gene's example, get undressed and properly tucked in. There was skin aplenty then and Sam insinuated himself around it as far as he was able.
"I'm not a bleeding teddy bear, you know," Gene grumbled as he shifted a bit to put his arm around his fidgeting companion.
"You are all cuddly," Sam argued and Gene snorted, but apparently he was too tired to deliver the expected thump. Sam took a deep breath, the scent of Gene's beer-tainted musk and ever-clinging cigarette smoke taking him back through a two year absence.
"Are you gay?" he asked suddenly.
"Well I'm not miserable." Another snort, Sam felt Gene's warm breath through his hair. "I can't believe I left you in charge of my city, Gladys. Whatever happened to that razor sharp Hyde intellect?"
"It drank too much and got laid."
"Best take your vows now then, Tyler, while you can still remember your name." Gene's voice was scathing but when Sam hooked a leg between his he rolled over slightly, into the embrace.
"But you were married."
"I had noticed."
A few more minutes of silence as Gene's breathing deepened, but now awake, Sam couldn't pass out again so easily. Didn't want to, either, had a vague feeling that things wouldn't be quite so snuggly in the morning when they were both sober. Not that Gene seemed particularly pissed. Certainly not the falling down drunk Sam had been when they left the pub but it was never easy to tell with the Guv; the early signs, like loss of inhibitions, hardly applied, there wasn't much Gene Hunt wouldn't say or do sober. Except that that they'd just done and Sam couldn't put that down to drink, he'd seen Gene in much worse states and never been kissed by him before. Never cuddled him before, not naked, and if it wasn't drink that had Gene allowing it it was definitely drink that gave Sam the daring to try.
"Six years," he repeated, and though he couldn't see in the darkness he could feel the exasperated look Gene gave him.
"Six years what?" he asked with sleepy resignation.
"Six years we worked together, and you never said."
"That I was a flaming queer? Neither did you."
"I'm not." At least he hadn't been, inappropriate thoughts of his DCI notwithstanding. Sam wasn't sure what he was any more, except, this moment at least, supremely comfortable.
"Pity. I was planning on shagging you later." Gene's tone was hardly seductive, thick with sleep, but the bare suggestion made Sam's cock twitch and start to fill. He wondered at his body's reaction to the thought of an act that should have revolted him. Gene might have thought it was what he came for but Gene had always been one step ahead of Sam's understanding of himself.
"I missed you," he said, running his fingers lightly through the wiry hair beneath Gene's bellybutton. "You said earlier you thought there was a reason I came, and there was. I just missed you." He expected a put down in response, a grunt at best, but said it anyway because it was true and he'd never dare tomorrow. Instead the silence stretched so long he started to wonder if the older man had fallen asleep.
"Missed you too," Gene said, after a small age. "They're a fine bunch of lads down here - and lasses - but there's none quite like you."
It was possibly the most sentiment he had ever heard Gene admit to. And while he might have guessed at the sentiment Sam would never have thought to hear it so plainly stated.
"You shouldn't have gone, then."
"One of us had to. You couldn't have stayed DI forever, you know. Only room for one sheriff per city." He brought one hand down to cup Sam's arse, fingers spanning almost one half of his well trimmed derrier. "Besides, if I'd not left I couldn't have done this." He squeezed gently and Sam pushed closer against him, growing erection rubbing against Gene's hip. "Sexual harassment, you'd've called it."
"I wouldn't have minded." He would have been shocked, he had been shocked, but he wouldn't have minded.
"Would have been bloody awkward if you had, though, wouldn't it? And if you hadn't, mebbe. Had a team to think of. Would've changed things."
Sam wriggled up slowly. Hardly without thinking he sought Gene's mouth in the dark, kissed him softly. He hadn't quite figured out the rules to this new game, but a kiss seemed acceptable. In a few short hours - Sam had no idea how many - Gene would be going to work and Sam would have to move on, gathering rosebuds right now sounded a good idea.
"Change is good," he said and kissed again, harder, more insistent. Gene met him for a moment then pulled away.
"You gonna let an old man get his kip here, or what?"
"Okay." Sam wriggled back down to where he'd made himself comfortable on Gene's shoulder, changed his mind and kept on going, ducking his head under the blanket. It was even darker underneath and the smell of warm Gene almost overpowering. He slid a sensuous hand over Gene's stomach and hip to rest on his thigh, his intention clear. "You sleep. I'll just do the tourist thing, see the sights, explore..." He planted a light kiss on Gene's collar bone, moved his hand in tiny circles until he brushed against wiry hair.
"It's dark," Gene pointed out. His words were muffled by the blanket but he sounded less sleepy, voice dry with amusement.
"And yet I'm seeing you in a whole new light."
A heavy hand clipped Sam round the back of the head. "One more pun like that and I'll be stopping your mouth."
"Yeah?" There was a definite challenge in that drawn out syllable as Sam trailed kisses down until he found one puckered nipple. Nipped it gently with his teeth. Not so different to a girl. "What with? This?"
"Not what I had in mind, Tyler."
Gene managed to keep his voice steady but Sam could feel his breathing quicken as he teased his hand through Gene's pubes to the base of his hardening cock. He circled his fingers around him and he twitched, Sam's own cock answered the movement, pressing harder into Gene's hip. Six years of platonic friendship and two years of absence and Sam had never admitted to himself how much he wanted this, but now he was here it felt entirely natural, an extension of their usual banter. Maybe when his brain had caught up with all the alcohol in his bloodstream the weirdness of it all would set in. His Guv, the definitive man's man, naked in bed with him, relaxed and comfortable.
Maybe less relaxed than he was, as Sam slid his hand along the silky length of his dick, filling under his touch.
"What about this?" Sam teased with voice and hand.
"If you insist. Anything for a quiet life."
Sam gave Gene's nipple on last bite before wriggling lower. Gene threw the blankets back, lifting himself up on his elbows so he could watch as Sam kissed his way over his stomach.
"This should be so strange," Sam murmured against his hip bone. He tilted his head up to look at Gene, could just make out those green eyes glinting, though it was too dark to read his expression. His hand kept moving, working Gene harder now, and he revelled in each low grunt that escaped his lips. "Life didn't turn out how I thought it would, you know? But this is-."
Hands caught his head, roughly tugging until Sam was hovering over the leaking tip of Gene's impatient arousal. "Wanker," he said affectionately. "This is no time for getting philosophical."
Sam stretched out his tongue to swipe over the head of Gene's cock, illiciting his first moan. "Sorry," he mumbled, as Gene pushed him down.
Sam had never gone down on a man before - had never experimented beyond a spot of mutual masturbation behind the bikesheds - but he'd been on the receiving end often enough to know what felt good. And Gene wasn't shy in this more than any other walk of life, gripping Sam's hair tightly and moving his head in the rhythm that he liked, silently instructing and gruffly voicing his approval as Sam complied. It was messy and noisy and a couple of times Gene thrust up into his throat and his stomach rolled dangerously, but it was good.
Sam ground against the bedsheets, desperate for friction but too absorbed in touching Gene to touch himself and when Gene came for the second time that night, hands still clenched in Sam's short hair, he swallowed him down eagerly. He snatched another kiss while Gene was still panting and found it returned with enthusiasm despite the bitter, salty taste in his mouth.
"Not a fairy, huh?" Gene asked when Sam let him up for air.
"I'm reconsidering."
He was laying on top of Gene's solid bulk and there was certainly advantage in being the smallest person in the bed, because it felt very good to be where he was. Gene stretched languidly and he could feel each muscle flexing beneath him. He ran his fingers through Gene's hair and was sober enough now to be glad it was dark, that Gene wouldn't be able to see the stupid grin he was sure he must be wearing. He nuzzled against him, taking in the unusual sensations of stubble against his face, grumbled his complaint when Gene moved suddenly, rolling them both over until Sam was lying with his back against the bigger man's chest.
"You'll be wanting to get yours before I nod off," Gene explained, reaching down to take a gentle hold of Sam's still throbbing erection. Surprised Sam again when he felt Gene's bristles rubbing his shoulder as he kissed the side of his neck.
"I'm glad you came, Sam."
He bit back a retort about how he hadn't come yet - the moment was too rare to spoil. Twisted his head round until he was facing Gene, another kiss before he whispered "me too."
Gene's hands were twice the size of Sam's own, twice the size of any he'd had groping him before, and skilled at their work. And Sam was very, very ready. It wasn't long before both were spent and sleeping soundly.
********
When Sam woke up the flat was full of dirty grey light and the warm bulk that had cradled him in his sleep was gone. He could hear the soft noises of someone going about their morning routine and a sleepy 'good morning' earned him a cup of tea a few minutes later. A few sips, the usual face pulled - tea was never going to fill the hole Starbucks had left in Sam's life - and he was awake enough to take note of his surroundings.
A damp Gene, towel slung round his hips, too-long hair dripping down his back, was padding round his kitchenette. It was hardly an unusual sight, back in the day his DCI had crashed at his place often enough - once Sam had left the wallpaper behind and bought a decent sofa - sometimes for days at a time when he'd fallen out with the wife. Different pattern on the kitchen cupboards, a window that faced east, but this was far from the first time Sam had seen him fry breakfast half naked. It looked different this morning, after the night before.
Sam briefly entertained a little domestic daydream, strolling across the bedsit naked, slipping his arm round that gut, taking the cigarette out of his hand and kissing the man senseless while breakfast burned. Knew it was a daydream. If nothing else, he still carried the scars from the last time he's tried to forcibly separate Gene from his nicotine. And he had a suspicion of how real men behaved on mornings like this and Gene was nothing if not a real man. A product of a generation that hadn't yet met Boy George, never mind John Barrowman. There'd be grunts for goodbyes and absolutely no making out over morning tea.
But laying in bed, Gene's attention elsewhere, he indulged the thought. Dislodging that towel and getting a snog rather than a thump. Touching Gene when he could see the reactions on his face, see the skin under his fingers, cementing memories that currently seemed surreal. Thought instead of acted because he would rather go back to Manchester without touching again than upset this familiar old-friends-hungover-together routine.
He lowered his eyes when Gene turned back round, was unsurprised by the bacon sandwich that landed on his pillow. Pretending nothing had happened, he could do that, everything as it always had been except Sam was naked under the blankets. Gene wandered back a couple minutes later with a sandwich of his own.
"I should get up," said Sam without enthusiasm, wriggling up to sit against the headboard. "I'll get crumbs in your bed." He meant it as a warning, avert your eyes now if you don't want to see what you were fondling last night, but Gene just shrugged. Got back in next to Sam and pulled the blankets over his towel clad thighs.
"They can keep my crumbs company." He took a huge bite of his brekkie and chewed noisily. "'sides, a little housewife like you, bet you make the bed on your way out the door."
"You're such a romantic." The sarcasm was out before he could stop it, Sam took a bite of his own sandwich to prevent himself saying anything else. Again Gene surprised him, no stiffening, no denial. Just that snort he knew so well.
"Made you breakfast Samantha, what more do you want? Big bunch of flowers?"
"A plate would be nice."
"Plates have to be washed. And what the fuck are you grinning about?"
Sam hadn't noticed that he was, tried to stop, found he couldn't. He gave up. He stopped pretending everything was normal because everything was normal and all too good, the easy banter between them not scared away by the sex. And despite the swearing and the grumpy tone Gene didn't sound particularly unhappy himself. It encouraged Sam to answer honestly.
"I missed this."
"I make a mean bacon butty," Gene agreed, and Sam let him pretend to misunderstand because it he knew it was pretense.
Two more massive bites saw the end of Gene's sandwich and he sipped his tea as Sam munched at a more sedate pace. "What time is it?" he asked between mouthfuls.
"'Bout half six."
"Huh. You start early in London."
"Not really. Promised you a shag, didn't I? Had to refuel first."
Sam choked on a bacon rind, then turned astonished eyes sideways to Gene, who was still sipping his tea as if he'd said nothing untoward. Sam couldn't have said exactly why he was so surprised himself, they'd done everything but last night and Gene seemed unperturbed by the naked Sam still in his bed this morning. And Gene being blunt, that could hardly shock anyone who had met him.
It was just so incongruous, the tea and the daylight and the easy bickering, everything familiar except that one things that was radically different. He'd expected, now the Dutch courage had more or less evaporated, that things that had felt natural last night would be awkward or ignored this morning. And Sam had been willing to accept that, was happy enough, wouldn't have wanted to trade the friendship for sex. He should have known better really, had never seen Gene awkward before, it would be a bigger shock than the sudden discovery of his sexual orientation.
He'd have a lot to think through, Sam realised, when this strange little sojourn ended, as it surely would do when Gene walked out of the door. A few of life's constants were now topsy-turvey. But thinking would have to wait - surprising as Gene's words were they'd roused parts of Sam that drained all blood available for thought. Which was strange in itself. He could only really imagine what Gene meant by a good shagging, and the idea should have filled him with trepidation, but it didn't, it excited.
"What?" Gene barked as Sam's thoughts drifted. "I'm getting on, you know. Can't rut all night and run on thin air. Gotta look after myself now I'm old."
"You won't get much older if this is your idea of nutrition." The jibe was automatic, Sam couldn't think of Gene as old, it was hard enough to remember he himself was rapidly climbing the scale of his forties. The years had flown by and not left much of a mark. The sparse hair on Gene's chest was grizzled but the flab covered the same rock hard muscle and his streaky hair framed a face that hadn't aged a day. "Think of the cholesterol."
"Best give me some exercise then. Bouncing up and down on you ought to do it."
"Sure of yourself, aren't you Guv?"
The honorific just slipped out, the phrase so often used as they'd egged each other on to greater heights of daring and stupidity. Gene almost invariably went on to prove himself quite right, in his own way, and the thought of what that might mean on this occasion finished the job of arousing Sam.
"You want me," Gene stated cheerfully. "I've got your measure, Gladys. And I've got you naked in my bed. I'd say that was a sure thing."
Sam swallowed, though his mouth was empty, took another bite of his sandwich and tried to pretend he wasn't hurrying. Too fast for him to process the movement Gene discarded his mug and grabbed him through the blankets that were doing a poor job of concealing his arousal.
"See," he said smugly. "Little tart."
"Am not," Sam protested. "I've never even... done that."
Gene didn't call him on the delicacy of language. Turned his head, leaned in until Sam could feel his seven o'clock shadow bristling against his ear. "But you want to, don't you Sammy?"
He could hardly deny it, given the way his dick jerked in Gene's hand. "You want me to have you. I'm going to fuck you into the mattress and you'll enjoy every second." He squeezed harder, almost painfully, and his voice was rough, threatening. "Won't you, Tyler?"
And Sam realised that Gene did indeed have his measure. He was frozen, mouth too dry to answer, the last corner of his butty still hovering halfway between lap and mouth. Gene released him long enough to snatch the crust out of his hand and pop it in his mouth, he swallowed almost without chewing and Sam watched the bob of his Adam's apple, hypnotised.
"Roll over," Gene commanded, and Sam obeyed. Shivered as Gene's large hand landed on the back of his neck. He put his mouth to Sam's ear again and Sam was trembling now, excitement and fear and anticipation.
"Trust the Gene Genie."
********
Sam lay flat out on his stomach as Gene sat and smoked beside him. Wondered at Gene having the energy to get even halfway to vertical. For the first time since he'd arrived he thought to be glad of his compulsory vacation, enjoy the fact that it wasn't him with a long work day ahead of him, that he could laze conscience free. Wasn't just idleness that kept him still - though pleasure had most definitely been had, Sam was in no hurry to move and find out if damage had been sustained also. Laying still, the pillow was comfortable and the ache, too, and Sam was so thoroughly wrung out that watching Gene smoke took up all his energy. The rhythm of deep inhales, the crackle of cinders as the air drew through Gene's fag, the hypnotic curl of smoke - it was smoking by proxy and Sam had done it many times before, a wooden bar rather than a pillow he was too exhausted to lift his head from.
Overall, never moving again sounded very tempting. Sam toyed with the idea of making that an actual plan as he watched Gene tilt his head back to blow smoke at the ceiling. Knew that he wouldn't, that he was too much of a coward to find out if he was welcome, but the idea was pleasant. And sleeping was definitely going to be a big part of Sam's day. Unless Gene physically dragged him out of the door with him - and Sam had learned never to say never where Gene Hunt was concerned - Sam didn't think he was capable of leaving the bed until he'd had an unbroken hour or two.
Gene, though he called himself an old man now, seemed to have no such problem. He put his fag out in the dregs of his tea, levered himself off the bed and began to dress with no sign of the hangover Sam was starting to feel. Politeness probably dictated that Sam follow suit but Sam was too knackered to care and social etiquette was hardly something Gene was fussed about. If this was goodbye he didn't see why he shouldn't wallow here a little while where it smelt of sex and sweat and Gene.
The watch on the dresser said a quarter to eight by the time Gene picked it up and slipped it on, a couple minutes later he perched on the edge of the bed to pull on his shoes. Sam rolled on to his side and found enough energy to prop himself up on one elbow.
"So how much holiday you got left?"
They were the first words either man had spoken since the aaahs and yesses and mores had faded away.
"Thirteen days."
Gene chuckled, slowly building up to a real laugh. "Take it I was first stop on your little tour of the country?"
Sam shrugged as Gene turned to look at him. He reached out in an unusually gentle gesture to ruffle Sam's short hair. "You're a great wet girl, Gladys. Anyone ever tell you that?"
A rhetorical question, presumably, as Gene himself had said exactly that many times in the past. Sam glared, for form's sake.
"You gonna be here when I get back?"
The question was so casual it gave Sam pause. He didn't know what the right answer was, if the words were intended as invitation or hint, knew 'do you want me to be?' would sound hopelessly pathetic. It must have been written on his face, however, because Gene rolled his eyes ceilingward, preempted the question.
"Was an invite, you daft 'apeth. Wouldn't ask if I didn't want you to be, would I?"
Sam's broad grin must have been answer enough, Gene grinned too. "Even better, I'll meet you down the pub. You can take me somewhere nice first - don't want you thinking I'm easy."
"Couldn't ever think that, Guv."
"Cheeky beggar."
Gene swooped, catching Sam by surprise - he'd always done that a lot, only the methods were new - his tongue tangled with Sam's and he kissed him thoroughly. Then he was up and gone.
Sam rolled onto his back, sharing his happiness with the empty room. His smile didn't fade until long after Sam had fallen asleep.
1981. 7700 words. Beta'd by : kirsteena
The pub looked very different from the Railway Arms. Older, less clean and less tacky, paintings of London's great sights on the walls instead of darts team photos and local paper cuttings. The man should have looked different too. His hair was two inches longer than the last time they met, dirty blond threaded with grey, the suit shinier, the iconic camel-hair coat long ago sacrificed in the line of duty, the white loafers replaced with the latest trainers. But, trappings aside, Sam saw the very same man that left Manchester two years ago - a copper in charge of his kingdom.
The individual faces were unfamiliar but Sam recognised the cogs of DCI Hunt's team moving around him, the ritual of beer o'clock. The fog of cigarette smoke was the same, the beer, the whisky. Pound notes now in the ashtray in the middle of the table, the mark of inflation, but the same old game being played around it. Sam couldn't stop the grin that spread as Gene frowned at his cards, flicked ash in the direction of the youngster next to him in response to some unheard comment. It was hard to tear his eyes away and walk to the bar.
The girl behind it was no Nelson and Sam was still waiting patiently when a large hand landed heavily between his shoulder blades. In any other pub he might have tensed, swung round with a fist ready, but six years had taught Sam to recognise that particular violent greeting. He paused, eyes front, stretched, savoured, allowed the warmth of that hand to seep through his coat and into his skin.
"Whisky, Brenda, bottle of," Gene bellowed in his ear, and for a moment Sam thought it was one of his ever-changing nicknames but the girl behind the bar approached, with an air of weary martyrdom and a bottle of scotch. The hand came down again, shoulder this time, nearly displacing Sam from his stool, and he turned to grin at his erstwhile boss.
"You'd better not have been chasing your scum down to my patch, DCI Tyler," Gene growled, but he was smiling. Or as close as he got to it, mouth in its perpetual flat line, only the corners twitching up.
"Why's that, Guv? Afraid all these southern pansies 'ave turned you soft?"
Gene clipped him round the ear, of course, but Sam had been on the receiving end of many a smack and recognised that one for a show of affection. Gene reached past him to pour out a generous measure into both of the glasses Brenda had put on the bar.
"Cheeky little bastard. Don't think I wouldn't still wallop you one because of that extra letter in your title."
"Ah, good times," said Sam and his tone was ironic but the sentiment real. Gene picked up his glass and clinked it against Sam's.
"Good times," he agreed. "Punching you regular. I'll drink to that."
He settled on the stool next to Sam's, shoulders jostling companionably, and they shared a moment of nostalgic silence.
"There's no scum," Sam said eventually. "I'm on holiday."
Gene looked around him, taking in the slightly seedy pub décor with exaggerated surprise. "And this is the best you could do? Not exactly the English Riviera."
Sam shrugged, very aware his reasons for coming were far too sentimental to ever say them to Gene in plain English. "The Super's been on at me to take some leave, says I've accumulated too much holiday. And DI Morrison's champing at the bit for a chance to run the place - he puts in for DCI next month, wants to be able to write 'Acting DCI' on his record, even if it's just for two weeks. Didn't fancy a fortnight in Blackpool, so... here I am." He nodded to the rucksack on the floor beside the bar. "Travelling around a bit, seeing the country, looking up a few people."
"Oh aye? Planning on staying long?"
Sam shrugged again. Didn't say he'd got on a train in Manchester with no clearer plan that finding the nearest pub to Gene's new nick and seeing if Gene was in it. He'd resigned himself to taking a holiday, two years running CID's A division and he'd surely needed one, but when he'd sat down to decide how he'd like to spend a relaxing two weeks nothing had come to mind. As DCI he'd hardly had time to relax, had gotten out of the habit, spent his minimal spare time either thinking about the job or trying to forget it.
He'd made friends, girlfriends even, made a home in his new decade, but relaxing? Not so much. Not a single moment since his promotion, unless you counted a solitary daily keep fit regime, and even before all he could turn up was long nights in the Railway Arms with his Guv, getting slowly drunk. Not that there hadn't been long nights in the Railway Arms since, but Sam would hardly call it relaxing now he was the Guv, and for a long time DCI Hunt had left a big hole in the pub, his massive presence not easily replaced. It was a sad indicator of how Sam lived his job - in the eight years since he'd made his home in the past he'd not acquired a single hobby or outside interest and when he thought of relaxing all that came to mind was his former superior officer.
Gene narrowed his eyes and for a second Sam thought he'd been found out, but all he said was, "Got a flat just down the road, if you need a place to crash tonight."
Sam nodded his thanks and was relieved when Gene changed the subject. He gave him all the Mancunian updates, such as they were, amazingly little had happened since his departure. Chris had finally worked his way up to Sergeant, filling the gap left by Ray, on extended sick leave after a nasty shoot-out lodged a bullet in his thigh. DS Thompson, nee Cartwright, was studying hard for her DI exams, hoping to replace Sam's own ambitious replacement DI Morrison. Life trundled along in Manchester, dangerous sometimes and frequently grim but a new decade and indeed a new Prime Minister had wrought little change so far.
Gene introduced him to his new team and Sam tried to repress a stab of jealousy at the easy leadership that Gene never had to work at. The way his team flocked round him, vying for their DCI's attention. Whatever Gene's dire predictions about the state of the nation's capital when he'd left Manchester it was obvious he'd made a home for himself here.
Sam had been pleased when his application for promotion had been instantly accepted, but he would never have put in for it if the Guv hadn't decided he needed a new town and a new challenge. Life had been too good the way it was, constant almost despite the changes of people growing up around him, and though Sam knew he was worth more than Inspector, had been more than Inspector in his old life, he couldn't bear to be the one to break up their smoothly functioning team. In the end it was the Guv that had made the break, forcing Sam's hand and giving him a much easier choice - be his own boss or have a stranger walk in and take over his team. But now, sitting beside Gene after an absence of two years, Sam almost wished things back the way they were, crummy DI salary and all.
Of course, that could be the booze talking. Sam had switched back to beer after that first toast but even so was extremely well oiled when the barmaid called time. A Division's little corner of Manchester had become a much less hard-drinking place under Sam's rule and without the nightly practise with a DCI that insisted on chasers he didn't have a chance of keeping pace with his heavier friend.
It was Gene that kept him upright on the way out of the pub, one heavy arm round his shoulders. The walk back to Gene's flat was a very slow meander that wasn't quite long enough to sober Sam up, though he made most of it under his own steam at least. It was a drunken kind of déjà vu, a routine they'd practised a thousand times in Manchester, back to Sam's place back in those days when Gene had still had a wife at home. When Sam had finally taken the plunge, chosen the 1970s for better or for worse, he'd moved out of the shabby monstrosity the police had assigned him - but not very far. Still a handy distance from the station. And the pub, of course, a very handy distance when one or both of them were staggering. They were some of Sam's favourite memories, though he was loathe to admit it, the staggering and the nonsense arguments and the occasional violent scuffle. Fuzzy memories, it had to be said, but dear none the less. The anticipation of getting his DCI all to himself, that quiet, last nightcap before Gene staggered on home to his wife or passed out on Sam's sofa.
Gene's flat was not what he'd expected, from what he could see of it in the dark and through very tinted beer goggles. Not so different from Sam's place, clean but sparse, almost Spartan. As Gene had searched for his keys they'd been arguing some change in police procedure that Sam thought was a step towards the future and Gene the end of the world. Sam had had some good points, he was sure, though he was mostly too drunk to make them in any comprehensible way.
He was entirely unprepared for the way the mood changed once they were inside. One moment he was looking around him in the dim streetlight that filtered through the windows, marshalling his arguments, the next Gene was grabbing his arms, shoving him backwards. Sam gasped as his back hit the wall, widened his eyes as Gene leaned in close.
"You don't work for me any more, Sammy-boy. Know what that means?"
Turned out Sam's recollection of Gene had been much coloured by distance. He'd forgotten the out and out fear the man could instill in him, the unpredictability, pinning him against the wall with sheer force of will and Sam didn't know whether to expect that barking laugh or genuine violence.
"N-no."
"Means you're fair game."
He was far too drunk to read the signals, follow this sudden turn of events. Sam's puzzled mind was still stuck on work related lines, trying to guess what arrestable offence he might have committed, when Gene's mouth crashed against his. Sam let out a surprised little 'oh' that parted his lips and Gene's tongue forced its way inside. He tasted of whisky, sharper than the beer Sam had been drinking, the ashy flavour of his last cigarette still fresh. Gene kissed like he did everything else, determined, no holds barred, devouring Sam's mouth and Sam could do nothing but let him. Too startled to move even if he'd wanted to, and as he felt Gene's fingers digging into his jacket and skin he realised he didn't want to.
When Gene finally pulled back Sam sucked in the breath he'd forgotten about, almost dizzy with the lack of oxygen and the rush of something else. For several long moments all his conscious thought went into stopping his knees from buckling.
"You alright?"
The voice wasn't Gene's, too serious, too concerned. Sam blinked at him stupidly.
"Only a fella tends to move when you kiss 'im. One way or the other."
A cool draft wafted where Gene's heat had been pressed moments before, the cold prickled at Sam's damp lips. The hand at the back of his neck that had held him into that ferocious kiss gave him a little shake.
"Tyler?"
But try as he might Sam couldn't get his brain out of astonished blinking mode. Strong hands steered him across the small flat until something collided with his calves - a bed, Sam decided, as his backside hit the mattress. He closed his eyes, tilted his head back, waited for that whisky flavoured tongue. Was surprised a few seconds later when a glass appeared in his hand. By the time Sam opened his eyes again the flat was flooded with light and Gene was sitting in his one armchair, about as far from Sam as he could get in the small space. Sam went back to blinking.
"Did you... kiss me?"
Gene gave him a look that plainly said 'Duh.' Sam groped around in the beer-and-adrenalin fog inside his head to try and work out if that was a 'duh, yes' or a 'duh, you're hallucinating, you mad bugger.' The only clue was the way Gene wasn't punching him for the suggestion. That and the uncomfortable chafing in Sam's pants.
"You've never kissed me before," he said slowly, because this was a point he was sure of. There wasn't enough alcohol in the world to make him forget such an event.
Another look, condescending and cold. "Strange enough, Tyler, I make a point of not snogging my DIs, especially the boys. Nice recipe for all sorts of unpleasantness." Gene took a sip from his own glass, the glass that he must have filled while Sam was in that weird time warp drunk people get stuck in, and scratched at the side of his head. He looked faintly embarrassed. It took Sam a moment to place the expression, it was an unusual one to see on Gene's impassive face. "You came all this way," he added to the carpet. "Thought there might be a reason, is all."
"I didn't come for that," said Sam, because he hadn't. Hadn't dreamed for a second that 'that' might be on offer. He took a sip from the glass Gene had pressed into his hand and wondered how they'd got back to drinking when there'd been kissing and close body contact.
"Worked that out for myself, thank you," Gene snapped. He drained his whisky, kicked his shoes off and stood up. Sam felt a jolt of something dangerous as the DCI stepped towards him, flicked the light off, and puzzled disappointment when Gene crashed back down into the armchair.
"You take the bed, Tyler. I promise not to molest you."
Something had gone badly wrong here, Sam decided. There'd been kissing, definitely kissing, and now there wasn't. After the brightness of the overhead bulb he could barely make out Gene's silhouette in the chair but he didn't give the impression of a man preparing for passionate action. He looked asleep.
"You're not going to kiss me any more?" he asked stupidly.
"Jesus! Did I kill your brain? What happened to all that open-minded crap?"
"What happened to homophobic?" Sam snapped back, because responding to Gene's little digs was ingrained and far easier for his drunken self to cope with.
"Your word, Tyler, not mine. Thought you'd called me a bleeding fairy for a good few years after. Now drink your whisky and pass out, there's a good boy. It'll all be forgotten in the morning."
Obediently Sam took another swallow, but he didn't feel the least bit sleepy. And though he knew he was more than a little inebriated he didn't think there'd be any forgetting, either.
"And there's no more kissing?" he tried one more time, trying to keep the note of complaint out of his voice. Though really, why shouldn't he complain? It was a bit much to turn someone's world upside down with a kiss that was almost foreplay and then just go to sleep.
"There wasn't kissing. There was me shoving my tongue down your throat and you standing there like a piece of cardboard!" Mildly indignant, so much more Gene than embarrassment.
"I'm sorry," Sam said and the words were true, though wholly inadequate. If he'd ever imagined the Guv jumping him he might have imagined reacting with a little more suavity. But he wasn't apologising, just lamenting an opportunity he'd been too slow to grab with both hands.
"Oh fuck off, you great girl. It's no matter."
It does matter, Sam thought but didn't say. He struggled to find the words that might bring about more kissing, couldn't find them, so he struggled to his feet instead. Wasn't going to let go of a chance like that because he'd been a little slow on the uptake. Wanted to justify his lack of skills with the utter astonishment he had felt but structuring long and multiple sentences seemed beyond his reach while he was distracted by his penis.
Gene finally opened his eyes, wide, when he found himself with a lapful of Sam.
"Six years," he exclaimed, striking out at Gene with an open hand. It was a very susceptible force meeting an immovable object and Sam wobbled precariously. Strong hands gripped his shoulders.
"Sam-."
"Shut up. I worked with you for six years! And you never kissed me once! You can't just jump on someone out of nowhere and call them a lousy kisser."
"Sam-."
This time Sam shut him up the way he wanted to. If he'd been trying to prove what a magnificent kisser he could be then he failed miserably - this time was even messier than the last, teeth clashing, mouths wide open. But Sam didn't care about the blood he could taste in his mouth, didn't care if it was his or Gene's, because he could feel the solid warmth of Gene's chest beneath his hands and more, he could feel Gene reciprocating. He was running out of air when hands cupped his face and gently pulled him back. Green eyes met his with just the slightest hint of a frown.
"I wasn't slagging off your technique, you drunken little nincompoop. Ain't got nothing to prove."
It finally occurred to Sam where he'd gone wrong, why the kissing had stopped. How his frozen shock had been misinterpreted as distaste. He twined his fingers in Gene's, where they still rested lightly against his face, brought their joined hands down between them until Gene's palm was resting on his crotch.
"Does that feel like a lack of enthusiasm to you?"
Those gorgeous green eyes were boring into Sam, starting little frissions of excitement that worked down his spine and made his cock twitch.
"Feels like a man in need of a good shagging," Gene conceded seriously. He tightened his fingers round the bulge under his hand and then that searching glare dissolved into a wolfish grin. That grin had given Sam goosebumps for years. A kind of shiver he could never entirely classify as lust or fear.
"Fancy it, Sammy-boy?"
The sensible part of Sam's head would have pointed out no, that he had no idea what he was getting into and wasn't this all a bit sudden anyway? But he'd drowned that part in beer and lust and he could only answer with another kiss, his dick enthusiastically seconding the motion, hardening under Gene's forceful ministrations. He rocked against him, astride him, feeling Gene's answering interest poking his thigh, and kissed harder. Needing something but too drunk to put a plan into action, too aroused to do anything but kiss and push.
It was Gene who had to puzzle out their respective trouser fastenings while Sam clung on desperately, sucking on Gene's tongue with an unquenchable thirst. Gene's hand that freed him from the uncomfortable confines of his briefs, Gene who wrapped his fingers around both of their cocks, creating friction for Sam to thrust into. He retained his senses long enough to scrabble at Gene's shirt, sliding underneath to touch skin instead of cotton, never breaking that kiss. He could feel Gene's silky smooth erection thrusting against his and was soon lost in the feel of those fingers binding them together. No amount of wanting could make him hold back.
Sam was unaware of the mess he made as he shot his load onto both of their clothing, keening his pleasure into Gene's open mouth. Was entirely oblivious as Gene followed him over the edge with a guttural yell. When the stars cleared he only knew the strong arms holding him in place and the broad shoulder resting under his cheek, and even the sticky, damp mess between them wasn't enough to stop Sam falling asleep.
********
He was aware of it when he woke up, a painful tugging as the cushion beneath him shifted and tried to take his skin too. He whimpered as he was lifted slightly, leaving the odd pubic hair behind.
"Sorry Sammy," Gene's low voice muttered into his ear. "Got a couple gallons of booze wants to come out and you seem to be stuck to my stomach."
Sam snuffled into the curve of his neck and pretended to himself that he was still asleep until it was nearly true again. His cushion quickly gave up the idea of gentle persuasion and stood up, grunting with the effort of lifting Sam with him. Sam instinctively cuddled closer and was brought sharply back to his senses when he was dropped, back hitting something soft. He lay for a second, trying to piece together the hangover fragments and work out where he was.
Hands were moving his legs then his shoes disappeared, then there was the click of a door and the rustling of movement stopped. Gene's bed, his brain supplied, with a little more prodding and some lazy exploration of nearby textures, but no Gene. Still dark, and unless Gene had invested in a water bed, which seemed unlikely, Sam was still a little drunk. More feeling around told him his flies were open, his shirt crusty, confirming the almost impossible memory of frantic kissing and mutual groping and an explosion of pleasure. Usually a hint of the impossible would have set Sam wondering, analysing, but he was sleepy and relaxed and spent a few minutes first just remembering the sensation. It was fuzzy, but all good.
He was just starting to drift off when a second click brought him back to reality. Opening one eye he followed Gene's silhouette as he crossed the room. Felt the shift of the mattress as he sat down beside him, peeling off his shirt. It was tossed to the floor and Sam idly reached out to touch that broad freckled back, running his fingers up into soft blond hair. Gene leaned back into his touch a fraction before standing up to strip off his trousers and unceremoniously rolling Sam over to make room for himself. Sam found all that tempting, suddenly touchable skin under the same blankets he was sprawled on top of and managed to wake himself up enough to follow Gene's example, get undressed and properly tucked in. There was skin aplenty then and Sam insinuated himself around it as far as he was able.
"I'm not a bleeding teddy bear, you know," Gene grumbled as he shifted a bit to put his arm around his fidgeting companion.
"You are all cuddly," Sam argued and Gene snorted, but apparently he was too tired to deliver the expected thump. Sam took a deep breath, the scent of Gene's beer-tainted musk and ever-clinging cigarette smoke taking him back through a two year absence.
"Are you gay?" he asked suddenly.
"Well I'm not miserable." Another snort, Sam felt Gene's warm breath through his hair. "I can't believe I left you in charge of my city, Gladys. Whatever happened to that razor sharp Hyde intellect?"
"It drank too much and got laid."
"Best take your vows now then, Tyler, while you can still remember your name." Gene's voice was scathing but when Sam hooked a leg between his he rolled over slightly, into the embrace.
"But you were married."
"I had noticed."
A few more minutes of silence as Gene's breathing deepened, but now awake, Sam couldn't pass out again so easily. Didn't want to, either, had a vague feeling that things wouldn't be quite so snuggly in the morning when they were both sober. Not that Gene seemed particularly pissed. Certainly not the falling down drunk Sam had been when they left the pub but it was never easy to tell with the Guv; the early signs, like loss of inhibitions, hardly applied, there wasn't much Gene Hunt wouldn't say or do sober. Except that that they'd just done and Sam couldn't put that down to drink, he'd seen Gene in much worse states and never been kissed by him before. Never cuddled him before, not naked, and if it wasn't drink that had Gene allowing it it was definitely drink that gave Sam the daring to try.
"Six years," he repeated, and though he couldn't see in the darkness he could feel the exasperated look Gene gave him.
"Six years what?" he asked with sleepy resignation.
"Six years we worked together, and you never said."
"That I was a flaming queer? Neither did you."
"I'm not." At least he hadn't been, inappropriate thoughts of his DCI notwithstanding. Sam wasn't sure what he was any more, except, this moment at least, supremely comfortable.
"Pity. I was planning on shagging you later." Gene's tone was hardly seductive, thick with sleep, but the bare suggestion made Sam's cock twitch and start to fill. He wondered at his body's reaction to the thought of an act that should have revolted him. Gene might have thought it was what he came for but Gene had always been one step ahead of Sam's understanding of himself.
"I missed you," he said, running his fingers lightly through the wiry hair beneath Gene's bellybutton. "You said earlier you thought there was a reason I came, and there was. I just missed you." He expected a put down in response, a grunt at best, but said it anyway because it was true and he'd never dare tomorrow. Instead the silence stretched so long he started to wonder if the older man had fallen asleep.
"Missed you too," Gene said, after a small age. "They're a fine bunch of lads down here - and lasses - but there's none quite like you."
It was possibly the most sentiment he had ever heard Gene admit to. And while he might have guessed at the sentiment Sam would never have thought to hear it so plainly stated.
"You shouldn't have gone, then."
"One of us had to. You couldn't have stayed DI forever, you know. Only room for one sheriff per city." He brought one hand down to cup Sam's arse, fingers spanning almost one half of his well trimmed derrier. "Besides, if I'd not left I couldn't have done this." He squeezed gently and Sam pushed closer against him, growing erection rubbing against Gene's hip. "Sexual harassment, you'd've called it."
"I wouldn't have minded." He would have been shocked, he had been shocked, but he wouldn't have minded.
"Would have been bloody awkward if you had, though, wouldn't it? And if you hadn't, mebbe. Had a team to think of. Would've changed things."
Sam wriggled up slowly. Hardly without thinking he sought Gene's mouth in the dark, kissed him softly. He hadn't quite figured out the rules to this new game, but a kiss seemed acceptable. In a few short hours - Sam had no idea how many - Gene would be going to work and Sam would have to move on, gathering rosebuds right now sounded a good idea.
"Change is good," he said and kissed again, harder, more insistent. Gene met him for a moment then pulled away.
"You gonna let an old man get his kip here, or what?"
"Okay." Sam wriggled back down to where he'd made himself comfortable on Gene's shoulder, changed his mind and kept on going, ducking his head under the blanket. It was even darker underneath and the smell of warm Gene almost overpowering. He slid a sensuous hand over Gene's stomach and hip to rest on his thigh, his intention clear. "You sleep. I'll just do the tourist thing, see the sights, explore..." He planted a light kiss on Gene's collar bone, moved his hand in tiny circles until he brushed against wiry hair.
"It's dark," Gene pointed out. His words were muffled by the blanket but he sounded less sleepy, voice dry with amusement.
"And yet I'm seeing you in a whole new light."
A heavy hand clipped Sam round the back of the head. "One more pun like that and I'll be stopping your mouth."
"Yeah?" There was a definite challenge in that drawn out syllable as Sam trailed kisses down until he found one puckered nipple. Nipped it gently with his teeth. Not so different to a girl. "What with? This?"
"Not what I had in mind, Tyler."
Gene managed to keep his voice steady but Sam could feel his breathing quicken as he teased his hand through Gene's pubes to the base of his hardening cock. He circled his fingers around him and he twitched, Sam's own cock answered the movement, pressing harder into Gene's hip. Six years of platonic friendship and two years of absence and Sam had never admitted to himself how much he wanted this, but now he was here it felt entirely natural, an extension of their usual banter. Maybe when his brain had caught up with all the alcohol in his bloodstream the weirdness of it all would set in. His Guv, the definitive man's man, naked in bed with him, relaxed and comfortable.
Maybe less relaxed than he was, as Sam slid his hand along the silky length of his dick, filling under his touch.
"What about this?" Sam teased with voice and hand.
"If you insist. Anything for a quiet life."
Sam gave Gene's nipple on last bite before wriggling lower. Gene threw the blankets back, lifting himself up on his elbows so he could watch as Sam kissed his way over his stomach.
"This should be so strange," Sam murmured against his hip bone. He tilted his head up to look at Gene, could just make out those green eyes glinting, though it was too dark to read his expression. His hand kept moving, working Gene harder now, and he revelled in each low grunt that escaped his lips. "Life didn't turn out how I thought it would, you know? But this is-."
Hands caught his head, roughly tugging until Sam was hovering over the leaking tip of Gene's impatient arousal. "Wanker," he said affectionately. "This is no time for getting philosophical."
Sam stretched out his tongue to swipe over the head of Gene's cock, illiciting his first moan. "Sorry," he mumbled, as Gene pushed him down.
Sam had never gone down on a man before - had never experimented beyond a spot of mutual masturbation behind the bikesheds - but he'd been on the receiving end often enough to know what felt good. And Gene wasn't shy in this more than any other walk of life, gripping Sam's hair tightly and moving his head in the rhythm that he liked, silently instructing and gruffly voicing his approval as Sam complied. It was messy and noisy and a couple of times Gene thrust up into his throat and his stomach rolled dangerously, but it was good.
Sam ground against the bedsheets, desperate for friction but too absorbed in touching Gene to touch himself and when Gene came for the second time that night, hands still clenched in Sam's short hair, he swallowed him down eagerly. He snatched another kiss while Gene was still panting and found it returned with enthusiasm despite the bitter, salty taste in his mouth.
"Not a fairy, huh?" Gene asked when Sam let him up for air.
"I'm reconsidering."
He was laying on top of Gene's solid bulk and there was certainly advantage in being the smallest person in the bed, because it felt very good to be where he was. Gene stretched languidly and he could feel each muscle flexing beneath him. He ran his fingers through Gene's hair and was sober enough now to be glad it was dark, that Gene wouldn't be able to see the stupid grin he was sure he must be wearing. He nuzzled against him, taking in the unusual sensations of stubble against his face, grumbled his complaint when Gene moved suddenly, rolling them both over until Sam was lying with his back against the bigger man's chest.
"You'll be wanting to get yours before I nod off," Gene explained, reaching down to take a gentle hold of Sam's still throbbing erection. Surprised Sam again when he felt Gene's bristles rubbing his shoulder as he kissed the side of his neck.
"I'm glad you came, Sam."
He bit back a retort about how he hadn't come yet - the moment was too rare to spoil. Twisted his head round until he was facing Gene, another kiss before he whispered "me too."
Gene's hands were twice the size of Sam's own, twice the size of any he'd had groping him before, and skilled at their work. And Sam was very, very ready. It wasn't long before both were spent and sleeping soundly.
********
When Sam woke up the flat was full of dirty grey light and the warm bulk that had cradled him in his sleep was gone. He could hear the soft noises of someone going about their morning routine and a sleepy 'good morning' earned him a cup of tea a few minutes later. A few sips, the usual face pulled - tea was never going to fill the hole Starbucks had left in Sam's life - and he was awake enough to take note of his surroundings.
A damp Gene, towel slung round his hips, too-long hair dripping down his back, was padding round his kitchenette. It was hardly an unusual sight, back in the day his DCI had crashed at his place often enough - once Sam had left the wallpaper behind and bought a decent sofa - sometimes for days at a time when he'd fallen out with the wife. Different pattern on the kitchen cupboards, a window that faced east, but this was far from the first time Sam had seen him fry breakfast half naked. It looked different this morning, after the night before.
Sam briefly entertained a little domestic daydream, strolling across the bedsit naked, slipping his arm round that gut, taking the cigarette out of his hand and kissing the man senseless while breakfast burned. Knew it was a daydream. If nothing else, he still carried the scars from the last time he's tried to forcibly separate Gene from his nicotine. And he had a suspicion of how real men behaved on mornings like this and Gene was nothing if not a real man. A product of a generation that hadn't yet met Boy George, never mind John Barrowman. There'd be grunts for goodbyes and absolutely no making out over morning tea.
But laying in bed, Gene's attention elsewhere, he indulged the thought. Dislodging that towel and getting a snog rather than a thump. Touching Gene when he could see the reactions on his face, see the skin under his fingers, cementing memories that currently seemed surreal. Thought instead of acted because he would rather go back to Manchester without touching again than upset this familiar old-friends-hungover-together routine.
He lowered his eyes when Gene turned back round, was unsurprised by the bacon sandwich that landed on his pillow. Pretending nothing had happened, he could do that, everything as it always had been except Sam was naked under the blankets. Gene wandered back a couple minutes later with a sandwich of his own.
"I should get up," said Sam without enthusiasm, wriggling up to sit against the headboard. "I'll get crumbs in your bed." He meant it as a warning, avert your eyes now if you don't want to see what you were fondling last night, but Gene just shrugged. Got back in next to Sam and pulled the blankets over his towel clad thighs.
"They can keep my crumbs company." He took a huge bite of his brekkie and chewed noisily. "'sides, a little housewife like you, bet you make the bed on your way out the door."
"You're such a romantic." The sarcasm was out before he could stop it, Sam took a bite of his own sandwich to prevent himself saying anything else. Again Gene surprised him, no stiffening, no denial. Just that snort he knew so well.
"Made you breakfast Samantha, what more do you want? Big bunch of flowers?"
"A plate would be nice."
"Plates have to be washed. And what the fuck are you grinning about?"
Sam hadn't noticed that he was, tried to stop, found he couldn't. He gave up. He stopped pretending everything was normal because everything was normal and all too good, the easy banter between them not scared away by the sex. And despite the swearing and the grumpy tone Gene didn't sound particularly unhappy himself. It encouraged Sam to answer honestly.
"I missed this."
"I make a mean bacon butty," Gene agreed, and Sam let him pretend to misunderstand because it he knew it was pretense.
Two more massive bites saw the end of Gene's sandwich and he sipped his tea as Sam munched at a more sedate pace. "What time is it?" he asked between mouthfuls.
"'Bout half six."
"Huh. You start early in London."
"Not really. Promised you a shag, didn't I? Had to refuel first."
Sam choked on a bacon rind, then turned astonished eyes sideways to Gene, who was still sipping his tea as if he'd said nothing untoward. Sam couldn't have said exactly why he was so surprised himself, they'd done everything but last night and Gene seemed unperturbed by the naked Sam still in his bed this morning. And Gene being blunt, that could hardly shock anyone who had met him.
It was just so incongruous, the tea and the daylight and the easy bickering, everything familiar except that one things that was radically different. He'd expected, now the Dutch courage had more or less evaporated, that things that had felt natural last night would be awkward or ignored this morning. And Sam had been willing to accept that, was happy enough, wouldn't have wanted to trade the friendship for sex. He should have known better really, had never seen Gene awkward before, it would be a bigger shock than the sudden discovery of his sexual orientation.
He'd have a lot to think through, Sam realised, when this strange little sojourn ended, as it surely would do when Gene walked out of the door. A few of life's constants were now topsy-turvey. But thinking would have to wait - surprising as Gene's words were they'd roused parts of Sam that drained all blood available for thought. Which was strange in itself. He could only really imagine what Gene meant by a good shagging, and the idea should have filled him with trepidation, but it didn't, it excited.
"What?" Gene barked as Sam's thoughts drifted. "I'm getting on, you know. Can't rut all night and run on thin air. Gotta look after myself now I'm old."
"You won't get much older if this is your idea of nutrition." The jibe was automatic, Sam couldn't think of Gene as old, it was hard enough to remember he himself was rapidly climbing the scale of his forties. The years had flown by and not left much of a mark. The sparse hair on Gene's chest was grizzled but the flab covered the same rock hard muscle and his streaky hair framed a face that hadn't aged a day. "Think of the cholesterol."
"Best give me some exercise then. Bouncing up and down on you ought to do it."
"Sure of yourself, aren't you Guv?"
The honorific just slipped out, the phrase so often used as they'd egged each other on to greater heights of daring and stupidity. Gene almost invariably went on to prove himself quite right, in his own way, and the thought of what that might mean on this occasion finished the job of arousing Sam.
"You want me," Gene stated cheerfully. "I've got your measure, Gladys. And I've got you naked in my bed. I'd say that was a sure thing."
Sam swallowed, though his mouth was empty, took another bite of his sandwich and tried to pretend he wasn't hurrying. Too fast for him to process the movement Gene discarded his mug and grabbed him through the blankets that were doing a poor job of concealing his arousal.
"See," he said smugly. "Little tart."
"Am not," Sam protested. "I've never even... done that."
Gene didn't call him on the delicacy of language. Turned his head, leaned in until Sam could feel his seven o'clock shadow bristling against his ear. "But you want to, don't you Sammy?"
He could hardly deny it, given the way his dick jerked in Gene's hand. "You want me to have you. I'm going to fuck you into the mattress and you'll enjoy every second." He squeezed harder, almost painfully, and his voice was rough, threatening. "Won't you, Tyler?"
And Sam realised that Gene did indeed have his measure. He was frozen, mouth too dry to answer, the last corner of his butty still hovering halfway between lap and mouth. Gene released him long enough to snatch the crust out of his hand and pop it in his mouth, he swallowed almost without chewing and Sam watched the bob of his Adam's apple, hypnotised.
"Roll over," Gene commanded, and Sam obeyed. Shivered as Gene's large hand landed on the back of his neck. He put his mouth to Sam's ear again and Sam was trembling now, excitement and fear and anticipation.
"Trust the Gene Genie."
********
Sam lay flat out on his stomach as Gene sat and smoked beside him. Wondered at Gene having the energy to get even halfway to vertical. For the first time since he'd arrived he thought to be glad of his compulsory vacation, enjoy the fact that it wasn't him with a long work day ahead of him, that he could laze conscience free. Wasn't just idleness that kept him still - though pleasure had most definitely been had, Sam was in no hurry to move and find out if damage had been sustained also. Laying still, the pillow was comfortable and the ache, too, and Sam was so thoroughly wrung out that watching Gene smoke took up all his energy. The rhythm of deep inhales, the crackle of cinders as the air drew through Gene's fag, the hypnotic curl of smoke - it was smoking by proxy and Sam had done it many times before, a wooden bar rather than a pillow he was too exhausted to lift his head from.
Overall, never moving again sounded very tempting. Sam toyed with the idea of making that an actual plan as he watched Gene tilt his head back to blow smoke at the ceiling. Knew that he wouldn't, that he was too much of a coward to find out if he was welcome, but the idea was pleasant. And sleeping was definitely going to be a big part of Sam's day. Unless Gene physically dragged him out of the door with him - and Sam had learned never to say never where Gene Hunt was concerned - Sam didn't think he was capable of leaving the bed until he'd had an unbroken hour or two.
Gene, though he called himself an old man now, seemed to have no such problem. He put his fag out in the dregs of his tea, levered himself off the bed and began to dress with no sign of the hangover Sam was starting to feel. Politeness probably dictated that Sam follow suit but Sam was too knackered to care and social etiquette was hardly something Gene was fussed about. If this was goodbye he didn't see why he shouldn't wallow here a little while where it smelt of sex and sweat and Gene.
The watch on the dresser said a quarter to eight by the time Gene picked it up and slipped it on, a couple minutes later he perched on the edge of the bed to pull on his shoes. Sam rolled on to his side and found enough energy to prop himself up on one elbow.
"So how much holiday you got left?"
They were the first words either man had spoken since the aaahs and yesses and mores had faded away.
"Thirteen days."
Gene chuckled, slowly building up to a real laugh. "Take it I was first stop on your little tour of the country?"
Sam shrugged as Gene turned to look at him. He reached out in an unusually gentle gesture to ruffle Sam's short hair. "You're a great wet girl, Gladys. Anyone ever tell you that?"
A rhetorical question, presumably, as Gene himself had said exactly that many times in the past. Sam glared, for form's sake.
"You gonna be here when I get back?"
The question was so casual it gave Sam pause. He didn't know what the right answer was, if the words were intended as invitation or hint, knew 'do you want me to be?' would sound hopelessly pathetic. It must have been written on his face, however, because Gene rolled his eyes ceilingward, preempted the question.
"Was an invite, you daft 'apeth. Wouldn't ask if I didn't want you to be, would I?"
Sam's broad grin must have been answer enough, Gene grinned too. "Even better, I'll meet you down the pub. You can take me somewhere nice first - don't want you thinking I'm easy."
"Couldn't ever think that, Guv."
"Cheeky beggar."
Gene swooped, catching Sam by surprise - he'd always done that a lot, only the methods were new - his tongue tangled with Sam's and he kissed him thoroughly. Then he was up and gone.
Sam rolled onto his back, sharing his happiness with the empty room. His smile didn't fade until long after Sam had fallen asleep.