Life on Mars Fic
Sequel to The Seat with the Clearest View and If is for Children, which can be found here. Huge huge big thanks to kispexi2 for the beta job.
Sam was feeling decidedly mellow. And that wasn't just a euphemism, though drunk he most certainly was. Usually a drunk Sam was still a tightly wound Sam - and yes, he was drunk enough to be thinking about himself in the third person - but tonight whisky and company had conspired to give him a feeling of general well-being. Morgan's cryptic comments had been pushed out of his mind by happier thoughts; Gene was safe in the bosom of his CID family and all was right with the world.
Apart from the mess-up in his medication that had put the future forcibly into his mind, Sam had hardly thought of 2006 the last month or two. More and more, 1973 was becoming his present. And today, November 17th 1973, had been a good day. Well, seen from the rose-and-whisky-tinted perspective of afterwards it had been a good day, more or less. It had ended well. And it had started with levering Gene into a squirrel costume. If Sam hadn't been such a moral man, he might have thought that a corpse or two of fairly unlikeable people was a fair trade for getting to see Gene dressed as Tufty the Squirrel.
Fear of the Guv's potential life sentence had stopped Sam enjoying the feeling at the time but, with hindsight, the camaraderie of Us against Everyone Else had been... enjoyable. They'd bickered - Hunt and Tyler would always bicker, it was an integral part of their working relationship - but they'd won the day. And Sam had many little memories to keep him warm through the long, fuel-short November nights. Not warm in that way, though it seemed the squirrel costume had officially entered Sam's list of fetishes. Not Gene's startling admission of trust either. Not entirely.
The thing Sam treasured most was the feeling of making a difference. 'I put a stop to it all months ago.' He'd been the cause of that, Sam was sure. Months ago they'd taken Warren down and Gene had put a stop to dodgy dealings Sam had never known about. That was a reason to celebrate - as if keeping Gene out of gaol wasn't reason enough.
For a horribly long time that was exactly where Sam thought he was going. Simply put, he thought Gene had done it. He'd never seen his DCI so drunk - and he'd seen him drink himself unconscious - and anyone drunk and angry enough to be waving a gun around was surely drunk and angry enough to fire it. Sam blamed himself, leaving a drunk man and a missing gun to find their own way home hadn't been his best idea ever, but he blamed Gene too. He'd known better from the moment he'd seen the second corpse. That second death wasn't a drunken moment of madness; it was deliberate and motivated and no amount of evidence could persuade Sam that Gene could ever be that kind of murderer, ending a life in cold blood to protect his own skin. And as Sam couldn't really work up any guilt over the death of Terry Haslam everything had worked out just fine and dandy. Thanks to the amazing partnership of Hunt and Tyler. Yup, definitely drunk when he was thinking in the phrases of Gene's high-spirited toasts.
And there was the other reason for Sam's good humour. Gene had been quite correct when he claimed he was his team. When Gene was unhappy they all suffered but the inverse was true - Gene in a good mood lifted all around him. Gene and the whisky, which was flowing almost too liberally. Every time Sam took his eye off the ball, Gene would top up his glass until Sam had lost track of how much malt had slid down his throat and his eye had lost interest in the ball altogether. Any more and Sam was in serious danger of joining in Chris' spastic dance around the office.
He joined in the general laughter as Chris tripped over his own feet and sat very suddenly in the middle of the floor, looking extremely puzzled as to how he'd got there. Gene shoved him out the way with his foot and swept Annie from her perch on the desk for a demonstration of how it should be done. Gave up after a few steps of something vaguely waltz-like, cheerfully cursing his unwilling partner. Even Ray had ditched the usual sneer.
Only a couple of months ago Sam might have envied this dysfunctional family but there and then, warmed by whisky, he felt a part of it. It was undoubtedly Gene who pulled him in, pulled them all in. In a malt-inspired flight of fancy Sam imagined him as a planet, exerting his own field of charisma-powered gravity that managed to appeal to the prehistoric Ray and the twenty-first century Sam and every man, and woman, in between. The Guv who knit them all together, made collegues something else and this drunken celebration a world away from the stilted work 'dos' of 2006.
Strange, really, that the most bigotted and offensive man Sam had ever met also managed to be the most tolerant. Not in the liberal 'everybody is equal' way Sam had been taught, but just a way of taking everyone as they came that Sam had never found in his own, consciously open-minded decade. No grudges held over the distinct lack of 'all for one' his team had displayed. No standing apart to maintain his authority. A git, a div, a bird, a few men so close to retirement they scarecely moved, a nutter from the future, and Gene made them his without ever expecting them to be anything other than what they were.
Sam had complained endlessly about being alone, isolated, and for a long time he'd felt it. The people here could never know his world, never believe in it, even if they were real, and that tainted every connection he made here. Should have made it impossible to find understanding. A normal boss would have taken one look at his new DI, ranting nonsense, and shipped him straight off to the funny farm. Gene had managed to shrug off the fact that he talked to furniture and had seen him anyway. Despite the lack of comprehension, here was acceptence, here was home.
And here, also, was a smiling, sweaty, tipsy Gene, tie and jacket long discarded, slapping Sam on the back as he filled his glass for the umpteenth time that night. Sam raised the glass and made a toast of his own, sloshing whisky over his fingers and tripping over every other word The encouragement to drink more was met with a roar of approval even though Sam knew not one of them had understood what he'd said. Sam wondered, if he squinted real hard, if he might just be able to make himself believe that it was 2006 that was the illusion.
********
It was only a persistent, nagging pain in Gene's side which persuaded him it was time to be moving. He'd poured himself and the man of the hour one last night-cap after Ray had staggered home with Chris half an hour ago and, drunk as he was, the temptation was to doze. If he'd picked a comfier spot to park himself, Gene might have succumbed to temptation and put his head down but there was a stapler digging into his ribs and he wasn't far gone enough to discount the indignity of having the cleaners peel him off the desk in the morning.
Besides, there was Tyler opposite in far worse straits. A dram away from passing out, the man was still blathering on. Gene had given up trying to follow the thread of his drunken ramblings when Tyler had stopped banging on about the delights of police accountability and drifted off into his fantasy future where everything was good and filled with sunny days and puppy dogs. He let the soporific slur of the other man's voice wash over him, grunting noncommittally whenever a response was demanded.
Gene had long ago learned it didn't do to listen too closely when Sam stopped making sense; that way he could never hear the thing that would force him to take action over his insane DI. This time of night it was an easy task, not even Tyler's usual nonsense but half-formed sentences even another drunk couldn't make sense of. From the occasional word that slipped past Gene's defences he was a sentimental drunk when fed an exclusive diet of single malt. Sam's eyelids were drooping and Gene could have sworn he was halfway to unconscious but still his mouth was flapping insistently, determined to get some grand concept across to his superior.
Gene manhandling him to his feet hardly interrupted him. There was a brief struggle, Tyler's ingrained response to anything Gene proposed, but when his intentions sunk in he acquiesced easily enough. His legs weren't as willing and Gene was not poised enough to pick up the slack and by the time he'd dragged them both through the double doors Gene was beginning to wish he'd left Tyler to the tender mercies of the cleaning ladies. Legs bendier than was natural, head falling against Gene's chest as he tried to keep them both upright - the corridor to the lift looked like a long and dangerous proposition when he couldn't even get Tyler pointing in the right direction.
It was, Gene had to admit, mostly his own fault. He'd plied his DI with much of Morgan's whisky, in lieu of actual spoken gratitude. Enough whisky to dissolve the stick permanently lodged up Tyler's arse and Gene found he liked the affect and plied some more, until Chris wasn't the only div drunk enough to be dancing round the office and falling over his own bloody feet. So really, Gene only had himself to blame when a never-seen-before cheeriness disolved into crazy talk, which was most of the reason he'd not left his DI for the cleaners to deal with. He did owe the man.
Sam'd come close to driving him insane with his thrice-cursed procedure, and Gene had seen the doubt there when he'd protested his innocence but he bore no animosity, had even doubted himself once or twice. But buried well beneath that Hyde brainwashing were a copper's instincts second to none and loyalty too, stronger than Tyler's devotion to protocol. His bull-headed persistence had proved itself and Gene owed him, for that and giving up his bed for a wanted fugitive.
So now he'd lumbered himself with a drunk who refused to fight gravity. He was starting to suspect Sam's stumbling movements weren't any attempt to stay vertical but rather to find a comfy spot to sleep. Gratitude or no, Gene wasn't about to stand there while Tyler had a nap, never mind what the close contact was doing to his equilibrium, so he gave the man a thorough shake to get things moving again. The movement it produced was not entirely useful. Tyler fell over his own feet and when Gene hauled him back up by his collar he fell right back against his DCI, tripping Gene when he tried to move them both forward. That killed another five minutes, getting them both up off the floor, and this time Gene tucked his DI under his arm. Adjusting to this balancing weight took more thought and practise than came easily to a drunk and Tyler wasn't helping at all, clinging onto Gene in a way that was most distracting.
"Would you stop bloody cuddling me, you great pansy!"
Tyler mumbled something in reply but Gene couldn't make it out and didn't put much effort into trying, knew it wouldn't be anything sensible. Didn't think he'd ever seen a man so drunk and still talking. But despite the unsettling feel of Sam's wiry arms snaked under his coat, they were making progress in a forward direction now so Gene pressed on until they reached the lift doors. The call button wasn't quite where he'd left it or was possibly moving around and it took a few jabs to summon the lift and Sam's knees gave out in the wait. Even drunk, Gene shuddered at the picture they must present. Gave his DI a bit of a kick. But Sam clung tighter and now Gene could feel his warm breath through the front of his trousers, something he determined to forget as soon as possible. He was more than relieved when the lift arrived and strode in without warning, leaving Sam trailing behind him. Gene prodded with his foot until his legs were over the threshold and they were going down.
And, Christ almighty, Sam was still talking. Sprawled on the lift floor, eyes tight shut, smiling beatifically at the ceiling and mumbling. When they hit bottom it was more hard work to heave him off the floor. One mention of home and Sam was fighting him again, protesting incoherently.
"I said it's time to go home, Sammy-boy," he bellowed into his ear and it woke him up like he'd hoped it would but into a panic and Sam resisted every inch as Gene dragged him upright.
"I've changed my mind," he squealed in protest. "I don't want to go home! I want to stay."
But having got this far Gene wasn't about to leave him in the lift. Enjoyable though it was to poke fun at his DI, he didn't want the plonks taking their turn in the morning. Neither did he want to walk past the nightshift desk sergeant with his DI cuddling him so he cut off further argument by grabbing the back of his collar and marching the little lightweight across the reception area and out into the night. The cold night air hit them both like a bucket of water, Sam wriggled out of his grasp again, this time to be sick at the edge of the carpark.
"Time to go home, Sam," he said again when he was done retching.
"Which home?" Tyler asked, which wasn't exactly a sensible question but it was in English so Gene was going to consider it progress.
"Your flat, you plank."
The air or the vomiting had done some good and a hand on his elbow was all it took to get Sam to his feet. He wobbled but stood upright.
"Not the future?"
"If that shit hole's the future you'll find me back in the dark ages. Done chucking?" Sam nodded, though whether he was answering Gene or the voices in his head was anyone's guess. "You understand if you're sick in my car I'll have to kill you?"
Another nod. "I'll be floating down the canal tomorrow."
If he was going to murder anyone Gene would probably take the time to weight the corpse but technicalities aside that was more sense than he'd got out of Tyler for most of the night so Gene nodded, and just to prove the little prick was back in the land of the living he added: "I don't think you should be driving, Guv."
Gene didn't bother answering that one, assuming Sam would have forgotten by the time they reached the Cortina. It was fifty yards and a flight of steps that only took ten minutes. Gene wasn't complaining because that was an improvement and he only had to pick Tyler up three times, and once more when they reached the car. Wrestling him upright - again - Sam beamed at him.
"You're not in prison," he said wonderingly, collapsing against the Cortina this time, for the sake of variety. Gene was getting far too soft in his old age, didn't have the heart to kick the man for the mess he was undoubtedly making of his paintwork.
"No I am not," Gene confirmed. "Suppose I've got you to thank for that."
Moving quicker than he had any right to after making such a mess of walking, Sam caught the back of Gene's neck and tugged. Caught off balance Gene lurched forward and Sam met him with a very determined kiss. Gene opened his mouth to protest, or sound alarm, or something, and the little bugger slipped his tongue in. He might walk and talk like a girl but Tyler didn't kiss like one, least not any girl Gene had had the good fortune to meet. He managed to be everywhere, licking and sucking and pressing and moving so quickly that it was only when his fingers slipped under camelhair to dig into Gene's arse that Gene thought to wrench his head away.
Sam grinned broadly, watching Gene through half lidded eyes and showing not a trace of the fear he should be feeling. His hand came up to touch Gene's face, Gene thought he was going to kiss him again and for a terrifying second thought about letting him - right there in the car park where any of the nightshift might see them - so Gene did the only thing he could think of and punched Tyler square on the jaw.
It was the two-ton straw that broke the camel's back and Sam finally found the oblivion that the whisky had promised. Gene watched him go down, breathing hard and feeling god knows what. Watched a good long while, before deciding he was in no way drunk enough and fishing a hip flask out of an inner pocket. It took more than a few mouthfuls before the terror faded enough for Gene to focus on the practicalities. He couldn't leave his little tart of a deputy unconscious in the car park.
Carrying Sam up the stairs to his flat, Gene reflected that at least this was easier than walking the little bastard anywhere.
Sam was feeling decidedly mellow. And that wasn't just a euphemism, though drunk he most certainly was. Usually a drunk Sam was still a tightly wound Sam - and yes, he was drunk enough to be thinking about himself in the third person - but tonight whisky and company had conspired to give him a feeling of general well-being. Morgan's cryptic comments had been pushed out of his mind by happier thoughts; Gene was safe in the bosom of his CID family and all was right with the world.
Apart from the mess-up in his medication that had put the future forcibly into his mind, Sam had hardly thought of 2006 the last month or two. More and more, 1973 was becoming his present. And today, November 17th 1973, had been a good day. Well, seen from the rose-and-whisky-tinted perspective of afterwards it had been a good day, more or less. It had ended well. And it had started with levering Gene into a squirrel costume. If Sam hadn't been such a moral man, he might have thought that a corpse or two of fairly unlikeable people was a fair trade for getting to see Gene dressed as Tufty the Squirrel.
Fear of the Guv's potential life sentence had stopped Sam enjoying the feeling at the time but, with hindsight, the camaraderie of Us against Everyone Else had been... enjoyable. They'd bickered - Hunt and Tyler would always bicker, it was an integral part of their working relationship - but they'd won the day. And Sam had many little memories to keep him warm through the long, fuel-short November nights. Not warm in that way, though it seemed the squirrel costume had officially entered Sam's list of fetishes. Not Gene's startling admission of trust either. Not entirely.
The thing Sam treasured most was the feeling of making a difference. 'I put a stop to it all months ago.' He'd been the cause of that, Sam was sure. Months ago they'd taken Warren down and Gene had put a stop to dodgy dealings Sam had never known about. That was a reason to celebrate - as if keeping Gene out of gaol wasn't reason enough.
For a horribly long time that was exactly where Sam thought he was going. Simply put, he thought Gene had done it. He'd never seen his DCI so drunk - and he'd seen him drink himself unconscious - and anyone drunk and angry enough to be waving a gun around was surely drunk and angry enough to fire it. Sam blamed himself, leaving a drunk man and a missing gun to find their own way home hadn't been his best idea ever, but he blamed Gene too. He'd known better from the moment he'd seen the second corpse. That second death wasn't a drunken moment of madness; it was deliberate and motivated and no amount of evidence could persuade Sam that Gene could ever be that kind of murderer, ending a life in cold blood to protect his own skin. And as Sam couldn't really work up any guilt over the death of Terry Haslam everything had worked out just fine and dandy. Thanks to the amazing partnership of Hunt and Tyler. Yup, definitely drunk when he was thinking in the phrases of Gene's high-spirited toasts.
And there was the other reason for Sam's good humour. Gene had been quite correct when he claimed he was his team. When Gene was unhappy they all suffered but the inverse was true - Gene in a good mood lifted all around him. Gene and the whisky, which was flowing almost too liberally. Every time Sam took his eye off the ball, Gene would top up his glass until Sam had lost track of how much malt had slid down his throat and his eye had lost interest in the ball altogether. Any more and Sam was in serious danger of joining in Chris' spastic dance around the office.
He joined in the general laughter as Chris tripped over his own feet and sat very suddenly in the middle of the floor, looking extremely puzzled as to how he'd got there. Gene shoved him out the way with his foot and swept Annie from her perch on the desk for a demonstration of how it should be done. Gave up after a few steps of something vaguely waltz-like, cheerfully cursing his unwilling partner. Even Ray had ditched the usual sneer.
Only a couple of months ago Sam might have envied this dysfunctional family but there and then, warmed by whisky, he felt a part of it. It was undoubtedly Gene who pulled him in, pulled them all in. In a malt-inspired flight of fancy Sam imagined him as a planet, exerting his own field of charisma-powered gravity that managed to appeal to the prehistoric Ray and the twenty-first century Sam and every man, and woman, in between. The Guv who knit them all together, made collegues something else and this drunken celebration a world away from the stilted work 'dos' of 2006.
Strange, really, that the most bigotted and offensive man Sam had ever met also managed to be the most tolerant. Not in the liberal 'everybody is equal' way Sam had been taught, but just a way of taking everyone as they came that Sam had never found in his own, consciously open-minded decade. No grudges held over the distinct lack of 'all for one' his team had displayed. No standing apart to maintain his authority. A git, a div, a bird, a few men so close to retirement they scarecely moved, a nutter from the future, and Gene made them his without ever expecting them to be anything other than what they were.
Sam had complained endlessly about being alone, isolated, and for a long time he'd felt it. The people here could never know his world, never believe in it, even if they were real, and that tainted every connection he made here. Should have made it impossible to find understanding. A normal boss would have taken one look at his new DI, ranting nonsense, and shipped him straight off to the funny farm. Gene had managed to shrug off the fact that he talked to furniture and had seen him anyway. Despite the lack of comprehension, here was acceptence, here was home.
And here, also, was a smiling, sweaty, tipsy Gene, tie and jacket long discarded, slapping Sam on the back as he filled his glass for the umpteenth time that night. Sam raised the glass and made a toast of his own, sloshing whisky over his fingers and tripping over every other word The encouragement to drink more was met with a roar of approval even though Sam knew not one of them had understood what he'd said. Sam wondered, if he squinted real hard, if he might just be able to make himself believe that it was 2006 that was the illusion.
********
It was only a persistent, nagging pain in Gene's side which persuaded him it was time to be moving. He'd poured himself and the man of the hour one last night-cap after Ray had staggered home with Chris half an hour ago and, drunk as he was, the temptation was to doze. If he'd picked a comfier spot to park himself, Gene might have succumbed to temptation and put his head down but there was a stapler digging into his ribs and he wasn't far gone enough to discount the indignity of having the cleaners peel him off the desk in the morning.
Besides, there was Tyler opposite in far worse straits. A dram away from passing out, the man was still blathering on. Gene had given up trying to follow the thread of his drunken ramblings when Tyler had stopped banging on about the delights of police accountability and drifted off into his fantasy future where everything was good and filled with sunny days and puppy dogs. He let the soporific slur of the other man's voice wash over him, grunting noncommittally whenever a response was demanded.
Gene had long ago learned it didn't do to listen too closely when Sam stopped making sense; that way he could never hear the thing that would force him to take action over his insane DI. This time of night it was an easy task, not even Tyler's usual nonsense but half-formed sentences even another drunk couldn't make sense of. From the occasional word that slipped past Gene's defences he was a sentimental drunk when fed an exclusive diet of single malt. Sam's eyelids were drooping and Gene could have sworn he was halfway to unconscious but still his mouth was flapping insistently, determined to get some grand concept across to his superior.
Gene manhandling him to his feet hardly interrupted him. There was a brief struggle, Tyler's ingrained response to anything Gene proposed, but when his intentions sunk in he acquiesced easily enough. His legs weren't as willing and Gene was not poised enough to pick up the slack and by the time he'd dragged them both through the double doors Gene was beginning to wish he'd left Tyler to the tender mercies of the cleaning ladies. Legs bendier than was natural, head falling against Gene's chest as he tried to keep them both upright - the corridor to the lift looked like a long and dangerous proposition when he couldn't even get Tyler pointing in the right direction.
It was, Gene had to admit, mostly his own fault. He'd plied his DI with much of Morgan's whisky, in lieu of actual spoken gratitude. Enough whisky to dissolve the stick permanently lodged up Tyler's arse and Gene found he liked the affect and plied some more, until Chris wasn't the only div drunk enough to be dancing round the office and falling over his own bloody feet. So really, Gene only had himself to blame when a never-seen-before cheeriness disolved into crazy talk, which was most of the reason he'd not left his DI for the cleaners to deal with. He did owe the man.
Sam'd come close to driving him insane with his thrice-cursed procedure, and Gene had seen the doubt there when he'd protested his innocence but he bore no animosity, had even doubted himself once or twice. But buried well beneath that Hyde brainwashing were a copper's instincts second to none and loyalty too, stronger than Tyler's devotion to protocol. His bull-headed persistence had proved itself and Gene owed him, for that and giving up his bed for a wanted fugitive.
So now he'd lumbered himself with a drunk who refused to fight gravity. He was starting to suspect Sam's stumbling movements weren't any attempt to stay vertical but rather to find a comfy spot to sleep. Gratitude or no, Gene wasn't about to stand there while Tyler had a nap, never mind what the close contact was doing to his equilibrium, so he gave the man a thorough shake to get things moving again. The movement it produced was not entirely useful. Tyler fell over his own feet and when Gene hauled him back up by his collar he fell right back against his DCI, tripping Gene when he tried to move them both forward. That killed another five minutes, getting them both up off the floor, and this time Gene tucked his DI under his arm. Adjusting to this balancing weight took more thought and practise than came easily to a drunk and Tyler wasn't helping at all, clinging onto Gene in a way that was most distracting.
"Would you stop bloody cuddling me, you great pansy!"
Tyler mumbled something in reply but Gene couldn't make it out and didn't put much effort into trying, knew it wouldn't be anything sensible. Didn't think he'd ever seen a man so drunk and still talking. But despite the unsettling feel of Sam's wiry arms snaked under his coat, they were making progress in a forward direction now so Gene pressed on until they reached the lift doors. The call button wasn't quite where he'd left it or was possibly moving around and it took a few jabs to summon the lift and Sam's knees gave out in the wait. Even drunk, Gene shuddered at the picture they must present. Gave his DI a bit of a kick. But Sam clung tighter and now Gene could feel his warm breath through the front of his trousers, something he determined to forget as soon as possible. He was more than relieved when the lift arrived and strode in without warning, leaving Sam trailing behind him. Gene prodded with his foot until his legs were over the threshold and they were going down.
And, Christ almighty, Sam was still talking. Sprawled on the lift floor, eyes tight shut, smiling beatifically at the ceiling and mumbling. When they hit bottom it was more hard work to heave him off the floor. One mention of home and Sam was fighting him again, protesting incoherently.
"I said it's time to go home, Sammy-boy," he bellowed into his ear and it woke him up like he'd hoped it would but into a panic and Sam resisted every inch as Gene dragged him upright.
"I've changed my mind," he squealed in protest. "I don't want to go home! I want to stay."
But having got this far Gene wasn't about to leave him in the lift. Enjoyable though it was to poke fun at his DI, he didn't want the plonks taking their turn in the morning. Neither did he want to walk past the nightshift desk sergeant with his DI cuddling him so he cut off further argument by grabbing the back of his collar and marching the little lightweight across the reception area and out into the night. The cold night air hit them both like a bucket of water, Sam wriggled out of his grasp again, this time to be sick at the edge of the carpark.
"Time to go home, Sam," he said again when he was done retching.
"Which home?" Tyler asked, which wasn't exactly a sensible question but it was in English so Gene was going to consider it progress.
"Your flat, you plank."
The air or the vomiting had done some good and a hand on his elbow was all it took to get Sam to his feet. He wobbled but stood upright.
"Not the future?"
"If that shit hole's the future you'll find me back in the dark ages. Done chucking?" Sam nodded, though whether he was answering Gene or the voices in his head was anyone's guess. "You understand if you're sick in my car I'll have to kill you?"
Another nod. "I'll be floating down the canal tomorrow."
If he was going to murder anyone Gene would probably take the time to weight the corpse but technicalities aside that was more sense than he'd got out of Tyler for most of the night so Gene nodded, and just to prove the little prick was back in the land of the living he added: "I don't think you should be driving, Guv."
Gene didn't bother answering that one, assuming Sam would have forgotten by the time they reached the Cortina. It was fifty yards and a flight of steps that only took ten minutes. Gene wasn't complaining because that was an improvement and he only had to pick Tyler up three times, and once more when they reached the car. Wrestling him upright - again - Sam beamed at him.
"You're not in prison," he said wonderingly, collapsing against the Cortina this time, for the sake of variety. Gene was getting far too soft in his old age, didn't have the heart to kick the man for the mess he was undoubtedly making of his paintwork.
"No I am not," Gene confirmed. "Suppose I've got you to thank for that."
Moving quicker than he had any right to after making such a mess of walking, Sam caught the back of Gene's neck and tugged. Caught off balance Gene lurched forward and Sam met him with a very determined kiss. Gene opened his mouth to protest, or sound alarm, or something, and the little bugger slipped his tongue in. He might walk and talk like a girl but Tyler didn't kiss like one, least not any girl Gene had had the good fortune to meet. He managed to be everywhere, licking and sucking and pressing and moving so quickly that it was only when his fingers slipped under camelhair to dig into Gene's arse that Gene thought to wrench his head away.
Sam grinned broadly, watching Gene through half lidded eyes and showing not a trace of the fear he should be feeling. His hand came up to touch Gene's face, Gene thought he was going to kiss him again and for a terrifying second thought about letting him - right there in the car park where any of the nightshift might see them - so Gene did the only thing he could think of and punched Tyler square on the jaw.
It was the two-ton straw that broke the camel's back and Sam finally found the oblivion that the whisky had promised. Gene watched him go down, breathing hard and feeling god knows what. Watched a good long while, before deciding he was in no way drunk enough and fishing a hip flask out of an inner pocket. It took more than a few mouthfuls before the terror faded enough for Gene to focus on the practicalities. He couldn't leave his little tart of a deputy unconscious in the car park.
Carrying Sam up the stairs to his flat, Gene reflected that at least this was easier than walking the little bastard anywhere.