Fic: Alive, part one, Xysabridde (Gene/Sam, Brown/Red Cortina)
Title: Alive (part 1)
Author: me, Xysa
Word count: 5,425 (including little sort-of epilogue at the end)
Rating: it’ll have to be browny-red Cortina. Mainly because it’s post-apocalypse, and the boys do get frisky- slight shades of non-con if you squint, but it’s debatable.
Characters: Gene, Sam, some random OCs
Disclaimer: … Would I be writing fanfiction if I owned this lot? No way. I’d be in London commissioning another series of LOM. With Graham and Pharaoh tied to the column in my office until they’d written it, and Simm and Glenister handcuffed to the opposite radiator, just for fun.
Notes: Started out as light crack!fic, turned into zombies, and ended up as post-apocalypse angsty smut. (I did NOT think myself capable of this kind of thing six months ago. I used to be such a sweet child.) Bit of top!Sam, sub!Sam, top!Gene and sub!Gene because apparently my subconscious couldn’t decide, and plenty of angsty Gene because the poor bloke gets so much angst anyway, a little bit more won’t hurt him. I love you really, Gene.
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Sam is still yawning and debating whether to leave his nice warm sleeping bag by the time a half-asleep Gene gets back with the firewood, dumping it outside the tent with a grunt and crawling back in to steal the covers from his DI, seemingly oblivious to Sam’s moaned protests. The light is just drawing in, the sun peeping through the trees and only a sliver of moon left in the cloudy sky, and Sam’s glad of the sleeping bag’s size as he unzips it and shifts over to slide in beside Gene, breathing in the smells of wood and undergrowth and the damp clothing that Gene is discarding on the floor beside the mattress, wrapping the sleeping bag around his half-naked body and shivering gently.
“Cold out there, is it?” Sam murmurs into Gene’s hair, wrapping his arms around him and pressing a kiss to his forehead, pretending to be unfazed by the lack of response. Gene shifts around to get comfortable, reluctantly resting his head on the arm Sam raises to curl round Gene’s head, deliberately blocking Gene’s route to the pillow.
“Didn’t see anyone?”
“Nope. Not a dicky bird. Place is as deserted as Mary Whitehouse’s knickers. No footprints neither. They ‘aven’t found us.”
“Good.” Sam pulls his DCI closer, nestling into the rigid, tense body warm in his arms. “We’ve covered our tracks well. We’ll be fine.”
A dense silence falls over the tent, broken only by Gene’s soft snores after a while; Sam finds himself unable to drop back off, instead lying back and staring into space, deep in thought. One hand slowly reaches out to pull the gun by his side closer, close enough for him to brush it if he were to turn onto his side. He doesn’t know when he might need it, when they might be found; he wouldn’t put a nighttime offensive past them.
Gene’s gun is still in its holster, digging into his waist in a way that must be painful. Sam gently unclips it, rolling Gene over a little to slide it out from under him and deposit it by his side, the light catching on the two long barrels. The only thing allowed to leave bruises on those hips is me.
The thought promptly leads to a surge of interest from his trouser department, one that he has to bank down or risk waking Gene. It wouldn’t be fair on him, the poor man’s so deeply asleep Sam doubts a hurricane would even come close to waking him, having done the entire night duty; he needs his rest, and Sam should be trying to make it easier for him, not trying to get into his pants. They don’t get much time to play, but the time they do get should be focussed on survival, not shagging. Evidently, parts of Sam don’t agree.
His throat is dry with thirst and the ever-present apprehension. Sam reaches over Gene for the flask of water by his bedside, dropping a kiss on his DCI’s cheek on his way back, unscrewing the flask to take a long gulp of cool, fresh water. Thank goodness they found a camp with a spring in it, although if it gets too much colder, they won’t have that spring for long. They’ll have a rather small and weak ice rink.
He helps Chris to the side to sit down, Gene balancing him from the other side, Ray following a little way behind, still guffawing like a gum-chewing Father Christmas. The poor lad’s arm is at such an angle, he can’t think it could be anything but broken, and Gene ripping his jacket off to use as a makeshift sling is indication enough that it’s serious.
Sam sighs. Drinks a little more water, and tries to focuss on Gene’s soft, slow breathing beside him. Hard-won tranquillity that he knows won’t last.
By seven o’clock the sun is up, glowing weakly behind the sheen of fog and cloud; Gene still hasn’t stirred, huffing long, slow breaths over Sam’s bare arm as they lie entwined together beneath the moth-eaten sleeping bag, a single bird cheeping somewhere outside, the odd squirrel dashing from branch to branch in search of food or shelter. Normally Sam would still be fast asleep now, either that or enjoying a morning quickie with his DCI, but he can’t settle his thoughts enough to drop off and if he tries to have a brief wank he’ll definitely end up waking Gene, so he settles for thinking about future politics instead and tries to will down his stubborn erection at the thought of his and Gene’s sleepy early-morning couplings, Gene’s stubble and his yawning into their kisses, his tense muscles sliding beneath Sam’s hands, Sam’s tight hole just stretching enough to accommodate Gene as he moans and clutches the sheets beneath him, bucking forwards, welcoming Gene, so big and hot and incredible…
Shit! He’s as hard as iron now, and Gene is stirring beside him, sucking his breath in as one hand brushes the bulge in Sam’s pyjama bottoms.
“Sorry… didn’t mean to… just we’re normally shaggin’ about now.”
“So we are, Sam. Appears you ‘aven’t told parts o’ yourself our ‘now’ isn’t the normal ‘now’.”
“Sorry, just… we ‘aven’t shagged for a while, you know ‘ow it is. You’re right, we need to be alert. You go back to sleep, you did the ‘ole night shift, you deserve it.”
“Maybe I think a shag would be a good idea as well.”
“You don’t ‘ave to. I know you’re tired.”
Gene shifts his hips, and Sam’s cock just about bursts out of his trousers at the feel of Gene’s impressive morning wood brushing his hip, the rumble of Gene’s low growl through his body and onto Sam’s chest.
“Can’t leave that unattended now, can I, Sammy-boy? ‘Ave an accident. Would you rather I was buggerin’ you into the mattress, or dreamin’ about Raquel Welch instead?”
“You wouldn’t dare, you bastard.” Sam slaps him lightly over the head, relief welling in his chest, just hearing Gene’s stifled groan as he rolls them both into position and pauses, ferreting around the edge of the bed.
“Er, Sam… lube?”
“Didn’t think to pack that, funnily enough.” His arse hurts already at the thought of doing it dry. Gene’s far too big for that to be safe in any way, shape or form. “Maybe if we swap over?” Please please please. Gene’s arse should seriously be considered for the eighth wonder of the world; it’s making Sam even harder just thinking about it, if that’s possible. He’ll come without even touching Gene at this rate.
“You think I’d let you fuck me dry?” Gene gives him a dark look, rolling off him and onto his back, staring up at the ceiling parallel with his DI. “I value my arse, Tyler. Don’t want to be all torn up for runnin’ away.”
“Aww. Mummy warn you about proper preparation, did she?” Sam teases, reaching out for Gene.
Gene stiffens. Moves away, stands up, the legendary erection he was sporting just seconds ago vanished in the blink of an eye. Sam curses himself, makes to get out, but Gene’s gone and outside before Sam can even reach out a hand to him.
Their first argument as a couple. Ray has cornered Sam in the toilets, telling him Gene’s in Lost and Found and expects his DI’s presence there toot-suite if he wants to keep his warrant card and arse intact. It’s all his fault anyway, he was the one stupid enough to question Gene’s integrity, if he’d just kept his mouth shut and thought about what he was saying for once in his life- but Gene always brings out the worst in him, the worst and the best, and his best right now would be to go in there and offer himself up as an apology, and hope Gene accepts. He’s sure he will, and he’s equally sure that if Gene fancies cuffing him to the chair, he’ll enjoy that just as much as his DCI…
Gene’s mother had been one of the first to succumb. He’d forgotten that. He himself had had no relatives to worry about when it all happened, Ruth Tyler had decided to stay safe and taken herself and her son to the Continent a good day in advance, but he’d seen the agony on Gene’s face, pure torture as he forced himself to put foot to pedal and zoom away from Manchester, from everything he’d ever known and held dear, except Sam. Just a handful of photos and letters to remind him. Gene had had so much pain in his life; Sam didn’t want to make it worse.
“Gene? Gene?” He untangles himself, sitting up, and he can see Gene’s silhouette outside, standing there as impassive and unmoving as the trees around him. A constant, in spite of everything.
“Gene, I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I’m sorry.”
“You never bloody think.” Gene’s tone is acidic, laced with agony he’s doing his best to hide, and Sam flinches away from it, moving back from Gene’s stiff, straight figure. Maybe it’s best if he just goes and gets breakfast prepared. After taking care of himself.
They don’t have much, but what they do have Sam puts to good use, conjuring up rather singed and slightly damp toast with a sliver of butter, some hoops heated in the tin can, a couple of handfuls of berries from the bushes around the clearing. He himself is ravenous, gulping down his meagre rations, but Gene barely touches the plate of food Sam puts down in front of him, stirs it round and round with his fork and sits there quieter than Sam’s ever known him before, staring at the trees, in the direction of Manchester. Just able to see the toxic cloud above the skyline.
“Eat up,” doesn’t cover even a sliver of Sam’s concern, but Gene eats, sullenly, silently, and when the whole plate’s gone Sam hands him a beaker of water and watches him drink it whilst he starts taking down the tent. Far too risky to stay in one place for too long. They might have seen the smoke from the barbecue.
Gene’s like this most of the time now, shrinks back into his shell when the tiniest thing comes along and reminds him of everything that’s happened. Miserable and withdrawn, even his body has become less imposing, his shoulders slumped in on themselves and the podge Sam was so fond of shrinking away. He’s been stone cold sober for over a week now, his last hip-flask long since emptied; Sam would have celebrated that endlessly back in their old life, but he finds himself wishing for a bottle of Nelson’s finest to placate Gene now as they make their way out of the clearing, towards the muddy and dented Cortina, sitting quietly behind a wall of upturned roots that, if Sam squints a little, could almost be taken for a dingy back street.
He’s never missed the alleyways of Manchester so much in his life. Didn’t think he was capable of it.
The next clearing is a few miles away, far enough for the trail to go cold should anyone be searching for them; according to the monotone statement he gets out of Gene, there should be an abandoned petrol station somewhere along the way, and they can nip in and top the Cortina and their supplies up there. Sam’s getting absurdly excited about the prospect of being so close to civilisation again, just wants to see something familiar, but Gene remains stony-faced, driving in impassive silence with the radio switched off, no sound but the low rumble of the engine and the whoosh of air on vinyl roof. Sam longs to reach out and touch him, help him, tell him it’s all OK, but nothing he says would make this better for him and so he sits on his hands instead, sniffing back tears, willing down the hard-on he’s still got from this morning. His whole form craves Gene’s love. Gene is too busy grieving to love.
They meet another couple of escapees on the road. A young couple, clinging to their toddler in shock, the woman tells Sam they ran from their home in Rusholme and have been camping near the petrol station ever since, the man only glancing over his shoulder towards them as he fills their own car up from a slashed petrol hose. The woman has tear tracks running down her face, the skin of her cheeks red and blotchy; the man looks as though his soul has been stamped on, soft blue eyes that remind Sam of Father Christmas now tortured and dark in his haggard face. Every adult Sam meets these days is empty, so he coos over the little girl instead, the single spark of life there, tells her how grown-up she looks in her new jacket and shoes, and finally gets the little something of a smile.
“She’s very mature, is our Lucy. Wonderful,” the mother says, with the pride and quiet joy of a mother who knows how lucky she is to be so, and she lets Sam take the little girl’s hand and show her around the Cortina, standing to one side and staring at her scuffed shoes as Gene and the father talk quietly by the petrol pump, both staring at the ground awkwardly, neither able to tear themselves away from the shred of humanity they’ve found.
“Your friend looks sad,” Lucy says as she fiddles with the gearstick, raising her head from the leatherette covering to regard Sam with eyes older than her face, older than any toddler has the right to be. Sam, wishing Test Card Girl were here to meet this little thing, nods silently, raising his head to look at Gene through the windscreen; Gene is bereft again as the mother and father move away to gather supplies, scratching at the ground with his dirty loafers, every inch the Sheriff without his city.
“He is sad. He’s lost everything.”
“He’s still got you.”
Sam snorts before he can stop himself. “Yeah. Lucky old Gene.” Maybe it’s true, but Gene has refused every single one of Sam’s attempts to comfort him, doesn’t even want Sam in his bed with him; he just can’t see what he is to Gene anymore, the man who used to be his lover but now can only feel pain. Lucy just smiles at him, too young yet to understand sarcasm, and Christ, but Sam’s envious.
“That’s right. He is lucky. You should remind him.”
Sam hasn’t had time to tell Lucy what he meant before she’s sliding out from the driver’s seat and latching onto Gene’s leg, telling him not to be sorry, that he’s got a nice man to travel with and she wants a cuddle from him more than anything else in the world because he’s so snuggly and his coat’s so soft and woolly. Gene smiles for the first time in weeks, pats her head, lets her wriggle in between his arms and bury her face in the camel-hair over his tummy, and if Sam sees his eyes brightening slightly or his bottom lip quivering for a split second, he says nothing. He tends to say nothing these days, whatever the circumstances.
He himself feels just about to cry.
They exchange goodbyes, stock up on food from the small supermarket behind the petrol station, moving awkwardly through the aisles in a pregnant silence. Gene passes Lucy all the Curly Wurlys, not prepared for her putting them straight back in his hands and telling him in a voice as firm as her eyes that she prefers Supermousse anyway. After mumbled goodbyes that only seem to make the mother start crying again, they drive on, Sam instinctively reaching for the radio as soon as they’re out on the open road and slamming it straight back off again at the sound of the emergency alarm, over and over and over again, reminding them of the thread their lives are hanging by.
The danger around every corner that he used to tell children about. Children who are now dead.
Trying to start a conversation falls flat on its face. Gene is in even less of a talking mood than he was before, closing himself off to Sam in every way possible, his coat collar turned up to hide his face, shoulders rigid and head bowed. It hurts Sam, how helpless he is, but it must be hurting Gene a hundred times worse, the man who feels he has to be strong for Sam, not realising that he doesn’t have to be. Little Lucy, old and young, she would tell them to sort it out, but Sam’s an inch from tears and he can’t trust himself to talk to Gene without crying yet; sobbing on Gene’s lap wouldn’t make anything easier for either of them.
Not that Sam knows what would.