Ficathon 2013: Dresses like a queen, basaltgrrl, sam/Gene, green cortina
Title: Dresses like a queen
Author: Basaltgrrl
Rating: G so far
Summary: For rebelxxwaltz's delicious prompt: Gene/Sam, Sam in a suit for basically any reason with some 1973/2006 fashion comparisons, any genre (comedy, angst, etc). I have the entire thing plotted out, but the last month has been a bad writing time for me and it remains unfinished! I'm posting the first scene as a teaser, and the rest of it will be along anon.
Sam's first indication that anything was amiss was at the pub. Gene was there--they all were there, the usual crowd, all the CID folk with their usual banter, playing darts and betting on cards, and it felt entirely normal and comfortable except for... Yes. Gene wasn't drinking like he usually did. In fact he stood brooding against the bar, the level of his pint hardly changed in the last half hour, and Nelson seemed to be giving him his space--or avoiding him, but Sam didn't suspect Nelson of that sort of cowardice. Gene wanted space, so of course Sam's duty was to invade it in any way possible.
He sidled up to him--no, stalked. Walked up to the bar like he owned it, placed his elbow close to Gene's but not quite touching, and clinked his beer against Gene's.
"Cheers."
This got him a noncommittal grunt.
"Nice weather we've been having, eh Guv?"
Gene shot him a jaundiced glare. "You've started watching the skies, Sammy-boy? Keeping an eye out for your alien friends, no doubt."
It was a good try, but nothing like the scorn he could muster when really motivated. Sam eyed him carefully; Gene's lip shot out in a pout and he deliberately turned to the side, digging in his pocket for his pack of cigarettes. He fished one out, lit it, took the first, leisurely drag--but it looked angry, not relaxed, to Sam's observant eye--telltale muscular tension around the eyes and lips, the fag quivering in Gene's long fingers, and that first inhalation was followed by a massive sigh and the waft of a cloud of smoke.
"Spill it, Gene."
"Nothing to talk about, Samantha. Run and have a natter with the girls; I'm sure you've got nail colors to compare."
"What are you upset about?"
Gene slammed his palm down on the bar. "You, for starters!" He looked taken aback, as if he had surprised even himself with that outburst, then rolled his eyes and took another vengeful drag on his cigarette and hacked out a cough. "Man can't have a moment to himself, to think, to--" He appeared to be struggling to articulate a thought, then gave up on it and continued, "to drink a beer in peace in his favorite sodding pub, without the company of the man he has spent the rest of the day supervising..."
"You want some privacy, maybe you ought to go home," Sam snarled, nettled. "And why you'd expect to find privacy here," his gesture took in the throng of their other co-workers, "is completely beyond me."
Gene shot him a glare. "Just bloody leave me alone, Tyler."
"No." Sam crossed his arms.
"I'm going to spell this out for you, Deputy; I don't want to look at your face any more."
"Then turn the other way, Guv." Sam could be as stubborn as Gene-I'm the bloody sherriff-Hunt, he knew that for a fact. What he hadn't counted on was the extent to which Gene was perfectly willing to put his fist where Sam's mouth was.
"Fucking--ow!" he spluttered at the retreating slab of Gene's back, once he had his feet under him again, once the rest of the pub was buzzing with reaction, Annie's hand on his arm and her dark, accusing glare on their Guv as he pushed through the door without a backward glance and disappeared into the cloudy night.
"Why do you have to fight so much, Sam?" Annie asked, while Sam touched his numb lip gingerly and reached for his beer. "You couldn't see that he wanted to be left alone?"
Sam shook his head, not meeting her gaze. "I wasn't fighting," he grumbled. "I was just asking an innocent question."
She crossed her arms.
"It's not my fault he's on a hair trigger!"
"Yes, but--you're a detective, Sam. You know the signs."
He winced. The cut lip was beginning to sting; a quick swallow of beer didn't help. "The Guv's a public menace at the best of times. But this... there's something going on, Annie." Grabbing at straws, Tyler, he admonished. She was giving him that sideways look, the "you're crazy and I'm tempted to tell the world" sort of gaze. The truth was, he was just terribly curious about what might be eating Gene. They were so much in each other's pockets all the time that it didn't seem fair that Gene might be keeping something to himself. Out of character for him, too; Gene Hunt Did Not Keep Secrets.
"Give him his space," Annie advised. "He'd like that from you." She didn't add, "for a change", but he could practically hear the words behind her concerned look.
Author: Basaltgrrl
Rating: G so far
Summary: For rebelxxwaltz's delicious prompt: Gene/Sam, Sam in a suit for basically any reason with some 1973/2006 fashion comparisons, any genre (comedy, angst, etc). I have the entire thing plotted out, but the last month has been a bad writing time for me and it remains unfinished! I'm posting the first scene as a teaser, and the rest of it will be along anon.
Sam's first indication that anything was amiss was at the pub. Gene was there--they all were there, the usual crowd, all the CID folk with their usual banter, playing darts and betting on cards, and it felt entirely normal and comfortable except for... Yes. Gene wasn't drinking like he usually did. In fact he stood brooding against the bar, the level of his pint hardly changed in the last half hour, and Nelson seemed to be giving him his space--or avoiding him, but Sam didn't suspect Nelson of that sort of cowardice. Gene wanted space, so of course Sam's duty was to invade it in any way possible.
He sidled up to him--no, stalked. Walked up to the bar like he owned it, placed his elbow close to Gene's but not quite touching, and clinked his beer against Gene's.
"Cheers."
This got him a noncommittal grunt.
"Nice weather we've been having, eh Guv?"
Gene shot him a jaundiced glare. "You've started watching the skies, Sammy-boy? Keeping an eye out for your alien friends, no doubt."
It was a good try, but nothing like the scorn he could muster when really motivated. Sam eyed him carefully; Gene's lip shot out in a pout and he deliberately turned to the side, digging in his pocket for his pack of cigarettes. He fished one out, lit it, took the first, leisurely drag--but it looked angry, not relaxed, to Sam's observant eye--telltale muscular tension around the eyes and lips, the fag quivering in Gene's long fingers, and that first inhalation was followed by a massive sigh and the waft of a cloud of smoke.
"Spill it, Gene."
"Nothing to talk about, Samantha. Run and have a natter with the girls; I'm sure you've got nail colors to compare."
"What are you upset about?"
Gene slammed his palm down on the bar. "You, for starters!" He looked taken aback, as if he had surprised even himself with that outburst, then rolled his eyes and took another vengeful drag on his cigarette and hacked out a cough. "Man can't have a moment to himself, to think, to--" He appeared to be struggling to articulate a thought, then gave up on it and continued, "to drink a beer in peace in his favorite sodding pub, without the company of the man he has spent the rest of the day supervising..."
"You want some privacy, maybe you ought to go home," Sam snarled, nettled. "And why you'd expect to find privacy here," his gesture took in the throng of their other co-workers, "is completely beyond me."
Gene shot him a glare. "Just bloody leave me alone, Tyler."
"No." Sam crossed his arms.
"I'm going to spell this out for you, Deputy; I don't want to look at your face any more."
"Then turn the other way, Guv." Sam could be as stubborn as Gene-I'm the bloody sherriff-Hunt, he knew that for a fact. What he hadn't counted on was the extent to which Gene was perfectly willing to put his fist where Sam's mouth was.
"Fucking--ow!" he spluttered at the retreating slab of Gene's back, once he had his feet under him again, once the rest of the pub was buzzing with reaction, Annie's hand on his arm and her dark, accusing glare on their Guv as he pushed through the door without a backward glance and disappeared into the cloudy night.
"Why do you have to fight so much, Sam?" Annie asked, while Sam touched his numb lip gingerly and reached for his beer. "You couldn't see that he wanted to be left alone?"
Sam shook his head, not meeting her gaze. "I wasn't fighting," he grumbled. "I was just asking an innocent question."
She crossed her arms.
"It's not my fault he's on a hair trigger!"
"Yes, but--you're a detective, Sam. You know the signs."
He winced. The cut lip was beginning to sting; a quick swallow of beer didn't help. "The Guv's a public menace at the best of times. But this... there's something going on, Annie." Grabbing at straws, Tyler, he admonished. She was giving him that sideways look, the "you're crazy and I'm tempted to tell the world" sort of gaze. The truth was, he was just terribly curious about what might be eating Gene. They were so much in each other's pockets all the time that it didn't seem fair that Gene might be keeping something to himself. Out of character for him, too; Gene Hunt Did Not Keep Secrets.
"Give him his space," Annie advised. "He'd like that from you." She didn't add, "for a change", but he could practically hear the words behind her concerned look.