You. Me. This Jerk.
Title: You. Me. This Jerk.
Fandom: Life on Mars
Rating: PG
Word Count: 501 words.
Notes: Gene in the future, because the concept still amuses me - and hey, Matt said it was a possibility at one point. This is gen. (Also, I’ve been watching a certain show again this week, guess which one. And? I totally fail at avoiding fiction writing. Don’t worry, I can almost guarantee that when I’m actually teaching this will dwindle.)
Sam put his satchel down and slid into the kitchen. He grasped a banana from the bowl and began peeling it, licking the corner of his lips.
“You’re here early,” Gene’s voice called from the living room.
“Gave the team an early minute,” Sam called back. He sauntered into the grey, taking a bite of soft, squishy sweetness. “What’ve you been doing all morning?”
“Research, like you so kindly ‘suggested’. I’d say I know about as much as you do about modern misconceptions and other bollocks.”
“What’ve you found out?”
“Women have too much power and not enough aprons.”
Sam shook his head and rolled his eyes. Multitasking in exasperation. “I’d hoped you’d’ve got over your particular brand of bigotry eventually.”
Gene crossed his arms and leaned against the back of the sofa. “I’m not a bigot, I’m a realist.”
“You’re a sexist.”
“With good reason.”
“No, Gene. There’s never a good reason for prejudice.”
“That’s what you think, meatbag.”
Sam took a deep breath and then bit down one final time. There was something decidedly wrong about the strange glow in Gene’s eyes. “What d’you want for dinner?”
Gene’s upper lip curled. He seemed to swallow and then cleared his throat. Sam couldn’t help but think that he was trying to contain raucous laughter. Eventually he said, in calm, modulated tones, “Bachelor Chow.”
“What are you?…”
“Or caffeinated bacon.”
“Did you find my secret stash of oregano, because that’s purely for medicinal purposes, and-”
Sam frowned, tilted his head to the side and looked at the television. There, on the screen, was an episode of Futurama. Maya had bought him the first series DVD set, after he’d waxed lyrical about Star Wars for three hours and she’d got the maladjusted impression he was a sci-fi fan.
“You’ve been watching cartoons all day, haven’t you?”
“Isn’t a cartoon. It’s more documentary than anything.”
Sam clutched his hands to his head and whirled around. “No. No, no, no, no, no. Gene Hunt, you did not just say that.”
Gene continued, “He gets frozen and goes and lives in the future, right? Well that’s me. I did that.”
“I didn’t go and put you in freezer with the bags of peas.”
“Might as well’ve.”
“Gene…”
“Bite my shiny metal arse,” Gene said, and the grin was manic, deranged, and disturbingly enthusiastic.
“Oh my God. You don’t think of yourself as the redhead at all, do you? You’re the robot!”
“Bender,” Gene said with a note of pride. “Beer swilling, cigar smoking, brilliant bastard.”
“Right, that’s it, you’re coming with me to work tomorrow and I’m cuffing you to the radiator if I have to.”
“Sure you wouldn’t prefer to kill all humans?”
“And we’re going to go and get you something more your style, like The Sweeney or The Professionals. Because there are some things I can take you doing, Gene, but quoting a thirty-first century kleptomaniac is not one of them.”
“You’ve no humour, Sam.”
“Least I’m sane.”
“Are not.”
“Am.”
"Chump."
Fandom: Life on Mars
Rating: PG
Word Count: 501 words.
Notes: Gene in the future, because the concept still amuses me - and hey, Matt said it was a possibility at one point. This is gen. (Also, I’ve been watching a certain show again this week, guess which one. And? I totally fail at avoiding fiction writing. Don’t worry, I can almost guarantee that when I’m actually teaching this will dwindle.)
Sam put his satchel down and slid into the kitchen. He grasped a banana from the bowl and began peeling it, licking the corner of his lips.
“You’re here early,” Gene’s voice called from the living room.
“Gave the team an early minute,” Sam called back. He sauntered into the grey, taking a bite of soft, squishy sweetness. “What’ve you been doing all morning?”
“Research, like you so kindly ‘suggested’. I’d say I know about as much as you do about modern misconceptions and other bollocks.”
“What’ve you found out?”
“Women have too much power and not enough aprons.”
Sam shook his head and rolled his eyes. Multitasking in exasperation. “I’d hoped you’d’ve got over your particular brand of bigotry eventually.”
Gene crossed his arms and leaned against the back of the sofa. “I’m not a bigot, I’m a realist.”
“You’re a sexist.”
“With good reason.”
“No, Gene. There’s never a good reason for prejudice.”
“That’s what you think, meatbag.”
Sam took a deep breath and then bit down one final time. There was something decidedly wrong about the strange glow in Gene’s eyes. “What d’you want for dinner?”
Gene’s upper lip curled. He seemed to swallow and then cleared his throat. Sam couldn’t help but think that he was trying to contain raucous laughter. Eventually he said, in calm, modulated tones, “Bachelor Chow.”
“What are you?…”
“Or caffeinated bacon.”
“Did you find my secret stash of oregano, because that’s purely for medicinal purposes, and-”
Sam frowned, tilted his head to the side and looked at the television. There, on the screen, was an episode of Futurama. Maya had bought him the first series DVD set, after he’d waxed lyrical about Star Wars for three hours and she’d got the maladjusted impression he was a sci-fi fan.
“You’ve been watching cartoons all day, haven’t you?”
“Isn’t a cartoon. It’s more documentary than anything.”
Sam clutched his hands to his head and whirled around. “No. No, no, no, no, no. Gene Hunt, you did not just say that.”
Gene continued, “He gets frozen and goes and lives in the future, right? Well that’s me. I did that.”
“I didn’t go and put you in freezer with the bags of peas.”
“Might as well’ve.”
“Gene…”
“Bite my shiny metal arse,” Gene said, and the grin was manic, deranged, and disturbingly enthusiastic.
“Oh my God. You don’t think of yourself as the redhead at all, do you? You’re the robot!”
“Bender,” Gene said with a note of pride. “Beer swilling, cigar smoking, brilliant bastard.”
“Right, that’s it, you’re coming with me to work tomorrow and I’m cuffing you to the radiator if I have to.”
“Sure you wouldn’t prefer to kill all humans?”
“And we’re going to go and get you something more your style, like The Sweeney or The Professionals. Because there are some things I can take you doing, Gene, but quoting a thirty-first century kleptomaniac is not one of them.”
“You’ve no humour, Sam.”
“Least I’m sane.”
“Are not.”
“Am.”
"Chump."