RL with DCI Gene Hunt

[out_of_my_time]

'You're buying me a drink.'  DCI Hunt had told him curtly.  'Tomorrow.'

Sam hadn't bothered to ask why; it wasn't as if it was important enough to needle the man about, anyway, and certainly he'd find out when he bought the Guv his drink anyway.  Like as not it was some stupid attempt to get him out of the station so he wouldn't 'get in the way' of

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[out_of_my_time]

'All right.' He echoes Gene, and with just as much sarcasm.

He half wishes he was back at the bar now, because at least then he'd have a drink to distract himself with, something to occupy his hands and his eyes during these awkward silences. As it is, though, there's nothing, and he pouts his lips absently, looking somewhere over Hunt's head.

Despite the amount of time they spend fighting (which admittedly is considerable), he and Gene generally have a certain amount of ease around each other- a camaraderie, of sorts. It's the sort of relationship that's been tried by fire, so it tends to stick around, no matter what the circumstances. Sam hearing voices and shouting about things from thirty years into the future, however, seems to be one circumstance that rather defies that. Which, he supposes, is understandable, but it doesn't make this silence any more bearable. Sam doesn't particularly like silence; he's learned not to since he got here. Leaning back, he drums his fingers over the dusty top of a filing cabinet, a steady four-beat rhythm that serves no purpose other than to create a bit of noise in the thick air of Gene's office.

He looks over absently when his fingers come into contact with something that isn't chipped paint or several years worth of dust. A ticket stub, it seems, from a movie. He plucks it disinterestedly from the cabinet, then, after quickly reading it, smirks. He lifts an eyebrow at Gene, still apparently fascinated by his flask.

'Deaf Smith and Johnny Ears?' He reads, only slightly incredulous. 'Really, Guv? Sounds like quality cinema, that.'

[manc_sheriff]

Now that he's not on about stupid machines or Gene's method of driving, Sam seems content to just pout in silence.

Well, fine. Two can play at that game, and at least Gene has his flask to pass the time.

He stares at Sam's chest while Sam stares over his head and tries to think where the man could buy such God-awful shirts. It's like Gene's old maths class went and spewed all over the fabric to create painful geometric lines and dots and patterns.

It's with some relief to his eyes that Gene looks up when Sam finally says something.

'Oi! Respect Deaf Smith. He could give you a run for your bollocks.' Gene takes another swig and then sets the flask on the desk to cross his arms. He regards Sam with a half-smug expression. 'I hate to see what you go to the flicks for. Probably some nimby-arse romantic picture. Or do you just let Cartwright pick?' He smirks at the joke and then kicks out the chair in front of his desk for Sam to sit. 'Now stop feeling up my cabinets and come have a drink.'

[out_of_my_time]

'Such a comfort to know chivalry isn't entirely dead.' Sam murmurs wryly, but he's fairly sure Gene doesn't hear him. Not that it really matters. The real point is that they've crossed back into comfortable territory, and any remaining echoes of doctors' voices or life support equipment in Sam's head have faded entirely.

He smirks easily at the other man as he shoulders himself off the wall and allows himself to fall into the chair. 'What, you jealous?'

[manc_sheriff]

'If chivalry includes having a drink, may I die before it,' Gene says loudly. It's obvious Sam didn't intend him to hear, but the office is small, and Gene's made the habit of listening for Sam little comments. Theycan make or break cases.

He knocks the flask towards Sam when the man sits before twisting around to collect two glasses from the ledge. They clatter to the table as Gene handwaves Sam to fill them.

'Of your loving attachment to my filing cabinet?' He snorts, trying to look detatched and possibly a bit put-off, but Sam's half-smile is contagious. The right side of Gene's mouth rises. 'Maybe your dust-drumming worked well on them in Hyde, but no skirt here I know of would fall for that.'

Gene picks up the glass, studying the skewed reflection of his face in the side. He considers. 'Well. Maybe Jackie Queen.'

[out_of_my_time]

A little chuff of laughter escapes as Sam pours out two measures of whatever Gene's got in his flask and pushes one glass across to the DCI. He'd half-expected Gene to get offended at the thoughtless comment, despite the number of times a day the Guv routinely called Sam a pouf, but it would seem not. His mouth twitches, the smirk threatening to turn into something more like a proper grin, and he lifts his glass to his lips.

'Believe me,' he says with some feeling, before taking a sip. 'I have got no designs on Jackie Queen. That's your burden, Guv.'

He tips the glass again- whiskey, single malt. Well, Gene knows what he likes, Sam has to give him that. 'Anyway,' he gave the Guv another little smirk, 'If I'm looking to pull a bird, I've got me ways. None of which, by the way, involve feeling up filing cabinets.'

[manc_sheriff]

'I thank my lucky stars for that,' Gene says, either to the Jackie Queen comment or to Sam's wooing strategy forgoing any file cabinets. 'Jackie's a right pain in my arse, and if you felt her up like my file cabinet, between the two of you, I might just have to get out of Dodge.'

He tosses a smile in Sam's direction before sucking up large mouthful from the glass. It swishes around his teeth and over his tongue, settling and relaxing the pent-up stress Sam could cause. Gene reclines back in his chair, set to enjoy the dim quiet of CID with good liquor and a pleasant Sam. Rare moments don't come round often.

'And if filing cabinets are out,' he continues after a swallow, 'what other ways have you got? I've yet to see you pull a bird around here. Except for that prozzie.'

[out_of_my_time]

Sam grimaces at the image of himself and Jackie Queen. Granted, he's not had anything even resembling sex since... well, since the 21st Century, but he likes to think he's a bit more discerning than that. He's not counting Jodi, 'that prozzie,' as Gene had it. He remembers almost nothing of that save a confused jumble of drugged-out images, anyway, and the whole affair besides was... not something he'd like to linger on.

He takes another generous mouthful, letting himself actually enjoy the drink now that he felt... somewhat calmer. His eyes crinkle at the corners with a smile as he regards Gene across the desk.

'You seem terribly interested,' he remarks. He's able to keep his voice neutral, but the smile treacherously remains, tugging at the corner of his mouth.

[manc_sheriff]

Gene quickly fills his mouth with more whiskey in order to gain time to think of something to respond. That's not the right reply. He doesn't know what's wrong with it, but he's know it's not how Ray or Chris would've answered that question.

Then again, it's not like Gene ever really asked about Sam and birds. Apart from Cartwright, the man never seem much keen on relating ideas about them, other than the mad concept that they belong in CID. Cartwright's not so bad, though, Gene grants. At least not any worse than Chris or Ray can be on a particularly annoying day.

Still, though, there's something about the way Sam smiles as he answers that makes Gene feel hot under the collar. He doesn't care any longer to continue this line of conversation.

Gene swallows roughly. 'Am not! I was only asking why it seems you are always so terribly hard-up for a skirt to take home.'