Fic: Ashes to Ashes, "Super-glue"
This fic is for theficklepickle, who very kindly bid on my help_japan thread! Many thanks for the great prompt - I loved writing this one!
Title: Super-glue, or, The kind of man who says 'love' in a police station (part 1)
Fandom: Ashes to Ashes
Pairing: Gene/Supermac, pre-slash
Rating: PG-13 for Gene's language and insinuations
Wordcount: About 1900.
Summary: Could equally be subtitled 'What Almost Happened to Gene Hunt in a Sauna.'
Disclaimer: Don't own the characters, universe, or, in fact, the dialogue - *all* spoken lines are taken from episode 2.2 of Ashes to Ashes.
Super-glue, or, The kind of man who says 'love' in a police station
I think he's very attractive. I think he's pulling the Met in the right direction. And I think he said the word 'love' in a police station. - Alex Drake on Charlie 'Supermac' Mackintosh.
Gene Hunt felt no embarrassment about his body. Didn't need to. Built like a Greek god, after all. Did the Greeks have a god of coppering? They seemed happy enough romping around half-naked, anyway. But then, what did for a Greek didn't necessarily do for a red-blooded Englishman, Gene reflected, surreptitiously trying to wrap his towel more firmly around his waist as he made his way to the sauna room. He was shuffling slowly, in crablike fashion, with his backside kept securely pressed against the wall (he was taking no risks in this place).
No, Gene had no reason to be shy, and in other circumstances he might have been pleased to take his kit off in a hot steamy room with an enthusiastic well-endowed bit of classy crumpet doing likewise. But this was work, his half-naked, sweaty companion was a bloke and his superior officer, and in Gene's opinion Detective Superintendent Mackintosh had been far too enthusiastic about the idea of letting it all hang out in public.
“Glad you could make it, Gene,” Mac said now, looking completely relaxed as he sat down, divested himself of his towel and settled it comfortably on his lap. Didn't bat an eyelid, as though he got naked and sweaty in front of his officers every day. Christ, perhaps he did, you never knew what to believe of these Masons. Maybe it was a pervy sex club for blokes who didn't find the naughty available on the high street quite kinky enough. Gene was trying not to come across as judgemental; he wanted Mac to trust him, or rather to believe that Gene trusted him, and accusing somebody of distasteful sexual practices wasn't a good way to build a rapport - unless that somebody happened to be Alex Drake, of course.
Nonetheless Gene couldn't entirely keep the touch of disapproval out of his voice as he replied, “I've been known to meet in a public house and be quite happy.”
Mac didn't seem very bothered by Gene's lack of zeal for their meeting-place. “I like it here,” he said amicably. “Like a cocoon. No outside world. Just friends, and whatever friends, or... brothers, care to discuss.”
Friends. Brothers. Mac managed to make both words sound like 'potential partner in perversion.'
“I know that business with the handshake threw you,” Mac went on; Gene resisted the urge to remark that it was nothing compared to this, being seduced in a sauna by a sneaky superintendent who looked like he had more than one kind of corruption on his mind. “Pretty soon it won't...” I wouldn't bet on that, Mac.“All clubs have their idiosyncrasies. Our club is no different.” Yes, I can see that. You watch where you're putting your idiosyncrasies, you might get them bitten off.
Gene kept his eyes on Mac's, watching him intently. Mac's tone was intimate, friendly, as if he were carrying on a conversation between equals; his easy manner showed his confidence that surely any reasonable bloke would see where he was coming from on this. You slick bastard, Gene thought, swallowing a sudden surge of frustrated anger, keeping his face carefully blank as Mac mused on,
“Battleford. Some local doc. Not really killer material, is he? Not with a field full of gypsies to throw in the mix.”
Lovely. Sod the actual suspect, convict some fella you don't like instead, and it's fine 'cos it's easier to get done anyway. God, he was starting to sound like Bolly. Funny how the stink of corruption brought that out in him. Mac, what have you done? I put my faith in you and it doesn't mean a pair of prostitute's skimpy knickers to you, does it? These Mason bastards; they were the ones really to blame. If Gene could get in with them, root them out, he might be able to persuade Mac to see things his way, make him understand just how bloody dodgy it all was. Perhaps it was a game to Mac...maybe he didn't realise what he was getting himself into...a voice at the back of Gene's mind, an annoying, nagging, shrewish voice that belonged to one DI Bollyknickers Drake, told him not to be so naïve. Mac was up to his neck in it; he wasn't some poor misguided sod in the grasp of an evil cult, no confused sheep bleating the words of more powerful men, but a wolf in a sheep costume, and not a very convincing one. Bringing down this precious 'club' meant taking Supermac down with it, and Gene had better get used to that idea, or walk out right now, get mindlessly drunk, and live with whatever cruel and unusual punishment Mac might even now be devising for him.
Live as well with the knowledge that he'd let a man he'd trusted get away with pissing all over that trust.
Never.
Leaning forward, hoping to take hold of the atmosphere of intimacy Mac had created between them and use it for his own purposes, Gene growled, “they're gunning for us, Mac. They find a flaw, they're going to rip us wide open.”
Playing the worried subordinate, concerned for his master's reputation: can't you see the danger, sir? I wouldn't want anything untoward to happen to you, not to my mentor, whiter-than-white Mackintosh, who deserves a little bit on the side, in all respects, doesn't he, because he works so hard for the benefit of all of us in the Force. Except whiter-than-white Mackintosh was in need of a bucketload of Persil, and the mere thought of rolling up his trouser leg and learning the funny handshake made Gene feel physically sick.
Or maybe that was just the heat.
Mac seemed undisturbed by Gene's dire warning. On the contrary, he was getting up, fiddling with his towel, and Gene's unprepared eyes were treated to a flash of something they'd never expected to see. Mac, unconcerned, sat down again, now very close, close enough for his sweat to mingle with Gene's as they sat shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh. He'd let the towel come undone again and dropped it in his lap, covering himself casually with the air of a man who's only doing it to obey social convention and not because he particularly minds his family jewels being on display to all-comers.
Gene kept very still. He wondered if Mac could hear his heart; it was pounding in his own ears. He didn't know what the hell he would do if Mac started interfering with Gene's own prized possession (at the moment, virtually his only possession - his towel), a possibility which did not, from the look on his superior's face, seem as unlikely as it had ten minutes ago.
Gazing intently into Gene's eyes as though willing him to understand, Mac took a breath and said,
“You seen this super-glue stuff on the telly?”
It was not entirely the question Gene had been expecting; he wondered for a minute if they were supposed to be talking in code at this point. He met Mac's gaze for a moment before letting his own slip away; as much as he wanted to he couldn't hold it, not when Mac was looking at him like that, the words meaningless, lost in the mesmeric power of that stare. Those eyes fixed so unwaveringly on Gene said quite clearly that Mac wanted a piece of Gene Hunt, and Gene was no longer entirely sure which piece that might be. He didn't know what was more disturbing - feeling uncomfortable at Mac's proximity, or that he wasn't certain he felt quite as uncomfortable as he should. For an instant a part of him almost wanted it: the security, the power Mac was offering. No, it was more than that; he wanted the approval Mac was offering - not the support of some twatty Lodge full of overgrown children in silly costumes, but Mac's own personal friendship.
Brotherhood.
Whatever else this was.
Am I really considering selling my soul for the affection of a bloke who's benter than a twelve-bob note and couldn't keep it in his trousers if they were made of cement?
“...Fella stuck to a board, swinging from a helicopter,” Mac was saying, and for a moment Gene thought he'd somehow acceded without realising it and they were on to the initiation rites already. He forced his attention back to what Mac was saying, risking a quick glance into his eyes, feeling like that kid in the nappy from Jungle Book, hypnotised by a slithery serpent pretending to be his friend. Mac was still talking, telling Gene that they needed to be super-glue, that he didn't want Gene to be like his predecessor, that poor sod Garrett...
...and there it was. The threat Gene had been waiting for. First the carrot, then the stick, and then - was Mac planning to give him the carrot again? And why did that thought bring a flush to his face?
Must be the heat.
“You know what you have to do,” said Supermac, and, God help us, he said it kindly.
Let you ravish me with your carrot? Gene thought. Aloud he said, “join the club?”
“Show me you're with us,” Mac urged. The crafty sod looked so sincere, like he was honestly bothered about having Gene on side. Like Gene mattered to him as a human being instead of just another useful copper to corrupt. “We have to stick together.”
Yes, all boys together, eh? “Well, we will in this heat.”
Mac chuckled at that - chuckled warmly, though maybe with a touch of impatience in it at Gene's flippancy about something he ought to be taking seriously - and Gene felt the heat rise to his face again. Maybe somewhere else, too. At least it looked natural to be sweating in a sauna.
He managed not to jump when Mac reached out and patted him affectionately on the thigh. The upper thigh.
Christ, here we go. The initiation at last... Gene braved himself for whatever came next, but Mac simply got up, adjusted his towel (again), and Gene got another eyeful this time, from the reverse perspective, so to speak. Blimey. Determined not to be embarrassed, he kept his face neutral as he stared directly at the smooth backside apparently being presented for his inspection.
“I, er, have to warn you,” Gene managed, trying for blithe unconcern, “I'm not very good in clubs. Serving a lifetime ban from the Scouts.”
He could have bitten his tongue out for that one; it was practically an invitation for Mac to practice a bit of uphill gardening on him where he sat. Or was that just Gene's suddenly-feverish brain talking?
Mac, either convinced by Gene's bit of fakery or, more likely, deciding he was better off playing innocent himself, said cheerfully, “I'll notify the Lodge. The more they try to break us, the stronger we become.”
He was facing Gene again now, rewrapping that bloody towel as he spoke - right in front of Gene's face. Not a flicker of shame did the man possess. Bloody exhibitionist. Is he hoping if he waves it in front of me often enough, I'll grab hold of it?.
It would be obvious even to the biggest div in London (Chris, for instance) that Mac's intentions for his brother Gene were not without the prospect of incest. Still, what could you expect from the kind of man who said 'love' in a police station?
x-x-x-x
On to part 2!
Title: Super-glue, or, The kind of man who says 'love' in a police station (part 1)
Fandom: Ashes to Ashes
Pairing: Gene/Supermac, pre-slash
Rating: PG-13 for Gene's language and insinuations
Wordcount: About 1900.
Summary: Could equally be subtitled 'What Almost Happened to Gene Hunt in a Sauna.'
Disclaimer: Don't own the characters, universe, or, in fact, the dialogue - *all* spoken lines are taken from episode 2.2 of Ashes to Ashes.
Super-glue, or, The kind of man who says 'love' in a police station
I think he's very attractive. I think he's pulling the Met in the right direction. And I think he said the word 'love' in a police station. - Alex Drake on Charlie 'Supermac' Mackintosh.
Gene Hunt felt no embarrassment about his body. Didn't need to. Built like a Greek god, after all. Did the Greeks have a god of coppering? They seemed happy enough romping around half-naked, anyway. But then, what did for a Greek didn't necessarily do for a red-blooded Englishman, Gene reflected, surreptitiously trying to wrap his towel more firmly around his waist as he made his way to the sauna room. He was shuffling slowly, in crablike fashion, with his backside kept securely pressed against the wall (he was taking no risks in this place).
No, Gene had no reason to be shy, and in other circumstances he might have been pleased to take his kit off in a hot steamy room with an enthusiastic well-endowed bit of classy crumpet doing likewise. But this was work, his half-naked, sweaty companion was a bloke and his superior officer, and in Gene's opinion Detective Superintendent Mackintosh had been far too enthusiastic about the idea of letting it all hang out in public.
“Glad you could make it, Gene,” Mac said now, looking completely relaxed as he sat down, divested himself of his towel and settled it comfortably on his lap. Didn't bat an eyelid, as though he got naked and sweaty in front of his officers every day. Christ, perhaps he did, you never knew what to believe of these Masons. Maybe it was a pervy sex club for blokes who didn't find the naughty available on the high street quite kinky enough. Gene was trying not to come across as judgemental; he wanted Mac to trust him, or rather to believe that Gene trusted him, and accusing somebody of distasteful sexual practices wasn't a good way to build a rapport - unless that somebody happened to be Alex Drake, of course.
Nonetheless Gene couldn't entirely keep the touch of disapproval out of his voice as he replied, “I've been known to meet in a public house and be quite happy.”
Mac didn't seem very bothered by Gene's lack of zeal for their meeting-place. “I like it here,” he said amicably. “Like a cocoon. No outside world. Just friends, and whatever friends, or... brothers, care to discuss.”
Friends. Brothers. Mac managed to make both words sound like 'potential partner in perversion.'
“I know that business with the handshake threw you,” Mac went on; Gene resisted the urge to remark that it was nothing compared to this, being seduced in a sauna by a sneaky superintendent who looked like he had more than one kind of corruption on his mind. “Pretty soon it won't...” I wouldn't bet on that, Mac.“All clubs have their idiosyncrasies. Our club is no different.” Yes, I can see that. You watch where you're putting your idiosyncrasies, you might get them bitten off.
Gene kept his eyes on Mac's, watching him intently. Mac's tone was intimate, friendly, as if he were carrying on a conversation between equals; his easy manner showed his confidence that surely any reasonable bloke would see where he was coming from on this. You slick bastard, Gene thought, swallowing a sudden surge of frustrated anger, keeping his face carefully blank as Mac mused on,
“Battleford. Some local doc. Not really killer material, is he? Not with a field full of gypsies to throw in the mix.”
Lovely. Sod the actual suspect, convict some fella you don't like instead, and it's fine 'cos it's easier to get done anyway. God, he was starting to sound like Bolly. Funny how the stink of corruption brought that out in him. Mac, what have you done? I put my faith in you and it doesn't mean a pair of prostitute's skimpy knickers to you, does it? These Mason bastards; they were the ones really to blame. If Gene could get in with them, root them out, he might be able to persuade Mac to see things his way, make him understand just how bloody dodgy it all was. Perhaps it was a game to Mac...maybe he didn't realise what he was getting himself into...a voice at the back of Gene's mind, an annoying, nagging, shrewish voice that belonged to one DI Bollyknickers Drake, told him not to be so naïve. Mac was up to his neck in it; he wasn't some poor misguided sod in the grasp of an evil cult, no confused sheep bleating the words of more powerful men, but a wolf in a sheep costume, and not a very convincing one. Bringing down this precious 'club' meant taking Supermac down with it, and Gene had better get used to that idea, or walk out right now, get mindlessly drunk, and live with whatever cruel and unusual punishment Mac might even now be devising for him.
Live as well with the knowledge that he'd let a man he'd trusted get away with pissing all over that trust.
Never.
Leaning forward, hoping to take hold of the atmosphere of intimacy Mac had created between them and use it for his own purposes, Gene growled, “they're gunning for us, Mac. They find a flaw, they're going to rip us wide open.”
Playing the worried subordinate, concerned for his master's reputation: can't you see the danger, sir? I wouldn't want anything untoward to happen to you, not to my mentor, whiter-than-white Mackintosh, who deserves a little bit on the side, in all respects, doesn't he, because he works so hard for the benefit of all of us in the Force. Except whiter-than-white Mackintosh was in need of a bucketload of Persil, and the mere thought of rolling up his trouser leg and learning the funny handshake made Gene feel physically sick.
Or maybe that was just the heat.
Mac seemed undisturbed by Gene's dire warning. On the contrary, he was getting up, fiddling with his towel, and Gene's unprepared eyes were treated to a flash of something they'd never expected to see. Mac, unconcerned, sat down again, now very close, close enough for his sweat to mingle with Gene's as they sat shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh. He'd let the towel come undone again and dropped it in his lap, covering himself casually with the air of a man who's only doing it to obey social convention and not because he particularly minds his family jewels being on display to all-comers.
Gene kept very still. He wondered if Mac could hear his heart; it was pounding in his own ears. He didn't know what the hell he would do if Mac started interfering with Gene's own prized possession (at the moment, virtually his only possession - his towel), a possibility which did not, from the look on his superior's face, seem as unlikely as it had ten minutes ago.
Gazing intently into Gene's eyes as though willing him to understand, Mac took a breath and said,
“You seen this super-glue stuff on the telly?”
It was not entirely the question Gene had been expecting; he wondered for a minute if they were supposed to be talking in code at this point. He met Mac's gaze for a moment before letting his own slip away; as much as he wanted to he couldn't hold it, not when Mac was looking at him like that, the words meaningless, lost in the mesmeric power of that stare. Those eyes fixed so unwaveringly on Gene said quite clearly that Mac wanted a piece of Gene Hunt, and Gene was no longer entirely sure which piece that might be. He didn't know what was more disturbing - feeling uncomfortable at Mac's proximity, or that he wasn't certain he felt quite as uncomfortable as he should. For an instant a part of him almost wanted it: the security, the power Mac was offering. No, it was more than that; he wanted the approval Mac was offering - not the support of some twatty Lodge full of overgrown children in silly costumes, but Mac's own personal friendship.
Brotherhood.
Whatever else this was.
Am I really considering selling my soul for the affection of a bloke who's benter than a twelve-bob note and couldn't keep it in his trousers if they were made of cement?
“...Fella stuck to a board, swinging from a helicopter,” Mac was saying, and for a moment Gene thought he'd somehow acceded without realising it and they were on to the initiation rites already. He forced his attention back to what Mac was saying, risking a quick glance into his eyes, feeling like that kid in the nappy from Jungle Book, hypnotised by a slithery serpent pretending to be his friend. Mac was still talking, telling Gene that they needed to be super-glue, that he didn't want Gene to be like his predecessor, that poor sod Garrett...
...and there it was. The threat Gene had been waiting for. First the carrot, then the stick, and then - was Mac planning to give him the carrot again? And why did that thought bring a flush to his face?
Must be the heat.
“You know what you have to do,” said Supermac, and, God help us, he said it kindly.
Let you ravish me with your carrot? Gene thought. Aloud he said, “join the club?”
“Show me you're with us,” Mac urged. The crafty sod looked so sincere, like he was honestly bothered about having Gene on side. Like Gene mattered to him as a human being instead of just another useful copper to corrupt. “We have to stick together.”
Yes, all boys together, eh? “Well, we will in this heat.”
Mac chuckled at that - chuckled warmly, though maybe with a touch of impatience in it at Gene's flippancy about something he ought to be taking seriously - and Gene felt the heat rise to his face again. Maybe somewhere else, too. At least it looked natural to be sweating in a sauna.
He managed not to jump when Mac reached out and patted him affectionately on the thigh. The upper thigh.
Christ, here we go. The initiation at last... Gene braved himself for whatever came next, but Mac simply got up, adjusted his towel (again), and Gene got another eyeful this time, from the reverse perspective, so to speak. Blimey. Determined not to be embarrassed, he kept his face neutral as he stared directly at the smooth backside apparently being presented for his inspection.
“I, er, have to warn you,” Gene managed, trying for blithe unconcern, “I'm not very good in clubs. Serving a lifetime ban from the Scouts.”
He could have bitten his tongue out for that one; it was practically an invitation for Mac to practice a bit of uphill gardening on him where he sat. Or was that just Gene's suddenly-feverish brain talking?
Mac, either convinced by Gene's bit of fakery or, more likely, deciding he was better off playing innocent himself, said cheerfully, “I'll notify the Lodge. The more they try to break us, the stronger we become.”
He was facing Gene again now, rewrapping that bloody towel as he spoke - right in front of Gene's face. Not a flicker of shame did the man possess. Bloody exhibitionist. Is he hoping if he waves it in front of me often enough, I'll grab hold of it?.
It would be obvious even to the biggest div in London (Chris, for instance) that Mac's intentions for his brother Gene were not without the prospect of incest. Still, what could you expect from the kind of man who said 'love' in a police station?
x-x-x-x
On to part 2!