Fic: Life Is A Well-Thumbed Machine (Sam/Gene)
Right, for goodness' sake, if I'm going to refuse to get any sleep, I might as well do something with the time.
Title: Life Is A Well-Thumbed Machine
Fandom: Life On Mars
Pairing: Sam/Gene (meh, -ish.)
Rating: PG
Summary: There is a fine line between life, and love, and violence.
Word Count: ~750
Notes: Title from John, I'm Only Dancing. Thank you to gayjunglefever for basically telling me to shut up and post. Sam and Gene do not, incidentally, belong to me (because if they did? Life On Mars might need a slightly later broadcast slot. I'm just saying).
Sam loves to see Annie. He loves her presence, her inexplicable ability to appear at his shoulder at the precise moment he needs someone to talk to. He loves the lilt in her voice, and her smile, and her smell, the way something delicate and flowery manages to cut through the nicotine and stale sweat that clings to the station like mould--and, for that matter, through the mould itself.
He loves the way she looks. There is no point in denying it: she is beautiful, Sam thinks, when she watches him through big, dark eyes, the material of her starched shirt stretching and pulling over her body as she moves.
Sam does not love Annie. It surprises him, really; everything is there, all the reasons to love her present themselves daily. But he has loved before, and he knows what it feels like: things jolt through your body, course through your bloodstream, and every little bit of you feels that much more alive.
"You're like a dead man," Annie had said, once, with the smile she reserved for the moments when Sam would insist on discussing anything too out of the ordinary. "You're forgetting how to think properly. How to feel."
He hasn't forgotten.
Gene's voice is as far from gentle as it is possible to be. It is rough at the edges, like he's swallowed a razor, and it does not lilt: it barks, and commands, and threatens. Gene is the sherriff, and he does not stand for outlaws; Gene is assured of his own power, brash, difficult, intolerent, irritable, strung out on lasers and slash back blazers--
"Poor little greenie," he murmurs into Sam's ear, too close.
Gene is also twisting Sam's arm particularly painfully behind his back.
"Just don't forget who's in charge, eh?"
He lets go. Sam winces, and pushes himself away from the wall with the arm that isn't still contorted, whilst Gene pauses, catching his breath.
A tap drips half-heartedly, and something caustic and soapy finds its way into Sam's nostrils. He breathes it in deeply, closing his eyes; he opens them again to see Gene in the mirror, back towards him, and something flares.
"It certainly isn't you."
"Don't push it, Tyler."
Gene won't turn back, he's heading for the door, claiming his victory--
"Come on."
"What?"
"Come on."
Gene turns around.
And Sam's up, and ready, and his eyes shine; "Right," says Gene, and he grimaces, and advances, and the inside of Sam's stomach clenches, and his heart hammers, and his shoulders tense and his fists curl and his blood pounds in his ears--and he must be mad, but he's definitely not dead.
It's messy, always, and ugly, the two of them punching, kicking, grabbing, twisting, anything; but by god, he needs it, this surge of electricity and intensity, battering each other against the walls.
But then Gene's fist connects before he's ready, and Sam feels himself crumple. He falls back against the tiles, his head mercifully avoiding smacking against them, but he seems to keep on falling anway, ending up in a heap on the floor. He swallows hard, and his vision swims for a moment--winded, unexpectedly, that's all--but it's too late, it's over, Gene's panting, leaning on a sink with both hands.
Sam gasps in air, coughs, and spits blood.
"Oh, for Christ's sake," says Gene, and digs into his pocket, producing a fairly dirty-looking handkerchief. He tosses it to the floor.
Sam wipes his mouth and glares.
Gene looks back down at him, anger gone; just irritation, and confusion, and possibly pity. "Why, Sam? Why can't you just let it go?"
Sam moves the handkerchief away from his face and studies it, blood seeping onto his fingers. He looks up and smiles.
"Because I'm alive."
Gene stares, and frowns. "You're not going to bloody stay that way for long if you keep picking fights."
Sam exhales slowly, and stands, grimacing.
Gene looks at the ceiling, and then at his shoes, and finally glances back to Sam. "Alright?" he asks, stiffly.
"Oh, I'm grand." Sam holds out the handkerchief.
"Keep it," says Gene, and leaves.
Sam cleans himself up properly, splashing cold water, but the cut inside his mouth won't stop bleeding, and he leaves it, eventually, metallic in his mouth; everything tastes right.
Title: Life Is A Well-Thumbed Machine
Fandom: Life On Mars
Pairing: Sam/Gene (meh, -ish.)
Rating: PG
Summary: There is a fine line between life, and love, and violence.
Word Count: ~750
Notes: Title from John, I'm Only Dancing. Thank you to gayjunglefever for basically telling me to shut up and post. Sam and Gene do not, incidentally, belong to me (because if they did? Life On Mars might need a slightly later broadcast slot. I'm just saying).
Sam loves to see Annie. He loves her presence, her inexplicable ability to appear at his shoulder at the precise moment he needs someone to talk to. He loves the lilt in her voice, and her smile, and her smell, the way something delicate and flowery manages to cut through the nicotine and stale sweat that clings to the station like mould--and, for that matter, through the mould itself.
He loves the way she looks. There is no point in denying it: she is beautiful, Sam thinks, when she watches him through big, dark eyes, the material of her starched shirt stretching and pulling over her body as she moves.
Sam does not love Annie. It surprises him, really; everything is there, all the reasons to love her present themselves daily. But he has loved before, and he knows what it feels like: things jolt through your body, course through your bloodstream, and every little bit of you feels that much more alive.
"You're like a dead man," Annie had said, once, with the smile she reserved for the moments when Sam would insist on discussing anything too out of the ordinary. "You're forgetting how to think properly. How to feel."
He hasn't forgotten.
Gene's voice is as far from gentle as it is possible to be. It is rough at the edges, like he's swallowed a razor, and it does not lilt: it barks, and commands, and threatens. Gene is the sherriff, and he does not stand for outlaws; Gene is assured of his own power, brash, difficult, intolerent, irritable, strung out on lasers and slash back blazers--
"Poor little greenie," he murmurs into Sam's ear, too close.
Gene is also twisting Sam's arm particularly painfully behind his back.
"Just don't forget who's in charge, eh?"
He lets go. Sam winces, and pushes himself away from the wall with the arm that isn't still contorted, whilst Gene pauses, catching his breath.
A tap drips half-heartedly, and something caustic and soapy finds its way into Sam's nostrils. He breathes it in deeply, closing his eyes; he opens them again to see Gene in the mirror, back towards him, and something flares.
"It certainly isn't you."
"Don't push it, Tyler."
Gene won't turn back, he's heading for the door, claiming his victory--
"Come on."
"What?"
"Come on."
Gene turns around.
And Sam's up, and ready, and his eyes shine; "Right," says Gene, and he grimaces, and advances, and the inside of Sam's stomach clenches, and his heart hammers, and his shoulders tense and his fists curl and his blood pounds in his ears--and he must be mad, but he's definitely not dead.
It's messy, always, and ugly, the two of them punching, kicking, grabbing, twisting, anything; but by god, he needs it, this surge of electricity and intensity, battering each other against the walls.
But then Gene's fist connects before he's ready, and Sam feels himself crumple. He falls back against the tiles, his head mercifully avoiding smacking against them, but he seems to keep on falling anway, ending up in a heap on the floor. He swallows hard, and his vision swims for a moment--winded, unexpectedly, that's all--but it's too late, it's over, Gene's panting, leaning on a sink with both hands.
Sam gasps in air, coughs, and spits blood.
"Oh, for Christ's sake," says Gene, and digs into his pocket, producing a fairly dirty-looking handkerchief. He tosses it to the floor.
Sam wipes his mouth and glares.
Gene looks back down at him, anger gone; just irritation, and confusion, and possibly pity. "Why, Sam? Why can't you just let it go?"
Sam moves the handkerchief away from his face and studies it, blood seeping onto his fingers. He looks up and smiles.
"Because I'm alive."
Gene stares, and frowns. "You're not going to bloody stay that way for long if you keep picking fights."
Sam exhales slowly, and stands, grimacing.
Gene looks at the ceiling, and then at his shoes, and finally glances back to Sam. "Alright?" he asks, stiffly.
"Oh, I'm grand." Sam holds out the handkerchief.
"Keep it," says Gene, and leaves.
Sam cleans himself up properly, splashing cold water, but the cut inside his mouth won't stop bleeding, and he leaves it, eventually, metallic in his mouth; everything tastes right.