(no subject)
It was a warm summer breeze that greeted the two men as they stumbled out of the Railway Arms -- well, more like one stumbled, the other was dragged, and the only reason the one was stumbling was because his companion was so damn heavy.
"You really gotta lose some weight, Guv," Sam murmured, hiking Gene further up onto his shoulder as the bigger man leaned into him, rambling on in something that sounded familiarly like English but was still quite undecipherable as such. Whether the slur came from the inordinate amounts of alcohol the Guv had consumed, or the bottle of such that had been smashed over his thick skull some twenty minutes prior in what could only be described as a ruckus in the pub, Sam couldn't say. Sam wasn't quite prepared to call it a barroom brawl, though.
After all. No one had died.
The shadows lengthened along the side of the road as scattered clouds danced across the moon, blotting out the light, pools of amber the only steady illumination the entire length of the street. Like searchlights, pointing the way to the burnt orange car waiting in the distance, quiet and dark and cold as the night that surrounded it. Why the Guv had parked the Cortina so far away, Sam would never know, but he intended on having some strong words about it later. Preferably when they were both sober. Well...one of them was sober. He doubted Gene was capable of the state.
"The hell we going, Tyler?" the Guv slurred, waving a hand haphazardly in the air as he hung off his DI's shoulder, about as close and cozy as he'd ever been or ever would be, inebriation and the dull allure of alcohol temporarily removing his knee-jerk reaction to anything he'd consider gay (male bonding aside). A pat on the shoulder was one thing -- a sign of camaraderie between partners. Hanging off your inferior officer? A little more than simple bonding.
There were times Sam felt himself wishing for more than the bonding, moments quickly squashed beneath the heel of logic and sanity and the cold truth that this was not and could not be real, elsewise he could never go home.
That knowledge did not make it any easier to extricate himself from the warmth of the other man's body, from the pressure of his arm or the feel of his whisky-soaked breath on his cheek in order to open the Cortina's backdoor and -- as gently as the situation would allow -- shove his Guv inside. Drunk as he was, there was no way in hell Sam was letting Gene drive them home, ignore the fact Tyler himself was somewhat tipsy from one too many cups.
Gene's fingers clamping around his wrist drew Sam back a moment, half in the door, half out, as his Guv stared up at him with bleary eyes, one brow quirked. "What am I doin' in the backseat, you div?" he asked -- well, 'asked,' as the conglomeration of words and sounds and spittle attempted to make up a viable sentence. Sam made a mental note to never let Gene get this pissed again. He couldn't even remember why they'd been at the pub (beyond their usual nightly beer o'clock meetings), or why the drinking had needed to be so heavy.
Carefully removing his wrist from Gene's sweaty fingers, Sam shook his head. "You're too pissed to drive, Guv," he replied easily, mildly amused at the look that crossed Gene's face at that. "I'm not about to let you kill us because you think driving down the sidewalk is a perfectly legal street lane."
"Nothing wrong with my driving!" Gene protested, trying to sit up and instead looking like a rather large fish flopping about on dry land. "You're not driving the Cortina!"
Sam smirked, crossing his arms over his chest. "Sorry, Guv, but I don't speak pissed."
Gene growled something that sounded suspiciously like "You bleedin' piece of shit," which Sam easily ignored. Which, of course, only served to piss his Guv off more, not that he could do much about it, flopping around on the back seat as he was, unable to even see straight. Sam just grinned, arms crossed over his chest, and nonchalantly closed the back door with his foot, slipping into the driver's seat and coaxing a steady purr from the Cortina before pulling away from the curb and into the dark.
He had a general sense of which way Gene lived, so it surprised him when his DCI yanked himself into an unsteady sitting position and instructed him to turn in the opposite direction. Sam raised an inquisitive eyebrow, confused, but Gene didn't seem like he was about to be more forthcoming as he flopped back down on the seat, so, in that trusting way of his, Sam turned right instead of left, the familiar sights of downtown Manchester giving way to longer and longer swaths of darkness, the crunch of buildings bleeding away for more open streets and the gentle sounds of silence beneath the rumble of the Cortina's engine.
"Pull over," Gene grumbled suddenly, clutching the headrest of the driver's seat as he hauled himself into a sitting position. Sam frowned, glancing over his shoulder, but did as the Guv asked, figuring the other man's constitution had finally failed and Gene's body was ready to get rid of the excessive amounts of alcohol currently flooding through his system.
Gene did not, however, stumble out the backseat to fall on his knees at the roadside, though Sam got out to open the door for him, as any good mate would. Instead, the Guv simply gave his DI a bleary look before pulling the other man into the Cortina without preamble, hand fisted in Sam's coat while his lips found Tyler's for a rough, almost violent kiss, equal parts needy and uncertain and every bit unfamiliar. The only thing keeping Sam from pulling away from his DCI was complete and utter shock at the fact his mouth was currently pressed to his superior officer's.
Unfortunately, Gene didn't let the shock subside, not really, dragging Tyler into the Cortina with him, flipping them over so he hovered over his DI, one gloved hand pressed to the leather seat beside Tyler's head, the other holding the bigger man steady by gripping the driver's seat headrest. For all the alcohol in his system, Gene's eyes had since lost their blurry, unfocused quality, replaced with something Tyler only ever saw when he and Gene were on a case and it was heating up fast -- it was excitement, it was life, it was a hunger that no words could properly describe, and Sam didn't know if he should be terrified or thrilled to know his Guv was looking at him with such an expression as that.
Gene never said anything, not a word, as he began pulling at Sam's clothing, oddly gentle with the coat, not quite so much with the shirt beneath or Tyler's belt, the unfastening of which elicited several grunted epithets. Sam was still struggling with the whole surreality of the moment, his mind rejecting the very obvious feel of his Guv on top of him, of hands touching and prodding where they ought never to have been -- where Sam had never dreamed they'd be on all those angry, confusing nights when he let the whisky get to his head, felt the warm spread of liquor through his body, and imagined it came from some other source, one unknown and never attainable, not in this life, not from the one man Sam couldn't get out of his head and who meant everything and nothing and the entire spectrum in-between.
Gene's gloves were colder than Sam would have thought, the hand not holding himself aloft working under Tyler's clothes to touch and feel, sometimes gentle, other times as hard and brutal as Gene's personality, forcing Sam to squirm away with a muttered warning or barely whispered plea for the other to stop. To his amazement, Gene always did, grunting quietly, whisky-soaked breath hot on his DI's cheek, against his neck, heavy and quick as Gene worked to understand what was going on -- what he'd started -- if the look on his face was any indication.
And yet he did not stop, he didn't pull away in fear or revulsion, even after Sam finally made the move to participate, working at his Guv's shirt, shifting beneath the other man for more comfort -- and, he realised belatedly, mind still in a bit of a fog, to remove his Cubans, kicking them off into the street and wriggling his toes between the top of the fabric of his socks and his skin, kicking the doorframe in his haste to get the offending pieces of clothing off.
It was only as the fabric finally slipped away from his flesh that Sam realised the full implications of his actions, of what his body had decided on long before his mind caught up.
He was about to have sex with Gene Hunt. Gene bloody Hunt, his DCI and Guv, his best mate and the single most homophobic man he'd ever met in his life.
He was about to have sex with Gene Hunt and it was his Guv who had initiated the moment. No amount of whisky could convince Sam that the whisky on Gene's breath was not to blame for this, and yet he found himself wishing maybe he could convince himself that, at some level, Gene was doing this of his own free will, instead, that it wasn't just a quick screw, that it wasn't because his senses were addled and his mind so awash in booze it wouldn't even remember in the morning -- and even if it did, would deny it the length and breadth of his life through the most dogged, frozen silence known to man.
And yet, Sam found he didn't care, because all that mattered now was his Guv and the smell of whisky and the taste of smoke and fast food and the smooth feel of leather on his back as Gene caught his mouth one more time before beginning to work at his own pants.
People often said, back in 2006, that they'd had out of body experiences, when it was as if they were viewing themselves and the world from far away and up above, disconnected from the action yet still a part of it, the most intimate voyeurs possible. Being in 1973 as he was, trapped in his own mind, the implications of an out of body experience were rather terrifying, and yet he didn't hear the screech of monitors or the rushed footsteps of doctors trying to save his failing body. He also didn't try to think too much about being in his head looking in on himself, because that got a bit too meta, but it was all neither here nor there as he simply watched himself, feet hanging out the side of the Cortina alongside Gene Hunt's, direct his Guv on where to touch and how, a good little DI assisting his superior officer with the one activity he never believed possible in his lifetime or any other.
He knew he'd want Gene to touch him, to feel and -- not caress, no, because even Sam felt that was a bit beyond either of them. But he also knew Gene wasn't the most patient of men, nor the most comfortable with homosexuality, and he feared he wouldn't prepare either of them. And yet Gene followed Sam's instructions easily, head swinging from side to side in a bit of a daze as reason and reality fragmented more and more with every heavy breath, with ever fevered and dazed kiss they shared, until Sam couldn't even tell if he was still floating above or laying below, awash in the exquisite pain of impossibility, and hope, and the distant taste of longing that this night might find itself repeated, somewhere, somehow, with less the smell of whisky and more the smell of soft, smooth leather, pliable and cold beneath his grasping fingers as the world exploded.
The sound of Gene Hunt grunting and shuffling brought Sam crashing back down, only then aware of his own gasping breath and sticky, sweaty body. His Guv was rather pointedly not looking at him, shoulders slumped and one of Sam's socks clutched in his hand. After a long moment, Sam realised why and made a strangled noise. Gene Hunt had not just used his socks for clean up! And yet there was no denying the obvious and he reigned himself in from giving the other man a Long Lecture, instead becoming increasingly aware of his own semi-naked state and the fact they were still parked on the side of the road.
There would, apparently, be no cuddling tonight. And then he wondered why the thought had even crossed his mind as he struggled to pull his pants back on, watching Gene quietly while the other man deliberately pulled his gloves back on, straightening his shirt to the best of his drunken ability. He didn't speak, didn't even look over at Sam, and as he crawled out of the back seat and walked around the Cortina to slide into the front seat again, Sam knew tonight would never be spoken of again, forcefully forgotten and lost in the complex web of Gene Hunt's homophobia and homosexuality and 1973-ness and, as he turned the Cortina on and heard his Guv slam the back door closed, he couldn't help but feel like just another screw.
Character: Gene Hunt
Fandom: Life on Mars
Word Count: I ... do not know.
Note: Old prompt is old. Just pulling all his prompts to his journal.
"You really gotta lose some weight, Guv," Sam murmured, hiking Gene further up onto his shoulder as the bigger man leaned into him, rambling on in something that sounded familiarly like English but was still quite undecipherable as such. Whether the slur came from the inordinate amounts of alcohol the Guv had consumed, or the bottle of such that had been smashed over his thick skull some twenty minutes prior in what could only be described as a ruckus in the pub, Sam couldn't say. Sam wasn't quite prepared to call it a barroom brawl, though.
After all. No one had died.
The shadows lengthened along the side of the road as scattered clouds danced across the moon, blotting out the light, pools of amber the only steady illumination the entire length of the street. Like searchlights, pointing the way to the burnt orange car waiting in the distance, quiet and dark and cold as the night that surrounded it. Why the Guv had parked the Cortina so far away, Sam would never know, but he intended on having some strong words about it later. Preferably when they were both sober. Well...one of them was sober. He doubted Gene was capable of the state.
"The hell we going, Tyler?" the Guv slurred, waving a hand haphazardly in the air as he hung off his DI's shoulder, about as close and cozy as he'd ever been or ever would be, inebriation and the dull allure of alcohol temporarily removing his knee-jerk reaction to anything he'd consider gay (male bonding aside). A pat on the shoulder was one thing -- a sign of camaraderie between partners. Hanging off your inferior officer? A little more than simple bonding.
There were times Sam felt himself wishing for more than the bonding, moments quickly squashed beneath the heel of logic and sanity and the cold truth that this was not and could not be real, elsewise he could never go home.
That knowledge did not make it any easier to extricate himself from the warmth of the other man's body, from the pressure of his arm or the feel of his whisky-soaked breath on his cheek in order to open the Cortina's backdoor and -- as gently as the situation would allow -- shove his Guv inside. Drunk as he was, there was no way in hell Sam was letting Gene drive them home, ignore the fact Tyler himself was somewhat tipsy from one too many cups.
Gene's fingers clamping around his wrist drew Sam back a moment, half in the door, half out, as his Guv stared up at him with bleary eyes, one brow quirked. "What am I doin' in the backseat, you div?" he asked -- well, 'asked,' as the conglomeration of words and sounds and spittle attempted to make up a viable sentence. Sam made a mental note to never let Gene get this pissed again. He couldn't even remember why they'd been at the pub (beyond their usual nightly beer o'clock meetings), or why the drinking had needed to be so heavy.
Carefully removing his wrist from Gene's sweaty fingers, Sam shook his head. "You're too pissed to drive, Guv," he replied easily, mildly amused at the look that crossed Gene's face at that. "I'm not about to let you kill us because you think driving down the sidewalk is a perfectly legal street lane."
"Nothing wrong with my driving!" Gene protested, trying to sit up and instead looking like a rather large fish flopping about on dry land. "You're not driving the Cortina!"
Sam smirked, crossing his arms over his chest. "Sorry, Guv, but I don't speak pissed."
Gene growled something that sounded suspiciously like "You bleedin' piece of shit," which Sam easily ignored. Which, of course, only served to piss his Guv off more, not that he could do much about it, flopping around on the back seat as he was, unable to even see straight. Sam just grinned, arms crossed over his chest, and nonchalantly closed the back door with his foot, slipping into the driver's seat and coaxing a steady purr from the Cortina before pulling away from the curb and into the dark.
He had a general sense of which way Gene lived, so it surprised him when his DCI yanked himself into an unsteady sitting position and instructed him to turn in the opposite direction. Sam raised an inquisitive eyebrow, confused, but Gene didn't seem like he was about to be more forthcoming as he flopped back down on the seat, so, in that trusting way of his, Sam turned right instead of left, the familiar sights of downtown Manchester giving way to longer and longer swaths of darkness, the crunch of buildings bleeding away for more open streets and the gentle sounds of silence beneath the rumble of the Cortina's engine.
"Pull over," Gene grumbled suddenly, clutching the headrest of the driver's seat as he hauled himself into a sitting position. Sam frowned, glancing over his shoulder, but did as the Guv asked, figuring the other man's constitution had finally failed and Gene's body was ready to get rid of the excessive amounts of alcohol currently flooding through his system.
Gene did not, however, stumble out the backseat to fall on his knees at the roadside, though Sam got out to open the door for him, as any good mate would. Instead, the Guv simply gave his DI a bleary look before pulling the other man into the Cortina without preamble, hand fisted in Sam's coat while his lips found Tyler's for a rough, almost violent kiss, equal parts needy and uncertain and every bit unfamiliar. The only thing keeping Sam from pulling away from his DCI was complete and utter shock at the fact his mouth was currently pressed to his superior officer's.
Unfortunately, Gene didn't let the shock subside, not really, dragging Tyler into the Cortina with him, flipping them over so he hovered over his DI, one gloved hand pressed to the leather seat beside Tyler's head, the other holding the bigger man steady by gripping the driver's seat headrest. For all the alcohol in his system, Gene's eyes had since lost their blurry, unfocused quality, replaced with something Tyler only ever saw when he and Gene were on a case and it was heating up fast -- it was excitement, it was life, it was a hunger that no words could properly describe, and Sam didn't know if he should be terrified or thrilled to know his Guv was looking at him with such an expression as that.
Gene never said anything, not a word, as he began pulling at Sam's clothing, oddly gentle with the coat, not quite so much with the shirt beneath or Tyler's belt, the unfastening of which elicited several grunted epithets. Sam was still struggling with the whole surreality of the moment, his mind rejecting the very obvious feel of his Guv on top of him, of hands touching and prodding where they ought never to have been -- where Sam had never dreamed they'd be on all those angry, confusing nights when he let the whisky get to his head, felt the warm spread of liquor through his body, and imagined it came from some other source, one unknown and never attainable, not in this life, not from the one man Sam couldn't get out of his head and who meant everything and nothing and the entire spectrum in-between.
Gene's gloves were colder than Sam would have thought, the hand not holding himself aloft working under Tyler's clothes to touch and feel, sometimes gentle, other times as hard and brutal as Gene's personality, forcing Sam to squirm away with a muttered warning or barely whispered plea for the other to stop. To his amazement, Gene always did, grunting quietly, whisky-soaked breath hot on his DI's cheek, against his neck, heavy and quick as Gene worked to understand what was going on -- what he'd started -- if the look on his face was any indication.
And yet he did not stop, he didn't pull away in fear or revulsion, even after Sam finally made the move to participate, working at his Guv's shirt, shifting beneath the other man for more comfort -- and, he realised belatedly, mind still in a bit of a fog, to remove his Cubans, kicking them off into the street and wriggling his toes between the top of the fabric of his socks and his skin, kicking the doorframe in his haste to get the offending pieces of clothing off.
It was only as the fabric finally slipped away from his flesh that Sam realised the full implications of his actions, of what his body had decided on long before his mind caught up.
He was about to have sex with Gene Hunt. Gene bloody Hunt, his DCI and Guv, his best mate and the single most homophobic man he'd ever met in his life.
He was about to have sex with Gene Hunt and it was his Guv who had initiated the moment. No amount of whisky could convince Sam that the whisky on Gene's breath was not to blame for this, and yet he found himself wishing maybe he could convince himself that, at some level, Gene was doing this of his own free will, instead, that it wasn't just a quick screw, that it wasn't because his senses were addled and his mind so awash in booze it wouldn't even remember in the morning -- and even if it did, would deny it the length and breadth of his life through the most dogged, frozen silence known to man.
And yet, Sam found he didn't care, because all that mattered now was his Guv and the smell of whisky and the taste of smoke and fast food and the smooth feel of leather on his back as Gene caught his mouth one more time before beginning to work at his own pants.
People often said, back in 2006, that they'd had out of body experiences, when it was as if they were viewing themselves and the world from far away and up above, disconnected from the action yet still a part of it, the most intimate voyeurs possible. Being in 1973 as he was, trapped in his own mind, the implications of an out of body experience were rather terrifying, and yet he didn't hear the screech of monitors or the rushed footsteps of doctors trying to save his failing body. He also didn't try to think too much about being in his head looking in on himself, because that got a bit too meta, but it was all neither here nor there as he simply watched himself, feet hanging out the side of the Cortina alongside Gene Hunt's, direct his Guv on where to touch and how, a good little DI assisting his superior officer with the one activity he never believed possible in his lifetime or any other.
He knew he'd want Gene to touch him, to feel and -- not caress, no, because even Sam felt that was a bit beyond either of them. But he also knew Gene wasn't the most patient of men, nor the most comfortable with homosexuality, and he feared he wouldn't prepare either of them. And yet Gene followed Sam's instructions easily, head swinging from side to side in a bit of a daze as reason and reality fragmented more and more with every heavy breath, with ever fevered and dazed kiss they shared, until Sam couldn't even tell if he was still floating above or laying below, awash in the exquisite pain of impossibility, and hope, and the distant taste of longing that this night might find itself repeated, somewhere, somehow, with less the smell of whisky and more the smell of soft, smooth leather, pliable and cold beneath his grasping fingers as the world exploded.
The sound of Gene Hunt grunting and shuffling brought Sam crashing back down, only then aware of his own gasping breath and sticky, sweaty body. His Guv was rather pointedly not looking at him, shoulders slumped and one of Sam's socks clutched in his hand. After a long moment, Sam realised why and made a strangled noise. Gene Hunt had not just used his socks for clean up! And yet there was no denying the obvious and he reigned himself in from giving the other man a Long Lecture, instead becoming increasingly aware of his own semi-naked state and the fact they were still parked on the side of the road.
There would, apparently, be no cuddling tonight. And then he wondered why the thought had even crossed his mind as he struggled to pull his pants back on, watching Gene quietly while the other man deliberately pulled his gloves back on, straightening his shirt to the best of his drunken ability. He didn't speak, didn't even look over at Sam, and as he crawled out of the back seat and walked around the Cortina to slide into the front seat again, Sam knew tonight would never be spoken of again, forcefully forgotten and lost in the complex web of Gene Hunt's homophobia and homosexuality and 1973-ness and, as he turned the Cortina on and heard his Guv slam the back door closed, he couldn't help but feel like just another screw.
Character: Gene Hunt
Fandom: Life on Mars
Word Count: I ... do not know.
Note: Old prompt is old. Just pulling all his prompts to his journal.