Life On Mars fic
Title: Regret
Author: acidpenguin46
Pairing: unrequited Gene/Sam
Word Count: 2,016
Rating: Brown to Red Cortina
Warning: angst, violence, swearing, sexual/slash reference, and suggested character death
Summary: Sam says something that Gene is in no way ready to hear.
Spoilers: Refers to events in 2.08, and major spoilers for the first episode of Ashes to Ashes
NOTES: I’m really worried about this one, and would not be surprised if people don't like it. I don't even like what happens in it, and I wrote the bloody thing (damned angst/sadist monkeys and their pointy sticks). So if you hate it, blame them *nervous giggle*
Regret
“Oi!” Sam’s head rose from its resting place on his folded arms, that smile on his face. The big, purely happy smile he doesn’t use nearly enough and that made Gene irrationally want to hit that happy face. “Yeah, Guv?”
“You’re pissed.”
“Last time I checked,” Tyler hiccuped, “my name was Sam.” Gene rolled his eyes and turned his gaze back to his half-empty glass, ignoring the warmth spreading from the hand that had made its drunken way to rest upon his shoulder. “M’not pissed, Guv. Just happy.”
“And Jane Fonda spends ‘er free time cleanin’ me house Tyler.”
“Does she?” Sam replied in a distracted way, before ending up on the floor after a valiant attempt to stand up from his bar stool. “Guess what, Gene? From here you look like a big tree.’ He spread his arms for emphasis, before widening his smile. “I like climbing trees.”
“Right Gladys, I think it’s time you were headin’ home.” Gene drained the last of his whiskey before standing up and lifting Sam from his sprawled position on the floor. Sam rose, a little too compliantly for Gene’s liking, and a little too eager to wrap his small arm around the larger man’s waist for support. The fact Gene was all too aware, once again, of how right it felt to have Tyler’s hands on him made it all the more worse. Nodding to Nelson, he awkwardly made his way outside, trying to nudge Tyler’s hands off him without sending the pair of them sprawling.
The cold air hit Gene with the force of a freight train, and it didn’t help that all the berk, who was surgically attached to his waist, did was snuggle in closer, making Gene feel slightly sick. Trying to extricate himself from Sam’s embrace, he said “Look Tyler, I don’t mind draggin’ yer sorry carcass back to yer flat, but I’m not a flippin’ teddy bear.” Sam looked up from his burrow under Gene’s arm and reached his hand up to Gene’s face, gently prodding the older man’s nose with a finger before dissolving into giggles. “You’re funny Gene.” He lowered his face and snuggled back under Gene’s stabilising arm, while the latter mentally kicked ten types of shit out of the feeling that felt suspiciously like contentment after seeing his DI look relaxed for once.
After what seemed like 5 years and several failed attempts to put the fear of Hunt into Tyler and stop his fairy, nancy, gay-boy cuddling bollocks, the two staggered up the hallway that led to Tyler’s flat, where Gene unceremoniously dumped the dead weight that used to be his DI on the floor somewhere near his door. He wanted to leave as quickly as possible, but before he could even turn away Tyler grabbed his wrist with both hands. Sounding a lot more sober than he did 5 minutes ago when he tried to sing some horrible sounding song with what sounded like fake orgasm sounds, Sam uttered only one word.
“I can’t Tyler.”
“Just for a nightcap.”
“Look,” he looked up the hallways, partly for any witnesses but mainly for an excuse. “We ‘ave work tomorrow, and I don’t feel like you being more insufferable than you already are because yer knackered.”
“We can be each other’s alarm clock.” Gene shook his head, and said “Just fuck off Tyler.” He tried to pull his arm free, but all he managed was to pull Tyler up with him. “Look, I know this isn’t ideal…” Tyler stopped, removing one hand from Gene’s arm to nurse his jawbone after having Gene’s free hand connect with it. In a quiet voice that was more menacing than his usual shout could ever manage, he hissed, “Just leave me alone Tyler.” But Sam, his “stubborn as a mule” expression pasted firmly on his face, replied “Look, I’m going to say this, and I know you’ll probably hit me again,” he paused, removing his other hand from Gene’s wrist as he stepped right into the older man’s face, only an inch or so separating their noses, “but I want this, and I have for a long time.” He looked down and smirked. “And judging by the tent in your trousers, I might not be the only one who feels like that.” Gene grabbed him by the collar of his jacket, unsure if he was going to use the even smaller distance between Sam’s relaxed, partially-opened pink lips and his own thin line to kiss or kill him. He looked down at Tyler’s mouth, that mouth that plagued the dreams he pushed to the back off his mind as soon as he woke up, and as a little sliver of pink tongue slipped out momentarily, leaving Sam’s lower lip glistening, the decision was clear. “You think you know me so well Tyler?”
Right knee cap, straight to Sam’s groin. He fell to his knees and looked up at Gene, not quite quick enough to mask the look of pain that marred his expression.
“If that were the case Sammy-boy, then you’d know…”
Right hand, connecting with jawbone.
“…I’m not…”
Left foot, knocking the wind out of the crumpled body on the floor.
“…a bender.” His voice never rose above that menacing growl, and as he turned to he couldn’t avoid the sight of Sam curling up into a foetal position. Gene stormed down the stairs, fighting the bile that was rising in his throat.
Tyler called in sick the next day. Gene wished he could have done the same. His hands were shaking so much it was like he had fucking Palsy. And if he was so rough with their snout that even Ray looked at him sideways, it wasn’t his fault. How dare Tyler think he was a fucking shirt-lifter?
Left hand, connecting with jaw bone.
Probably contaminated him, which explained why his whole body felt warm even after the smallest touch from Sam’s hands.
Right knee cap, straight to the snout’s groin, cries of “alright, alright, I’ll talk” falling on deaf ears.
Wish the little prick had stayed in his fucking fairy land of Hyde.
Right hand, connecting with jawbone, blood trickling from a split lip onto Gene’s clenched fist as the snout rambled on about how this blag was goin’ ahead in two days time.
Left foot, knocking the wind out of the crumpled body on the floor.
“Er, Guv. I think e’s coughed all he can.” Gene blinked, images of the dingy hallway outside Tyler’s flat fading into the recesses of his mind as he came crashing back into the Lost and Found room. “Fine.” He stormed out, slamming doors behind him and sending any officer who looked at him to an early grave with the expression on his face. His hands were still shaking.
“What do you want from me Gene?” Gene couldn’t take his eyes off of the metal thing that was attached to Tyler’s jaw. “What’s with the metal work?”
“The doctor felt it was necessary, considering my broken jaw and all.”
“Look, Tyler…”
“Fuck off, Hunt.” Gene grabbed him by the collar and pinned him to a doorframe outside of the CID office. “No one talks to me like that Tyler.”
“What’ll you do Hunt? I’ve run out of jaws to break. Maybe you could snap my arm next, would that make you feel more like a man?”
“Well, if you hadn’t…” Gene stopped when a gob of spit exploded on his chin. “Don’t you dare blame this on me, you lunatic bastard.” His voice was a carbon copy of the menacing whisper Gene had used that night, and it sent shivers down the older man’s spine. “I came back for you. And if you’re not here, then what have I got left?” He faltered, and then took off as Gene’s hands relaxed their grip, left reeling, wondering what the hell Tyler was on about.
A storm had settled over the offices, threatening to break at any moment. Gene stayed locked in his office so he wouldn’t have to hear Sam snap at some papers being rustled too loudly, or see Annie storm off after yet another display of the Sam Tyler Silent Treatment. It didn’t take a genius to connect the dots, and by lunch time even Chris knew the Guv was somehow connected with Sam’s broken jaw. Ignoring Sam going off at Ray over something or rather, Gene concentrated on the info his snout had coughed up the previous day. According to him, Riley and his bastard scum mates were going to hit up the jewellery store over on Baker Road tomorrow morning, an hour or so after it opened for the day. He called Ray into his office, and told him that he and Tyler were to stake out the joint and radio in as soon as the scum entered the premises, with back-up on command to strike as soon as they attempted to leg it. Ray groaned, and Gene could see the word Tyler forming on his mouth, but a look from Gene had him nodding and vacating his office as quickly as his feet would carry him.
The bastard. The mopey, scummy, underhanded little fucking prick. Real men would fight it out or ignore that it had happened and go back to normal. But oh no, Not fucking Tyler. The chicken-shit little bastard didn’t even have the decency to do it man-to-man. Gene stared at Sam’s application for a transfer, taunting him in all its yellowness. Yellow was the right colour, come to think of it. Yellow-bellied described Tyler to a T. He kicked at his desk, as he told himself he was angry at his team being torn apart, about how Tyler had once again turned out to be a snivelling, deceitful little prick. He didn’t even entertain the possibility that his anger was directed somewhere a little closer to home. He kicked his desk once more for good measure and was about to go down to Baker Road himself to tear the little prick a new one when the radio crackled. “8-7-0 to Alpha One. Respond.” Gene picked up his radio.
“What is it, Carling?”
“They just went into the store. There’s 5 of ‘em though boss.” Gene went to kick his desk again. “The lying little bastard. I’ll string ‘im up by his balls for this.” He changed frequencies. “All units, there’s 5 of the bastards, just entered to shop. Tool up ladies.” He flicked back to Ray. “Situation, Carling.”
“There out now Guv, just started the…Tyler, get back here, you div.”
“Ray, what is it?”
“Tyler just took the car and went after the bastards.” Gene dropped the radio and ran as fast as he could to the Cortina.
CID was dead silent that night. They had searched as much as was humanly possible, but no traces of a body could be found. Ray’s attempt at consolation (“the bloody div ‘ad it comin,’ talkin’ ‘bout the Guv like that”) had been silence by a well-aimed left hook courtesy of Annie. Bloody good thing, because Gene was about to do it himself, and morale was already low enough without that. He sat in his office, alone, transfer papers in one hand and bottle of single-malt whiskey in the other. He put the bottle down and strode across his office to the pin board, pinning the yellow sheet above all the crap that littered it. He then returned to his desk, pouring himself a glass and raising it to the transfer papers. He downed the brown liquid, relishing the burn it made on its way down. The transfer papers would soon become a commemorative article, and Manchester eventually gave way to the Met, but the ritual never changed. Gene would toast to Sam in the vain hope that maybe there was no body because there was no body to be found, that Tyler had somehow got that transfer he put in for. That somewhere out there, Tyler had someone who could make him smile in that way, and to have that someone realise just how special that smile was.