Fuzzy At The Edges
Title: Fuzzy At The Edges
Fandom: Life On Mars
Pairing: Sam/Gene
Rating: T
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Summary: Sequel to "Knocked About". Gene helps Sam home after he gets out of the hospital.
Sam pauses on the stairs, leaning heavily on the railing and gulping in deep breaths of air. His chest clenches, tight under the layers of thick bandage that are holding his flesh together. He sits down on the steps, more of a collapse than anything, and presses his forehead against the cool plaster of the wall. The painkillers rattle in their bottle deep in his pocket, but his clumsy splinted fingers can’t grab hold of it and they mash against the liner of his jacket as he fumbles blindly.
Shoes pound up the stairs and there‘s a heavy whump of air as someone sits down beside him. He cracks an eye open and sees Gene glaring at him, panting.
“You can’t just run off inside all by your self. Gonna tear your ruddy stitches, and then I’ll have to take you right back to hospital.”
Sam squeezes his eyes closed. “Go ‘way.”
“Not gonna happen, Samantha.” Gene reaches over and pats him on the head. “You in walking condition? Wanna get you upstairs before we’re eighty.”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” Sam lies, struggling to his feet. The railing is good under his hand, solid and easy to grasp even with the unwieldy metal and bandages that seem to be completely engulfing his fingers. He takes a shaky step up, Gene standing close behind him. His knees are still stiff, and it’s slow going as he raises one leg and brings it down, then the other, then again with the first. His loosely clamped fist shakes and his jaw is taut, the muscles clenched with tension.
“Hey.” Gene lays a hand on the small of Sam’s back, his palm warm even through the smooth leather of the jacket, the rumpled cotton shirt, the gauze and the tape.
“D’you want your pills?”
Sam nods, not trusting his voice. He’s been slurring since he woke up, his lips still puffy and numb even though the swelling on his face has gone down immensely in the past few days. It makes him sound like a drunk, like someone weak, and his self-esteem is already low enough without having to think of himself that way. Gene reaches around, careful not to hit the bruises on Sam’s tender abdomen as he delves into his jacket pocket and frees the little bottle, unscrewing the lid and tipping out two of the round white pills into his gloved palm. He passes them to Sam and holds out his flask.
“Here.”
Sam gulps down both tablets in a single mouthful of whiskey. “Thanks.”
“’S not a problem. C’mon, my legs are falling asleep.”
Sam doesn’t say anything of the fact that when they finally get to his door, Gene’s got a steady arm looped around his waist. He doesn’t mention a word about how good Gene smells or how warm he is, because that’s probably just the painkillers kicking in and he doesn’t want to embarrass himself more than he already has. He just leans into his firm hold and lets his eyes drift closed as his DCI fumbles with the keys he somehow managed to get a hold of, struggling with the combined frustration of the sticky lock and Sam’s dead weight. He grumbles, complaining low in his throat, and to Sam it sounds like safety.
The painkillers are strong, and Sam’s already weak legs have gone completely loopy. He’s relying on Gene for support now, for help, for a leg to stand on, but really, doesn’t he always? Even when they’re beating the shit out of each other, Sam knows that Gene wouldn’t really hurt him- he could easily, if he wanted to, but he only ever doles out aches and pains to Sam, shallow bruises that he can press his lips into later and murmur against the skin. Gene can hurt and heal in equal parts, but he hides the latter until he really needs it and relies on the former to make a point.
Sam’s eyes are half-closed as Gene maneuvers him onto the bed and he realizes drowsily that he doesn’t remember how they got there from the door. Gene is beside him, though, propping him up with squished pillows and unbuttoning his shirt. It doesn’t slide off easily, like usual, but then they’re usually working as a team to undress as fast as possible. Instead Sam is weak and pliant, like a giant ragdoll, and he hums in pain when one of Gene’s fingers prods to close to a cracked rib. Even with the medication he’s still sore but the DCI withdraws his hand, moving it up to Sam’s shoulder and stroking the bare skin soothingly. He manages to get the shirt off, thankful for the unbuttoned cuffs, and unclips the belt. The leather slides through his hands and falls to the floor.
Sam moves down the bed carefully, his limbs groaning in protest. He can feel himself sliding into drug-induced sleep, his head heavy and his purple eyes shut against the sulfurous light of the lamp. There’s a shift in the bed and a click, and then the orange glow bleeding through Sam’s closed eyelids is gone, replaced with a blanket of cool black. The springs groan and creak and a body presses into his back, a dry, steady hand smoothing down his arms and neck.
Gene kisses Sam’s back carefully, lips on the one spot of glowing white that he can see in the dark, squeezed in between black and blue and red. “You alright, Sammy?”
Sam mutters something that he hopes is intelligible as yes. He stops, pauses, then tries harder to control his thick tongue.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, you daft bugger.” Gene holds him loosely, one arm draped over his abdomen in a way that can’t possibly be comfortable for him. He’s still fully clothed, only his tie and shoes discarded, probably lying in a pile of canvas and synthetic fibers near the door.
On a normal night they wouldn’t just be lying here. On a normal night it’s all teeth and tongues and fingers and feet, panting and begging and cursing and laughing breathlessly. On a normal night, Gene will stink of whiskey and Sam won’t mind terribly if he leaves, pulling on his socks in the dark. He understands that Gene still has a life to lead, a life he had long before Sam came around. He respects that, understands it. But tonight isn’t a normal night, obviously, because Gene is just holding him. He’s not trying to grab him through his pants, not calling him a slut or pulling his hair.
“You could take me right here, y’know.” Sam slurs against the pillow. He can feel Gene scowl against his neck.
“Like you’re in any condition for that. I’m in no mood to explain to the twonks in the emergency room why my half-naked DI’s popped his stitches.” He watches Sam fading fast, watches him as he struggles to keep his eyes open. They both look like shit, Sam with his body looking like a bloody Picasso and Gene unshaven and rumpled with deep bags under his eyes. Sam yawns, mouth wide and cat-like as his pink tongue pokes at his bottom teeth. He moves closer to Gene, pressing back-to-chest.
Gene thinks that Sam feels small and thin and terrifyingly fragile. It’s scary, for Gene, because for all his DI’s nagging and complaining and poncey rules, the one thing he’s definitely not is fragile. He can take a lot, his Sammy can, but it takes something like this to remind Gene that at the end of the day, he’s only human.
Sam thinks that Gene feels warm and solid and strong. The silence of the room is a welcome change from the beeping hospital machines of the last few days, the shouting and the screaming of the last week, the constant voices on the radio and the TV of the last few months. It’s just the sound of him and the sound of Gene, their breaths synchronizing. Despite the aches and pains, the dull throb behind his temples, and the tightness of his skin, he smiles.
“Thanks for not turning on the telly.”
“Shut up and go to sleep, Gladys.”
Fandom: Life On Mars
Pairing: Sam/Gene
Rating: T
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Summary: Sequel to "Knocked About". Gene helps Sam home after he gets out of the hospital.
Sam pauses on the stairs, leaning heavily on the railing and gulping in deep breaths of air. His chest clenches, tight under the layers of thick bandage that are holding his flesh together. He sits down on the steps, more of a collapse than anything, and presses his forehead against the cool plaster of the wall. The painkillers rattle in their bottle deep in his pocket, but his clumsy splinted fingers can’t grab hold of it and they mash against the liner of his jacket as he fumbles blindly.
Shoes pound up the stairs and there‘s a heavy whump of air as someone sits down beside him. He cracks an eye open and sees Gene glaring at him, panting.
“You can’t just run off inside all by your self. Gonna tear your ruddy stitches, and then I’ll have to take you right back to hospital.”
Sam squeezes his eyes closed. “Go ‘way.”
“Not gonna happen, Samantha.” Gene reaches over and pats him on the head. “You in walking condition? Wanna get you upstairs before we’re eighty.”
“Yeah, I’m fine.” Sam lies, struggling to his feet. The railing is good under his hand, solid and easy to grasp even with the unwieldy metal and bandages that seem to be completely engulfing his fingers. He takes a shaky step up, Gene standing close behind him. His knees are still stiff, and it’s slow going as he raises one leg and brings it down, then the other, then again with the first. His loosely clamped fist shakes and his jaw is taut, the muscles clenched with tension.
“Hey.” Gene lays a hand on the small of Sam’s back, his palm warm even through the smooth leather of the jacket, the rumpled cotton shirt, the gauze and the tape.
“D’you want your pills?”
Sam nods, not trusting his voice. He’s been slurring since he woke up, his lips still puffy and numb even though the swelling on his face has gone down immensely in the past few days. It makes him sound like a drunk, like someone weak, and his self-esteem is already low enough without having to think of himself that way. Gene reaches around, careful not to hit the bruises on Sam’s tender abdomen as he delves into his jacket pocket and frees the little bottle, unscrewing the lid and tipping out two of the round white pills into his gloved palm. He passes them to Sam and holds out his flask.
“Here.”
Sam gulps down both tablets in a single mouthful of whiskey. “Thanks.”
“’S not a problem. C’mon, my legs are falling asleep.”
Sam doesn’t say anything of the fact that when they finally get to his door, Gene’s got a steady arm looped around his waist. He doesn’t mention a word about how good Gene smells or how warm he is, because that’s probably just the painkillers kicking in and he doesn’t want to embarrass himself more than he already has. He just leans into his firm hold and lets his eyes drift closed as his DCI fumbles with the keys he somehow managed to get a hold of, struggling with the combined frustration of the sticky lock and Sam’s dead weight. He grumbles, complaining low in his throat, and to Sam it sounds like safety.
The painkillers are strong, and Sam’s already weak legs have gone completely loopy. He’s relying on Gene for support now, for help, for a leg to stand on, but really, doesn’t he always? Even when they’re beating the shit out of each other, Sam knows that Gene wouldn’t really hurt him- he could easily, if he wanted to, but he only ever doles out aches and pains to Sam, shallow bruises that he can press his lips into later and murmur against the skin. Gene can hurt and heal in equal parts, but he hides the latter until he really needs it and relies on the former to make a point.
Sam’s eyes are half-closed as Gene maneuvers him onto the bed and he realizes drowsily that he doesn’t remember how they got there from the door. Gene is beside him, though, propping him up with squished pillows and unbuttoning his shirt. It doesn’t slide off easily, like usual, but then they’re usually working as a team to undress as fast as possible. Instead Sam is weak and pliant, like a giant ragdoll, and he hums in pain when one of Gene’s fingers prods to close to a cracked rib. Even with the medication he’s still sore but the DCI withdraws his hand, moving it up to Sam’s shoulder and stroking the bare skin soothingly. He manages to get the shirt off, thankful for the unbuttoned cuffs, and unclips the belt. The leather slides through his hands and falls to the floor.
Sam moves down the bed carefully, his limbs groaning in protest. He can feel himself sliding into drug-induced sleep, his head heavy and his purple eyes shut against the sulfurous light of the lamp. There’s a shift in the bed and a click, and then the orange glow bleeding through Sam’s closed eyelids is gone, replaced with a blanket of cool black. The springs groan and creak and a body presses into his back, a dry, steady hand smoothing down his arms and neck.
Gene kisses Sam’s back carefully, lips on the one spot of glowing white that he can see in the dark, squeezed in between black and blue and red. “You alright, Sammy?”
Sam mutters something that he hopes is intelligible as yes. He stops, pauses, then tries harder to control his thick tongue.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, you daft bugger.” Gene holds him loosely, one arm draped over his abdomen in a way that can’t possibly be comfortable for him. He’s still fully clothed, only his tie and shoes discarded, probably lying in a pile of canvas and synthetic fibers near the door.
On a normal night they wouldn’t just be lying here. On a normal night it’s all teeth and tongues and fingers and feet, panting and begging and cursing and laughing breathlessly. On a normal night, Gene will stink of whiskey and Sam won’t mind terribly if he leaves, pulling on his socks in the dark. He understands that Gene still has a life to lead, a life he had long before Sam came around. He respects that, understands it. But tonight isn’t a normal night, obviously, because Gene is just holding him. He’s not trying to grab him through his pants, not calling him a slut or pulling his hair.
“You could take me right here, y’know.” Sam slurs against the pillow. He can feel Gene scowl against his neck.
“Like you’re in any condition for that. I’m in no mood to explain to the twonks in the emergency room why my half-naked DI’s popped his stitches.” He watches Sam fading fast, watches him as he struggles to keep his eyes open. They both look like shit, Sam with his body looking like a bloody Picasso and Gene unshaven and rumpled with deep bags under his eyes. Sam yawns, mouth wide and cat-like as his pink tongue pokes at his bottom teeth. He moves closer to Gene, pressing back-to-chest.
Gene thinks that Sam feels small and thin and terrifyingly fragile. It’s scary, for Gene, because for all his DI’s nagging and complaining and poncey rules, the one thing he’s definitely not is fragile. He can take a lot, his Sammy can, but it takes something like this to remind Gene that at the end of the day, he’s only human.
Sam thinks that Gene feels warm and solid and strong. The silence of the room is a welcome change from the beeping hospital machines of the last few days, the shouting and the screaming of the last week, the constant voices on the radio and the TV of the last few months. It’s just the sound of him and the sound of Gene, their breaths synchronizing. Despite the aches and pains, the dull throb behind his temples, and the tightness of his skin, he smiles.
“Thanks for not turning on the telly.”
“Shut up and go to sleep, Gladys.”