Fic: Barred (1/1), by nepthys_uk, slash, Brown Cortina
Title: Barred (part 1 of 1)
Author: nepthys_uk
Characters/Pairing: Sam/Gene.
Rating: Brown Cortina to be on the safe side.
Word count: approx.4,200.
Warnings: a bit of swearing and slashy behaviour.
Spoilers: not really.
Disclaimer: Fully owned by Kudos and the BBC.
Notes: This was inspired by a prompt at the Anonymous Pornfest run by
fiandyfic - Sam and Gene in gay bar. Well, this is Sam/Gene, and there is a gay bar, but don’t get your hopes up too far on the pr0n front…
Thanks to
dorsetgirl for lots of encouragement and a super speedy beta job.
Barred
The lights were low, the music loud, and the drinks probably watered down. Just your typical seedy nightclub, Sam told himself, as he scanned around the room under the cover of scoping out the talent on the dance floor. Except of course in this case it was a gay nightclub, and the dance floor, small as it was, was crowded with guys in various states of undress and varying degrees of friendliness.
They were on the trail of Brian Clegg, a mid-league drug dealer who had recently come to their attention. An anonymous tip had told them that Clegg was due to meet his supplier at ‘The Green Man’. While pulling in Brian Clegg would be a coup in itself, Sam had managed to convince Gene that following the drugs back to the source would be far more effective. So here he was, dressed in his tightest trousers, trying to spot Clegg in the throng.
Sam edged along the bar, taking in the scene. Trying to look casual, he propped one foot up on the foot-rail and leant an arm against the counter, his other hand on his hip. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the bar and straightened up hurriedly. Blending in was one thing, but looking like he was cruising was quite another.
He sipped his drink and glanced about surreptitiously. He’d been to gay-friendly bars before back in, well, the future, but the sort of friendly cosmopolitan place he’d visited with mates in 2006 was a million miles away from this dimly-lit pick-up joint. Of course, ‘straight’ places were often just as bad. Sam sighed. He really, really hated meat-markets. Just then, right on cue, he became aware of a figure looming next to him, and barely managed not to choke on his drink as he felt a hand ghost over his backside. At least, he hoped it was a hand.
He turned and looked up at the man who now seemed to be trying to work one large paw into the back pocket of Sam’s trousers. Sam considered himself to be an open-minded sort of a guy and had felt fully at ease with this particular undercover job, but never having been on the receiving end of quite such aggressive attentions he found himself momentarily struck dumb. What an enormous moustache.
He managed a shaky smile in response to the other man’s leer, and opened his mouth to speak but before he could summon up a suitable comment a familiar gravelly tone interrupted him.
“Piss off and find your own lad to play with; he’s with me.”
Sam briefly closed his eyes, and images of carnage flitted across the inside of his eyelids, followed by the tabloid headlines: “Boys in Blue Exposed in Gay Bar Bust-up!”
Sam had severe misgivings about Gene coming with him. They’d agreed that it was a two-man surveillance job, but beyond that the conversation that morning had not gone smoothly…
“So who do you think should go in with you?”
“Well, I thought Chris would be the best choice.”
“You are joking me. That would be like tossing your favourite kitten into a kennel of Rottweilers.”
“Oh come on, he’s not that clueless!”
“What about the incident last month with that lollipop lady and the tub of ice-cream? No, the div would end up being taken for a ride - and I do mean literally.”
Sam let out a frustrated huff as Gene continued.
“Anyway, what are you going to do if there’s any trouble? You won’t have a radio to call for the bleeding cavalry. No, you need someone who can handle themselves in case there’s a bit of a scrap.”
“Why would there be a bit of a scrap? - it’s a gay bar, not a rugby scrum.”
“Much the same thing, I’ll wager” said Gene darkly.
Sam sighed. “Well, there’s Macintosh…”
Gene snorted. “You can’t take him, he’s still in uniform. And it’s no good suggesting Cartwright - I know she can give a bloke a hefty kick to the bollocks, but she’d stand out like a rooster in a henhouse.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Fine. Who do you suggest, then?”
Gene folded his arms. “Me.”
Sam stared at him for a moment then started to laugh.
“What?”asked Gene, sounding indignant.
“You in a gay bar?” Sam gasped out.
Gene stuck out his chin defiantly. “Yeah. What’s so funny about that?”
“Oh, god. You’re really serious.” Sam sobered. “But, Guv, you go off into homophobic rants at the sight of a paisley shirt; what are you going to do if some bloke looks at you the wrong way?”
Gene sniffed. “Anyone would think, D.I. Tyler, that you doubt my ability to go undercover.”
“Well, it’s just that there’s a bit of a difference between pretending to be a pub landlord and pretending to have completely different sexual leanings.”
“I can’t see that prancing about in a nancy-boy way is all that difficult, Tyler. After all, you do it every day.”
Sam waved his hands about in frustration. “We have to be able to blend in, Gene!”
Gene nodded, leaning towards Sam over his desk. “Let me put it another way: it’s me or Ray, take your pick.”
So here they both were. At least Gene had made a slight effort to look the part: he had taken off his tie and undone the top buttons of his green shirt, so that was something. Sam liked that green shirt. Well, if he was being honest he liked Gene in that green shirt. Oh, all right. If he was being completely honest he liked Gene; the shirt was immaterial. Unfortunately, Gene was more likely to declare an interest in bee-keeping than an interest in him…
Sam blinked, snapping back to the here and now. Mr Friendly had removed his hand from Sam’s posterior, but was staring back at Gene challengingly.
Sam glanced over at Gene’s face: narrowed eyes and jaw jutting out - wow. He was really putting on a creditable act as the jealous boyfriend. Gene stepped closer and slowly draped a possessive arm around Sam’s shoulders. He raised an eyebrow at Mr. Friendly. Tensing for action, Sam turned back to the man, but Mr. Friendly evidently decided it wasn’t worth the trouble as he backed away, raising his hands in submission.
Gene watched his retreat carefully, and Sam sighed in relief, even as he turned to Gene and spoke in an undertone.
“I can look after myself, you know.”
Gene leaned closer. “I know, Tyler, but clearly your arse in those trousers is just too much for any red-blooded man to resist.”
Sam blinked in surprise before realising that Gene must still be ‘in character’. He moved his own lips closer to Gene’s ear.
“Not my type.”
“Really, Gladys? Go on, then, surprise me: who’s your type?”
“Um, about 5ft 9, thin, receding mousy-brown hair…”
Gene snorted as he recognised Sam’s description of Brian Clegg.
“Well there’s no sign of him yet. I would suggest splitting up and having a look around, but I evidently can’t leave you on your own for more than two minutes, you delectable little peach, you.” Gene actually had the nerve to pucker up his lips at him. Bastard.
Sam plastered on a smile, speaking through gritted teeth.
“Oh for God’s sake. You’re overdoing it. Let’s try to keep a low profile, shall we.”
“Right then: dance floor.”
“I don’t call gyrating about on the dance floor keeping a low profile!” Sam hissed back at him, still smiling.
“Well, it’s either that or resign yourself to getting felt-up by every bloke in here on the pull.” Gene glanced around and continued, “Which, by the looks of it, is all of ‘em. Besides, we can keep an eye out from the dance floor without looking too obvious.”
Sam had to concede there was a certain amount of sense in that. So he nodded, and happily abandoning his drink on the bar (quite why Gene had thought he would enjoy a Babycham was beyond him), he headed through the press of bodies, Gene close behind him.
Sam had never thought that he would be grateful for the few previous occasions when a team night out had culminated on the dance floor of a local club. Those sorts of evenings generally ended in an alcoholic blur and a massive hangover, along with a collection of unexplained bruises (and on one occasion a twisted ankle), plus the vague but nagging feeling that he had done something hideously embarrassing. The only consolation being that the rest of the team were generally in an even worse state than he was. Still, it did mean that being on a dance floor with Gene was not a new experience, and while being sober was slightly strange, the sense of familiarity and rhythm soon returned.
They circled around each other, moving in time to the up-beat tempo, getting a clear 360 view of the room. Gene brushed up against him, and Sam wasn’t sure if it was accidental or whether Gene had noticed a bloke with dark curly hair watching them, but even that felt quite familiar: they had never had much concept of personal space between them, not since that first day when Gene had bodily pinned him to the filing cabinet. Sam smiled at the memory. He noticed Gene frowning in puzzlement at his expression, but Sam simply grinned back.
Then Gene’s gaze shifted to just over Sam’s right shoulder. For a moment his eyes seemed to track someone, then he subtly turned them both to give Sam a clearer line of sight.
Sure enough, there was Clegg weaving his way through the crowd, heading towards a doorway at the back of the room. Gene took hold of Sam’s shoulder, pulling him close and leaning in to murmur in his ear.
“I’ll follow him.”
“We’ll follow him.”
“I thought you wanted to keep a low profile?”
Sam gritted his teeth. Trying to have an argument while keeping time with the music and doing his best to look gay was pushing even his multi-tasking skills to the limit. He wrapped his arms around Gene, brushing their cheeks together. Hmm. Surprisingly smooth - Gene must have had a close shave today.
“Believe me - if we are going to head into a dark back room it will look a lot less conspicuous if we are together.” For emphasis, Sam slid one hand down to Gene’s backside and gave him a deliberate squeeze. He stepped back, and they exchanged a look. Gene’s lips were pressed together in a straight line as he was apparently considering the full implications of the situation. Sam raised an eyebrow, silently questioning whether Gene could keep up the pretence. Then Gene gave one slight nod, and took hold of his hand. Sam smiled at him, and led the way through the heaving bodies to the back of the room.
They ducked through the darkened doorway past a couple busy fumbling about, and found themselves at the top of a flight of stairs. When Chris had (very briefly) reconnoitred the bar at lunchtime he had not mentioned any basement. Sam made a mental note to have stern words with young Christopher later. Right now, though, he tightened his grip on Gene’s hand and headed down the stairs.
Later, Sam would reflect that as descents into hell went, this one was quite funny. Right now, however, it was just plain seedy. The basement seemed to have been walled off into a number of makeshift rooms using plywood and curtains, which didn’t do much to block out the grunts and groans and unmistakable noises of flesh moving against flesh. Not much doubt about what was going on down here, then. He heard Gene swear softly under his breath, and Sam gave his hand a warning squeeze. They had to figure out where Clegg had gone, and now was really not the time for Gene to make some joke about fudge-packing in a loud voice.
Getting his bearings in the semi-darkness, Sam pulled Gene along the narrow passageway, ducking under a draped curtain at the end of it and coming to an abrupt halt. Due to the lack of light it was a moment before Sam understood the scene he’d just walked in on. The three men didn’t stop, but one glanced up at Sam and grinned. “Either fuck off or join in,” he said between gasps.
Sam backed out, belatedly realising that Gene was pulling him to one side: the passageway had turned at right-angles and he’d missed it. Gene led him further along, past a few more curtained-off alcoves. At one point a couple of men appeared and squeezed past them, heading back to the stairs, laughing. Gene and Sam turned another corner, and Sam could finally make out a solid door at the end of the passageway. Clegg had to be in there - assuming that the anonymous tip was right and Clegg really was meeting a supplier, and hadn’t just come down here for a bit of man-on-man fun.
They approached the end of the passage, and Sam was just considering putting his ear to the door, when Gene yanked him backwards behind a curtain. Heart hammering in his chest, Sam saw the outline of a man approach the door from the same direction they had come. He knocked twice and entered, closing the door behind him. Sam let out a breath.
He and Gene were pressed into an alcove with nowhere else to go, but at least, Sam reflected, they could see the door from here and would get a good view of Clegg and his contact when they eventually emerged. Sam had hoped that they would be close enough to the door to be able to hear the conversation on the other side, but nothing could be heard over the noises coming from the rooms behind them.
About then Sam became aware of two things: firstly, he was still plastered against Gene, the other man’s body solid and hot against his back. The other was the fact that they were not alone.
Sam slowly twisted around and spotted a couple of figures - or were there more? - occupied with each other in a corner of the small room. He caught the pale flash of exposed flesh, but didn’t want to look closely enough to see what they were doing.
Well, this was awkward.
Sam weighed up their options, and quickly came to the conclusion that they didn’t have any. They could just abandon the job and leave, hoping to pick up Clegg’s trail another day. But if they wanted to stay, then they couldn’t just stand there hovering about like David Attenborough behind a bush. Unfortunately, they couldn’t exactly have a discussion about it right outside the room they were staking out, either.
He swallowed, acutely aware of the pervading heat and the smell of sex in the enclosed space. Well, they were both professionals so surely the job came first. After all, they could just...kiss, or something. It didn’t have to mean anything. And if Sam happened to enjoy himself then that would be purely incidental. Their goal was to trace the supply of the drugs and that was far more important than any embarrassment they might have to go through in the line of duty. And they had to keep an eye on the door, obviously…
His train of thought was interrupted by Gene shifting his stance and huffing out a breath which Sam suspected was a laugh. The next moment Sam felt Gene’s hand cup his face and pat his cheek gently.
Okay. So they were definitely staying. Well, they were both consenting adults. Not that they were going to do anything much, of course. Nothing involving the removal of clothes or actual bodily fluids, for instance.
Sam smiled in the dark at the sheer ridiculousness of the thought.
And felt Gene’s thumb trace slowly over his lips.
Oh.
Oh, God.
***
Later - much later - Sam and Gene sloped despondently into Gene’s office. It was well past pub closing time and CID was empty and in darkness. Gene switched on the desk lamp, flooding the room with light.
Sam slumped down on the sofa, wincing as he repositioned the ice-pack on his forehead. He glanced down at himself: his shirt sleeve was torn and the knees of his cords were badly scuffed, but he supposed it could have been worse. He looked up at Gene. The bruise on his chin was turning an impressively livid shade of purple.
Gene rummaged about and produced a bottle of scotch from the filing cabinet along with a couple of mis-matched glasses.
“Bloody Litton,” he muttered.
He poured them both a drink and handed Sam a glass, sinking tiredly down onto the sofa next to him.
They sat drinking in silence for a moment, both staring into space. Sam wondered whether anything had really changed. This was the first time they’d been alone since all hell broke loose, and he wasn’t sure if the subject of the basement was on the conversational menu.
“Bloody Litton,” Gene repeated in a louder tone.
Apparently not.
“At least we got to arrest Clegg.” Sam said.
“Yeah, but Litton can claim the glory for the rest of the drug ring, the bastard.”
Sam sighed. “I know he’s an odious twat, but if you two of you could bring yourselves to speak to each other once in a while to share information maybe you
wouldn’t end up treading on each other’s toes.”
Gene grunted. “I’d like to tread on more than just his bloody toes.”
They lapsed into silence again.
“Shame about that fight breaking out,” Sam said finally.
“Told you it would be a rugby scrum.”
“More like a riot.”
“Bloody Litton’s fault, that was.”
Sam nodded thoughtfully. “Probably charging in the front door yelling “Police raid!” wasn’t the best approach under the circumstances.”
“Bloody Litton. Too heavy handed, that’s his problem. Like Dirty Harry at a meeting of the W.I.”
“Still, it could have turned out worse.”
“Yeah, I suppose we could have been caught with our todgers out.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “No, I meant at least we were able to make our involvement look like a well planned undercover sting which RCS blundered into.”
Gene gave a nod and patted Sam’s knee. “And thanks to you, my picky pain DI, we have all the paperwork to prove it. Just as well, really. Don’t think it would go down well with the Chief Super if he thought two of his senior officers were mattress-munchers out on the pull. And the press would have a bloody field-day.”
Sam turned his head to stare at him incredulously. Gene did a quick double-take, noticing his expression.
“Oh, give over! Surely you aren’t going to bang on about it being a ‘viable life choice’ or ‘alternative sub-culture’ or whatever poncy description it was you used. That place was a disgusting flea-pit!”
Sam stood abruptly, discarding the ice-pack and grabbing up his jacket. “Fine.”
Gene looked at him in confusion.
“What’s got stuck up your jacksy, Tyler?”
“Absolutely nothing is up my jacksy, Guv,” Sam replied, voice flat and artificially calm, as he set his unfinished drink down on Gene’s desk.
“Not for want of trying, though,” Gene muttered.
Sam turned on him, his voice rising.
“Just because you think it’s disgusting doesn’t mean you can just condemn other people’s proclivities!”
Gene blinked at him, seeming quite astonished at the outburst.
“And another thing: has it not occurred to you that you might be describing yourself here, because I was not the only one in that place with a hard-on!”
Gene’s forehead creased down the middle in apparent confusion as he watched Sam who was now pacing as he ranted, bouncing a little on his toes.
“But that’s just typical of you, you bloody hypocrite. Oh yes, the great Gene Hunt, far too much of a man to be corrupted by mattress-munching perverts! Well, fine. Try telling yourself that when you’re lying in your empty bed at night, but don’t try telling me: I was there, too, remember and unless I’m very much mistaken, that was your cock in my mouth!”
Sam came to a halt, eyes blazing, finger jabbing at Gene.
“You were enjoying it, and don’t you dare try to deny it!”
Gene rose to his feet, slamming down his glass, his surprise finally giving way to anger.
“I’m not denying it, you stupid git! For God’s sake, Tyler, why don’t you stop yapping and listen for once -”
“What?” Sam sneered, “to more of your homophobic abuse? I don’t think so.” He turned and moved to leave, but Gene planted himself between Sam and the door, his hands balled into fists.
“I’m not abusing you!” He yelled, causing Sam to halt in his tracks.
“I’m trying to say that it’s probably one of the grimmest, most disgusting places I’ve ever been into - and I’ve been in a few - ”
Sam huffed and went to step past him but Gene blocked his path, still speaking.
“- which is ironic given that it’s where I have just had the best sex of my entire bloody life!”
It was Sam’s turn to stare in confusion.
Gene ran an agitated hand through his hair, making it stand on end.
“Why is nothing ever easy with you, Gladys? Yes, I did bloody well enjoy myself. And I bloody well hate the fact that it had to be in such a shit-hole of a dive with dozens of other blokes around doing God knows what, and I couldn’t even see your gorgeous scrawny body!”
Brow furrowed, Sam stepped towards him waving his hands about, his voice raised to match Gene’s.
“Then what the hell was all that homophobic rubbish about?”
“Just trying to tell you that we need to be careful if we’re going to…you know.”
“What, shag?” Sam’s mouth twisted in scorn.
“Yes! No! Well, yes - I’ve wanted you for so bloody long that I have permanently aching balls. But it’s not just that. I’m not some sex-crazed oaf, you know!”
Sam just looked at him, eyebrow raised.
“I am not!” Gene yelled, indignantly.
Sam stepped back, making a scoffing noise. “So, what, you want to have some sort of relationship?”
Gene flung his hands up in frustration.
“Yes, you stupid, stubborn, nit-picky, nancy-boy git!”
For a moment they stared at each other, both breathing heavily.
Then they lunged at each other, lips and teeth clashing, hands gripping with bruising force, and for a moment it seemed uncertain as to whether this would turn out to be another fight. But no: Gene’s hand came up to cup his jaw just as Sam slid an arm around his neck and their coordination returned; familiar; in rhythm once more. Their tongues slid over each other, their bodies pressed together, hearts hammering in old/new syncopation. Lost in the intensity of the kiss, Sam was startled when he was abruptly shoved backwards as Gene suddenly pulled away and started to speak as though they were part-way through a conversation.
“And that, D.I. Tyler, is the best way to maintain your cover in a gay bar, not that poncey dancing you were doing!”
Sam gulped, seeing Ray in the doorway of the office, Chris on his heels. Considering that Gene actually had his back to the door this just proved Sam’s long-held suspicion that the Guv had eyes in the back of his head.
“It was a poofters club, not an audition for Top of the Pops!” Gene continued, “Thought you’d have known better, Gladys, what with your obsession with proper process and vast experience of undercover work, but it clearly takes a real man to snog convincingly!”
Sam, torn between indignation and laughing out loud, slowly wiped a hand over his mouth to cover his expression.
“Yes, Guv, I’ll try to remember that next time,” he said, trying to sound suitably contrite.
Gene caught his eye and Sam saw that he was also close to laughing, so he averted his gaze to the floor as though admonished while Gene waggled a scolding finger at him.
“See that you do: if you lose your nerve like that again during an undercover operation I’ll have your arse for it!”
Sam snorted and quickly changed it into a cough. He couldn’t resist a glance up to see if the others were swallowing any of this. Ray was smirking at him, evidently relishing seeing the Boss getting a dressing-down, while Chris was looking thoughtful, no doubt mentally filing all this under “what to do if I ever have to pretend I’m gay”. So yes, then. Swallowing it hook, line and sinker, thank the Lord.
Gene had spun round to face them as though it was business as usual.
“Yes, Carling?”
“Just wanted to let you know we’ve got Clegg banged up in cell four, Guv. We’ve packed the rest of them off with a caution.”
“Excellent, Raymondo. I think that brings tonight’s activities to a close, so you and Chris can push off home.”
He waved them out and turned back to Sam, a decidedly feral gleam in his eyes. “Not you, DI Tyler. You and I have some unfinished business to take care of.”
A wide grin spread across Sam’s face, his own eyes alight with anticipation. “Yes, Guv.”