Fic: In the Cold Light of Day by nepthys_uk, slash, Brown Cortina
Title: In the Cold Light of Day
Author: nepthys_uk
Characters/Pairing: Sam/Gene
Rating: Brown Cortina
Word count: approx. 1000
Disclaimer: LoM belongs to Kudos and the BBC. No money being made here.
Notes: This is a sequel to Sweet Dreams, which was written for the 1973flashfic challenge 'Comfort' (and thanks to all those who commented and requested a sequel!). No plot to speak of ;-).
Unbeta'd, so let me know if you spot anything wrong. Concrit welcomed, as always.
It’s early when Gene wakes.
He’s got a crick in his neck, the bloody birds are going at it hammer-and-tongs outside the window, and the sun is streaming in where he didn’t close the curtains quite far enough.
But then he’s not used to sleeping in his lounge.
Gene throws off the blanket and traipses into the kitchen. Tea is what’s called for to banish the remainder of his hangover: strong, with enough sugar in it to make the spoon stand up on its own.
Almost as an afterthought he makes one for Tyler as well. He grins with grim satisfaction as he considers that the irritating little git must be nursing the hangover from hell. Just deserts, considering that Sam has had free range of Gene’s bed all night.
Mugs in hand Gene heads up the stairs, pushing his bedroom door open with one elbow. He tries desperately not to look at the sight on the bed, but he’s only human when all’s said and done.
Sam is sprawled face-down, one bare leg emerging from the covers in a tantalising fashion. Gene is thankful that Sam is at least wearing a pyjama top - then he looks closer and realises that it’s his pyjama top, and he can’t for the life of him remember how that happened. He drags his eyes away when Sam starts to stir. Wouldn’t do to stare, after all.
So Gene’s not looking, and he’s so absolutely not looking that he doesn’t notice the smooth slide of muscle beneath skin as Sam stretches and rolls; and he certainly doesn’t see the shadow formed in the crease of Sam’s thighs (bloody hell - isn’t he wearing anything else?), or the way the pyjama top hangs loosely off one shoulder, exposing the ridge and hollows of a collarbone.
Gene blinks, his mouth suddenly dry. He’s seen Sam completely naked before (and handcuffed to his bed, no less), but somehow seeing him partially clothed is far more unsettling.
Before Gene has a chance to wonder about that, Tyler is yawning and sitting up, running a hand through his already-tousled hair to make it stand up on end. He’s a conflicting combination of innocence and debauchery, and for a moment he looks much, much younger.
If Gene had been feeling uncomfortable before, he feels positively dirty now.
Sam is peering at him, and Gene realises with mounting horror that he can feel himself starting to stiffen. Christ Almighty. The thin pyjama trousers he's got on are not going to hide anything.
Only one option, then.
“Here.” He thrusts a mug into Sam’s hand, plonks his own on the bedside table, and slides back into bed, pulling the covers up before Sam gets an eyeful of his morning glory.
Sam is looking rather bemused, a frown creasing his forehead.
“Where did you go?”
Gene grunts. “Downstairs. You were snoring.” He reaches for his tea.
Sam’s frown deepens. “I don’t snore.”
“Well, you did last night.” His tone brooks no disagreement.
Sam puts his mug on the table at his side of the bed and lies back, running a hand over his face. He looks oddly vulnerable.
Gene takes a sip of his tea. “How’d you feel?”
Sam gives a groan. “Like there’s a Frenchman in my head.”
Gene snorts. “Sounds like a treat. Drink your tea; that’ll buck you up.”
But Sam doesn’t. Instead, he rolls over onto his side, facing Gene; edging closer.
Gene’s had enough of being coerced out of his own bed (besides, Little Gene is still standing to attention) so he sips his tea stoically, trying to think about the fact that the lawn needs mowing and not about the fact that he can feel the body heat radiating from Sam like a bloody coal fire. Sam suddenly moves closer, leaning in like a curious, predatory cat, and for a surreal second Gene thinks he’s about to lick him.
But Sam pulls back, nose wrinkling.
“You smell like a brewery.”
There’s a momentary delay while Gene remembers to breathe again.
“You’re none-too fragrant yourself, Gladys, so I reckon we cancel each other out.” He’s pleased that his voice sounds only slightly hoarse.
Sam doesn’t reply, but settles himself more comfortably, his eyes falling shut.
“What time is it, anyway?” he murmurs.
“Still early.”
“Still sleepy.” Sam mumbles.
Gene looks at him in disbelief. The little bastard is going back to sleep.
“Are you going back to sleep?”
“I was thinking about it - unless there’s something else you’d rather do.”
And brown eyes, clear and fully awake, are regarding him with a thoughtful gleam.
Gene freezes.
Here it is: the point he’s been dreading and longing for in equal measure. The moment of truth, finally, that all those barbed comments, veiled looks and manly tussles have been leading to.
But it’s the arm that makes him finally move: Sam’s arm, which Gene finds suddenly reaching across to take the mug of cooling tea from Gene’s nerveless fingers and standing it safely out of the way. For a second they just look at each other.
Then Gene moves.
Closes the short distance between them, meeting Sam’s mouth, tasting stale whisky and sleep and Sam; and maybe he’s gone mad or is still dreaming or something because he can’t think why else something this wrong could feel so completely and utterly right.
It still feels right when Sam starts stripping Gene’s clothes off, and any fleeting concerns about how he must look are driven right out of his head when Sam slides lower and swallows Gene’s cock like he’s been doing this all his life.
It still feels right when Gene is curled over Sam’s back, buried in him, as Sam urges him on with the most obscene running commentary Gene has ever heard.
And it still feels right when they are lying tangled together afterwards, sated and sticky, and Sam gives him an almost-shy grin as he moves closer, pressing the length of his body against Gene, and sliding an arm over his chest.
So Gene doesn’t think about how wrong this is.
He just moves his arm so that Sam can snuggle closer, and listens to his breathing, slow and regular, as he drifts off into sleep.
Gene’s aware of the sweat and come drying on his skin, the ache in muscles he didn’t even know he had, and thinks that he shouldn’t be at all comfortable.
But he is.
Author: nepthys_uk
Characters/Pairing: Sam/Gene
Rating: Brown Cortina
Word count: approx. 1000
Disclaimer: LoM belongs to Kudos and the BBC. No money being made here.
Notes: This is a sequel to Sweet Dreams, which was written for the 1973flashfic challenge 'Comfort' (and thanks to all those who commented and requested a sequel!). No plot to speak of ;-).
Unbeta'd, so let me know if you spot anything wrong. Concrit welcomed, as always.
It’s early when Gene wakes.
He’s got a crick in his neck, the bloody birds are going at it hammer-and-tongs outside the window, and the sun is streaming in where he didn’t close the curtains quite far enough.
But then he’s not used to sleeping in his lounge.
Gene throws off the blanket and traipses into the kitchen. Tea is what’s called for to banish the remainder of his hangover: strong, with enough sugar in it to make the spoon stand up on its own.
Almost as an afterthought he makes one for Tyler as well. He grins with grim satisfaction as he considers that the irritating little git must be nursing the hangover from hell. Just deserts, considering that Sam has had free range of Gene’s bed all night.
Mugs in hand Gene heads up the stairs, pushing his bedroom door open with one elbow. He tries desperately not to look at the sight on the bed, but he’s only human when all’s said and done.
Sam is sprawled face-down, one bare leg emerging from the covers in a tantalising fashion. Gene is thankful that Sam is at least wearing a pyjama top - then he looks closer and realises that it’s his pyjama top, and he can’t for the life of him remember how that happened. He drags his eyes away when Sam starts to stir. Wouldn’t do to stare, after all.
So Gene’s not looking, and he’s so absolutely not looking that he doesn’t notice the smooth slide of muscle beneath skin as Sam stretches and rolls; and he certainly doesn’t see the shadow formed in the crease of Sam’s thighs (bloody hell - isn’t he wearing anything else?), or the way the pyjama top hangs loosely off one shoulder, exposing the ridge and hollows of a collarbone.
Gene blinks, his mouth suddenly dry. He’s seen Sam completely naked before (and handcuffed to his bed, no less), but somehow seeing him partially clothed is far more unsettling.
Before Gene has a chance to wonder about that, Tyler is yawning and sitting up, running a hand through his already-tousled hair to make it stand up on end. He’s a conflicting combination of innocence and debauchery, and for a moment he looks much, much younger.
If Gene had been feeling uncomfortable before, he feels positively dirty now.
Sam is peering at him, and Gene realises with mounting horror that he can feel himself starting to stiffen. Christ Almighty. The thin pyjama trousers he's got on are not going to hide anything.
Only one option, then.
“Here.” He thrusts a mug into Sam’s hand, plonks his own on the bedside table, and slides back into bed, pulling the covers up before Sam gets an eyeful of his morning glory.
Sam is looking rather bemused, a frown creasing his forehead.
“Where did you go?”
Gene grunts. “Downstairs. You were snoring.” He reaches for his tea.
Sam’s frown deepens. “I don’t snore.”
“Well, you did last night.” His tone brooks no disagreement.
Sam puts his mug on the table at his side of the bed and lies back, running a hand over his face. He looks oddly vulnerable.
Gene takes a sip of his tea. “How’d you feel?”
Sam gives a groan. “Like there’s a Frenchman in my head.”
Gene snorts. “Sounds like a treat. Drink your tea; that’ll buck you up.”
But Sam doesn’t. Instead, he rolls over onto his side, facing Gene; edging closer.
Gene’s had enough of being coerced out of his own bed (besides, Little Gene is still standing to attention) so he sips his tea stoically, trying to think about the fact that the lawn needs mowing and not about the fact that he can feel the body heat radiating from Sam like a bloody coal fire. Sam suddenly moves closer, leaning in like a curious, predatory cat, and for a surreal second Gene thinks he’s about to lick him.
But Sam pulls back, nose wrinkling.
“You smell like a brewery.”
There’s a momentary delay while Gene remembers to breathe again.
“You’re none-too fragrant yourself, Gladys, so I reckon we cancel each other out.” He’s pleased that his voice sounds only slightly hoarse.
Sam doesn’t reply, but settles himself more comfortably, his eyes falling shut.
“What time is it, anyway?” he murmurs.
“Still early.”
“Still sleepy.” Sam mumbles.
Gene looks at him in disbelief. The little bastard is going back to sleep.
“Are you going back to sleep?”
“I was thinking about it - unless there’s something else you’d rather do.”
And brown eyes, clear and fully awake, are regarding him with a thoughtful gleam.
Gene freezes.
Here it is: the point he’s been dreading and longing for in equal measure. The moment of truth, finally, that all those barbed comments, veiled looks and manly tussles have been leading to.
But it’s the arm that makes him finally move: Sam’s arm, which Gene finds suddenly reaching across to take the mug of cooling tea from Gene’s nerveless fingers and standing it safely out of the way. For a second they just look at each other.
Then Gene moves.
Closes the short distance between them, meeting Sam’s mouth, tasting stale whisky and sleep and Sam; and maybe he’s gone mad or is still dreaming or something because he can’t think why else something this wrong could feel so completely and utterly right.
It still feels right when Sam starts stripping Gene’s clothes off, and any fleeting concerns about how he must look are driven right out of his head when Sam slides lower and swallows Gene’s cock like he’s been doing this all his life.
It still feels right when Gene is curled over Sam’s back, buried in him, as Sam urges him on with the most obscene running commentary Gene has ever heard.
And it still feels right when they are lying tangled together afterwards, sated and sticky, and Sam gives him an almost-shy grin as he moves closer, pressing the length of his body against Gene, and sliding an arm over his chest.
So Gene doesn’t think about how wrong this is.
He just moves his arm so that Sam can snuggle closer, and listens to his breathing, slow and regular, as he drifts off into sleep.
Gene’s aware of the sweat and come drying on his skin, the ache in muscles he didn’t even know he had, and thinks that he shouldn’t be at all comfortable.
But he is.