Fic: Alive, part two, Xysabridde (Gene/Sam, Brown/Red Cortina)
Title: Alive
Author: me, Xysa
Word count: 5,425 (including little sort-of epilogue at the end)
Details: See part one.
Their new clearing is smaller, inferior, colder. Gene starts putting the tent up to avoid Sam, so Sam cooks again just for something to do, another can of hoops each and a bag of crisps from the shop, mouth watering at the thought of a fresh Caesar salad from Morrison’s. He burns himself on the barbecue because he’s so busy watching Gene, how his face flickers through emotions as he wrestles with tent-poles and ground mat and miles of canvas, and all he can deduce is that Gene is distancing himself even further from Sam, but he will not let Sam even try to bring him back. Even so, Gene knows he’s not fooling anybody. There’s no toxic gas around here to make his eyes water, or redden his cheeks.
They eat lukewarm food in silence once again. Their regular pattern.
Sam doesn’t know how much more he can take.
Gene goes straight back to the Cortina after he’s eaten, muttering something about repairing the dent in her front bonnet, and Sam sits and watches as Gene fiddles around and hammers and swears loudly and eventually gets the bumper almost back to normal again. It really needs a new one, the wonky old strip of rubber won’t be much use to anyone anymore, would probably fall off the first time Gene smashes into a dustbin with it; they might be able to find one in America, if they ever get that far, but Sam has no idea what lies at the end of the road for either of them, so they just have to keep driving, on and on and on, as Gene self-destructs and Sam withers away, partners in their separate shells.
It’s still only two o’clock.
Gene lies beneath him, his chest a patchwork of blue and black and yellow, and Sam kisses every inch of it with feather-light kisses that make Gene squirm, licking up from his nipple to his ear and smoothing his thumb over the cut by his eye. He knows how close Gene came to death today, and he can’t stop shaking, but as Gene raises his legs for Sam to bury himself in his welcoming body, he finds his solace at last. Gene is alive. Gene is here.
“Can we talk, Gene?”
“Piss off.” Gene’s over on the other side of the clearing, the backs of his legs leaning against the Cortina’s muddy bronze bonnet as he carves words on a tree with his pen-knife. He’ll write to the Earth as a whole, but he won’t speak to Sam, the man who loves him. “I’m busy.”
“Are you.” It’s not a question, and Gene doesn’t respond. Just lowers his eyes and carves another couple of shapes, his hand determinedly steady, the camel coat wrapped around him like a shield as Sam gives up and retreats into the bed to get warm. He can only assume the toxic cloud is making its way into the stratosphere and blocking out the Sun, at least around Manchester; he’s never felt his city this cold in July before, not even in 2006, with climate change and unpredictable weather and scientists invading every news channel in the world to tell their viewers that they were destroying the Earth they lived on and should trade their cars in for bikes immediately and throw their childrens’ televisions out of the window. God, only a fortnight ago he and Gene were eating 99s in Gene’s garden, flicking each other with water as they washed the Cortina, sitting naked out on the balcony and laughing at each other for their daftness.
He looks over at the Cortina now, scratched, dirtied and dented, a shadow of her former glory. Almost pitiful.
“Please can we talk, Gene?”
“What’s there to talk about? The weather? ‘Ow nice the countryside is?” Gene’s voice is filled with venom and pain, and Sam has to physically stop himself bolting to his feet to wrap his arms around Gene and envelop him in his comfort, try to take the agony away. “Piss off, Sam. I don’t want to talk. I don’t even want to be around you.”
“You don’t mean that.” It had been Gene who had shoved him into the Cortina when the emergency message had gone out, Gene who had grabbed his meagre possessions from his flat. Gene who had abandoned dying beside his mother- Sam’s heart aches at the very thought of it- to take him to safety and make sure he survived for as long as possible. Gene could have been there for her at the very end if he hadn’t been hell-bent on saving his mad DI. He knows that hurts Gene.
“Yes I do.”
“No, you don’t. If you did, you would’ve gone at some point. Left in the middle of the night. Or just stayed in Manchester. You love me, Gene. That’s why you’re stayin’ with me. I love you, you love me.”
Gene huffs. Carves another shape on the tree, gets it wrong, flings the pen-knife onto the ground. It only just misses impaling his foot.
“Why do you bloody care?!” he bursts out, swinging round and advancing on Sam, five foot eleven of red-hot anger and agony. “What am I? I’m nothin’ to you, not really, can’t compete with the bloody miraculous Hyde you never let me forget. I try to be my best for you and it’s never enough, is it? I should’ve stayed with Mam. At least she gave a thrupenny bit what ‘appened to me!”
“You’d never ‘ave put your mother through the agony of watchin’ ‘er son die by ‘er side. I know you wouldn’t, Gene. You’re feeling bereft… that’s natural… you’ve lost almost everything. But if you don’t rebuild your world, you’ll always ‘ave lost everything, won’t you?”
“An’ your suggestion is, DI Tyler?” Gene’s shaking, but the redness is fading from his eyes, and Sam swears he can see tears sparkling in them in the split second before Gene blinks them back, chest still heaving. “I tiptoe back to Manchester an’ ‘ope they don’t murder me on sight?”
“My first suggestion is come ‘ere an’ sit by me.” Sam gestures to the sleeping bag at his side, watching carefully as Gene’s eyes flick between the bed and his DI, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. “We can work out what we’re goin’ to do from ‘ere.”
He half expects Gene to storm off, hide in the Cortina, leave to collect firewood and stay out until the break of dawn. He’s almost surprised when Gene bows his head and walks forwards, sliding into the tent and dropping down beside Sam, a vein throbbing in his cheek; Sam leans over and kisses it, ignoring the tensity in Gene’s body, squeezes his hand and wraps his arms around him.
“It’s alright, Gene. It’s alright to be scared,” he says, quietly, quietly enough that Gene can pretend not to have heard if he wants to. Gene turns his head into Sam’s shoulder, long limbs stretching out until he’s all but lying down, and fucking hell but Sam’s got a hard-on again, mainly because Gene has as well, the after-effect of all that rage and fear.
He can hear Gene muttering to himself, telling himself it’s the worrying, it’s the worrying, that and the missus has been gone for days and he needs a willing victim to shag into oblivion or his cock’ll explode and that would probably spark nationwide mourning throughout Britain’s women. He doesn’t really care. Gene doesn’t believe it, or else he wouldn’t be here now, buggering his DI in Lost and Found, the handcuffs clanking with every thrust and the green shirt Sam loves so much streaked with sweat.
Gene pushes him down onto the bed and kisses him. It’s not a normal kiss, it’s not a lover’s kiss. It’s pure mournfulness, searching out comfort, weariness and worry and fear and every emotion that Sam wants to draw out of Gene and throw back into the fires of hell where they belong. Tears spring to Sam’s eyes, and within seconds his hands are carding through Gene’s hair, stroking down his neck and onto his back, around his tummy, caressing the bulge in the front of Gene’s trousers as Gene moans and moves up to straddle Sam, tugging his DI down and beneath him, shaking fingers struggling with the buttons of Sam’s trousers as they both pant and tremble and stare at each other through bright, heavily-dilated eyes.
“Gene- are you sure about-?”
“Just let me shag you, Sam. Just let me bloody shag you.” Gene sounds an inch from breakdown, and there’s no bloody way Sam’s going to deny him what he thinks he needs, what they both want, right now. He shimmies his trousers off and yanks Gene’s away, takes his DCI’s dick in both hands, stroking with hard, fierce tugs, and Gene lets his head fall back and simply groans, shivers snaking up and down his back as Sam takes his own cock in his hand and gathers what lubricant he can, all the spit his dry mouth will manage and all the pre-come he can conjure up.
“Get on with it, Tyler.” Gene shifts Sam round, propping him up on his hands and knees, and Sam frowns into the grubby pillow, one hand still wanking himself, sliding over the dampness on his erection. This isn’t what he intended. He needs to see Gene’s face, watch the emotions on it, but Gene’s blocking him out even now, can’t even look him in the eyes as they shag, and he hates it.
Hates it enough to grab Gene and force him down onto his back, pinning his thighs to the sleeping bag as he struggles.
“Uh uh. We do this my way or no way at all. You understand?”
He means it. He knows this will help Gene, forcing him to admit his emotions, and he’s angry enough for Gene’s objection to mean very little as he straddles him and clamps his legs around Gene’s hips, glaring down at him.
Gene closes his eyes. Nods once, turns his face into the pillow. Sam gently eases it back.
“I want to look at you as I fuck you, Gene. I’m sick of you distancin’ yourself from me. Sick of you pinin’ away an’ not talkin’ to me because of some stupid macho principle you think followin’ makes you more of a man. You are one hundred percent male, Gene Hunt, nothin’ will ever change that short of surgical intervention, an’ for Christ’s sake, you’re not the only person ‘oo’s lost someone precious to them, an’ you won’t be the bloody last!”
He forces himself into Gene, so abrupt Gene cries out, clutching at the sheets either side of him as Sam pumps himself fully inside him, short, sharp thrusts that make Gene wail and whine with frustration and pain.
“You think you’re the only person sufferin’ around ‘ere? All the millions ‘oo’ve died, gassed in their ‘omes, you think you’re the only person grievin’?”
Gene shakes his head, screwing his eyes shut.
“You’re not. You ‘ave to stay alive for me, ‘ave to be there for me, because you, God ‘elp me, you’re all I’ve got left an’ for Christ’s sake if you aren’t there for me then I’m nothin’! I don’t know what the fuck is ‘appenin’ to the world, but I need you, I need you on my side, alright? Stay with me, Gene… stay with me!”
His fingers are crushing Gene’s hips, he can feel the skin bruising beneath his fingertips; Gene bucks up towards him, his muscles fluttering, and fuck, if that’s not the best feeling in the world, Sam has no idea what is.
“Are you alive, Gene? Are you alive now?”
“Yes… yes, Sam, come on, finish it!”
“Can you feel? Can you feel enough to say you’re alive?”
“YES!” Gene shoves at him, trying to force him deeper, but Sam withdraws completely and pins Gene’s hands up above him, glaring down at him, waiting for Gene’s eyes to open and his breathing to slow until he eases himself back inside him again, gentle this time, carefully searching Gene’s pleasure out.
“I love you, Gene… I love you movin’ inside me, an’ your laughin’ in the mornings when I ask for a quickie, the way you nibble your thumbnail when you’re thinkin’ an’ the way you rub your face when you’re tired. I love ‘ow that green shirt brings out your eyes, an’ your insistence on wearing your loafers whatever the weather because they’re comfortable an’ you get sore feet otherwise. I love your voice when you say my name, I love the way you cradle me when we hug, an’ I’ve never felt anythin’ like this for any other human being in my life, so there must be something bloody special about you for me to want you in my world the way I do, for me to ‘ave sacrificed everything I ‘ad in Hyde to come back to you an’ stand by your side as always. I love you so bloody much, always ‘ave done, always will. You understand me, Gene? I. Love. You. You stupid, wonderful man… ahh… Gene!”
Gene’s gasp as his climax hits him tips Sam over the edge, Gene’s muscles clenching on his cock as he swells and empties himself within him, dropping onto him and winding his arms around him as they pant together, sweaty and tousled.
He turns his head to see the tear tracks on Gene’s cheeks, the subtle trembling of his lower lip. The tiny smile on his face that he’s trying to hide.
“Get some sleep. I know you didn’t get much last night,” he whispers, pulling the sleeping bag up over Gene’s prone form and kissing his sweaty forehead. “’Ope you don’t mind lyin’ in the damp patch.”
“I’m sure I’ll survive.” Gene tilts his head to catch Sam’s lips with his own as he draws back, letting his eyes flutter closed for a second, and Sam slides his tongue into his DCI’s mouth and caresses his cheek with the hand not currently removing Gene’s damp shirt and smoothing itself over his exposed chest, greedily running up and down Gene’s torso, unable to get enough of him to satisfy himself.
“I’ll be back in a minute. Just want to tidy up outside.” Sam brushes his lips against Gene’s one final time, backs out with his dick still exposed for all to see, and at least that raises a smile on Gene’s tired lips as he quietly zips the tent up and retreats outside to clear up the barbecue.
He can’t help wishing Nelson had been around to hear about that. Smile in his enigmatic, wise way and say, You alive now, Sam? You feelin’? Because he is, he can, and the tears are pouring down his face because Gene is alive and life is so much more bearable if Gene isn’t needlessly crippled by misery and guilt and grief.
Giving up on standing guard, he slides in beside Gene once again, tucking his body into his partner’s and stroking Gene’s hair as he sleeps on, huffing little breaths over Sam’s shoulder. Sam is home. He knows this without a moment’s hesitation. He is alive and he is home.
Neither of them feel the cloud of toxic gas slowly enveloping the tent.
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[Tiny epilogue]
He’s showing signs of coming round, Mrs Tyler. Keep talking to him. And you, Gene. Just don’t tire yourself out, you’ve got your own recovery to get through.
Good luck.