Fic: The Manchester Constabulary Ball, Part One (Gene/Sam, Brown Cortina)
Title: The Manchester Constabulary Ball (Part 1)
Rating: Brown Cortina for... well, this is fo basaltgrrl's wonderful fanart http://lifein1973.livejournal.com/2387533.html The Manchester Constabulary Ball: Epilogue). Basically, smut.
Word Count/Length: 1,407
Notes: Thanks to Basalt for the amazing artwork- I promised her a fic based on it, and this looks like it'll be a three-parter. I would say I'm sorry, but I actually like this one.
Summary: Gene has to make a speech at the annual Ball. As expected, things don't go quite how Sam had planned.
“You’ll be fine. Just talk about the changes to forensic procedure, the new standard response to hostage situations, an’ try not to do the anecdote about the Chief Super’s wife last Christmas.”
“Tyler, I’m a copper. Not a bloody lecturer. Last time I stood up in front of anyone like this was my wedding, an’ look ‘ow that ended.” Gene rocked nervously backwards and forwards on the balls of his feet, creasing the black shoes Sam had spent all of last night polishing as Gene himself had been wandering around the house, reciting his speech to the dog seemingly glued to his ankles and kicking something over every time Sam yelled “Natural, Gene! You need to sound natural!” until eventually there was nothing left in the house to kick over. At least the tuxedo was still pristine, having been hung up in a proper suit holder and brushed until it crackled, but the bow tie was at a very odd angle and his hair was straggly and tousled from him running his hands through it over and over, giving him an appearance not entirely unlike the picture books Sam had played with as a child, the businessman beneath and the tramp on top.
“Well, it was yer own bloody fault for leavin’ the door unlocked when I came over, wasn’t it? Come ‘ere, I’ll sort yer ‘air out.”
“It’s fine. Don’t need motherin’.” Gene’s slightly shaky tone was bordering on surly, his shoulders tense and jaw jutted out as he yanked a hip-flask out from his breast pocket and downed most of it in one gulp. Sam snatched it out of his hand and shoved him down into the nearest chair, whipping a comb out from his own pocket and attacking his partner’s hair.
“Told you to leave the hip-flasks at ‘ome- stay still, Gene, stop bloody wrigglin’! Remember, you’ve got everything with yer speech ready, I put yer notes in yer pocket an’ we’ve been rehearsin’ yer speech for days. What do you say if the Chief Super asks for procedures in investigations where no viable dabs are found?”
“Search for other for- ow, bloody ‘ell, Sam!- forensic evidence, an’ concentrate on things such as shoe size- ow- an’ height, which the coroner can often- gerroff!- provide us with.”
“Perfect. We’ll make a copper of you yet.” Sam, tugging the comb through one last stubborn knot, nodded happily, tucking the comb back away in his pocket and smoothing an errant lock of hair back behind Gene’s ear, running his fingers over and down the shell. “You’ll be fine. You talk in front of CID every day, the Super just wants you lookin’ good for tomorrow’s newspaper report- which you bloody do, you know- an’ the rest of ‘em will probably be too drunk to care what yer on about. It’s only six hundred people or so, anyway-”
“Six hundred?! The bastard Super told me it was two hundred!”
Gene leapt up from his chair and began pacing again, both hands dragging through his hair as Sam rolled his eyes and smoothed the front of his own tuxedo. Stay calm, Sam. Stay calm.
-0-0-
An hour to go. Most of the guests had already arrived, mingling round making small talk over nibbles and wine, the men in penguin suits and the women in heavy dresses that reminded Sam of bad period dramas from his own time. Gene had been banned from the wine table, the scotch table and even the water fountain by now, skulking desolately beside the fire escape with his hands jammed in his pockets, barely even remembering to smile at the various women who passed him by, some of them several times over. Sam was beginning to feel a little territorial.
“Go and say hello to someone else, someone you recognise,” he hissed as one of the women passed by for the fifth time, simpering at Gene. “Look, go an’ talk to ‘er, she seems interested.”
“Desperate, more like,” Gene muttered. The simper turned sour, the woman glancing round quickly before making a wanker gesture at both men and snapping her head round to whip them both with her ponytail, flouncing off. Gene raised his eyebrows.
“See? Bet ‘er ‘usband’s somewhere ‘ere anyway, be just my luck if it was the kinky bloke over by the window.”
“’Ow d’you know ‘e’s kinky?”
“No normal man goes out wearin’ those socks, Tyler. Take it from me, ‘e’s either the ‘chain ‘em up in yer basement’ type or a bloody masochist. I’d watch yer arse when ‘e passes by, although I reckon it’s the Super who’s been watchin’ it most of the time.”
“What’s wrong with ‘is- oh, never mind, just find someone to talk to, OK? I’m goin’ to socialise. I’ll come back before the speech if you want to run through it again. An’ try to be civil, I know it’s difficult but just remember that even Neanderthals are expected to ‘ave this ‘politeness’ thing, an’ maybe even use it sometimes.”
Patting Gene’s arm, Sam slid his wineglass onto a passing waiter’s tray and squared his shoulders, marching deliberately away from Gene only to have his toe stamped on by the rejected slapper and a bejewelled finger jabbed straight into his left kidney. Bloody ‘ell! Well, at least I feel at ‘ome now…
“Is your foot alright?” a drawling, upper-class voice boomed in his ear. Sam, face clenched in a grimace, turned to come face to face (or rather, face to chest- his new companion had a bit of a height advantage to say the least) with a man who looked as though he’d jumped straight from a film set, only pausing at the gym on his way out, and then a quick detour to make-up. His shoulder-length chestnut hair gleamed, almost as brightly as the wide smile beneath it, and two hazel brown eyes twinkled as the man held a large, stubby-fingered hand out for Sam to shake, seemingly oblivious to the awkward proximity as he pumped Sam’s hand enthusiastically.
“Richard Bates. Nice to meet you.”
And it was bloody inappropriate, and he blamed Gene utterly for this, but all he could think of, as soon as the words were out of the man’s mouth, was Master Bates. Sam giggled, clamping a hand over his mouth, but Richard Bates seemed to think nothing of it, simply letting go of Sam and standing back a little to sweep an arm out towards the party.
“Buzzing, don’t you think? I love these police get-togethers. I’m not a police officer myself, I’m in business, but I’m a personal friend of the Chief Superintendent so I tend to get an invite. Always know you’re safe at a police ball!” He brayed with laughter, slapping Sam’s arm jovially, and Sam just about managed a polite grin back, twisting his head round to check on Gene again. If looks could have killed, Master Bates would have been a quietly smouldering pile on the floor, along with the Chief Super and his wife.
“Er, excuse me…”
“Wine?” Richard offered, snatching a wineglass from a passing tray and all but pushing it into Sam’s hands. “I’ve never seen the guest speaker they’ve got for this one, some DCI from somewhere, talking about progress in policing. I thought that was an oxymoron!” Another bray, and Sam wondered if the Chief Super would blame Gene if Master Bates turned up in a tip somewhere tomorrow morning.
“No, I’m sure it’ll be a very interesting speech. My own DCI’s delivering it,” he replied through gritted teeth, inclining his head towards Gene. “DCI Hunt.”
“What, him?” Richard said loud enough for Gene to hear, throwing his head back and whinnying with laughter. “Dear God, he’s barely talked to one person all evening! I don’t know, maybe they ran out of other speakers. But then, you know, they have to use the reserves up sometime. Could be fun, you never know, spastics do sometimes come up with funny things.”
And with that, tipping his head to Sam and raising his eyebrows in Gene’s direction, Master Bates strode off to find someone else to reinforce the prejudices of. Sam rolled his eyes, turning on his heel to head for the wine table, only to whip back round again at the sound of breaking glass and a yelp from Master Bates.
“Who threw that wineglass?!” the Chief Super yelled.
The fire door closed quietly behind a tuxedo-clad shadow.