(no subject)
Title: Ciphers, and Being Careful
Author: darkhorsery
Rating: Brown Cortina
Word count: 5659 words
Summary: Sam keeps a girly little coded diary, and Gene's curiosity is provoked.
Notes: This is the first Gene/Sam I've written, and it's just smut. Load of old nonsense, really.
Disclaimer: Obviously, these characters are not mine, they're the property of the BBC/Kudos.
Sam has never been anything less than careful. He prides himself on it. Precise, thorough. That's what he's good at. That's how he functions. No loose ends, no room for doubt. And yeah, sometimes that means paperwork, sometimes it means hours questioning a suspect, rather than minutes, or sitting in a van in the dark listening with a pair of headphones, but isn't that what it means to work in the police? Sam's work, it can't be denied, is watertight.
The key, he believed - or at least, he used to believe - rests in the ability to detach oneself completely. No emotional investment. Be cold to the world. Follow the rules. Do it by the book. Formulaic, reliable, neat. Mechanical. Once upon a time it had driven Maya crazy. Why do you have such a problem with spontaneity?, she'd ask. It's not like you lack imagination. This had become a particular sore point in the last few weeks of their relationship. It was the routine, the familiarity, the sameness of life, she'd said, or something like that. There's no adventure anymore. "Intellect vs. emotion", Sam had written in his journal.
There's no lack of adventure in Sam's new life. Nothing is routine, nothing is familiar, no-one follows procedure, nothing's the same. But Sam is still careful. He keeps detailed notes about everything he does, writes them down in a little soft-back notebook that he keeps hidden on him at all times. He uses a simple 5-letter cipher ("BOWIE") and spends a good length of time encoding everything he wants to say. It eats up his spare time, but there's a certain satisfaction to it, and Sam doesn't want to run the risk of anyone from CID reading his thoughts.
"It's like a diary," Annie says, when he shows her one day in the canteen. (He had to show someone, it is very clever, and Annie can be trusted.)
"No... not really... it's a documentation of my time here, details about cases, the people I meet, the things I see. Traveller's journal."
"Sounds like a diary to me," Annie shrugs. "Hey, am I in there?" she reaches across to look, but Sam holds it close, despite knowing that she couldn't read it anyway. "Suit yourself," she says, smiling.
"It's still personal," Sam says, a bit tetchily.
Annie leans in conspiratorially, and Sam can't help but shuffle closer to her, hear her whispering. "Is it full of secrets?" she asks, and he can hear the laughter in her voice. He sits up straight, and Annie rolls her eyes.
"I'm only teasing!"
"I know, I know you are," Sam rubs his eyes tiredly. "Doesn't matter. I'll see you later, yeah?" And he walks off, leaving Annie where she sits, confused.
***
The case they're working on should be open and shut. There's been an armed robbery at a small supermarket, and there's three witnesses saying they can identify the man who did it. A name's even cropped up - Michael Nesbet - and Chris reckons his mum knows Mrs. Nesbet. In short, it should be damn easy to bring in the man responsible. Which is why Sam wants Chris and Ray to do it. Gene, however, has other ideas, and has put Sam in charge, which seems to Sam something of a waste of his time. Gene has shut himself up in his office, and is refusing to see anyone, which apparently means he is "extremely busy and not to be disturbed, thank you very much", but probably is more likely to mean that Gene has his feet up on the desk and a glass of scotch in hand.
Sam sits dully at his desk, leafing through Nesbet's file. He's been done twice before - mugging and burglary - and it's looking ever more likely that he's guilty as sin. Sam hears the sound of a glass chinking against a bottle, and then a little gulp and sigh of satisfaction. He blocks it out. Then, making sure that no-one is watching, he opens his desk drawer, rummages under some old folders and a cardboard box, and takes out his notebook. He flicks through to a blank page and doodles vacantly in the margin. A little stick man with a camel coat and white loafers. He adds a cowboy hat and pistol, a saloon, a horse. It is quite lifelike. Sam feels a bit pleased with it. Smiling to himself, he draws another little cowboy, in leather jacket and flares. A good deal of Sam's writing deals with the tricky subject of his superior officer. Sam finds his mind drifting back to the man on an almost-worryingly regular basis. What is Gene doing right now? What does he think of Doctor Who? Does he know what Jean Genie is about? Sam supposes that it probably has something to do with the fact that he made Gene up, and this is his brain's way of filling out Gene's character. It has nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that Gene has taken to leaving the top buttons of his shirt undone, leaving his collarbone exposed, or that Sam has been catching himself staring at said collarbone more often than's wise. Nothing whatsoever.
He is so wrapped up in not thinking about Gene that he does not notice a pair of green eyes peering curiously through the blinds of the office, watching him as he draws.
A few minutes later, Gene appears in the doorway, cigarette in hand. Sam looks on, eyebrow raised expectantly, but Gene doesn't so much as give him a glance.
"Chris!" he barks, and Chris looks up.
"Yes Guv?"
"In here. I need you working on something."
"Right you are, Guv." Chris scampers quickly over to the office, shrugging to Sam as he goes.
"Hang on a minute," Sam stands up, raising his voice a little, looking Gene in the eye. "He's working with me already. I need him on the Nesbet case!"
Gene sniffs. "Not any more you don't. You can work with Ray." Ray gives them both an ominous look, but Gene just nods and shuts the door behind him. Sam slumps in his chair. Great.
***
Chris is hovering eagerly in the office. "So what am I doing then?" he says, and smiles. Gene walks around him and sits down behind his desk, rubbing his temples. He gestures vaguely,
"Pull up a chair."
Chris does so, shuffling up and watching Gene with curiosity. "Is this a secret, Guv?"
"Yes." Gene nods, firmly. He pauses, scratches his forearm thoughtfully. "Sam," he says, at length.
"Chris," Chris corrects.
"Tyler," Gene bites out. "This is about Tyler."
"Oh."
"Now you and I both know that the man is..." Gene waves a hand around his head, "...troubled. In the head. Cracked. Loopy. Mental. Probably certifiable, if those little outbursts of his are anything to go by."
"He's an alright bloke," Chris says, loyally.
"Right, right, yes, and I don't deny that since he's been here, things have been... different."
"It's good now, isn't it?"
Gene tries very hard not to take this personally. "It was good before, too," he says carefully.
"Oh yeah. Right. Course, Guv."
"Anyway. What I want to know is, is his mind always on the job?"
"Yes." Chris says, with great certainty.
"Go over there," Gene says, hand already reaching for the bottle in his desk drawer, "and look through those blinds, and tell me what you see." Chris goes.
"He's writing something, Guv."
"In a little book, am I right?"
"Well, yeah, course, but that's nothing new, is it, Guv?"
"Right."
"Ah."
"I want you to get me that book." Gene says. "And I don't want Tyler to know about it."
"You want me to steal it?"
"Borrow it. Just for a bit. So I can make sure he's all there, right? No bats in the belfry."
"Alright, Guv. Top secret, yeah?" Chris sounds doubtful.
"Don't tell a soul." Gene drinks deeply from his glass, and Chris leaves quietly.
***
Sam is not being completely honest with himself. In his dingy room he sits on the bed and goes to write. Stops. Considers. Turns back a page or two, and rereads, with some difficulty, an entry from a few weeks back.
"That bastard Hunt continues to undermine me at every turn. If I dreamt him up I really must be a masochist. A monster in white loafers. Today he punched me in the kidneys, hauled me up against the wall and told me I was slowing down his operation. He was so close I could smell his breath (that's another thing, he drinks enough whiskey to knock out a horse and smokes like a chimney)."
There is a long blank space, then. A pause. And then,
"Thing is, I don't mind when he hits me. I don't mind when he throws me up against the wall... I've found myself baiting him, winding him up so he'll come for me all guns blazing. It's idiotic."
And then, after another pause,
"If he ever finds out, he'll kill me. Pulp me. Killed by a figment of my imagination."
Well, that's one option, Sam thinks to himself now, lying back on the bed. But what if... He shuts his eyes and lets his mind drift. What if Gene called him into the office tomorrow, as everyone else was leaving... He'd be standing there, sucking on that damn cigarette, shirtsleeves rolled up around the elbows. He'd take a step towards him, and then another, then the space between them would disappear altogether and Sam would find himself being pushed roughly up against the wall, kissed hard on the mouth, the throat, Gene's hands running down his chest...
Sam shifts uncomfortably on the bed, knocks the book on the floor impatiently, and fumbles with the zip of his trousers.
Gene would be breathing heavily, his large hands clutching at Sam, reaching under his shirt to brush a nipple, making Sam gasp. It would be sudden and dangerous and desperate, and Gene would be so hard for him, of course he would, and he'd press himself up against Sam, causing friction and shivering sparks of pleasure as the two of them found some kind of rhythm...
Sam's stroking himself now, hard and fast, fixated on the image of what-could-be. He's biting his lip, arching his back, sweat dampening his forehead as he moves faster and faster towards release.
Gene's fingers would be knotted in Sam's hair, and Sam would struggle with the clasp of Gene's belt buckle as he'd drop to his knees on the office floor, Gene's eyes rolling back as Sam'd take him in his mouth, a little at first, and then deeper, until Gene's breath would catch and he'd let out a groan like an animal.
The sheets are bunched around the foot of the bed as Sam comes hard, grasping desperately at himself, gasping for air, eyes wild with pleasure and imagination. He gulps, and blinks a few times, then laughs low and humourless. He lies still for a while, breathing in the dim light, sweat cooling with the breeze through the open window.
"Fuck, Gene..."
***
To say that Chris is uncomfortable with stealing the Boss' diary would be understating matters. He's often wondered how he would react if made to choose between Gene and Sam, and now he knows. He's watching Sam out of the corner of his eye, as he makes more of his fiddly little notes. Chris knows there's a code involved, because he's seen Tyler referring to a little scrap of paper that he keeps in plain sight between two manila envelopes on his desk. That's quite clever, that, Chris reckons, cause if he had to look for something secret, he'd start with secret places, like under the floorboards.
Sam looks more pink in the cheeks than usual, Chris thinks, a bit like he's blushing. Chris wonders what Sam is writing. He wonders if the Guv will tell him when he reads it. Probably not, Chris thinks, taking another bite of his Curly Wurly. The Guv never tells him anything important. Although, he thinks again, the Guv did trust him with this top-secret mission. That makes him feel a bit better.
He wanders over to Sam, who, on hearing footsteps, slips the diary back into his drawer. Chris pretends he didn't see anything.
"Ey, Boss," he says affably, "that plonk wants to see you again. She's downstairs in the photocopying room I think."
Sam gives him a look. "Her name's Annie, Chris. Or DC Cartwright, better yet."
"Oh. Yeah, well, she wants to see you." Chris shrugs. I probably look really thick, he thinks happily. That's acting.
Sam gets up from his desk and gives him a lopsided smile. "Thanks, Chris." He walks off, a bit self-consciously.
Chris waits until he's gone, then gets the diary out from the drawer, where it was hidden under a stack of reports. He flicks through it, squinting at the crooked handwriting and mumbo-jumbo of coded entries. Then he digs out the decoder paper - a square of letters with one word written across the top, BOWIE. Chris pulls a face, and stuffs the two inside his jacket.
The Guv's pleased with him, though. Gives him a nip of whiskey that makes him cough, and a pat on the back for doing well. It was very easy, he says. He's on another planet, that one. Chris is quite pleased with himself, in the end, and wanders off without a blot on his conscience.
***
Later that evening, Gene sits in his chair in his office, sleeves up round his elbows, hair rumpled and eyes tired. It's seven o'clock, and the rest of the men have gone out for a pint after the end of an uneventful day. They're probably playing darts by now, and talking about, well, not a lot. Gene, meanwhile, cannot believe that he is still decoding the diary of one Sam Tyler. It's taking bloody ages, as well, and Sam's unnecessarily cryptic, considering he's writing in code. He bangs on a lot about people Gene's never heard of, too. And books. Typical, that. There's almost a page of "It's not like I read Oscar Wilde and lie on chaise longues talking about gutters and stars and all that trash", which, quite frankly, Gene can't be bothered with.
So, he skips forward a few pages, to more recent entries. It takes him a while to decrypt each word, but it's oddly satisfying to know that he's breaking into Sam's head, reading his thoughts, almost.
"Hunt," he reads. Aha! Much more like it. "...wore a pink shirt today," Gene frowns at that. "Wonder if that means something." Well, yes, of course it does, you great useless lump, it means the Missus put a red sock in the wash by accident and it changed colour and there wasn't anything else clean that day. Bloody hell. Moving on.
"Today was awful." Gene reads, and a distant alarm bell sounds in his head. "Woke up with stinking sodding bastard hangover because someone told me that real men drink whiskey. Whole lot of them laid into me about the Church case, even Gene, worst of all. I'm fucking sick of the moral fucking high ground when they all fucking hate me. What's the point?"
Gene feels a twisting guilt in his stomach, which he pushes to one side. "He can bloody take it," he growls, under his breath. "He's a grown bloody man, isn't he?" He flicks forward another few pages and starts decoding from the middle of a paragraph.
"lips wrapped round my". Ey up. Gene chuckles to himself. "Dirty bastard, it's about time." Tyler must have got his act together with that Cartwright girl. He carries on. "hot aching cock, and wouldn't that be a sight, eh? Begging me, moaning and touching himself-"
Gene drops the diary as if he were scalded. Himself? "Jesus, Mary and Joseph," he breathes. "That explains just about bloody everything, doesn't it?"
Gene is suddenly flooded with memories. The time he called Tyler a great sissy girly nancy, and so on, and so on. The times they've found themselves at each other's throats, fists in each other's faces, scrapping on the floor, losing control. He hesitates momentarily, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Then another thought, which starts off quiet, and gradually grows to a roaring unavoidable question in his mind: who's he talking about? Gene looks around his empty office. He looks for the decoder paper, which has drifted to the floor. Then he begins, slowly, carefully, to translate. He notices he's breathing more quickly, now, and there's a deeply suspect sensation in the pit of his stomach that he's doing his level best to ignore.
"his hair all messed up, looks better now it's a bit longer, and his shirt undone, loose tie, yeah, and one hand down his trousers, because he can't wait, can he, never could, always looking for the shortcut, the result-"
Gene's breath is ragged but he keeps going, scribbling down the translation on a bit of scrap, eyes wide. He's waiting for the name. To hell with the clues and the hints, he wants the name. He can feel the blood pumping and his heart's going double time. His spare hand rests on his thigh, straying treacherously inwards.
"and he looks at me with those fucking eyes of his, like he knows I can't bloody resist him, course I can't, and the cocky bastard knows it"
And who else is it going to be, really, Gene thinks, who else could it be gets Sam so riled up as this? His hand brushes across the front of his trousers, lightly, stirring him. He rests his hand between his legs, then, without thinking, rubs gently, just a little. He shivers. He palms himself through the rough fabric of the trousers his wife bought him, and doesn't even feel guilty about it when he realises - and it's not even that surprising, really - that he's more turned on by his gay DI than by her, any more. He's still waiting on the name, though, wants it there in black and white, ink on paper - Gene - so he carries on, pencil scribbling frantically on the page.
"and hell, I can't hold out much longer, and he curls his tongue and it feels incredible, Gene-"
There it is, there it bloody is, and Gene's given up, now, unzips his too-tight trousers and takes himself in hand, and with a shuddering breath of relief, strokes himself, slowly, letting himself feel the first hot glow of pleasure. Sam wants him. He lets this idea wash over him. Sam-paragon-of-bloody-virtue-Tyler, wants to shag him. Him! Gene laughs softly to himself, and begins to move his hand slowly, rhythmically, relishing the sensation. Tyler's a grown man, after all, he thinks. And who says two grown men can't give each other a helping hand, now and again? He moves his hand more rapidly, suddenly impatient, and groans aloud. It's been a long time since he's felt wanted. And not just wanted, no, desired, craved, the object of a fucking fantasy. Sweat beads on his forehead and he can't shake the image of Sam, in his crummy flat, writing his diary with a great fucking hard-on. Sam, smug little pillock that he is, thinking of him as he wanks off in the shower. Gene's far gone, now, past rationalising, gasping and moaning and struggling for breath as he moves faster and faster, eyes screwed shut, obscene pictures flashing through his mind, hips jerking up, stroke for stroke, until he comes, violently, over the pages of Sam's diary.
He breathes, once, twice, and curses a little under his breath. His hand's still wrapped around his cock, and he can't be bothered to move, not yet, not yet. He opens his eyes, and sees the dirtied diary.
"Shit," he says, and suddenly, he's acutely conscious. "Shit, shit! Look at- dammit, ugh, oh god," he scrambles in his desk drawer, pocket, other pocket, "shit", he says again, for good measure. Then he slumps back in his chair, slides a cigarette out of the box on his desk, and lights it. Inhales. Exhales. Sam never did make things easy.
***
Sam lies on his back, in his bed, in his flat, staring at the ceiling. One more time, he thinks. You took the diary to work in the morning, in your bag. Right. You didn't write in it until about eleven-ish, when you wanted to record for posterity the fact that Ray really is the biggest slimy git you know, but that it's okay because you saw Gene dancing to Queen Bitch in his office, and then he pulled a face at you and closed the blinds. Then you put it back in the drawer. Then you had lunch with Annie, and she apologised if she hurt your feelings before, and smiled at you, and said that she was free after work. Then you went back up and read the file Ray brought in... and then... and then... Chris came over, didn't he, while you were writing something pretty filthy, if you're being honest, and you hid the diary in the bottom of the drawer, and went to see Annie downstairs. And about an hour later, you came home. And the diary must still be in the drawer. Right? Right.
Sam tries to shake the feeling that something is not right. He doesn't like the idea that he forgot it, and starts thinking that maybe he should just leave it at home, but before he can take this idea much further, his eyes begin to feel heavy, and he drifts off to sleep.
When he wakes up the nest morning, the feeling of unease has worsened, and he runs through worst case scenarios as he shaves in the mirror.
1. Annie's curiosity has got the better of her and she's horrified by what she's read.
2. Ray's found it, decoded it and made copies for everyone.
3. Gene's found it, read it, and hates him.
He shakes his head, and looks his reflection dead in the eye.
"Everything is fine." He tells it. "Nothing has happened."
He goes in to work and absolutely nothing has changed. He sits at his desk, opens the drawer. The notebook is not there. He feels a warm wave of panic wash over him. He looks among the paperwork and books on his desk. The decoding paper is gone as well. He's running his hands through his hair and telling himself he must have left them somewhere else when the door to Gene's office opens and there is Gene, standing in the doorway like the first day Sam met him. Loosened tie, sleeves rolled up and a lit cigarette between his lips. He stands there for a moment, smoking and watching Sam without speaking. Sam looks at him warily. Then Gene smiles very slightly and moves across to him. He sits on the edge of Sam's desk, and the smile grows into a smirk.
"What." Sam says, flatly. "What is it?"
Gene leans in, close, closer, until Sam can count every one of his eyelashes. "I know something you don't know," he says. Then he claps Sam on the back and walks away again. Sam watches him go.
Chris shuffles in later, and won't look him in the eye. Sam has a horrible idea. He won't think about it, though.
A while later, Gene calls Sam into the office. He sits there in his chair with his feet up on the desk and his arms folded across his chest, looking at Sam, who stands shifting from one foot to the other. Gene is still smirking. Sam feels distinctly ill-at-ease.
"I know what you're thinking," Gene says slowly.
"What am I thinking?" Sam asks him, frowning to himself.
Gene grins. "You're thinking, you magnificent bastard."
Sam stares at him. Gene is looking off into the middle distance, evidently very pleased with himself. Sam turns and flees.
He opens his desk drawer and hunts through it with a mounting sense of horror. Gene has followed him out.
"It's not there," he says, and his voice is suddenly hard as granite. Sam avoids his eye. "I want to talk to you," Gene continues, "in my office, at the end of the day. Right?"
Sam is silent.
"Right?"
"Yes, sir."
Gene turns and stalks back into his office. He slams the door. Sam doesn't move. He stares at the meaningless paperwork on his table, then gets up, haltingly, and walks outside. The end of the day is a long time coming. The sick feeling in Sam's stomach grows and recedes, and he finds himself watching the clock on the wall, the shadows creeping across the room, the gradually fading light through the windows, the other men getting their coats and making their way home, or to the pub. Hunt keeps to himself, he notices, though he can hear him walking around inside his office, and the familiar sound of the whiskey bottle against the glass.
When the last one of the men has left, Sam stands up and walks to the door of his Guv's office. He knocks, then opens the door. Gene is standing a few feet away. He gestures for Sam to shut the door.
"They've all gone home?" he says quietly. Sam nods.
"Before you say anything," Sam says, hurriedly, "I was never going to... and you, you had no right to read that, and it was my personal-"
In one motion, Gene has crossed the room, closing the space between them and pinning Sam to the door. His breath is hot and dry in Sam's ear.
"Is this what you wanted?" he whispers, harshly.
Before Sam has a chance to reply, Gene's mouth is crashing roughly into his, kissing him hard, tongue slipping between Sam's parted lips. He lets out a little moan of surprise, and pulls away, breathing hard.
"What are you doing?" he asks, and there's genuine confusion in his eyes.
"What d'you think I'm doing, you great nancy?"
Sam puts two hands squarely on Gene's chest, holding him back. "Okay, what is going on?"
Gene lets out an impatient huff of disbelief. He opens his mouth as if to explain, but then makes to kiss Sam again, slipping out of his grasp. Sam softens, allowing Gene to kiss him. Gene's got one palm flat against the door and the other pressed into the small of Sam's back, holding him firmly upright as Sam's legs to be on the verge of giving out. Gene abandons Sam's mouth and begins to kiss his neck, enjoying the small gasps Sam's making, but then, softly,
"You know, you have to tell me what's happening, here. I don't believe it."
Gene sighs, then, and takes a step back. Sam is leaning against the door, breathing slowly. His eyes are dark and it looks as if it's taken every ounce of his willpower to push Gene away.
"Right." Gene says, shuffling his feet. "Well. You had that book, right, and I'd see you writing in it, all the time, every day, when you were supposed to be working, and I thought to myself, well, best find out what all that's about then, eh? So I had Chris nick it for me, and that bit of coded paper, too, so I could work it all out, which I did, and it was bloody filthy, you little nonce, and it was all about me-"
"It wasn't all about you."
"All the best bits were about me. Anyway, so there I was reading it, and I thought, well..."
Sam smiles a bit, then, for the first time. "You thought what, Gene? What went through your mind when you read all that?"
Gene, to his credit, manages to look coy. "Well," he says. "Well."
Sam's smile becomes a grin.
"Well," Gene says again, and it's deeply pleasing to Sam to see him lost for words.
Sam smirks at him. Gene lunges, pressing up hard against him and kissing him furiously. There's no doubt, this time, no hesitation, no holding back. Sam kisses him back with equal fervour, and Gene growls deep and low in his throat. His hands run under Sam's shirt, across his chest and brushing against his nipples, making Sam shiver and press closer. Gene can't move quickly enough. His hands are everywhere at once, and Sam is showing every sign of approval. Gene reaches one hand downwards, fumbling at the waistband of Sam's trousers, and Gene's suddenly nervous, suddenly unsure. But Sam's murmuring softly in his ear, rolling his hips, urging him to keep going, and Gene can't stop now, so he undoes the zip, and presses himself hard against Sam, rocking their hips together. Gene's achingly hard, now, a day's worth of expectation realising itself at once. Sam's hands are tangled in his hair, and the soft pleasurable sounds he's making are driving him crazy.
He grasps at Sam, desperately, and makes as if to move towards the sofa. Sam, however, has other ideas, and uses the momentum to change their position. Gene's back slams against the wall, and he's about to react when Sam kisses him again, gently, on the lips, and then his chin, the hollow at the base of his throat, and Sam's clever fingers are unbuttoning his shirt, and then Sam's sucking gently at one of Gene's nipples, and Gene hears himself moan. He looks down and sees Sam sliding to his knees, and Gene knows, then, and his head tips back as Sam's tongue slips out from between his lips to lick the tip of Gene's cock. He grasps Sam's head with one hand, holding him steady, and Sam takes him into his mouth completely. Gene groans at the sudden change, and his hips jerk forward to get more of that mouth, that tongue, until he thinks that he's going to burst into flame from the heat and pressure. His shuts his eyes, tight, but he can't stop himself from thrusting into Sam's mouth, hard, and Sam makes a surprised sound, but shows no sign of stopping. And Gene still can't quite believe that this is happening, that he's fucking his DI in the mouth in his office, and, oh god, he can't remember when this has felt so good, and Sam's reaching a hand up to stroke the base of his cock, and Gene's seeing flashes of hot colour behind his eyelids, and suddenly, with a growl and a final thrust, he's coming hard in Sam's mouth, and Sam doesn't stop moving until Gene does. He swallows and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.
Gene looks down at him, breathing heavily. Sam is kneeling on the floor with an expression of pure lust on his face. His lips are red and swollen, and Gene is struggling for the words. So Sam provides them.
"Never thought I'd get to do that," he says, lightly.
"Never thought you would either." Gene's looking at him with something akin to awe. "Though if I'd known you were that good..."
Sam laughs, then, and stands up. His erection is painfully obvious, but he turns away and stretches lithely. Gene's having none of it.
"Oi," he says, so Sam turns around. "What about you, then?" Sam blinks at him. Gene smiles slowly, and sits down on the sofa, spreading his legs out. "C'mere," he says, and Sam moves over to him.
With a deft motion Gene grabs him round the waist and pulls him down so that Sam is sitting in the space between his legs, with his back to Gene. He lies back so that he's resting on Gene's chest. Gene's hands are tracing small circles across Sam's chest, moving downwards, and Sam can hear him breathing low and steady. Gene reaches down one hand, pushing away Sam's boxers and grasping his dick firmly. Sam tenses above him, then relaxes as Gene starts to move his hand, slowly, gently.
"Alright?" Gene's voice is deep and husky in Sam's ear.
"Yeah, yeah," Sam's breathing is quickening as Gene moves his hand faster. "Talk to me, Gene," he whispers.
"What do you mean talk to you?" Gene frowns a bit.
Sam laughs. "You know..." he says, shyly. "Talk to me..."
Gene's eyes widen. "You're not the only one with fantasies, you know Sam," he murmurs. "True, mine do traditionally involve women," Sam makes a disbelieving snorting sound, and Gene makes a clever twisting motion with his hand to shut him up. "...But I'd be lying if I said I hadn't thought about this, about you with your legs spread, and moaning for me..." Sam moans now, as though to prove a point. "And sucking me off after hours, yeah alright, I thought about it, but it wasn't until I read your little diary that I knew..."
Sam's close, now, he knows, and he slows his hand teasingly, making Sam whimper and arch his back to try and get more, more friction, more contact, and Gene never imagined that it would feel like this, watching Sam writhing and groaning with pleasure, under his hands, because of him.
"And that diary, Sam... I never knew that you had such a filthy little mind... such dirty thoughts all there for me to read..." Sam's thrusting into Gene's hand, and Gene moves his head down to kiss his neck. "And you know," he continues, "the more I read the more I liked it, til I was there with my hand in my pants gasping your name as I touched myself, thinking about you, Sam, like this, and god, I never thought it could..."
Sam comes with a little cry and a gasp, in Gene's hands, and stretches round to look at Gene's face, flushed and smiling weakly. They lie there for a while without moving, then Sam goes to clean himself off, and Gene sits back in his chair and lights a well-deserved fag, sucking at it deeply. Then he pours out two generous glasses of his finest single malt and wonders how he can explain to Sam that he had to throw away his diary, but he'd still quite like to have a go at that thing Sam wrote about on page 24, if that's okay... He looks around and drinks his glassful hastily, and fills it again.
Gene Hunt, he thinks, irresistible to women. Irresistible to men. He chuckles to himself and sips from his glass.
***
Author: darkhorsery
Rating: Brown Cortina
Word count: 5659 words
Summary: Sam keeps a girly little coded diary, and Gene's curiosity is provoked.
Notes: This is the first Gene/Sam I've written, and it's just smut. Load of old nonsense, really.
Disclaimer: Obviously, these characters are not mine, they're the property of the BBC/Kudos.
Sam has never been anything less than careful. He prides himself on it. Precise, thorough. That's what he's good at. That's how he functions. No loose ends, no room for doubt. And yeah, sometimes that means paperwork, sometimes it means hours questioning a suspect, rather than minutes, or sitting in a van in the dark listening with a pair of headphones, but isn't that what it means to work in the police? Sam's work, it can't be denied, is watertight.
The key, he believed - or at least, he used to believe - rests in the ability to detach oneself completely. No emotional investment. Be cold to the world. Follow the rules. Do it by the book. Formulaic, reliable, neat. Mechanical. Once upon a time it had driven Maya crazy. Why do you have such a problem with spontaneity?, she'd ask. It's not like you lack imagination. This had become a particular sore point in the last few weeks of their relationship. It was the routine, the familiarity, the sameness of life, she'd said, or something like that. There's no adventure anymore. "Intellect vs. emotion", Sam had written in his journal.
There's no lack of adventure in Sam's new life. Nothing is routine, nothing is familiar, no-one follows procedure, nothing's the same. But Sam is still careful. He keeps detailed notes about everything he does, writes them down in a little soft-back notebook that he keeps hidden on him at all times. He uses a simple 5-letter cipher ("BOWIE") and spends a good length of time encoding everything he wants to say. It eats up his spare time, but there's a certain satisfaction to it, and Sam doesn't want to run the risk of anyone from CID reading his thoughts.
"It's like a diary," Annie says, when he shows her one day in the canteen. (He had to show someone, it is very clever, and Annie can be trusted.)
"No... not really... it's a documentation of my time here, details about cases, the people I meet, the things I see. Traveller's journal."
"Sounds like a diary to me," Annie shrugs. "Hey, am I in there?" she reaches across to look, but Sam holds it close, despite knowing that she couldn't read it anyway. "Suit yourself," she says, smiling.
"It's still personal," Sam says, a bit tetchily.
Annie leans in conspiratorially, and Sam can't help but shuffle closer to her, hear her whispering. "Is it full of secrets?" she asks, and he can hear the laughter in her voice. He sits up straight, and Annie rolls her eyes.
"I'm only teasing!"
"I know, I know you are," Sam rubs his eyes tiredly. "Doesn't matter. I'll see you later, yeah?" And he walks off, leaving Annie where she sits, confused.
***
The case they're working on should be open and shut. There's been an armed robbery at a small supermarket, and there's three witnesses saying they can identify the man who did it. A name's even cropped up - Michael Nesbet - and Chris reckons his mum knows Mrs. Nesbet. In short, it should be damn easy to bring in the man responsible. Which is why Sam wants Chris and Ray to do it. Gene, however, has other ideas, and has put Sam in charge, which seems to Sam something of a waste of his time. Gene has shut himself up in his office, and is refusing to see anyone, which apparently means he is "extremely busy and not to be disturbed, thank you very much", but probably is more likely to mean that Gene has his feet up on the desk and a glass of scotch in hand.
Sam sits dully at his desk, leafing through Nesbet's file. He's been done twice before - mugging and burglary - and it's looking ever more likely that he's guilty as sin. Sam hears the sound of a glass chinking against a bottle, and then a little gulp and sigh of satisfaction. He blocks it out. Then, making sure that no-one is watching, he opens his desk drawer, rummages under some old folders and a cardboard box, and takes out his notebook. He flicks through to a blank page and doodles vacantly in the margin. A little stick man with a camel coat and white loafers. He adds a cowboy hat and pistol, a saloon, a horse. It is quite lifelike. Sam feels a bit pleased with it. Smiling to himself, he draws another little cowboy, in leather jacket and flares. A good deal of Sam's writing deals with the tricky subject of his superior officer. Sam finds his mind drifting back to the man on an almost-worryingly regular basis. What is Gene doing right now? What does he think of Doctor Who? Does he know what Jean Genie is about? Sam supposes that it probably has something to do with the fact that he made Gene up, and this is his brain's way of filling out Gene's character. It has nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that Gene has taken to leaving the top buttons of his shirt undone, leaving his collarbone exposed, or that Sam has been catching himself staring at said collarbone more often than's wise. Nothing whatsoever.
He is so wrapped up in not thinking about Gene that he does not notice a pair of green eyes peering curiously through the blinds of the office, watching him as he draws.
A few minutes later, Gene appears in the doorway, cigarette in hand. Sam looks on, eyebrow raised expectantly, but Gene doesn't so much as give him a glance.
"Chris!" he barks, and Chris looks up.
"Yes Guv?"
"In here. I need you working on something."
"Right you are, Guv." Chris scampers quickly over to the office, shrugging to Sam as he goes.
"Hang on a minute," Sam stands up, raising his voice a little, looking Gene in the eye. "He's working with me already. I need him on the Nesbet case!"
Gene sniffs. "Not any more you don't. You can work with Ray." Ray gives them both an ominous look, but Gene just nods and shuts the door behind him. Sam slumps in his chair. Great.
***
Chris is hovering eagerly in the office. "So what am I doing then?" he says, and smiles. Gene walks around him and sits down behind his desk, rubbing his temples. He gestures vaguely,
"Pull up a chair."
Chris does so, shuffling up and watching Gene with curiosity. "Is this a secret, Guv?"
"Yes." Gene nods, firmly. He pauses, scratches his forearm thoughtfully. "Sam," he says, at length.
"Chris," Chris corrects.
"Tyler," Gene bites out. "This is about Tyler."
"Oh."
"Now you and I both know that the man is..." Gene waves a hand around his head, "...troubled. In the head. Cracked. Loopy. Mental. Probably certifiable, if those little outbursts of his are anything to go by."
"He's an alright bloke," Chris says, loyally.
"Right, right, yes, and I don't deny that since he's been here, things have been... different."
"It's good now, isn't it?"
Gene tries very hard not to take this personally. "It was good before, too," he says carefully.
"Oh yeah. Right. Course, Guv."
"Anyway. What I want to know is, is his mind always on the job?"
"Yes." Chris says, with great certainty.
"Go over there," Gene says, hand already reaching for the bottle in his desk drawer, "and look through those blinds, and tell me what you see." Chris goes.
"He's writing something, Guv."
"In a little book, am I right?"
"Well, yeah, course, but that's nothing new, is it, Guv?"
"Right."
"Ah."
"I want you to get me that book." Gene says. "And I don't want Tyler to know about it."
"You want me to steal it?"
"Borrow it. Just for a bit. So I can make sure he's all there, right? No bats in the belfry."
"Alright, Guv. Top secret, yeah?" Chris sounds doubtful.
"Don't tell a soul." Gene drinks deeply from his glass, and Chris leaves quietly.
***
Sam is not being completely honest with himself. In his dingy room he sits on the bed and goes to write. Stops. Considers. Turns back a page or two, and rereads, with some difficulty, an entry from a few weeks back.
"That bastard Hunt continues to undermine me at every turn. If I dreamt him up I really must be a masochist. A monster in white loafers. Today he punched me in the kidneys, hauled me up against the wall and told me I was slowing down his operation. He was so close I could smell his breath (that's another thing, he drinks enough whiskey to knock out a horse and smokes like a chimney)."
There is a long blank space, then. A pause. And then,
"Thing is, I don't mind when he hits me. I don't mind when he throws me up against the wall... I've found myself baiting him, winding him up so he'll come for me all guns blazing. It's idiotic."
And then, after another pause,
"If he ever finds out, he'll kill me. Pulp me. Killed by a figment of my imagination."
Well, that's one option, Sam thinks to himself now, lying back on the bed. But what if... He shuts his eyes and lets his mind drift. What if Gene called him into the office tomorrow, as everyone else was leaving... He'd be standing there, sucking on that damn cigarette, shirtsleeves rolled up around the elbows. He'd take a step towards him, and then another, then the space between them would disappear altogether and Sam would find himself being pushed roughly up against the wall, kissed hard on the mouth, the throat, Gene's hands running down his chest...
Sam shifts uncomfortably on the bed, knocks the book on the floor impatiently, and fumbles with the zip of his trousers.
Gene would be breathing heavily, his large hands clutching at Sam, reaching under his shirt to brush a nipple, making Sam gasp. It would be sudden and dangerous and desperate, and Gene would be so hard for him, of course he would, and he'd press himself up against Sam, causing friction and shivering sparks of pleasure as the two of them found some kind of rhythm...
Sam's stroking himself now, hard and fast, fixated on the image of what-could-be. He's biting his lip, arching his back, sweat dampening his forehead as he moves faster and faster towards release.
Gene's fingers would be knotted in Sam's hair, and Sam would struggle with the clasp of Gene's belt buckle as he'd drop to his knees on the office floor, Gene's eyes rolling back as Sam'd take him in his mouth, a little at first, and then deeper, until Gene's breath would catch and he'd let out a groan like an animal.
The sheets are bunched around the foot of the bed as Sam comes hard, grasping desperately at himself, gasping for air, eyes wild with pleasure and imagination. He gulps, and blinks a few times, then laughs low and humourless. He lies still for a while, breathing in the dim light, sweat cooling with the breeze through the open window.
"Fuck, Gene..."
***
To say that Chris is uncomfortable with stealing the Boss' diary would be understating matters. He's often wondered how he would react if made to choose between Gene and Sam, and now he knows. He's watching Sam out of the corner of his eye, as he makes more of his fiddly little notes. Chris knows there's a code involved, because he's seen Tyler referring to a little scrap of paper that he keeps in plain sight between two manila envelopes on his desk. That's quite clever, that, Chris reckons, cause if he had to look for something secret, he'd start with secret places, like under the floorboards.
Sam looks more pink in the cheeks than usual, Chris thinks, a bit like he's blushing. Chris wonders what Sam is writing. He wonders if the Guv will tell him when he reads it. Probably not, Chris thinks, taking another bite of his Curly Wurly. The Guv never tells him anything important. Although, he thinks again, the Guv did trust him with this top-secret mission. That makes him feel a bit better.
He wanders over to Sam, who, on hearing footsteps, slips the diary back into his drawer. Chris pretends he didn't see anything.
"Ey, Boss," he says affably, "that plonk wants to see you again. She's downstairs in the photocopying room I think."
Sam gives him a look. "Her name's Annie, Chris. Or DC Cartwright, better yet."
"Oh. Yeah, well, she wants to see you." Chris shrugs. I probably look really thick, he thinks happily. That's acting.
Sam gets up from his desk and gives him a lopsided smile. "Thanks, Chris." He walks off, a bit self-consciously.
Chris waits until he's gone, then gets the diary out from the drawer, where it was hidden under a stack of reports. He flicks through it, squinting at the crooked handwriting and mumbo-jumbo of coded entries. Then he digs out the decoder paper - a square of letters with one word written across the top, BOWIE. Chris pulls a face, and stuffs the two inside his jacket.
The Guv's pleased with him, though. Gives him a nip of whiskey that makes him cough, and a pat on the back for doing well. It was very easy, he says. He's on another planet, that one. Chris is quite pleased with himself, in the end, and wanders off without a blot on his conscience.
***
Later that evening, Gene sits in his chair in his office, sleeves up round his elbows, hair rumpled and eyes tired. It's seven o'clock, and the rest of the men have gone out for a pint after the end of an uneventful day. They're probably playing darts by now, and talking about, well, not a lot. Gene, meanwhile, cannot believe that he is still decoding the diary of one Sam Tyler. It's taking bloody ages, as well, and Sam's unnecessarily cryptic, considering he's writing in code. He bangs on a lot about people Gene's never heard of, too. And books. Typical, that. There's almost a page of "It's not like I read Oscar Wilde and lie on chaise longues talking about gutters and stars and all that trash", which, quite frankly, Gene can't be bothered with.
So, he skips forward a few pages, to more recent entries. It takes him a while to decrypt each word, but it's oddly satisfying to know that he's breaking into Sam's head, reading his thoughts, almost.
"Hunt," he reads. Aha! Much more like it. "...wore a pink shirt today," Gene frowns at that. "Wonder if that means something." Well, yes, of course it does, you great useless lump, it means the Missus put a red sock in the wash by accident and it changed colour and there wasn't anything else clean that day. Bloody hell. Moving on.
"Today was awful." Gene reads, and a distant alarm bell sounds in his head. "Woke up with stinking sodding bastard hangover because someone told me that real men drink whiskey. Whole lot of them laid into me about the Church case, even Gene, worst of all. I'm fucking sick of the moral fucking high ground when they all fucking hate me. What's the point?"
Gene feels a twisting guilt in his stomach, which he pushes to one side. "He can bloody take it," he growls, under his breath. "He's a grown bloody man, isn't he?" He flicks forward another few pages and starts decoding from the middle of a paragraph.
"lips wrapped round my". Ey up. Gene chuckles to himself. "Dirty bastard, it's about time." Tyler must have got his act together with that Cartwright girl. He carries on. "hot aching cock, and wouldn't that be a sight, eh? Begging me, moaning and touching himself-"
Gene drops the diary as if he were scalded. Himself? "Jesus, Mary and Joseph," he breathes. "That explains just about bloody everything, doesn't it?"
Gene is suddenly flooded with memories. The time he called Tyler a great sissy girly nancy, and so on, and so on. The times they've found themselves at each other's throats, fists in each other's faces, scrapping on the floor, losing control. He hesitates momentarily, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Then another thought, which starts off quiet, and gradually grows to a roaring unavoidable question in his mind: who's he talking about? Gene looks around his empty office. He looks for the decoder paper, which has drifted to the floor. Then he begins, slowly, carefully, to translate. He notices he's breathing more quickly, now, and there's a deeply suspect sensation in the pit of his stomach that he's doing his level best to ignore.
"his hair all messed up, looks better now it's a bit longer, and his shirt undone, loose tie, yeah, and one hand down his trousers, because he can't wait, can he, never could, always looking for the shortcut, the result-"
Gene's breath is ragged but he keeps going, scribbling down the translation on a bit of scrap, eyes wide. He's waiting for the name. To hell with the clues and the hints, he wants the name. He can feel the blood pumping and his heart's going double time. His spare hand rests on his thigh, straying treacherously inwards.
"and he looks at me with those fucking eyes of his, like he knows I can't bloody resist him, course I can't, and the cocky bastard knows it"
And who else is it going to be, really, Gene thinks, who else could it be gets Sam so riled up as this? His hand brushes across the front of his trousers, lightly, stirring him. He rests his hand between his legs, then, without thinking, rubs gently, just a little. He shivers. He palms himself through the rough fabric of the trousers his wife bought him, and doesn't even feel guilty about it when he realises - and it's not even that surprising, really - that he's more turned on by his gay DI than by her, any more. He's still waiting on the name, though, wants it there in black and white, ink on paper - Gene - so he carries on, pencil scribbling frantically on the page.
"and hell, I can't hold out much longer, and he curls his tongue and it feels incredible, Gene-"
There it is, there it bloody is, and Gene's given up, now, unzips his too-tight trousers and takes himself in hand, and with a shuddering breath of relief, strokes himself, slowly, letting himself feel the first hot glow of pleasure. Sam wants him. He lets this idea wash over him. Sam-paragon-of-bloody-virtue-Tyler, wants to shag him. Him! Gene laughs softly to himself, and begins to move his hand slowly, rhythmically, relishing the sensation. Tyler's a grown man, after all, he thinks. And who says two grown men can't give each other a helping hand, now and again? He moves his hand more rapidly, suddenly impatient, and groans aloud. It's been a long time since he's felt wanted. And not just wanted, no, desired, craved, the object of a fucking fantasy. Sweat beads on his forehead and he can't shake the image of Sam, in his crummy flat, writing his diary with a great fucking hard-on. Sam, smug little pillock that he is, thinking of him as he wanks off in the shower. Gene's far gone, now, past rationalising, gasping and moaning and struggling for breath as he moves faster and faster, eyes screwed shut, obscene pictures flashing through his mind, hips jerking up, stroke for stroke, until he comes, violently, over the pages of Sam's diary.
He breathes, once, twice, and curses a little under his breath. His hand's still wrapped around his cock, and he can't be bothered to move, not yet, not yet. He opens his eyes, and sees the dirtied diary.
"Shit," he says, and suddenly, he's acutely conscious. "Shit, shit! Look at- dammit, ugh, oh god," he scrambles in his desk drawer, pocket, other pocket, "shit", he says again, for good measure. Then he slumps back in his chair, slides a cigarette out of the box on his desk, and lights it. Inhales. Exhales. Sam never did make things easy.
***
Sam lies on his back, in his bed, in his flat, staring at the ceiling. One more time, he thinks. You took the diary to work in the morning, in your bag. Right. You didn't write in it until about eleven-ish, when you wanted to record for posterity the fact that Ray really is the biggest slimy git you know, but that it's okay because you saw Gene dancing to Queen Bitch in his office, and then he pulled a face at you and closed the blinds. Then you put it back in the drawer. Then you had lunch with Annie, and she apologised if she hurt your feelings before, and smiled at you, and said that she was free after work. Then you went back up and read the file Ray brought in... and then... and then... Chris came over, didn't he, while you were writing something pretty filthy, if you're being honest, and you hid the diary in the bottom of the drawer, and went to see Annie downstairs. And about an hour later, you came home. And the diary must still be in the drawer. Right? Right.
Sam tries to shake the feeling that something is not right. He doesn't like the idea that he forgot it, and starts thinking that maybe he should just leave it at home, but before he can take this idea much further, his eyes begin to feel heavy, and he drifts off to sleep.
When he wakes up the nest morning, the feeling of unease has worsened, and he runs through worst case scenarios as he shaves in the mirror.
1. Annie's curiosity has got the better of her and she's horrified by what she's read.
2. Ray's found it, decoded it and made copies for everyone.
3. Gene's found it, read it, and hates him.
He shakes his head, and looks his reflection dead in the eye.
"Everything is fine." He tells it. "Nothing has happened."
He goes in to work and absolutely nothing has changed. He sits at his desk, opens the drawer. The notebook is not there. He feels a warm wave of panic wash over him. He looks among the paperwork and books on his desk. The decoding paper is gone as well. He's running his hands through his hair and telling himself he must have left them somewhere else when the door to Gene's office opens and there is Gene, standing in the doorway like the first day Sam met him. Loosened tie, sleeves rolled up and a lit cigarette between his lips. He stands there for a moment, smoking and watching Sam without speaking. Sam looks at him warily. Then Gene smiles very slightly and moves across to him. He sits on the edge of Sam's desk, and the smile grows into a smirk.
"What." Sam says, flatly. "What is it?"
Gene leans in, close, closer, until Sam can count every one of his eyelashes. "I know something you don't know," he says. Then he claps Sam on the back and walks away again. Sam watches him go.
Chris shuffles in later, and won't look him in the eye. Sam has a horrible idea. He won't think about it, though.
A while later, Gene calls Sam into the office. He sits there in his chair with his feet up on the desk and his arms folded across his chest, looking at Sam, who stands shifting from one foot to the other. Gene is still smirking. Sam feels distinctly ill-at-ease.
"I know what you're thinking," Gene says slowly.
"What am I thinking?" Sam asks him, frowning to himself.
Gene grins. "You're thinking, you magnificent bastard."
Sam stares at him. Gene is looking off into the middle distance, evidently very pleased with himself. Sam turns and flees.
He opens his desk drawer and hunts through it with a mounting sense of horror. Gene has followed him out.
"It's not there," he says, and his voice is suddenly hard as granite. Sam avoids his eye. "I want to talk to you," Gene continues, "in my office, at the end of the day. Right?"
Sam is silent.
"Right?"
"Yes, sir."
Gene turns and stalks back into his office. He slams the door. Sam doesn't move. He stares at the meaningless paperwork on his table, then gets up, haltingly, and walks outside. The end of the day is a long time coming. The sick feeling in Sam's stomach grows and recedes, and he finds himself watching the clock on the wall, the shadows creeping across the room, the gradually fading light through the windows, the other men getting their coats and making their way home, or to the pub. Hunt keeps to himself, he notices, though he can hear him walking around inside his office, and the familiar sound of the whiskey bottle against the glass.
When the last one of the men has left, Sam stands up and walks to the door of his Guv's office. He knocks, then opens the door. Gene is standing a few feet away. He gestures for Sam to shut the door.
"They've all gone home?" he says quietly. Sam nods.
"Before you say anything," Sam says, hurriedly, "I was never going to... and you, you had no right to read that, and it was my personal-"
In one motion, Gene has crossed the room, closing the space between them and pinning Sam to the door. His breath is hot and dry in Sam's ear.
"Is this what you wanted?" he whispers, harshly.
Before Sam has a chance to reply, Gene's mouth is crashing roughly into his, kissing him hard, tongue slipping between Sam's parted lips. He lets out a little moan of surprise, and pulls away, breathing hard.
"What are you doing?" he asks, and there's genuine confusion in his eyes.
"What d'you think I'm doing, you great nancy?"
Sam puts two hands squarely on Gene's chest, holding him back. "Okay, what is going on?"
Gene lets out an impatient huff of disbelief. He opens his mouth as if to explain, but then makes to kiss Sam again, slipping out of his grasp. Sam softens, allowing Gene to kiss him. Gene's got one palm flat against the door and the other pressed into the small of Sam's back, holding him firmly upright as Sam's legs to be on the verge of giving out. Gene abandons Sam's mouth and begins to kiss his neck, enjoying the small gasps Sam's making, but then, softly,
"You know, you have to tell me what's happening, here. I don't believe it."
Gene sighs, then, and takes a step back. Sam is leaning against the door, breathing slowly. His eyes are dark and it looks as if it's taken every ounce of his willpower to push Gene away.
"Right." Gene says, shuffling his feet. "Well. You had that book, right, and I'd see you writing in it, all the time, every day, when you were supposed to be working, and I thought to myself, well, best find out what all that's about then, eh? So I had Chris nick it for me, and that bit of coded paper, too, so I could work it all out, which I did, and it was bloody filthy, you little nonce, and it was all about me-"
"It wasn't all about you."
"All the best bits were about me. Anyway, so there I was reading it, and I thought, well..."
Sam smiles a bit, then, for the first time. "You thought what, Gene? What went through your mind when you read all that?"
Gene, to his credit, manages to look coy. "Well," he says. "Well."
Sam's smile becomes a grin.
"Well," Gene says again, and it's deeply pleasing to Sam to see him lost for words.
Sam smirks at him. Gene lunges, pressing up hard against him and kissing him furiously. There's no doubt, this time, no hesitation, no holding back. Sam kisses him back with equal fervour, and Gene growls deep and low in his throat. His hands run under Sam's shirt, across his chest and brushing against his nipples, making Sam shiver and press closer. Gene can't move quickly enough. His hands are everywhere at once, and Sam is showing every sign of approval. Gene reaches one hand downwards, fumbling at the waistband of Sam's trousers, and Gene's suddenly nervous, suddenly unsure. But Sam's murmuring softly in his ear, rolling his hips, urging him to keep going, and Gene can't stop now, so he undoes the zip, and presses himself hard against Sam, rocking their hips together. Gene's achingly hard, now, a day's worth of expectation realising itself at once. Sam's hands are tangled in his hair, and the soft pleasurable sounds he's making are driving him crazy.
He grasps at Sam, desperately, and makes as if to move towards the sofa. Sam, however, has other ideas, and uses the momentum to change their position. Gene's back slams against the wall, and he's about to react when Sam kisses him again, gently, on the lips, and then his chin, the hollow at the base of his throat, and Sam's clever fingers are unbuttoning his shirt, and then Sam's sucking gently at one of Gene's nipples, and Gene hears himself moan. He looks down and sees Sam sliding to his knees, and Gene knows, then, and his head tips back as Sam's tongue slips out from between his lips to lick the tip of Gene's cock. He grasps Sam's head with one hand, holding him steady, and Sam takes him into his mouth completely. Gene groans at the sudden change, and his hips jerk forward to get more of that mouth, that tongue, until he thinks that he's going to burst into flame from the heat and pressure. His shuts his eyes, tight, but he can't stop himself from thrusting into Sam's mouth, hard, and Sam makes a surprised sound, but shows no sign of stopping. And Gene still can't quite believe that this is happening, that he's fucking his DI in the mouth in his office, and, oh god, he can't remember when this has felt so good, and Sam's reaching a hand up to stroke the base of his cock, and Gene's seeing flashes of hot colour behind his eyelids, and suddenly, with a growl and a final thrust, he's coming hard in Sam's mouth, and Sam doesn't stop moving until Gene does. He swallows and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand.
Gene looks down at him, breathing heavily. Sam is kneeling on the floor with an expression of pure lust on his face. His lips are red and swollen, and Gene is struggling for the words. So Sam provides them.
"Never thought I'd get to do that," he says, lightly.
"Never thought you would either." Gene's looking at him with something akin to awe. "Though if I'd known you were that good..."
Sam laughs, then, and stands up. His erection is painfully obvious, but he turns away and stretches lithely. Gene's having none of it.
"Oi," he says, so Sam turns around. "What about you, then?" Sam blinks at him. Gene smiles slowly, and sits down on the sofa, spreading his legs out. "C'mere," he says, and Sam moves over to him.
With a deft motion Gene grabs him round the waist and pulls him down so that Sam is sitting in the space between his legs, with his back to Gene. He lies back so that he's resting on Gene's chest. Gene's hands are tracing small circles across Sam's chest, moving downwards, and Sam can hear him breathing low and steady. Gene reaches down one hand, pushing away Sam's boxers and grasping his dick firmly. Sam tenses above him, then relaxes as Gene starts to move his hand, slowly, gently.
"Alright?" Gene's voice is deep and husky in Sam's ear.
"Yeah, yeah," Sam's breathing is quickening as Gene moves his hand faster. "Talk to me, Gene," he whispers.
"What do you mean talk to you?" Gene frowns a bit.
Sam laughs. "You know..." he says, shyly. "Talk to me..."
Gene's eyes widen. "You're not the only one with fantasies, you know Sam," he murmurs. "True, mine do traditionally involve women," Sam makes a disbelieving snorting sound, and Gene makes a clever twisting motion with his hand to shut him up. "...But I'd be lying if I said I hadn't thought about this, about you with your legs spread, and moaning for me..." Sam moans now, as though to prove a point. "And sucking me off after hours, yeah alright, I thought about it, but it wasn't until I read your little diary that I knew..."
Sam's close, now, he knows, and he slows his hand teasingly, making Sam whimper and arch his back to try and get more, more friction, more contact, and Gene never imagined that it would feel like this, watching Sam writhing and groaning with pleasure, under his hands, because of him.
"And that diary, Sam... I never knew that you had such a filthy little mind... such dirty thoughts all there for me to read..." Sam's thrusting into Gene's hand, and Gene moves his head down to kiss his neck. "And you know," he continues, "the more I read the more I liked it, til I was there with my hand in my pants gasping your name as I touched myself, thinking about you, Sam, like this, and god, I never thought it could..."
Sam comes with a little cry and a gasp, in Gene's hands, and stretches round to look at Gene's face, flushed and smiling weakly. They lie there for a while without moving, then Sam goes to clean himself off, and Gene sits back in his chair and lights a well-deserved fag, sucking at it deeply. Then he pours out two generous glasses of his finest single malt and wonders how he can explain to Sam that he had to throw away his diary, but he'd still quite like to have a go at that thing Sam wrote about on page 24, if that's okay... He looks around and drinks his glassful hastily, and fills it again.
Gene Hunt, he thinks, irresistible to women. Irresistible to men. He chuckles to himself and sips from his glass.
***