Fanfic_Whore, Of Bedknobs and Smokesticks, White Cortina
Title: Of Bedknobs and Smokesticks
Author: Fanfic_whore
Pairing: Sam/Gene
Rating: White Cortina
Word Count: 1335
Summary: Erm angst I think. A little early morning snapshot of Sam and Gene’s relationship.
A/N: I was hoping for something resembling happy but I guess this is the result of my twisted brain’s attempts at catharsis and distraction. It appears to be about things that cause you pain but wont end. It’s not my usual fare. It’s unbetad and is more about my need to write than anything that’s actually any good. Oh and I've butchered the characters. Sorry.
Though can I just take this chance to say thank you to all those who’ve been so kind and thoughtful regarding my nan. I find it a little mad to be saying this but I love this comm, there seems to be a bunch of really genuine people here that you don't seem to find in other fandoms. Thanks guys.
Of Bedknobs and Smokesticks
Gene came to gradually. His back was cold and the house was dark. Early morning dark, the kind of smoky darkness that never seems natural. And silent. Almost silent. Quiet enough for the dry flare of a cigarette to be heard.
Gene rolled onto his back and shivered as his skin came to rest against the cool sheets, blinking a little as his eyes began to pick out dim shapes in the room. The window showed up first, light from somewhere highlighting a square behind the curtains. Some streetlamp or maybe even the dawn trying to penetrate the gloom.
Sam was sat in the armchair at the foot of the bed, his legs hooked up and over the frame, bare feet resting lightly against the covers.
Gene sat up and regarded him through sleep bleared eyes. Bare legs trailed invitingly upward, their promised prize hidden by the tails of a shirt. His shirt, Gene realised. He pushed himself into a more comfortable position, yanking a pillow into the small of his back, leaning against the headboard that flexed beneath his weight.
He watched as Sam drew on the cigarette, the orange glow of its tip burning brighter for just a moment. He followed the little light as it traced downward and Sam tapped it lightly, knocking ash into a cup balanced on his legs.
“What the bloody hell you doing up there?” Gene demanded, his voice crusty and weak.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Sam told him flatly, “I’m not like you I can’t just grunt, roll over and pass out.”
Gene sighed loudly and watched as Sam flinched at the noise. He bit back the instant, angry retort and raised a hand to his hair, pushing away errant strands that tickled his face.
They sat in silence. Each staring at the other through the dim, dusty dark. Eventually Gene reached over to the bedside table and flicked on the lamp and they both flinched as the light bounced around the room, picking out sharp angles and planes.
“Talk to me Sam,” Gene ordered as the pinprick pains behind his eyes lessened and it no longer hurt just to look at Sam.
Sam still sat in silence and Gene noticed the glass of whiskey balanced beside the make-shift ashtray.
“I can’t do this anymore,” Sam told him quietly, eyes locked on Gene’s for just a second. Full and brimming. Fear and futility waging deep within their dry sockets.
“So come back to bed,” Gene suggested, with a light shrug, “It’s cold in here without you.”
“God!” Sam muttered, raising a hand to his face, dragging it downward until the dangling cigarette met his lips and his took another long drag. “There are times when I hate you,” he added, a sudden vicious venom spilling into the room.
Gene blinked and regarded him calmly, ignoring the punch that Sam’s words brought. Ignoring the twist and tear of his gut.
Silence settled over the room again and Sam stubbed out the cigarette and then picked up the whiskey glass, toying it idly between his fingers.
Gene glanced over to the ticking bedside clock. 3.28am.
“You’re not going to help me are you?” Sam suddenly asked with an odd, unnatural little laugh, “you’re going to make me struggle through this on my own. I hate you,” he repeated.
Gene drew his eyes back to Sam, “Can’t help if you don’t at least meet me half way. Give us a clue,” he suggested.
San sighed and tipped his head backward, staring up at the ceiling.
“I can’t do it anymore,” Sam repeated, “I can’t. I need…” He paused and smiled sadly.
“I need…” he tried again and Gene watched as the words caught in his throat. Watched as Sam struggled and stalled and stilled.
And yet Gene didn’t need the words. Not actual words. Not vague vocalisations in the small hours of the night. Not when it came to Sam. Not when it came to his pretty little DI with his brittle heart and mind. Not when it came to the man he knew better than he knew himself. Not when it came to this argument.
“I wont do it Sam, so don’t ask,” Gene told him quietly as he crossed his arms over his chest, one handing wrapping around a bicep, gripping the flesh loosely.
Sam drew his eyes back to the bed and Gene looked away. Because Sam’s expression was too raw, unguarded and begging. Plain as day begging.
“Why?” Sam demanded, his voice high and just a little plaintive.
Gene pursed his lips and stared down at the duvet, its pattern dancing and blurring beneath his unfocussed gaze.
“God Sam we’ve been over this,” he pointed out wearily, “because she’s better than that.”
“Better than me?” Sam asked.
Gene stayed still. Stayed silent. Because he couldn’t explain. Couldn’t explain to such a young whippersnapper what twenty years of familiarity felt like; how the bitter contempt and lazy Sunday dinners blended into something horrifically comforting. Something deep and twisted and binding. Couldn’t explain how the city had his heart. And his wife has his youth. And Sam probably had the remaining years.
He looked up then and felt frisson and fear skitter down his back as blue eyes met brown.
“I love you,” Sam told him quietly. And there was no shame in the admission. No claims of grand fraternity. Just Sam, wrapped up in Gene’s too-large shirt, smoking his way though a pack of cigarettes he hated.
Gene closed his eyes because now it did hurt to look at Sam. Hurt to see the swirling mass of whatever this was within those beautiful brown eyes. Whatever it was that Sam had been playing around in his head for hours, days. Maybe months. Twisting and rolling it around until it was bigger than either of them.
“Sammy,” Gene sighed into the night.
Sam still held the whiskey glass and Gene watched as he stared down the liquid, swilling it lazily, sloshing it against the sides. Lifting the cup from his lap Sam placed it on the floor and stood up, making his way around the bed, perching carefully on its edge.
Gene stretched a hand along the bedclothes, reaching out to Sam, resting his fingers against Sam’s hip, worming his way under the shirt. At the contact Sam’s ramrod straight spine relaxed a little and Gene gently stroked the skin.
“Still cold in here,” Gene pointed out.
Sam twisted round and glanced back at Gene, all the unsaid words flashing across his face. Gene remained impassive, knowing none of his own unsaid words would be seen in his face. And it was sad, but true.
The whiskey glass lay limply in Sam’s hand and Gene reached out to take it, knocking back the bitter, acrid alcohol. Placing it on the bedside table he flicked off the light and hunkered down, drawing the sheet up and over his shoulders.
Sam sat still and Gene stared out at his back, listening as the clock ticked out its incessant beat.
Then eventually Sam shifted, raising his hands over his head and removing Gene’s shirt in one fluid movement, dropping the fabric to the floor.
The bed dipped as Sam lay down, drawing the duvet up and over them.
Gene rested a hand against Sam’s waist and tugged a little.
With a small, stifled sigh Sam rolled toward him and suddenly that little lithe body was pressed against his, warm chest and cold legs. Gene held him loosely, letting his heat seep into Sam and breathing in that unique, heady scent that was Sam and Sam alone.
“Something’s got to change,” Sam said, the words muffled and muted against Gene’s own skin.
“I know,” Gene muttered as he pressed an apologetic kiss to Sam’s hair. Because it wouldn’t change. Because dawn would bleed into the streets and Gene would eventually rumble home. And he’d eat the roast and think about his city and about Sam and somehow try to find a path through.
Should you be interested there is a second companion piece here.
Author: Fanfic_whore
Pairing: Sam/Gene
Rating: White Cortina
Word Count: 1335
Summary: Erm angst I think. A little early morning snapshot of Sam and Gene’s relationship.
A/N: I was hoping for something resembling happy but I guess this is the result of my twisted brain’s attempts at catharsis and distraction. It appears to be about things that cause you pain but wont end. It’s not my usual fare. It’s unbetad and is more about my need to write than anything that’s actually any good. Oh and I've butchered the characters. Sorry.
Though can I just take this chance to say thank you to all those who’ve been so kind and thoughtful regarding my nan. I find it a little mad to be saying this but I love this comm, there seems to be a bunch of really genuine people here that you don't seem to find in other fandoms. Thanks guys.
Of Bedknobs and Smokesticks
Gene came to gradually. His back was cold and the house was dark. Early morning dark, the kind of smoky darkness that never seems natural. And silent. Almost silent. Quiet enough for the dry flare of a cigarette to be heard.
Gene rolled onto his back and shivered as his skin came to rest against the cool sheets, blinking a little as his eyes began to pick out dim shapes in the room. The window showed up first, light from somewhere highlighting a square behind the curtains. Some streetlamp or maybe even the dawn trying to penetrate the gloom.
Sam was sat in the armchair at the foot of the bed, his legs hooked up and over the frame, bare feet resting lightly against the covers.
Gene sat up and regarded him through sleep bleared eyes. Bare legs trailed invitingly upward, their promised prize hidden by the tails of a shirt. His shirt, Gene realised. He pushed himself into a more comfortable position, yanking a pillow into the small of his back, leaning against the headboard that flexed beneath his weight.
He watched as Sam drew on the cigarette, the orange glow of its tip burning brighter for just a moment. He followed the little light as it traced downward and Sam tapped it lightly, knocking ash into a cup balanced on his legs.
“What the bloody hell you doing up there?” Gene demanded, his voice crusty and weak.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Sam told him flatly, “I’m not like you I can’t just grunt, roll over and pass out.”
Gene sighed loudly and watched as Sam flinched at the noise. He bit back the instant, angry retort and raised a hand to his hair, pushing away errant strands that tickled his face.
They sat in silence. Each staring at the other through the dim, dusty dark. Eventually Gene reached over to the bedside table and flicked on the lamp and they both flinched as the light bounced around the room, picking out sharp angles and planes.
“Talk to me Sam,” Gene ordered as the pinprick pains behind his eyes lessened and it no longer hurt just to look at Sam.
Sam still sat in silence and Gene noticed the glass of whiskey balanced beside the make-shift ashtray.
“I can’t do this anymore,” Sam told him quietly, eyes locked on Gene’s for just a second. Full and brimming. Fear and futility waging deep within their dry sockets.
“So come back to bed,” Gene suggested, with a light shrug, “It’s cold in here without you.”
“God!” Sam muttered, raising a hand to his face, dragging it downward until the dangling cigarette met his lips and his took another long drag. “There are times when I hate you,” he added, a sudden vicious venom spilling into the room.
Gene blinked and regarded him calmly, ignoring the punch that Sam’s words brought. Ignoring the twist and tear of his gut.
Silence settled over the room again and Sam stubbed out the cigarette and then picked up the whiskey glass, toying it idly between his fingers.
Gene glanced over to the ticking bedside clock. 3.28am.
“You’re not going to help me are you?” Sam suddenly asked with an odd, unnatural little laugh, “you’re going to make me struggle through this on my own. I hate you,” he repeated.
Gene drew his eyes back to Sam, “Can’t help if you don’t at least meet me half way. Give us a clue,” he suggested.
San sighed and tipped his head backward, staring up at the ceiling.
“I can’t do it anymore,” Sam repeated, “I can’t. I need…” He paused and smiled sadly.
“I need…” he tried again and Gene watched as the words caught in his throat. Watched as Sam struggled and stalled and stilled.
And yet Gene didn’t need the words. Not actual words. Not vague vocalisations in the small hours of the night. Not when it came to Sam. Not when it came to his pretty little DI with his brittle heart and mind. Not when it came to the man he knew better than he knew himself. Not when it came to this argument.
“I wont do it Sam, so don’t ask,” Gene told him quietly as he crossed his arms over his chest, one handing wrapping around a bicep, gripping the flesh loosely.
Sam drew his eyes back to the bed and Gene looked away. Because Sam’s expression was too raw, unguarded and begging. Plain as day begging.
“Why?” Sam demanded, his voice high and just a little plaintive.
Gene pursed his lips and stared down at the duvet, its pattern dancing and blurring beneath his unfocussed gaze.
“God Sam we’ve been over this,” he pointed out wearily, “because she’s better than that.”
“Better than me?” Sam asked.
Gene stayed still. Stayed silent. Because he couldn’t explain. Couldn’t explain to such a young whippersnapper what twenty years of familiarity felt like; how the bitter contempt and lazy Sunday dinners blended into something horrifically comforting. Something deep and twisted and binding. Couldn’t explain how the city had his heart. And his wife has his youth. And Sam probably had the remaining years.
He looked up then and felt frisson and fear skitter down his back as blue eyes met brown.
“I love you,” Sam told him quietly. And there was no shame in the admission. No claims of grand fraternity. Just Sam, wrapped up in Gene’s too-large shirt, smoking his way though a pack of cigarettes he hated.
Gene closed his eyes because now it did hurt to look at Sam. Hurt to see the swirling mass of whatever this was within those beautiful brown eyes. Whatever it was that Sam had been playing around in his head for hours, days. Maybe months. Twisting and rolling it around until it was bigger than either of them.
“Sammy,” Gene sighed into the night.
Sam still held the whiskey glass and Gene watched as he stared down the liquid, swilling it lazily, sloshing it against the sides. Lifting the cup from his lap Sam placed it on the floor and stood up, making his way around the bed, perching carefully on its edge.
Gene stretched a hand along the bedclothes, reaching out to Sam, resting his fingers against Sam’s hip, worming his way under the shirt. At the contact Sam’s ramrod straight spine relaxed a little and Gene gently stroked the skin.
“Still cold in here,” Gene pointed out.
Sam twisted round and glanced back at Gene, all the unsaid words flashing across his face. Gene remained impassive, knowing none of his own unsaid words would be seen in his face. And it was sad, but true.
The whiskey glass lay limply in Sam’s hand and Gene reached out to take it, knocking back the bitter, acrid alcohol. Placing it on the bedside table he flicked off the light and hunkered down, drawing the sheet up and over his shoulders.
Sam sat still and Gene stared out at his back, listening as the clock ticked out its incessant beat.
Then eventually Sam shifted, raising his hands over his head and removing Gene’s shirt in one fluid movement, dropping the fabric to the floor.
The bed dipped as Sam lay down, drawing the duvet up and over them.
Gene rested a hand against Sam’s waist and tugged a little.
With a small, stifled sigh Sam rolled toward him and suddenly that little lithe body was pressed against his, warm chest and cold legs. Gene held him loosely, letting his heat seep into Sam and breathing in that unique, heady scent that was Sam and Sam alone.
“Something’s got to change,” Sam said, the words muffled and muted against Gene’s own skin.
“I know,” Gene muttered as he pressed an apologetic kiss to Sam’s hair. Because it wouldn’t change. Because dawn would bleed into the streets and Gene would eventually rumble home. And he’d eat the roast and think about his city and about Sam and somehow try to find a path through.
Should you be interested there is a second companion piece here.