Five Things Sam Does to Wind Gene Up (Either Sexually or to Annoy Him), Brown Cortina, Sytaxia
1.
“Driving towards further departmental efficacy, this will allow us to proactively…” Sam was cut off in the middle of his speech by a scoff from Gene.
“Excuse me, Mirriam, but do you by any chance speak bloody English? Because you could’ve soddin’ fooled me.”
Sam ignored Gene, “Proactively delegate to better meet the exponentially increasing rates of…”
“Exponent? As in shit?” Gene was practically choking on his whiskey as he chuckled at the statement.
“No, Guv, that would be excrement…”
“So we’re what, as deep in this excrement as we are in the wide blue yonder? Or is that mixing metaphors again?”
“That wasn’t even a metaphor, that was an absurd statement based upon the insertion of a colloquialism into an epithetical descriptive clause that is commonly employed by….”
“Wait, employed? Are you sayin’ we need more coppers?” Gene rubbed at his temples, still trying to understand Sam’s rambling statement and finding that the harder he tried, the more he needed to wash down a dozen aspirin with a bottle of scotch.
“Guv, have you been listening to a single bloody word I’ve said?” Sam crossed his arms and glared at Gene, who glared back with equal malice.”
“If you could bloody stop with the five quid damned words, I sure as hell might!”
“I’m speaking perfect English!”
“You’re speaking perfect ponce!”
“You are, without fraction of preponderance of skepticism, the most hyperbolically, stereotypically, caricaturistically imbecilic vortex of nonsensical, intrinsically aggravating..”
Gene’s fist slammed down on his desk, “Out! Out of my bloody office! And don’t you dare come back until you’ve learned to speak the bloody queen’s English! Now! Go! Get thee and avast and all that lovely shit! Immediately!”
Sam stood, fuming, and then turned and left, slamming the door so forcefully in his wake that the segmented glass in it rattled, threatening to finally tumble out and crash to shards. If there was one way to rile Gene up, it was to put his seriously lacking, at least by his own standards, vocabulary to use, and Sam grinned as he walked back to his desk, making sure that no one saw the enormous smile on his face.
2.
Gene rummaged wildly through his desk drawers, slamming them one by one back into the desk with resounding bangs and clatters as he searched, and then repeating the process. His filing cabinets and shelves had all been turned inside out, and there was no mistaking what had happened: someone had been in his stash.
The bottle of scotch under the top filing drawer was gone. The fags underneath his rolodex were gone. The flask behind the expense reports from last year was gone. As were the flask that was always cleverly hidden between his darts trophies, the fags that were hidden behind his Gary Cooper poster, the party seven that was in the drawer labeled, “City Ordinance Documentation,” and the flask under the short leg of his desk, which was now wobbling.
Sam popped his head into the room and grinned at him, “How’s the quitting going, Guv?”
“Just fine, thank you,” Gene grumbled, and Sam gave him a wide grin in return, before sliding out.
“Bastard didn’t transfer from Hyde. ‘E bloody came from the KGB,” Gene muttered to himself as he stared out of the glass. This was going to be a long week…
3.
Gene lay next to Sam, watching the rise and fall of the smaller man’s chest as he slept, the St. Christopher medallion dangling haphazardly through the air, just an inch above the arm that stretched in front of Sam, whose other arm was stretched beneath the pillow under his head. As Gene watched, Sam smiled in his sleep.
There was something about the way that Sam smiled; with all of his nattering and prancing, his arguing and sniping, his ramblings of rules and regulations, Gene would have thought that Sam didn’t smile. But he did. His face cracked more often that Gene’s own did, and when it did, that was a beautiful thing.
Gene lay back and considered it, trying to remember the first time that Sam had ever smiled at him. The card game. Poker at the back table of the Railway Arms, after the arrest of Kim Trent. Gene felt the corners of his own mouth twitch upwards as he mentally catalogued the smiles: in the dark, outside of the textiles factory. In the sun, after Vic Tyler was brought in. After he’d pulled a gun on Gene, Gene had let it slide, chalked it up to… To who knows what… But that smile, as Sam had softly acquiesced to the trip to the pub…
Sam’s smile could brighten an entire room, the small, tight lipped turning of his mouth or the wide, shit-eating gleeful face that made the daft bastard look like a bloody chipmunk, the head-shaking, knowing grin… Gene had them all catalogued, ready to call up any one into his mind, any time that he wanted to think of Sam smiling. Each variation was stunning, a marvel to behold, a thing that made Gene feel that no matter how insane Tyler might seem, he was still all right in the head. Even the chipmunk one. Especially the chipmunk one. It was too bloody gorgeous. Sam was too bloody gorgeous. Sam was too…
Sam’s smile could drive Gene round the bend. And Sam seemed to know it, too: he would smile at Gene to get what he wanted, to make a point, to chastise him without setting a full-fledged argument rolling… Sam’s smile was maddening, because it was too beautiful for a man. Too bright for such a dreary world. Too perfect. Too good.
“You’re too damned good for this world, Sam, you know that, don’t you? You and your blasted damned smile,” Gene whispered, and watched as Sam slept, still smiling, and not stirring. Even when he was asleep, he could still drive Gene crazy with that damned smile… “Did you hear me, Tyler? You don’t belong in this world. You and your smile. Too damned perfect.”
In his slumber, Sam continued to dream. And Gene continued to watch the smile, even if it would drive him batty.
4.
“So, that’s that then, is it? Sound of the case slamming shut, crushing another low-life piece of scum behind bars. A beautiful sound, eh?” Gene rubbed his hands together and looked down at his watch, grimacing. “Bollocks! Shit! Fucking hell bloody damned soddin’ shite crap bastard…”
Sam looked about, trying to figure out what loose end they could have possibly left, “Guv? What is it? What’s happened?”
“What the bloody hell do you think’s happened, you daft twat! Pub’s about to close!” Gene thumped his fist against the steering wheel, and Sam rolled his eyes.
“If it’s that damned important for you to pickle your liver and brain to kingdom come before going home, I’ve got a bottle of bloody scotch at mine,” Sam said, leaning back in his seat.
“No beer, though?” Gene looked at Sam, who gave him a disgusted look in response to the fact that Gene looked like a puppy begging for a biscuit. He shook his head and then rolled his eyes again, hoping that Gene would take note of the gesture.
“A few bottles, maybe. Come on. If you get too damned pissed, I can always drive your sorry carcass home.”
“Like hell you’ll ever drive this motor, Tyler,” Gene grunted, and Sam glared at him from the corner of his eye, his face turned back to the windscreen.
After an entire half of Sam’s fifth was drained and gone, Gene was starting to feel warm and loose, and Sam stretched an arm out and lightly ruffled the hair at the back of Gene’s neck. “What the hell’re you doin,’ Tyler?” Gene whispered, and then Sam moved his hand up, running his fingers through Gene’s hair, feeling the strands cascading through his fingers.
“Have you ever been given jealous looks by women, Gene?” Sam asked, his fingers still dancing at the back of Gene’s neck, the hairs brushing against the skin on the back of his hands and the flesh on Gene’s neck as they did so, fingertips working upwards towards Gene’s scalp, slowly ruffling and caressing, lifting and lowering segments of honey blond strands one clump at a time.
“’Course I have. All birds want a bit of the ol’ Gene Genie.”
“They want your hair, is what they want,” Sam whispered, and Gene started to feel his trousers tighten as Sam continued to work his magic, fingers dancing through the golden mop, pausing to just barely touch the tops of his ears, lifting upwards and pulling the strands out, letting them fall and then combing back through them again. Gene swallowed, hard, feeling the sensations of his hair being played at, letting it drive him mad once again.
“Tyler… Sam…” Gene pulled away, suddenly missing the sensation of Sam’s fingers running through his hair, and then thought better of it. Instead of standing, he set his glass down on the floor and eased himself further onto the bed, playing at his belt buckle as Sam resumed the stroking of his hair.
Gene closed his eyes for a moment, and then twisted around, grabbing at Sam’s belt buckle, feeling himself sliding into the old routine. Each time, he promised himself it would be the last time. It wasn’t what he needed. It wasn’t what Sam needed… He rationalized this particular train of thought by telling himself that if he silently repeated it enough times, it would, eventually, come to pass. It never did. And Sam would always be there, stroking at his hair…
Gene pulled Sam’s trousers down, not forcefully, not angrily, not even wildly - he took great care in the movements, sliding the fabric down and over Sam’s feet, and then doing the same with Sam’s underpants… It didn’t take long before he’d done the same with his own trousers and pants, and then he and Sam were staring at each other, naked from the waist down…
Sam was always the one to do the shirts - Gene had no idea why - it was on par with the hair touching, though: he didn’t have a clue, and he doubted that Sam did, either, but it was something that Sam did. And it was something that he liked. That drove him mad. Sam slowly undid the buttons on his own shirt, and then those on Gene’s, and then the two of them shrugged their shoulders and spilled the shirts to the floor, where they nestled amid the jumble of trousers and socks.
There were no words. Gene moved his lips slowly up and down Sam’s chest, taking in the salty taste of his flesh, the scent of his laundry soap and shaving foam - Sam didn’t wear aftershave - the scent of leather still lingered on his flesh, and that was enough. Sam followed suit by kissing Gene’s shoulder, his lips brushing the flesh there, moving towards his neck, and then it was Sam’s mouth, and not his hands, that were brushing the hairs at the nape of Gene’s neck, driving him wild. And that was when things kicked off…
Gene shoved Sam away and onto his back, then lifted his legs up, letting the slim ankles sit on either one of his shoulders, and he pressed forward, reaching for the tube of lubricant that Sam kept near the bed. He didn’t bother to warm it in his hands the way that Sam always did - he simply slathered it on, and then pushed, drawing himself closer to Sam, planting his hands on either side of Sam and feeling Sam’s hands wrap around his neck as he pushed in, forcing Sam open, not taking his time, as Sam always did, not bothering to be gentle, or slow, or sensual in his motions, but simply moving with his instinct.
As Gene started to pump mercilessly up and down, his shaft slick and white hot inside of Sam, Sam continued to play with his hair, first sifting and combing as he had been before, and then grabbing, nearly yanking, pulling, his hands eventually become to forceful, leading to his grasping at Gene’s neck as the two of them bucked and rocked back and forth, in and out, pounding down, hammering, sweating and moaning and wet and sticky and then Gene was nearly screaming, and Sam was nearly screaming, and the world was spinning and crazy and perfect and dark and bright all at once and there was never such tight, hot, painful pleasure as that feeling…
And then colors erupted before his eyes and he strained, gasping and groaning, before falling down, slumping onto his forearms, his bare chest colliding with Sam’s, his body covering Sam’s, and Sam’s hands were still there, on the back of his neck.
Gene fell asleep inside of Sam, never once having bothered to ask if Sam found this uncomfortable, or disgusting, or awkward… Eventually, Sam would roll Gene off of and out of him, and Gene would awaken, slightly, with the motion. And then Sam would curl up next to him and Gene would feel it again…
Fingers through his hair, on the back of his neck, on his scalp, at his ears. Lulling him back to sleep… The routine was always the same. And each time, he would tell himself that he was hurting Sam, that he was hurting himself, that this wasn’t what he needed.
As always, the maddeningly motions came, the movements in his hair, and Gene tried, tried with all of his will, to make himself believe his desperate lies. But he couldn’t. Not while Sam’s hands were still moving through his hair. And as close as he could come to actually achieving his goal, at some point, he would feel it again. And it would feel maddening, and drive him insane for a moment, and in the end, it would be perfect. Because this was what he needed. And what Sam needed. And part of him would always know that. The part, it seemed, that lived in his hair.
5.
There was one thing about Sam that infuriated Gene more than so many other things. More than his poncey words, more than his cold logic, more than his love of regulations… It was the damned PREDICTIONS.
“How the bloody hell did you know he was going to die in a car crash? And even the bloody make of the damned car?”
“Just a gut feeling, Guv.”
“How the bloody hell did you know they were going to close that factory and turn it into a bloody cinema?”
“Just a gut feeling, Guv.”
And it continued. Red Rum. Nixon bloody saying, “I am not a crook.” The Spanish prime minister’s assassination. Billy Jean bloody King, queen of the tennis courts. India building a bloody nuke. Betty Grable’s death. The damned ponce knew all the dialogue from “The Exorcist” a week before it opened, and refused to go and see it with the rest of CID - not only that, but he’d secretly filled every single officer’s flask (or flasks, as it were) with pea soup the night before they went to see it… How the hell did he know to do that? And then the 1974 world cup… Who in their right mind would’ve picked West Germany over Holland? Tyler would’ve, to the tune of a hundred bloody pounds…
“Just a gut feeling, Guv.”
“Tyler, I’m only going to say this once, and once only: Do you have a damned crystal ball in your head? Is that what the wizard replaced your damned brains with?”
“Aren’t you the one that’s always promoting ‘gut feeling,’ Guv?”
“Shut it.”