Didn't Deny It
Title: Didn’t Deny It (1/?)
Pairing: Sam/Gene
Rating/Warnings: PG - very mild swearing, man-love of the platonic variety (for now).
Spoilers: None
Author’s note:
scruby suggested a fic based on these yummy pics of BAFTA goodness, where Sam has a beard. I can only blame the pictures for this, and my tight schedule for the lack of slash (at the moment). Un-beta’d, ‘cause come on, it’s me, when do I ever beta?
Summary: “What the bleeding hell is that thing on your face, Tyler?”
Part One, Part Two, Part Three
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“What the bleeding hell is that thing on your face, Tyler?”
Sam rubbed his chin absently, scouring the mountain of incomplete paperwork on Gene’s desk, not entirely certain what he was looking for.
“It’s a beard, Gene - ‘ow on Earth did you ever make DCI?”
“I can see it’s a ruddy beard, numb-nuts, the question is, why is it there?”
Sam didn’t look up. “Well I tried to grow one on me arse but it was a lot easier ‘ere.”
“Why have you grown a beard, Gladys?”
Sam sighed, glancing up. “I just ‘oped you’d stop calling me girls’ names if I looked a bit more like bloke, Guv.”
“Fat chance.”
“Look,” Sam said, seriously, pausing in his rummaging, and leaning over Gene’s desk. “When I have to go on long-term under-cover operations, I tend to grow a beard.”
Gene’s expression was the sort Sam believed he’d probably adopt if he ever tried to explain to Gene the significance of Shakespeare’s influence of contemporary literature.
“Why?”
“‘Cause it ‘elps me to remember I’m not who I normally am.”
“What, a lefty nut-case with a filing fixation?”
Sam threw him grimace. “As opposed to you, a right-wing masochist with an addiction to cheap scotch and saturated fats. Ah.”
He pulled out the piece of paper he’d been absently searching for, apparently, and tucked it into his corduroy pocket. He hated this jacket.
“You look like a librarian.”
Sam sighed. “I know. Right, I’ve got to go, Henderson’ll start to wonder where I’ve gone.”
Gene caught his arm as he turned.
“Eh… you’n ‘Enderson…”
Sam looked up at Gene and saw something angrily vulnerable there. “Yeah? What about ‘im?”
Gene ground his teeth together.
“Does ‘ee like your beard?” Gene asked, eyebrows high. Sam blinked, surprised, then lifted Gene’s hand off his elbow and gave it a brisk pat with his palm.
“Hates it.”
Gene pursed his lips briefly.
“Good,” he nodded. “See you in - what?”
“Check-in’s in two weeks.”
“Mm. Two weeks.”
“Yeah. Bye, Gene.”
“Yeah. Bye.”
Sam was round the desk in a flash, enveloping Gene in a sharp, tight hug, patting him soundly on the back, and before Gene thought about it too much he was half-way to the door.
“‘Old on, Sam-”
He turned, quickly. “Yeh?”
Gene swallowed.
“Don’t get yehself killed, can’t keep up with me paperwork as it is.”
There was more to that sentence than Gene would ever, ever admit, and Sam knew it.
“Tell you what,” Sam said, with half a grin, “you stop calling me Gladys, and I’ll stop riskin’ me neck for the good of public safety - okay?”
Gene shook his head, eyes on his desk. Well, on his empty whiskey glass.
“Ah,” he shrugged. “Yeh love me for Gladys, though.”
He peered up, sharply.
“Hm,” Sam laughed, closing the door behind him. Gene sniffed.
Didn’t deny it.
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Comments and con-crits welcome. Tah!