Loz (lozenger8) wrote,


Title: Tangible/Intangible
Fandom: Life on Mars
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2750
Notes: Sam/Gene slash, pretty much PWP. No spoilers for the second series.
Summary: Sam shouldn’t have given Gene a key to his flat.

The one time Gene comes into Sam’s flat without breaking the door down, he instantly regrets it. The reel-to-reel is working, blasting out some noise - enough to make Gene wonder how Sam’s neighbours put up with him. Sam’s lying on his cot, the sheets and his pyjama bottoms kicked down around his ankles, his vest riding high, allowing pale skin to glisten in the early morning light filtering through the window. Sam’s hand is on his cock and he’s thrusting up, eyes screwed shut, sweat trickling over bare skin. Gene stares, fixated, his eyes travelling over the small curve of Sam’s belly as his hips roll forward. Sam’s lips are parted and wet, his forehead creased, his hair curled from perspiration. Gene turns away and closes the door quietly, setting his back against the hideously coloured hallway, wishing to fuck Sam hadn’t given him a key in a fit of irritation.

He waits for fifteen minutes, straining his ears for sounds of movement, hearing only guitar riffs and drum beats. He tries to blot out the images that assail him behind closed eyelids. After a time, he decides to chance it and knocks on the door with a firm fist. Sam answers after a minute, dressed in button-up shirt and trousers and running a towel through his hair. He gives Gene a cursory glance, grabs his jacket and closes the door behind him.

“Hi. Why so early?”

“Needs must.”

“Big case?”


Gene doesn’t look at Sam. He walks out of the block of flats and climbs into the Cortina, knowing Sam has followed him. He taps his fingers on the steering wheel, waiting for Sam to do up his seat belt and hold on for grim life.

“Are you okay? Or do you have some deadly strain of laryngitis that also affects the eyes?”

Gene quickly flicks his gaze to Sam and sees an inquisitive quirk of an eyebrow.

“It’s ugly, Sam.”

He starts the car and drives to the crime scene, glad to have the road to focus on. His concentration is taken up by speeding white lines and the possibility of darting pedestrians.

When they arrive, no-one comments on the twenty minute gap between the time Gene left and his and Sam’s appearance, which is just as well, because he can’t exactly claim to have got lost. He buries himself in the menial tasks of ordering the different factions to work in their various capacities and begins interviewing witnesses to ascertain basic facts. Usually, work is a good distracting mechanism, but apparently Sam has the power to throw that to the ground and stamp on it.

He knows who’s murdered the boy from the first words that come out from the woman’s lips. There’s an insincerity there that’s contrasted with crocodile tears and a pouty frown. But in typical fashion these days, there’s emphasis on evidence and the collection there-of, so they go back to the station and interrogate her in the Lost and Found.

“Just tell us what we want to know, Sue.”

“I don’t know anything.”

“We can help you. It was an accident, wasn’t it? We can sort it all out.”

Sam uses his charming man act and it makes Gene irrationally angry. He’s used to it by now, but why does Sam always have to feign compassion? Just once he wants to see Sam show his true colours, slam on the desk like Gene knows he wants to, and whip the suspects with his acerbic tongue. But he’s kind eyes and gestures and Gene’s the hard man, Gene’s the bad cop, Gene’s the one getting the answers the way he knows how.

She doesn’t confess, but they bang her up and wait for forensics to come back. Gene holes himself up in his den, behind the wooden barricade of his desk. He finds his eyes constantly wandering to Sam through the blinds of his office. It disconcerts him. Flashes of Sam, alone, on his cot, come to flicker at the forefront of Gene’s mind. He tells himself to get the fuck over it. It’s perfectly natural. In fact, in some ways it’s almost consoling that Sam’s human after all. But he can’t get over it. That it bothers him so much makes him feel like a pansy. And Gene Hunt is not soft. No, Gene Hunt is hard. Achingly hard. And he hates it.

Throughout the day, he watches Sam wander and waver, talking to the other officers and calling contacts for the two extra cases he’s working on. Normally by now, he’d go out and force Sam to the canteen, since Sam is thoroughly unable to go at appropriate times if left to his own devices. But he can’t. He doesn’t want to spend that time with Sam, with his head so full of him. He watches Sam go to lunch with Cartwright and feels a mixture of jealousy and relief he’d rather not analyse.

It’s like he’s violated something. Stepped over a boundary he didn’t even know existed. It’s not like he’s never seen a wank before. Hell, it’s not like he’s never wanked with other blokes before. National service and the force almost go as far as to list it as a pre-requisite. But this is Sam and Sam’s not like other blokes. He’s his own, new kind of bloke. A walking contradiction - both the weakest and strongest individual Gene knows. What Gene walked in on, that was a private thing, between Sam and himself. And the thought that pounds through Gene’s brain is that it was so lonely. So futile. Sam deserves more than loneliness.

Out there, Sam’s the same. He’s a singular entity operating with his own agenda. And no-one really worries as much as you’d think. No-one tries to understand why he tilts his head to the right whenever he has the telephone receiver in his hand, or cares that he writes like he wanks, with precise strokes. Except Gene. Every time he looks at Sam, he sees him half-naked, sweaty, arching up, face pulled tight in concentration, hand flexing, aiming for the kind of peace only a good fuck affords. In a dark place he’s kept hidden for as long as he can remember, Gene wants to be the one to give Sam the release he craves.

Forensics don’t come back by the end of the day and Gene thanks sod’s luck that Sam walks into his office, holding his jacket, his lips a thin smile.


“I’ve got a better idea.”

Gene avoids Sam’s confusion and drives down backstreets to the place he’s been all of twice, but gets free passes to constantly. A place with glittering neon to advertise the grime and grit of the wall behind.

“Where are you taking me?” Sam asks, stepping out of the Cortina and walking behind Gene with a clatter.

“You’ll see.”

Gene powers on, presenting a shiny grin to the bodyguards and gaining entry. It’s dark inside, with waved wall-lighting and pedestals. It’s not unlike Warren’s club, though somehow less lecherous, as if the honesty of it counteracts the tackiness. Girls dance, bare and brazen, skin everywhere offset by cheap illumination.

“Oh. Lovely,” Sam says, and Gene can hear three different tones of sarcasm in the statement.

Gene finds them a seat near the front, his roll of cash out on the tabletop and his elbows leaning against the side. He waves for a waitress and she comes, topless, taking his order for two glasses of scotch. He watches the female body swaying in front of him and gets decidedly randy. He feels a small measure of disgust. And it doesn’t block out the other body, in his mind.

Their drinks come and Gene swills his glass around, watching Sam in his peripheral vision down his drink.

“You know, for a man who doesn’t like pornography, you’re being quite hypocritical.”

Gene scowls, knocking back his scotch in one fell swoop. “This isn’t for my benefit, this is for yours.”

“Fuck, if I’d’ve known that, I would’ve worn my best tie.”

“There’s no need to be facetious.”

“We’re sitting at a formica table with a naked woman gyrating in front of us, how much more facile can you get?”

“Facetious and facile are not one and the same, as you well know, Mr Metaphor.”

Gene turns fully to face Sam and bangs his glass on the table for emphasis. Sam tucks his head into his body, looking down at the ground.

“May as well be.”

“Look, can you just be like everyone else here and enjoy it, for Christ’s sakes?”

“Not really, no. Gene, this isn’t me. I have no idea why you thought this’d be grand.”

Gene doesn’t say that he’s not sure why he thought so either. There are several different thoughts floating around in the space above his eyes and he can’t pluck any of them out and make sense of them.

“You’ve been with a prozzie, this is the next best thing.”

“I was drugged. It wasn’t like I paid her to show me a good time.”

Gene raises his hand for the waitress again, contemplating asking for the whole bottle. “You still had one, though.”

“Oh, you know this, do you?”


“You’ve been in my mind.” Sam’s tone is flat, but brimming with annoyance.

“No need. You wear your thoughts on your sleeve. In your eyes. With that poe-faced little smirk of yours.”

“Right. Well, what’s my sleeve, eyes and face saying now?”

Gene looks at Sam. He properly looks. Something knots at the base of his stomach and his eyes travel from the top of Sam’s head to his chest. In that moment he’s looking at two Sams – the one he knows and the one he wants to know, and he doesn’t know anything.

He stands, sweeping his coat out from under him in a deliberately dramatic movement as he makes his way out of the club, aware that Sam is following thanks to his innate sense regarding members of his team and Sam’s predictability. There’s little light as he walks away from the club in the direction of the Cortina.

“Gene, stop.”

He stops against his better judgement, dipping into his pocket to retrieve a cigarette from the half-empty packet there.

“I’m getting sick of you, Sam. I try to do something nice for you, and you throw it back in my face.”

“Look, I’m sorry. But I’m not like that. It holds no interest for me whatsoever.”

Gene doesn’t allow himself to think whatever is hovering within him as he studies Sam’s expression in the light reflected off the Cortina bonnet.

“Not interested in women?”

“I’m plenty interested in women.” Sam stops and stands an inch or two from Gene’s side. “I’m the kind of person who needs to… I need touch, okay?”

“If we slipped her a twenty, I’m fairly sure she’d touch whatever you want. Hell, give her a tenner and she’d go down on your ding-a-ling.”



“Why the sudden interest in my sex life or lack-there-of?”

Gene purposefully avoids Sam’s eyes. “You’ve said it yourself. You’re always alone.”

“So you thought you’d make that better by introducing me to the seedier parts of Manchester?”

“I just wanted to get someone for you – to give you what you need. Something I can’t provide.”

“What makes you so sure you can’t give me what I need?” Sam asks, tone oddly whimsical. He looks at Gene, sees his expression and opens his eyes wide as he holds his hands out. “Fuck. I don’t mean it like that. I’m not…”

But Gene doesn’t let him finish the sentence. He slams Sam against the wall, his fingers curving against Sam’s neck. “You’re not what?”

“Coming onto you.”

Gene studies Sam, trapped in the sensation of Sam’s skin under his, warm and tingling. He licks at his lower lip as he holds Sam, not with any force, just with his presence, looming, waiting.

Gene’s voice is hardly above a whisper. “You’re sure, Sammy-boy?”

Sam must have noticed the shift in dynamics. He stares into Gene’s eyes, his pupils dilated, flecks from the moonlight making them look even larger than they are. He physically relaxes in Gene’s hands, but Gene can hear his heartbeat pulsing, pumping as fast, if not faster, than his own.

“Well, I wasn’t,” Sam says, hushed. He hesitates. “But I could.”

Gene lets him go and steps back. Sam strides into his personal space, vibrating with energy. He tilts his head and Gene pushes him back again, this time pressing his lips against Sam’s. They kiss with ferocity, rapid movements and tongues everywhere. Stubble grazes against stubble and the taste is scotch. Gene hears Sam’s head knock against the brick wall, so he pulls him forward and places his hand at the back, holding onto Sam, fingers caressing over the skin readily available. The kisses deepen and breathing becomes difficult, if not impossible. They’re both hard, grinding into each other.

Sam drags his hands from Gene’s shoulders and starts fumbling with his belt. Gene nods. He doesn’t have to, but he does. In response, Sam puts his hand down the front of Gene’s trousers and grips his cock gently, sliding in tentative strokes. Gene takes his lips away from Sam’s and leans against him, their foreheads touching as he looks down and guides Sam’s hand. He wraps his fingers over Sam’s, showing him how he likes it, until Sam’s moving with just the right action and it’s much, much better than when he’s alone. But then, he knows Sam’s had practice. Gene anchors himself against the wall and breathes in quick bursts, concentrating enough to unzip Sam’s fly. And then Gene’s hand is on Sam’s cock. Which, if he’s perfectly honest with himself, is something he’s wanted since he first saw Sam half-naked, thrusting, lips red and parted, fingers clenching, feet flat against the cot, aiming for the kind of release only a rush of hormones affords. If he’s even more honest, he might realise he wanted it before.

If watching Sam wank is wrong, this is downright wicked, but somehow Gene doesn’t find it within him to care. Sam is hot and slick and has moved his head so he’s pushing his tongue into Gene’s mouth like he’s got no other worry in the world. He speeds up the hand on Gene’s cock, and Gene feels the heat in himself escalate before he comes. He takes deep breaths and continues pumping Sam, the scent of perspiration and sex mingling to make him feel even more lightheaded. Sam eases his head away again and mumbles something incoherent, over and over. It sounds happy, which is a first for him. Gene nips at his jaw. After several seconds, Sam comes too, hot and wet and sticky.

Sam arches back and Gene looks up to see moonlight reflecting off his teeth as he grins at the sky. He hastily adjusts himself and delves into his pocket, searching for something with which to clean himself off. He finds a used bookies’ slip and it will have to do, so he wipes his hand and fastens his trousers and watches as Sam does the same. The only sound to be heard is the distant hum of car engines and a low thumping of bass from the strip club nearby.

Gene stares at Sam and is surprised he doesn’t want to leg it over a fence and run screaming into the night. What he wants to do is share a bottle of scotch and talk about potential evidence for their latest case. He rolls his shoulders back and tries not to smile, but fails. Sam pats his arm and Gene lets Sam’s hand rest there, enjoying the weight against cotton and camelhair. It’s strange how the realisation comes to him, hitting him in his solar plexus. They can do this. They can have this.

“Would it be fair to say that the whole loneliness thing wasn’t just directed at me?” Sam motions at the Cortina, falling into step beside Gene.

Gene snorts. “Look, just because we swapped bodily fluids, doesn’t mean we suddenly have to share our deepest, darkest desires.”

“I’m not the one always talking about my feelings,” Sam says with a gentle prod.

“That’s because you haven’t got any. You’re all about physicality, you.”

“Very rich, coming from the guy who’s named his hands punchy and smacky.”

“How’d you know about that?”

“I know lots of things.”


“I know you,” Sam says, and Gene expels a breath he didn’t even know he was holding, because he thinks Sam’s probably right.

Tags: life on mars, medium, rated nc-17, slash, writing

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  • Dear Livejournal...

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