Loz (lozenger8) wrote,

Parts of Stories I Shall Never Finish 2

So. I have this thing. Where I begin a lot of stories, or write scenes from stories. And then never, ever finish them. They're on my hard drive mocking me. So, to divorce myself, purge myself of the ill will they wing my way, I'm posting them.

1. As Humans, We Crave Disappointment [Sam/Gene slash, PG, 635 words.]

What's that you say? I actually finished this story? Why yes, yes I did. But this first version was wildly different from the tightly restrained version that exists now.


Sam’s body sank into Gene’s as 1973 dissolved into a mass of contradictions. He was aware of only five things; his body and Gene’s, his shock, his fear, his want. Gene’s hand glided up and down his back, soothing, slightly agitated, forceful.

The kiss ended when Sam pulled away for air. He gathered his defences and untangled his fingers from their position around the scruff of Gene’s neck.

“What did you mean by not being complete?” Gene asked, his head tiled to the left, his eyes half closed.

“I meant not whole. Cracked. Broken. 2007 was not the time for me. I couldn’t adjust. I didn’t feel right.”

“That’s just ‘cause you’re a grizzler. A grumbler. A grouch.”

Sam smiled again. “Maybe.”

“No maybes about it, Sammy-boy. I’ve never met a man as willing to grouse as you.”

“I hope you realise you’re just inviting me to complain more? Mostly on the rude manner in which you’ve welcomed me back.”

“You’ve hardly been gone.”

“And you’re glad.”

“You can see that, can you?”



“Well, for one, your raging hard-on was a dead giveaway.”

Gene flashed a grin at Sam, sizing him up. “So I take it you’re glad too.”


Sam’s stomach stopped pulsing and he relaxed. He raised an eyebrow at Gene. “Pub?”

“Let me get this straight. Despite all that’s happened, your strongest desire at this moment is to visit The Railway Arms?”

“I’m thirsty,” Sam said. He bent down to pick up Gene’s coat and handed it to him. “And we’ve plenty of time for other desires.” Sam turned away from Gene and started walking towards CID’s doors, a ghost of a grin hovering below the surface of his skin.

“No,” Gene said.

Sam turned back. “No?”

“No, I’ve several hip flasks here. If you’re thirsty, you can drink from one of them. I’m not sharing you tonight, Sam. You’re coming with me.”

Sam shrugged, nonchalant. He began his exit out of the station. “Well, if you insist.”

Gene’s voice came from behind. “You’re a cheeky bastard.”

“And you’re a predictable bastard.”

Gene fell into step beside Sam. He glanced at him briefly, shared humour and warmth.

They left the front doors of the station rocking on their hinges as they walked into the cold night air. The clouds looked thick with unfallen snow; tinged the barest hint of orange. Sam expelled a deep breath to see spirals of steam reaching towards the sky.


Sam had hardly gone through the door before he felt Gene’s hand, hot and heavy, on the small of his back. He rested some of his weight against it, rocking his head as Gene reached over and planted a kiss on the muscles at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. The flat was supposed to be cleared by now. Gene said he would clear it. There were bottles, instead; a line of them posing as sentry guards on the small kitchen table. The cot had rucked up sheets.

“Have you been staying here?” Sam mumbled, concentrating less on the question than Gene’s rough hands working on spinning him around and undoing the buttons of his shirt.

“Wife’s up in Newcastle with her sister. Felt as good a place as any.”

Sam smiled into the casual reply.

“You missed me,” Sam said, a hint of cruel pleasure working its way into his words. It gave him an immensely satisfying surge of something he couldn’t quite pinpoint.

“If you don’t quieten down, Tyler, I’ll continue missing you, because you’ll die a slow and painful death.” With each word, Gene pushed Sam deeper into the room, fingers moving under his shirt to glide over his skin. “Actually, I don’t know how we’re going to explain your re-appearance to the others, though I suppose it’ll quell the rumours that I finally murdered you and left you in a ditch somewhere.”

“That’s a shame. I was hoping to get you strung up.”

“Maybe another time.”

2. A Self Called Nowhere [Gen, G, 295 words]

Written pretty much directly after 2.08. Parts of this became Palimpsest and Rebel Rebel.


At first, Sam tries to control everything. He’s dead, this is his heaven and as it’s his heaven he should be able to pull the strings, right? Wrong. This is not the Matrix to his Neo. Gene Hunt is in no way to be jostled or jolted into any other mould than ‘bossy bastard with brass balls’. In a way, Sam’s glad. It gives life – death – an unpredictability he had hitherto taken for granted. Yes, there are days – usually days when Gene’s at his very most obnoxious – when Sam wishes he had the ability to snap his fingers, send Gene into a trance and have his way. But those days often end eventually and deep down, Sam understands that if he really wanted something other than the Gene he knows and is sarcastic towards, he’d never have taken the final leap.

He tries not to think about the final leap, most days and nights. He did the right thing. He knows he did the right thing. His mother had already accepted his leaving her, she said so.
The thing that really gets Sam is the complexity of the cases that present themselves. Has he read more detective fiction than he’d given himself credit for? Has having watched The Inspector Lynley Mysteries ruined him for normal crime? He doesn’t know. What he does know is that, somehow, magically, Annie often has fantastic ideas about the whys and wherefores of the criminal mind, Ray revels in grunt work, Chris starts taking initiative and honing his surveillance skills - and together they beat the bad guys. And as for him and Gene, the least said, the best mended.

At night, he thinks about it. He can’t stop thinking about it. About reality and unreality. Life and fantasy. Whether it’s more or less dangerous to choose one over the other. He wishes he had the definitive answer. Perhaps he is the definitive answer.

3. A Temporary Refuge Where Somebody Else Can Stand [Chris/Ray slash, PG, 540 words.]

Set during 1.06 and 1.07. This was my only attempt at Chris/Ray. And is likely to remain so.


He looks up at the sign and pales. They know. It’s a joke, sure, but there’s got to be truth down there somewhere, doesn’t there? On some level they can see it. In him. And this is not a good place to be in. Because them knowing, in any way, is like finally admitting to the world that this is who he is. And he’s not. He’s not defined by what they’d use to define him. He’s more than that. Just because he has thoughts. That’s all they are. There’s no danger in thoughts. Until there is.

He likes Chris. He knows that. Chris knows that. There’s nothing wrong with liking. Chris isn’t the first bloke he’s liked. But acting on it, on giving a little bit of himself over, of doing anything that means he might gain enjoyment from liking and being liked in turn --- he can’t do that. He drinks harder than the rest, and he shouts louder than the rest, and he proves himself in the only way he can. Through work. Unfortunately and fortunately, he works with Chris. So things get complicated. And here’s the sign. Looming across the station, mocking him.


“You could’ve just told them it was me,” Chris says, voice contemplative.

Ray shakes his head. “No. I couldn’t.”

There’s something very calming about the arm around his shoulders. He thinks there shouldn’t be. It should make him on edge. But he leans back into it, into the connection, and he’s okay with the world for a short while. He enjoys the feeling of Chris’ leg against his own on the settee and it helps him slow down the rushing in his brain. Chris notices his change in reaction. He rubs Ray’s arm gently, not saying anything, just keeping them like this.

“How are you feeling?”

Ray laughs. “Did you genuinely just ask that or do I need to clean the wax outta my ears?”

“I genuinely just asked that. How are you feeling, Ray?”

“How do you think I’m feeling?”

“I don’t know.” Chris says, voice casual. “It’s why I asked.”

Ray closes his eyes for a moment, contemplating moving up and away, but Chris’ fingers are moving in slow concentric circles and his mind’s growing foggy.

“I’m feeling stupid. Worried-like. For my future. DCs don’t get paid much, you know.”

Chris nods. “Yeah, I know.”

“Chris,” Ray says, changing position until they’re facing each other. He stops and loosens his steadily constricting throat, staring almost fiercely. “I’m not who you think I am.”

Chris gives half a shrug and a lop-sided smile. “I know. You’re not who anyone thinks you are.”

Ray finds the corners of his mouth turning up and he blinks, once.

“You see that, do you?”

“I see lots of things. Not that anyone pays me any attention. You made a mistake, Ray. We all did. And maybe we shouldn’t have. Maybe we should’ve left well alone. But we didn’t know.”

Ray directs his gaze down to concrete floor. “I didn’t know,” he says, tilting his head to the side.

“And even if you had, you just would’ve been doing what the Guv told you to,” Chris says quietly. Ray raises his head and meets Chris’ eyes.

4. Situational Comedy [Gen, PG, 475 words.]

Life on Mars, written as a sitcom. I probably don't have to tell you that this was written at 3am. Also, I was on crack.


SAM sits on his cot, head in his hands. CREEPY TEST CARD GIRL stands close to, holding out her clown.

Are you okay, Sam? Do you need a hug? Bubbles is perfectly willing.

If I wanted a hug, I’d have gone to the station already and waited to see my girlfriend, Annie.

[Cue cheer from audience.]

Bubbles is ever so upset.

Hug him yourself, then.

I can’t. He’s got measles and I haven’t had my immunisation.

[Cue laughter from audience.]

Well, what makes you think I have, eh?

What’s wrong?

How’d you mean?

Oh, Sam. You’re not usually this snappy. You could turn into an alligator any second.

If I could, I’d bite your legs off.

That’s not very nice.

Don’t know if you’d noticed, Creepy Test Card Girl, but I’m not a very nice person.

You’ve finally realised that, have you?

It wasn’t me who had to find out. I’d prefer it if no one would. Look, can you just go, please? Just leave me be, to wallow in misery. I hear there’s a new couple up in flat four you could terrorise.

You’re the only one I come to.


Lucky me.


GENE appears.

[Cue wolf-whistles, cheers, a few manly grunts and “ois” from audience.]

He belongs in prison.


Yeah. Piss pot in corner, butch bloke called Frank with roving eyes, constant yelling from guards and trying to hide your snout. You know, that place we send the bad boys to, Sammy-sweets. The clanger. Porridge. Gaol.

I know what you bloody meant, Gene. I’m not Chris.

[Cue jeer and ‘awww’ from audience.]

SAM (contin’d)
I just think that’s extreme, is all. He’s a fifteen year old lad. He’s made a mistake.

Oh no. Oh, no, no, no, no, no. Knocking over a teacup, that’s a mistake. Zipping up too fast at the urinal, that’s a mistake. Falling in with the likes of Denny Debbington is severe and scummy criminal activity.

Fine. So we condemn him to – what was that – piss pots and some butch bloke called Frank? That’s nice, that is. That’s a real lovey-dove. I’m sure he’ll come out of the experience a reformed citizen.

It’s not about coming out. It’s about going in. And not presenting oneself as an ever-so-tiresome thorn in the moth’s wing.

[Cue laughter from audience.]

Your metaphor’s showing.

[Cue more laughter from audience.]

SAM (contin’d)
Right, well, I think I’ve said all I can say here. It’s time for me to go and speak to someone sane.

5. Shakespearean Gene [Slashy, slashy gen, G, 215 words.]

Working title. This was actually written as commentfic to neuralclone, but for a long, long time I'd bring it up on screen and think about how I could turn it into a longer story. That obviously didn't happen.


You're being just like Hamlet, you are."

"The cigar?"

"No, the Prince, you pillock. All melancholy pouting and talking to yourself," Gene said caustically, rolling his eyes. "The cigar. What'd'you take me for, eh?"

"Well, I wouldn't want to go so far as to call you an uncultured swine, Gene, but... actually, yeah, I probably would."

"Right. For that, I'm gonna set the three witches on you, and if you so much as quirk an eyebrow at me, I'll bring you down with a right MacDuffing."

Sam grinned. "See, now you're just getting confused. That's Macbeth."

"And I'll send Othello and Lear in for good measure," Gene said, pushing his chin forward and staring down at Sam through his eyelashes.

Sam quirked his eyebrow and smiled provocatively. "There I was hoping you'd go for the easy one and tell me you were going to give me a good Puck."

6. A Cut Scene from Maybe Tomorrow [Sam/Gene slash, PG, 285 words.]

Okay, so among my unfinished stories, there's this one, Maybe Tomorrow, that'll be posted next alongside the LoM/Hot Fuzz crossover of doom - the premise being that Gene goes to the future with Sam. I have spent - oh - the better part of a year trying to wrangle this story into submission and it absolutely fails to do anything I want it to, in every way. Well, this scene - this was one that was never even going to make it into the final story anyway, because you might have noticed, I hate mushy love scenes. But I still wrote it. Uh. Yeah.



“Because I love you.”

The second Sam said it he regretted it. It went onto his steadily increasing list of ‘stupid things Sam Tyler has said and done.’ Gene’s reaction, however, flipped that feeling over and gave it a good kicking.

“I love you too. Doesn’t mean I’m about to start wrapping you up in cotton wool and keeping you in a little box.”

Sam stepped forward, blinking. “You love me?”

“Oh, I decided to travel to a fantasy land I’d never been before, with little to no hope of returning home, just because some bloke makes me randy. I’m beginning to wonder how you ever won me over with your detective skills, Sam, you twonk.”

Sam bit his lower lip and Gene closed the distance between them. He held Sam’s face in his hands, nuzzling his nose against Sam’s and bringing their lips into contact. He pulled away and stared into Sam’s eyes.

Sam’s throat constricted. “Fuck, Gene. I wasn’t expecting this.”

“And I was?”

“No, of course not. I mean… sometimes, I think I know everything. I think that every little element of the universe is made of material I can grasp. And then the next second, it’s like absolutely nothing I’ve ever thought of comprehending before.”

“I’ve seen you in your ‘know everything’ mode. It’s a frightening sight.”

Sam smiled, letting his hand drag down Gene’s front. “You have one too.”

“Yeah, but I do,” Gene asserted.

“Know everything?”

“Clearly I knew a damn sight more than you when it came to where we stand.”

“That’s true.”


Gene leaned in again and kissed Sam, this time with more depth and a great deal more passion. Sam pushed him back onto the bed.

7. Untitled [I wasn't sure if it was slash or gen, G, 273 words]

Oh, boys. I really liked this, but I haven't found a vehicle to place it in yet.


Sam’s head is dipped to the side. His mouth, normally so tightly constrained, is slack. The protective instinct in Gene kicks in and he pushes it down. He doesn’t need to feel protective of Sam. Sam is more than capable of dealing with his own demons. But Sam is a member of Gene’s team, and he always makes sure his team is protected, whether they need it or not. Sam also looks like an innocent child when asleep, all softness and relaxation. Gene turns to stare resolutely out the window. Gazing at his DI is not going to help them catch Symons.

Sam makes a sound, a small wheeze, and Gene twists back to see Sam gazing at him under half-closed lids.

“How long have I been out of it?”

Gene shrugs. “Twenty? Thirty minutes? Not long.”

“Should’ve woken me.”

“You need your beauty sleep.”

Sam presses forward in his seat and cracks his neck, displaying an array of discomforted expressions. He yawns, bringing his hand up to cover his mouth, ever the gentleman.

“It’s always stakeout after stakeout with you,” Sam says, clicking his fingers in pre-arthritic pain.

“Could be worse. Could have a job as Fanny Craddock’s sex slave, now that’d be torture.”

Sam tilts his head in consideration. “I’d learn lots of new recipes.”

“Better than your marvellous ‘chicken in a basket’? I don’t think so.”

There’s a shared smile and Sam quirks his eyebrow just slightly. He’s thinking things he won’t say and Gene won’t ask what they are.

“I was thinking…” Sam says after a while.

Gene cuts in. “Dangerous, that. They’ve got pills for it these days.”

8. This has the working title of "Slash Dialogue" [Sam/Gene slash, oh so NC-17, 440 words]

Along with Goodnight Sweetheart this is the most explicit thing I have ever written. I am blushing a lot right now. Uh. Yeah. There are good reasons this has not been expanded. I'm running and flailing.


They were kissing, naked. Their first time on a bed together. They’d had handjobs and blowjobs in alleyways and the Cortina. Sam’s flat. Gene’s office. But this was different. They were in a rented motel room, pretending to be on a stakeout.

Gene pawed at Sam as they kissed, his large hands exploratory. Sam let him touch, loved the sensation; he’d gone too long without it. One of Sam’s hands threaded through Gene’s hair, whilst the other stroked from his chest to his soft paunch. Gene broke away from Sam’s mouth and started kissing, nipping, licking a trail down his cheek, to his earlobe, down his neck, over his collarbone. Sam moaned and arched into the movement, his heart racing.


“Gene. Gene,” Sam said, rolling away. “No. Stop. You have to – look, just stop and listen for a second, will ya? You can’t just start. You have to prepare me first.”

“How do you mean?”

“I need to loosen up.”

“You’ve had half a bottle of whisky, how much more do you need?” Gene asked, starting to pull Sam against his warm body once more. Sam flipped over onto his back.

“No. You’ve got to… look, here, I’ll show you.”

Sam grabbed the paper bag from the table, taking out a bottle and unscrewing the top. He widened his legs, drizzling lubricant on his fingers and around his hole. He pushed one finger in, gently moving it around. It was a strange but not unpleasant sensation. Gene shifted position and stared, transfixed.

“How do you know you’ve got to do that?”

Sam let the air rush out of his body and answered. “Because.”

“Because what?”

“If I don’t, those won’t be moans of pleasure,” Sam said, pulling out and pushing in two fingers. “It’ll hurt --- even more than it’s going to.”

“How do you know? Thought you said you had no experience with blokes.” Gene’s face was flushed and he looked disconcerted and vaguely embarrassed, but undeniably turned on, hard cock leaking.

“I just do, alright?”

“No, it’s not alright. How’d you know?”

“I watch channel four.”

Gene was still staring at Sam, licking his lower lip. Sam motioned to Gene to tell him to move forward. He slid his fingers out.

“Okay, I’m ready.”

“You sure?”

“Just fuck me, Gene,” Sam said, applying the lubricant in three soft swipes up Gene’s cock.

“Shouldn’t you be the other way?”

Sam hooked his legs up high around Gene’s back and helped him ease his cock in, inch by inch. It hurt, but Sam guessed it was considerably better than if he’d just let Gene have his way with him. Gene’s expression was a mixture of determination and pleasure and Sam was glad he could see that – wanted to witness the reactions, wanted to see Gene's face as he filled him.

Tags: life on mars, unfinished, writing

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