Fandom: Life on Mars
Word Count: 1,380 words.
Notes: Sam/Gene PWP. Based on those A2A spoilers, and sort of using the same idea as 'Seven Years', but with a different slant. Title from the song by Barenaked Ladies. Yes, I know, I've been lying again. What can I say?
Sam will leave in the morning. It will be a morning like any other, pale sun rising into the sky and dew evaporating off the pot plant by the window. There will be a clatter from the bathroom cabinet, a jingle of keys, and Gene won't raise his head, or surreptitiously open his eyes, to see Sam go. Because Sam won't just be going into work. Sam may never go into work again.
He doesn't really care, of course. It's not like they've been partners for the last seven years. Not like he's come to rely on the mouthy git for more than support at the office. Not like the thought of not seeing Sam for more than a week makes his heart thump at a rate that is treacherously slow. Because he's not like that, doesn't feel that way. Gene takes a deep breath and attempts to close his mind to the thoughts.
Sam will leave in the morning. And Gene will soon be going to London, a city that's large, but not large enough to take his fancy. It's not like Manchester, all hustle and bustle and decay, in need of a leader with convictions and courage. It's got its own set of those in superiority. He's got contacts there, has already decided which scum to eradicate, but it's funny how he's come to accept that everything he does has to be measured and tempered by words as well as actions. That won't apply anymore, there will be no rules. It almost terrifies him. But not, because he doesn't feel terror.
Sam will leave in the morning. He'll go without a word. And they've spoken about it, but Gene can barely remember the whispered conversations. He recalls saying he never says goodbye, he can visualise the flicker of pain in Sam's expression. But that's it. The plan they've made is a clever one, with only the two of them in on it. In order for it to work, the charade will have to be carefully maintained, which means no postcards, no phone calls, no visits in the night. Sam will cease to exist.
Sam will leave in the morning, but he hasn't left yet, and he stares at Gene as if he knows everything that's rolling through his brain. All the randomly connected ephemera battering at the corners and tugging at his self-will. He crashes to his knees, wraps his hands around Gene's and kneels there, looking up, almost looking like he did when they first met, small and vulnerable, but with a bite no one else could match. Gene rocks forward in the chair and presses his lips to Sam's forehead. And he thinks he should want to say 'I'll miss you'. That he should long to tell Sam just what this means to him. But that would be lying, because he won't miss Sam and Sam doesn't mean anything to him. They're work colleagues, they've engaged in mutual stress relief, and that is that.
Sam kisses, hard and insistent, with more force than he usually shows at times other than after they've been fighting. He curls his hand in Gene's hair and yanks his head down, and Gene thinks Sam could knock his teeth out with his tongue if he wanted to, but the notion makes him want to laugh so he quashes it. He kisses Sam back, stands - lifting Sam up with it - and walks them both to the bed. He strokes his hands down Sam's sides, runs his fingertips over his waistband and starts to undo his shirt buttons.
Each button undone reveals another patch of Sam's skin and Gene bends down to kiss it. He concentrates on Sam's nipples, then his ribs and everything in-between. He's rarely done this before, but he's not doing it now because he may never get another chance to, he's doing it to tease and torment. Sam makes breathy little sounds as Gene's lips brush against him, getting particularly vocal when Gene doesn't stop where his abdomen meets his legs. Gene unzips him, pulls down his trousers, his boxers, and keeps kissing. Sam still tastes of soap from his after-work shower, clean and wholesome. Gene nudges Sam's legs apart and trails over his hips, his thighs, his calves, his feet, before deciding to return to the top.
Sam arches and stills as Gene's tongue flicks over his balls and presses just behind. Makes a low, indecently rich sound as Gene hoists his legs over his shoulders and licks a broad stripe between the cheeks of his arse. Groans as Gene points the tip of his tongue near his hole, circling; concentric circles that go smaller and smaller, until he's pushing inside Sam.
And it's not worship, it has nothing to do with wanting to be able to bring to mind every single inch of Sam's body in the years to come. Sam loosens up around him and his fingers clutch at the bed sheets. Gene licks and Sam shudders and it's so hard, he's so hard, so he pulls away and scrabbles for the lubricant. And when he returns, Sam is lying there with an expression that is more than Gene thinks he could ever feel, full of need and want and desperation. Gene arranges them effortlessly, Sam splayed beneath him, ready for an action they have taken time and again before, but this time it feels different.
Gene prepares Sam, fingers dipping, pushing in where his tongue has just been. He watches Sam's reaction, the flutter of his eyelids and quick huffs of breath. Every time Gene brushes Sam's prostate, his stomach muscles contract and Gene is mesmerised by this reaction. When he knows Sam's ready, he positions himself and eases into the tight warmth, unable to do much but swallow as Sam clenches around him. Gene looks into Sam's eyes as he pushes in and he knows he has to work at not coming then and there, because the look in Sam's eyes is burning hot. He has seen that look so many times before, each time telling him something new about Sam, but here it threatens to consume him. He sets them in motion, drawing out and driving in again, but slow, steady, not wanting to rush like every other time.
His muscles strain as he carries his own and Sam's weight, but that doesn't matter. What does matter is the sound coming from Sam, making his breath hitch in his chest. Sam stares at him with forced concentration, obviously willing himself not to lose focus. His mouth is open, glistening, and a trickle of sweat runs down the side of his nose. Gene envelops himself in Sam's heat again, surging forward and pressing his lips to Sam's. He holds there, despite the pain it causes, despite his desire to come. He holds there for as long as he can before Sam urges him back into movement.
The friction builds, Gene picks up pace, but not much, just enough. He knows it's good for Sam, because he's finally lost attentiveness, glazed eyes and irregular breathing. And it's good for him, perfect even, his heart thundering and his balls tightening as he pushes in for the last time. He comes, doing all in his power not to collapse, eyes fixed on Sam's face. Sam comes a moment later, muscles in his body tightening around Gene once more.
Sam's legs slip off Gene's shoulders and Gene adjusts where their bodies lie, dragging himself up alongside Sam instead of above him. He wraps his arms tight and doesn't care that they're sticky. Doesn't care about anything. Caring would hurt. All he does is let exhaustion overcome him, listening to the beat of Sam's heart against his own.
Sam will leave in the morning. It will be a morning like any other, pale sun rising into the sky and dew evaporating off the pot plant by the window. Gene will be left with only his memories and a notable absence. Life will go on. He'll do his job, give himself new rules to follow. And he will know that Sam is somewhere out there, not by his side, but ready to return when it's safe. But he doesn't dwell on it. Because that's not his way.