Fandom: Life on Mars
Word Count: 1550 words.
Notes: Sam/Gene slash. For hambelandjemima. References Torchwood and Kingdom in slightly obscure ways.
Summary: Rathbone wants CID to take a firearms refresher course. Sam and Gene decide to make it interesting.
"I'm not as petty as you," Sam says, bracing himself against the wall of Lost and Found and widening his arms and legs.
"Still don't put it past you," Gene replies, skating his hands over Sam's calves, thighs and sides. He pats Sam's clothes down. "No concealed weapons?"
"Not a one."
"Because if I find out you've been packing on the sly, Tyler, I will beat you black and blue."
Sam laughs. "You might give it a red hot go, but do you know something, Gene? I've got fists of my own."
Gene removes his hand from Sam's inner thigh and unceremoniously yanks him from the wall, grunting. "My fists are larger than yours. All the better to punch you with."
"I knew you were a competitive sort, but this is ridiculous."
"Bet's a bet. I play to win."
Sam rolls his eyes. "Alright. I promise I have no Uzis stored about my person."
Gene lowers his head and the crease in his forehead deepens. "I can see that. Felt it too. But I still don't trust that you're gonna go by the rules."
Sam smiles, slow and relaxed. "Now I know you're lying. You trust me, like I trust you."
"You don't want a reciprocal frisk?" Gene asks, extending his arms out and placing his feet wide apart.
"Can't see any suspect bulges." Sam's smile turns into a smirk. "Depending on the outcome, that may change in time."
Gene simply sets his shoulders, adjusting his driving gloves and staring.
Sam ordinarily doesn't care for guns. They wreak havoc in an orderly world. A bullet doesn't slide through flesh, it twists and rends the flesh apart.
But he's grown up with enough films and television shows telling him guns are cool that he still secretly thinks so, deep down inside. There's nothing quite like the weight of a gun in hand - the cool, impersonal, solid power. He's not naive enough to dismiss claims that there may be something sexual in it - a gun's a metal replica of a penis.
He has great eyesight and good aim. Quicker reflexes, fantastic judgement. Sam has always excelled at firearms training. He's going to win. The bet's there just for a bit of fun, because he knows Gene will never go through with it - specifically chose something Gene would never go through with, just to witness Gene's reaction.
Gene had stayed stationary and impassive, and Sam had thought for a fleeting second that he had been more than a little obvious the past few months and Gene had come to realise exactly why he did his utmost best to piss Gene off most of the day and night. Then Gene had given Sam his own winning conditions and he realised they were both just trying to shock each other.
Sam ordinarily doesn't care for guns. But then, he ordinarily doesn't care for bullish, boorish bastards with superiority complexes and Ford Cortinas.
Sam waits for everyone to get their act together so that they can make it to the firing range on time.
Gene claps his hands together. "Now, Cartwright, I don't want you worrying about breaking a nail or some such. You can sit out and leave it to the big boys."
Sam is impressed that Annie doesn't glare. She smiles, sweetly. "With respect, Sir, I think I'll come and have a really good laugh whilst the 'big boys' forget to take the safety off or wreck their shoulder with the recoil." She points to Chris and Ray, who are facing off with each other, imitating a Western showdown using lucozade bottles as firearms.
Gene looks at them, his carefully cultivated mask of weariness at their stupidity giving way to a small smile that Sam thinks could almost be affection.
Finally, everyone who needs to go is ready, a tremor of excitement running through the air.
Ray starts to sing as they file out of CID towards the Cortina and van, "Bang bang, he shot me down, Bang bang, I hit the ground, Bang bang, that awful sound, Bang bang, my baby shot me down."
It starts off slowly. There's a lecture that no one listens to. A list of rules no one will follow. And a lot of parroting, face making and mock-yawning that triggers multiple real yawns. Sam is ashamed to admit to himself that he doesn't blame the response, after all, this is supposed to be a refresher course, not the main meal. He'd assumed that it was perfectly acceptable in 1973 to hand over a gun, set up some targets and let everyone do what they wanted. But apparently not. Apparently there are measures that need to be taken, and things that need to be checked, and Sam listens, but feels resentful.
The resentment goes away once he's given the first handgun, a Beretta M951R. He smoothes his fingers over the barrel and checks that the safety's on. The gun is polished, sleek and economical. Sam can't help but admire its precise lines and wooden grip. He looks up to see that Gene is watching him, his own gun already in his holster.
"Game on," Sam mouths, and is delighted by Gene's response, which consists of imitating blowing away the smoke from a spent barrel.
Sam's first shot goes straight through the heart of the target. Gene's goes straight through the head. Chris misses the target completely, Annie gets the abdomen, and Ray manages a shoulder-shot. Sam's next shot goes through the heart again, but Gene's misses the mark. Annie's shot would be fatal if it were in anything more alive than a paper target and she does a little dance that causes Lytts and Marlowe to widen their eyes. Chris actually gets a shot to the head, but admits he was aiming for the guts, and Ray practically blows a hand off. Other members of CID have to wait their turn.
The sound ricochets around the room, despite the protective ear-coverings. The smoke is acrid in the air. Sam bounces on the balls of his feet.
By the middle of the session he is well and truly in the lead. He has shot the most targets accurately in the shortest amount of time. Annie is next in the rankings and is the recipient of more than a few angry glares, although Chris pats her on the back and says something about her being 'dead sexy when concentrating.'
Last on the list is Gene. Sam can't quite fathom it. He's seen Gene with a gun before, he's not entirely useless, and yet, no one would think he was a remotely skilled marksman with this performance. He's always just left or right of where he should be. Sam wonders if he needs glasses.
"See? I didn't need specialised weaponry," Sam gloats, nudging into Gene's shoulder. "I have all I need right here." He taps his head and quirks an eyebrow, inciting Gene to violence. Gene doesn't react.
They move onto the Remington 870 by the end of the practice and Sam finds that his earlier suspicions about the shoddiness of operations were justified, as these particular guns are not supposed to be used on targets due to over penetration. However, he can't deny that it's a hell of a lot of fun seeing the holes in the wall.
They have their celebratory dinner at the local competitor to Wimpy's that's just opened shop around the corner from the station. Burger Off is only too happy to offer discounts to coppers, intent to get a good customer base. They're very accommodating - even when Ray and Chris decide they're going to 'put on a show' and start singing "Killing Me Softly With His Song" in strained falsetto. Sam is relatively sure they are killing him with their song, but not at all softly.
"I can't believe DI Tyler's a crack shot," Ray complains later, shaking his head.
"There are all kinds of things I'm good at you don't know about Raymondo," Sam responds. He cracks his knuckles and rocks back in his chair. "Just wait 'til you see me in action."
"He'll never get to," Annie cuts in. "If we're lucky."
"Maybe so, but least we know we could count on you to defend us if the need arises, Cartwright," Gene says and Annie beams brightly, before turning her attention back to Chris, who's trying to do a mime of being one of the targets.
"I wanna see you later at my flat to make good on my winnings," Sam says quietly, grinning sadistically in Gene's direction.
Gene gives as good as he gets and wraps his lips seductively around a chip. Sam watches intently as he bites down, smiles, and says, "I'll be there."
It's the anticipation that does it, has him standing stock still, desperate for movement. He watches the flicker of Gene's eyes, the slow, languid ease with which Gene leans there and brings his flask to his lips.
"I'm here, like you asked."
"Yes, you are."
Gene raises his eyebrows, stares at him, and Sam cannot think of anything else to say, because words are completely meaningless. He watches Gene's tongue as it glides along his lower lip, his own mouth treacherously dry. He clenches his fists by his sides and refrains from launching himself at the trunk of Gene's body, tearing off every item of his polyester casing, and tasting each square inch. But only just.
Continued: Problems Should Be Shared [NC-17]