And Such an Innocent Smile
Gene touched him with the kind of elegance he only acquired once he'd forgotten about his façade - a sort of casual fluidity that drove Sam mad. It was a hand ghosting over Sam's hip, lips pressed tight into the crook of his neck, a leg brushing against his inner thigh. Sam arched into it, into the warm, solid body, his breath coming in long, shallow jets of air.
"I can't..." Sam started, but didn't finish.
Can't stand this. Can't stop this. Can't understand how you can punch me one minute, fuck me the next.
Gene's hand stopped roaming, his lips ceased searching and he drew away, eyes clouded over with confusion and desire.
"Can't get it up?"
Sam would have smiled. If it had been any other time, the corners of his lips would have twitched and he would have ducked his head, embarrassed by his enjoyment of a man who had the skill and articulation of Oscar Wilde in offending both minority and major groups. But this wasn't any other time.
"Can't wrap my head around you being one person there, one person here."
Gene rolled his eyes, adjusting position until they were curled together, Sam's back against his chest, slung off at an angle. He had a hand at the back of Sam's head, his leg tight against Sam's right hip. Sam listened to Gene's heartbeat as it thumped down his spine in a fixed, smooth rhythm.
"Self-preservation," Gene said bluntly, his thumb rubbing circles at the nape of Sam's neck.
"I get that. I just --- at any other time, you seem to wear your emotions on your sleeve. You shout and you rant and you hit people. Everyone knows when you're angry, everyone knows when you're amused. But this. This is different. I don't know you."
Gene bent Sam's head back and kissed him. It was awkward, it was uncomfortable, it made Sam wish he'd kept quiet.
"You know me."
Sam twisted, lacing his hands through Gene's hair. He kissed him again - stubble brushing against stubble - tasting peppermint, tobacco and whisky.
"I know you," Sam repeated quietly. He stared into Gene's eyes and gave a short, sharp nod.
One of Gene's hands snaked over the expanse of Sam's skin to his waistband, fingers brushing lightly against his tailbone. His other hand pulled at the slider of Sam's zip. He shifted back, allowing Sam to rise up and pull his jeans and boxers down his thighs in a single motion. Sam knelt between Gene's legs, not thinking about the springs digging into his knees.
Gene took Sam's cock in his mouth and Sam willed every muscle in his body not to surge forward. Gene was hot, wet, and perfect. It was worth being cramped, head against the roof, as Gene sucked and pulled off again, swirling his tongue around the tip. Sam's breath hitched in his chest and he avidly watched Gene through the dim and murk. Gene watched him back, green eyes intense.
Streetlight glinted against the window as they moved in the backseat of the Cortina. Sam's hips jerked involuntarily. Gene's cheeks hollowed. And they came apart together.
Heart's a Mess
He judges him by the words he doesn't say. Yes. No. Maybe. Maybe not.
Sam never says sorry. Never once admits he's done something wrong. And he has --- done wrong. When Gene thinks about it, he wants to tear Sam limb from limb.
Bastard. Snivelling, self-centred, conniving git.
He judges him by the actions he takes. Kiss. Hit. Grin. Frown.
Sam never waits. Never seems to think that what he's trying to do might have consequences. Just presses up tight, creeping and crawling under Gene's skin.
So Gene can do nothing but follow the same path. Not say the words. Do take the actions. Swing Sam into the wall and crush his lips; bite and nip and lick and have. Listen to Sam talk about 'procedure' and 'preparation' and all the while think about punishment. Sam and bleeding Morgan, with their pretty little plans drawn up on monogrammed stationery.
Two fingers, three, slick with oil, but it's not courtesy or concern; lips pulled back and teeth bared as he positions himself.
And Sam against the wall - always against the wall - nowhere near a bed or something that might be construed as comfortable or personal. Fingernails scrabbling, cock leaving wet, sticky trails against wallpaper, discomfort and outright pain for Sam. For Gene, the pull and push of getting inside Sam, claiming him.
You were never his, Tyler. You should never have tried to be. The second you stepped into my station you were mine to have and to hold.
Sam grunts, guttural and low - not words, just sounds. Gene is as silent as he can be. In, and in, and in, until there's the smack of flesh against flesh, fingers digging deep into hips and then easing out, and out, and out, only to repeat the process again, but slower.
Sam's head rocks back and rests on Gene's shoulder and Gene has to take the weight. Just like Sam - arsehole - expecting him to carry the load. And it's rough and it's tumble and it's wrong, but Gene can't help it. He surges in and drags out and his breath is tight in his chest as Sam moans.
He shouldn't be enjoying this - pansy - he should be wishing he'd never started it. Gene thrusts harder, faster, lacking in finesse. Brutal and harsh. His hips snap forward involuntarily, tearing apart his rhythm. And Sam - pervert - keens and curls the fingers of one hand into the hair at the back of Gene's neck as his other fists his cock in time to Gene's rocking.
Gene can't take it anymore. Can't be like Sam. Has to say those words even as he takes these actions.
"I'm gonna make you pay, Tyler. I'm gonna make you run to the edge of the earth and back for what you did to me - what you did to my team. Even if I have to fuck you into the floor to do it."
And Sam comes seconds before Gene does.
When You Dream
Sam gazes as Gene pulls his shoulders back. A lock of hair has fallen to Gene’s forehead, resting just along the crease in his brow. Sam’s senses sharpen and he focuses on the light that casts across Gene’s face, along the angle of his nose, the length of his lashes.
“You don’t have to go so early,” Sam rasps, his throat unaccustomed to having to speak at the ungodly hour it would usually be resting.
Gene glances at him. “Thought it’d be best. Anyway, I’m sure you’ll wanna get your feather duster out after last night.”
Sam raises his head a fraction, surveys the flat. It’s much the same as usual. “You seem to think I’m some sort of neatfreak.”
“You are, at the station.” Gene takes another look at the paper strewn carpet and dish covered kitchenette, raising his eyebrows. “Not here.”
“I don’t care about here.” Sam sits up, brushing a hand through his hair. He can feel a yawn coming on, but he narrows his eyes and inhales through his nose instead. The smell of the flat is undeniably masculine, tinged with sweat and old spice.
Gene sits on the cot, bending down to pull on his loafers. Sam follows the curved line of his back, the tensing of his thigh muscles.
“Any reason you’re staring at me?” Gene asks and Sam’s eyes are diverted to his face, his heartrate increasing as he realises he’s been giving the game away.
“Staring into space,” he lies, but Gene gives him one of those ‘I can see right through you’ looks and he only just manages to collect himself from the mound of blankets on the floor. He’s about to step away, but Gene catches him by the wrist.
Gene’s voice is gravelled and low. “Space looks a lot like my crotch now, does it?”
“I wasn’t staring at your crotch.” Sam waves his free hand. “I wasn’t really staring at all.”
He thinks it’s convincing enough. It should be convincing enough. Gene can call him as many names as he likes, but he doesn’t really think Sam’s gay, does he? Unless this isn’t the first time he’s caught him unaware.
It’s not convincing enough. Or at all. There’s a glint of something like anger in Gene’s eyes and he pulls Sam forward, taking advantage of gravity. Sam lands in a sprawl and swallows as he realises he may well be on the verge of a fight to the death.
Gene doesn’t punch him, strangle him, or murder him with wit. Instead, he glides his hand over Sam’s abdomen. “Should’ve told me before, Sammy-boy.”
Gene kisses like he rants – unable to stay on any one item for long. He licks to the left of Sam’s lips before thrusting his tongue inside his mouth, then slides off to the right, hands pawing at the few clothes Sam’s wearing, fingers dipping below his waistband.
“Bit quick,” Sam says and immediately regrets it as Gene laughs.
“If I’d’ve known your inviting me to stay the night was a half-arsed attempt at seduction, I wouldn’t’ve let you sleep on the floor.”
“Wasn’t trying to seduce you. You’d drunk your weight in whisky.”
Gene ignores him, edging down Sam’s underwear, exposing what has become a painfully hard cock. He wraps his hand around and slides with instinctive precision. It’s warm and tight and moves at just the right speed. There’s a single-minded devotion in Gene’s expression - he hardly seems to notice when Sam stops clutching the bedsheets and goes to divest him of his trousers.
“Gene Hunt, nought to eighty in two seconds,” Sam murmurs as he pulls the zip down and fists his cock. Gene takes that moment to level him intently and Sam knows he’s going to come before he can work up any kind of rhythm. He doesn’t think about it for long, because Gene’s thumb flicks over the top of his cock and all of the muscles in his body seem to wire together. It only takes another three strokes before he’s spurting all over Gene’s hand.
Sam can hardly register the movement as Gene gets his own hand tugging again, rougher and faster. Gene tips his head back and groans when he comes, his mouth wide.
There’s a creak as Sam collapses back onto the cot, breath huffing loudly. He blinks a few times, trying to get the sleep out of his eyes, half-convinced the whole thing’s a dream, but Gene settles a sticky hand on his chest, he turns to gaze into his eyes, and they share a grin.
“Morning. Up for a breakfast of eggs and sausage?”
“… I think I just had it.”
To the End of Time
Loneliness is subjective, contingent upon personality and circumstance. Sam’s never felt lonely. He’s been alone. He didn’t make friends easily as a child, teenager or adult. But he got around what, in others, might have been profound disenfranchisement by escaping into single-minded devotion. Sam’s never been bored. Never felt yearning. Never had an imaginary friend to use as a crutch.
He takes calculated risks. They’re always within reason, never entirely reckless, just in case. He can afford to push himself a little bit farther, drink a little bit harder. Every week he spirals down the deep dark well, wondering if today will be the day he cracks his head open on a rock.
Sometimes, being with Gene makes it all worse. Not in the sense that Gene likes to play fast and loose with his fists. More in the sense that Gene reminds him of reality. He would have hated Gene, in 2006. But Gene could never exist in that time. Even in his most subdued moments, Gene is too strong a personality to contend with an age that requires people to constantly shift stance and position. Sam admires Gene’s conviction, until he reminds himself he’s admiring a figment of his own imagination.
Though he never expected it to occur, he supposes he must have wanted it to. Not that he seems to have any direct control, but this world is made from the patterns in his mind. This is all about him being gay, deep down inside. Or maybe not. Maybe it’s just happened – like June just happened, like Joni. Gene. Fighting him one minute, kissing the next.
Gene tastes like so many things, depending on the day. Toothpaste and whisky, crisps and whisky, beer and whisky. Whisky on the palate, whisky on the tongue. And he smells, too - not unpleasant as such, just forceful, memorable. His fingers skim over Sam’s skin and his hands take hold and his cock brushes against his inner thigh.
And is this not real, then? Every sense heightened and every nerve on edge.
“I know you’re not really here,” Sam mutters, palm curving over Gene’s hip. “I know it’s all in my head.” He presses his lips to Gene’s spine, rocking backwards and forwards, cock easing along the cleft of Gene’s arse. “But I can’t care, I just can’t, I need you to help me feel.” He uses his fingers to open Gene, slicking his cock at the same time. And Gene doesn’t say a word, just moves and moans and grunts, head dipping low towards the sheets and arm muscles straining.
Like this, the loneliness goes. Where, he has no idea. In this moment, Sam can forget about fiction and concentrate on sensation. A body, not a fabrication, splayed for him, for his connection. A body that tightens and shudders and groans. Not just any body, but Gene, someone so strong, so powerful, so… constructed.
Just Sam. Always just Sam. Always will be, steady as stone.
But he grasps tight and it doesn’t matter, does it? It doesn’t have to make sense. All that matters is the heat and motion, an expanse of skin for Sam to touch and linger on, smooth and glistening. Gene slamming back and Sam slamming in and it building, ratcheting up, getting faster and harder and better – so much better, this, than hours of every day staring at a ceiling.
Gene – precious, imaginary Gene - is perfect, giving a piece of himself to Sam, not knowing he’s owned in total. Not knowing anything, because a nothing can’t know. He breathes, heavy and ragged, and bends at his elbows, and takes Sam drawing in and pulling out. Takes it and loves it, if those sounds are to be believed. They’re not to be believed, but they’re good.
Suddenly, it’s too much. Always sudden. Always too much. Sam stills and comes, heart thumping rapidly and head lolling back. He becomes boneless and slumps onto Gene underneath him, unable to register if Gene came too. But that is of little concern – why does he care if his make-believe fuck buddy got off? Except he does care, of course, so he sucks Gene’s cock until he comes and he tells himself that they’re even.
And because Sam is lonely here, because Sam is bored, because Gene is all sorts of things Sam never even knew he wanted, the cycle continues.