Fandom: Life on Mars
Word Count: 500+ words.
Notes: Sam/Gene slash, for bistokids on her birthday. Title from the song by Al Green. This is unrepentant fluff.
It shouldn't work. If anyone ever said it to him, he'd laugh in their face and think they'd been raiding the filing cabinet for acid. He'd raise an eyebrow and make a suitably sarcastic remark. He might even share it as a joke - can you believe those nutjobs, they think that!... it's mad, innit? The human mind can come up with incredible stuff.
There's no one saying a damn thing about it, of course. No reason for incredulous tones or mockery. In fact, he might just bust everything up if he went down that route and he doesn't want to. He's making sure he's not going to. For the first time in a long time, he's happy.
He'd forgotten what it meant.
It shouldn't work. They piss each other off so bloody often, the whole of CID's got a betting pool set up. So far, he's made some gamblers very happy men. Then again, so has Sam, with his quick fists and masculine wiles. Sam's managed to successfully win a few bouts of his own, and if there were odds, they'd be even, so it's just as well there's not.
They do negotiate, though. Once, with Cartwright, to make a bet of their own. Gene took the fall like a champion and the proceeds went towards a late night of take-in, scotch, and strenuous physical activity the likes of which hadn't been seen in Gene's life since he did National Service.
It shouldn't work. He knows it shouldn't work. Wakes up in the morning disbelieving. Gazes at himself in his shaving mirror and wonders when he was sent to a place that looks, sounds, smells, feels and tastes the same, but is so clearly some kind of magical world where up is down and down is all he's ever wanted.
But it does work.
It works when it's early in the morning and there's been another blag. He's about to go search out his informants for a bit of smack, bang, wallop, and Sam's giving instructions to Chris, Ray and Cartwright, holding the fort.
It works when it's been a long day and all he wants to do is relax. He's absent-mindedly dragging a finger around the rim of his glass, and Sam's there, by his side, committed to buying the next round, his leg warm and solid against Gene's own.
It works when it's late at night and he's sprawled across the bed, clothes crumpled in a heap on the floor. He's clenching his teeth, clutching at the sheets, and Sam's sucking his cock like he's got a degree in it, using all his best techniques.
It amazes him. He didn't think it was possible anymore. Thought he'd given up on anything ever surprising him again.
It shouldn't work. Yet all it takes is one grin from Sam. One reminder that life's too short. A kiss in the kitchen, a laugh over Leslie Phillips in Casanova '73, a rigorous, invigorating argument over the football. And he doesn't worry about it. There's no use complaining over milk that isn't spilt. No need for analysing the bleeding obvious. Not when he can just be with Sam in love and happiness.