Fandom: Life on Mars
Word Count: 1,140 words.
Notes: Sam/Gene slash. It's ridiculously obvious I've spent the entire day bored out my skull, isn't it? Title from the Rufus Wainwright song.
Sam had stopped managing to see straight around four pints before. Least, it would have been pints if they'd still been at the Arms. Actually, it was three pints and one Gene-exacted measure from a Party Seven, which could be anything from a pint to a pint and three quarters, Sam wasn't sure. All he knew was his head was being ploughed into by a freight train and his gut was twisting and turning suspiciously. He blearily stared at Gene and saw two of him as the world spun around alarmingly.
"I'm just gonna go to bed, alright?" he managed, or at least, that's what his brain told him. Gene grunted in assent and Sam stumbled and collapsed onto the cot, incapable of further speech or thought, or anything at all, really.
In the morning the sunlight seared through the window, Sam's eyelids, and his retinas. He awoke, stiff and cracking, his whole body groaning under the beating it'd received - a beating that was chemically induced and all Sam's fault. He rolled off his sheets and heard the sound of water smashing against tiles.
Sam frowned, shuffling towards his bathroom. "Gene?"
"Oh you're up, are you? Bet you're feeling the effects. Looked like you went two rounds with Mickey Lefthands last I saw you," Gene called back, voice muffled but reverberating.
Sam rubbed his hand over his face and began rifling in his kitchenette cupboards, but couldn't find the coffee anywhere. He had a look around all the surfaces of the flat and even under the cot, but concluded he had run out at some point and never restocked, because, well, what was the point? He got a glass and went for some water, but they must have been working on the pipeline again because it came out more as slush.
He still wasn't able to think clearly. He decided if he couldn't have coffee, he may as well have cocoa, but couldn't be bothered heating up the milk. He mixed his chocolate confection together, wincing as the cold milk passed over his lips. It tasted alright, but was sure to wreak havoc with his sensitive stomach.
"Hey, is the water in there okay?" Sam asked, stepping close to the bathroom door and talking over the spray of the shower.
Gene's response sounded confused. "Yeah, why wouldn't it be?"
"I've mud coming through the kitchen taps."
There was a clunk as the shower taps must have been twisted off and then some rattling noises, and soon Sam found he was face to face with one very wet and towel bedecked Gene. He refrained from casting his gaze from top to bottom, and decided instead to concentrate on the lock of hair that was plastered to his forehead.
"Were you spying through the keyhole or something?"
"Good, 'cause that kind of behaviour's downright creepy and completely unnecessary. You ever wanna see the full Gene Genie, you just need to ask."
Sam rolled his eyes with practiced simplicity, although it stung and he wished he hadn't. "Already have done. Remember when you decided nothing could convey your distaste for United beating Arsenal apart from baring your bright white arse a month back? We all got front-row seats to the spectacle, from multiple angles."
A hint of smug pride crossed Gene's features. "Oh yeah. And there was that party visiting for the day. Rathbone's wife was fixated on my dick."
"Everyone was fixated on your dick," Sam said, and immediately regretted it. He amended his mistake with a snide raise of an eyebrow. "I didn't peg you as the shower in the morning type."
"And I never thought you'd ever get the courage to come onto me, but we can all be wrong occasionally."
Gene stepped around Sam and went to sit on the chair by the dining table, still soaked to the bone and dripping on Sam's carpet. He made no immediate move to gather his clothes and was proving to be a great distraction.
Sam's heart started thumping quickly - so quickly he felt sure Gene could hear it. "What? I'm not coming onto you."
"Not now you aren't, but you did last night."
Gene leaned back towards the table, opened his pack of cigarettes and lit one. "Did. It was a thing of beauty. You put your hand right on my crotch and said, in perfectly clear tones, 'lemme touch it, I've been dying to all year.' It was very romantic. I almost cried."
Sam glared. Gene was sitting there, completely superior despite being mostly naked, and obviously enjoying himself. "Lying git."
"It's the honest to God truth."
"Oh, so what'd you do?"
"I said, 'I'll check if you still wanna when you're sober, and if you do, by all means, go ahead.'"
Sam choked. He spluttered and coughed and tried to peer at Gene through streaming eyes. He was aware that Gene had moved again, was standing right by him, only inches away, and with his heart racing and his head pounding, Sam said, "yeah."
He wasn't sure if he was being sarcastic, or answering in the affirmative, and it was obvious Gene didn't know either. Gene glinted at him, clearly waiting for something. Sam sucked in a deep breath, feeling as naked as Gene was under the watchful gaze.
"I can be more articulate than 'lemme touch it'," Sam said.
"Go on, then."
But Sam didn't say anything. He decided to speak with actions instead. He leaned forward and pressed his lips against Gene's in a kiss that was tame compared to his fantasies, but outrageous for what he thought he'd ever get to do in reality.
Gene looked down at Sam with an indecipherable expression, although Sam sensed part of what he was conveying was humour. "So that'd be a yes?" Sam nodded. Gene pushed his lips forward, contemplative. "Should get you plastered more often. It's easy to convince you that you're capable of anything."
Sam had been going to kiss Gene again. He stopped. "What d'you mean by that?"
Gene snorted. "'Lemme touch it.', c'mon Sam, even off your head you've more sense. You can quote entire bloody dictionaries after half a bottle of scotch."
Sam squinted. "So I didn't come onto you."
"But you did just come onto me."
Gene smirked. "Yeah."
Sam wrapped his hands around Gene's sides, dragging him close. "You're a bastard."
"True, but you owe me for making me sleep on your stupid sofa-chair as you snored to high heaven."
"Piece of shit."
Gene dipped his head down and nipped at Sam's neck, tugging his shirt out from his waistband, hand travelling across exposed skin. Sam made Gene's towel fall to the floor, eyes roaming and tongue darting out to lick at his lips. And the world spun around alarmingly for a reason other than too much alcohol.