Rating: White Cortina
Word Count: 635
Warnings: Gratuitous use of second person narrative. Possible OOCness for Gene. Angst with added kisses and cuddles, 'cause that's how I roll.
Notes: Yes, it's been done before, by plenty of writers light years better than me. But this bunny has been threatening to eat me alive. Also, I may be a little obsessed with Gene-whumping. *g* Title from Snow Patrol's Set Down Your Glass
When you make it into work one morning only to find your coat, your desk, your cabinet, that secret stash in Lost and Found and even the emergency one in the canteen completely devoid of booze, you know there’s only one person who could be responsible. You resolve to wring his neck the first chance you get. In the meantime, your head and stomach could really do with some hair of the dog, so you plunder Ray’s desk instead. Aha, the little bugger hasn’t thought to raid there, you’re pleased to see.
Later, once you’ve had a really good go at wrenching Sam’s head from his shoulders and he’s just managed to talk you down in that typically, unspeakably frustrating way he has, you reach a stalemate. Somehow he backs you into the corner of admitting you may have had a bit too much to drink last night, since you can’t feasibly argue otherwise when you have little to no memory of the event. Then he suggests you might actually have a problem, and this is where you really have to draw the line. Before you know it you’ve spent another half an hour yelling at each other before finally announcing that you’ll prove him wrong. You don’t have a problem, and you press the rest of Ray’s stash into Sam’s waiting arms with measured defiance. Ray protests, of course, but once Sam has trotted off with his precious burden you promise to reimburse him and order the rest of the gawking team back to work.
It goes well, for a while. You might smoke a little more to make up for it, but that’s only fair, right? Sam actually seems proud of you, when he’s not being overtly sceptical and checking every bin nearby for the evidence of foul play. You’re not proud of yourself. You feel like shit. But it makes Sam happy, so you grin and bear it for a time.
Until, that is, Sam goes and gets himself shot. You don’t bother with the hospital. You head straight for the nearest pub. It’s not because you’re scared. It’s just that Tyler’s such a stupid useless prick and you’re doing this to spite him.
When he gets out, drugged up to the gills and shivering like a weathervane in the wind, he comes to find you. He takes one look at the state of you and limps off, his head hung low. You want to go to him, wrap him up warm and tell him you’re sorry. But you’re Gene Hunt and you don’t have a problem.
The separation only makes things worse. You’re drinking more now than before this whole thing started and it’s all Sam’s fault. For sticking his nose in where it’s not wanted. For trying to fix things that aren’t broken.
He finds you again, a couple of weeks later, looking stronger and more determined. He has to come to you; you won’t go to him. He sits down with a glass for each of you and tells you not to listen to a word he says. You snort; tell him you figured that out on your own, thanks. You don’t touch the proffered drink. Sam doesn’t touch his either.
Neither of you say a word as he leans in to kiss you, once on the forehead and once at the corner of your mouth. You’re relieved he goes no further – you haven’t brushed your teeth for days. But you pull him in against you, arms tight around his waist, chin pressed into his shoulder. Everything still feels like shit, but at least now you’re breathing better. He rubs his hands across your back in endless nonsensical patterns, doesn’t try to pull away before you’re ready to.
And that’s when you make a decision: you’ll handle this together.