Rating: White Cortina
Word Count: 533
Notes: Slash, Gene/Sam. Title from "I Wish I Knew (How It Would Feel To Be Free)" by Nina Simone.
Gene feels more trapped now than he did jammed inside a cell on a murder charge. That’s irony. Now, lying sated in a warm bed, he realizes that he’s stuck between a rock and a hard place- and it’s not just irony; it’s bloody bad timing. He tries to unwrap his arms from Sam’s torso without waking him. He stirs and Gene freezes, but the smaller man just sighs and presses his face deeper against the pillow. Gene’s arm is falling asleep. A quick glance at the clock shows that it’s two in the morning. Do it like a plaster, he thinks. Just do it fast and he won’t even notice.
Gene yanks his arm out from under Sam; he holds his breath. Sam doesn’t move, and Gene isn’t sure whether he’s relieved or disappointed.
Wincing as the bed creaks he pulls himself away and gathers his clothes from the floor. One of his socks is missing, and he resolves to look for it the next time he’s here before kicking himself and swearing under his breath. There isn’t supposed to be a next time, there wasn’t even supposed to be a this time, but even though he tries and tries to stay as far away from Sam’s apartment as possible he always ends up there. Sometimes he’s legitimately drunk, but most of the time he fakes a slight wobble, a slur. It’s easier to do if he pretends he’s not all there, if he can convince Sam or maybe himself that it’s the whiskey talking, the whiskey touching, the whiskey not wanting to leave.
Gene sits on the sofa, wearing just one sock and wondering where he should go. There are still some bars open at this time of night, not respectable places but ones that’ll serve you a drink all the same. He could sod off, drive away in the Cortina, but there’s a part of him worrying that the noise of the engine might wake Sam. He doesn’t know why that thought bothers him.
He could walk. Go down to the canal, maybe. Or he could go to CID, hope that it would be empty and take a kip on the sofa in his office. That would be good- lending a tiny bit of truth to a great big lie when he told the missus he’d spent the night at the station. A grain of salt in a china sugar bowl.
There’s a soft rustle and a groan of the bedsprings, and Sam rolls over to face Gene. His eyes are heavy lidded and his face is alternating dark and pale, moonlight broken up by the venetian blinds. He blinks.
“Come back to bed.” He murmurs. Gene focuses on the door, trying to pretend he didn’t hear.
“Gene.” Sam stretches out a hand, voice stronger. “C’mere.”
Gene takes off his one sock and his trousers and his shirt and takes the hand, crawling back in. Sam smiles, loose and wide and half-asleep, and Gene lets him kiss the back of his hand and squeezes his fingers tighter.
He wonders why he never escapes when he has the chance. He lies down, pulling Sam closer, and silently resigns himself to prison.