Rating: Blue Cortina
Word Count: 858 words.
Notes: Sam/Maya, Sam/Gene
Summary: The more things change, the more they stay the same.
When they were first dating, his hair was a touch too long for an officer of his potential position. It would curl with dampness, after he'd been running after a suspect, or passionately making love, or taking a shower. She liked it that way. It would never be a head full of ringlets, but the strands would crease into themselves, like they were sick of having to stay in military precision. Sam would get his comb and wrangle them back into perfect posture.
His hair never curls now. Maya's not sure if it's because he rarely runs after suspects, or rarely makes passionate love, or forgets about showers because he's too busy writing himself and all around him short, authoritative notes, but she misses it. She misses seeing his self-knowing smile as he'd brush his hand through his hair just before the comb. The way that moment of imperfection softened his sometimes too hard features.
Sam used to chew on his pencils. She has the proof. He'd gnaw on them and suck on them. It was disgusting. Yet strangely alluring, to see that full lower lip against the wood as he chomped down, wet sheen from saliva. To watch as his mouth lost the severe, thin line and gained a relaxed, smooth repose. Once, she whipped the pencil out of his grasp. Sam had glared at her, disconcerted, and she had replaced the yellow paint-chipped graphite with her mouth, her tongue, her everything.
No pencil chewing has occurred for a while. It appears Sam is as good at exorcising bad habits as he is exorcising his sense of humour. He keeps pens now, or his hallowed personal organiser. Rarely, but still there, still occasionally wonderful, Sam taps his pens against his lip. It's not the same, but it has to do.
His eyes were what drew her into his world. They could convey more in a single look than most people managed in ten thousand words. They were warm, or piercing, or dominating, or vulnerable. For a time, every fleeting emotion became visible to her, as he opened up and let her see. He'd talk about his dreams and she'd sit enthralled - not because of what he was saying, Sam didn't have a thrilling imagination - but because his eyes would light up like fireworks, a myriad of colours bursting in rhythm to convey a hundred thoughts.
Sam may as well think nothing. He's dull and deserted. The only time she ever sees anything that resembles real human emotion is when Sam's talking about procedure. He gets easily irritated and defensive, and his eyes, those eyes that could melt you if you stared long enough, are nothing but pinwheels spinning fury.
Gene thinks Sam is straight-laced, straitjacketed, in need of some straightening out, but there's nothing as orderly as his hair. Gene takes great pleasure in mussing it up every chance he gets, dragging his fingers through the wisps and making them stand on end, shaking Sam until they fly in various directions. When he's been in a fight or a fuck, Sam's hair is perfect --- all over the bloody place.
It was the first thing he tried to do, when he met him. Stop him looking so prim and proper. And it worked. Gene noted Sam's lengthening sideburns with a malicious sort of glee. He'd have him in the fashion soon enough. Or at least with hair long enough to grab at, to control his bobbing head.
Sam smiles and Gene sees him transform into a different person entirely. His mouth softens and his cheeks puff out. He looks ten years younger, like the weight of the world's been lifted from his shoulders, and he might, actually be able to make a joke, though the inclination's been buried for far too long. Gene never gets sick of it, Sam's grin, though he feels like a right pansy for the increase of his heart and the sweat on his palms, like he's a young kid again.
His lips were dry, when they kissed on that initial momentous occasion, in Sam's flat. The rough of their skin met and Gene let his tongue dart out to wet, to savour. Sam pushed him back and brushed his mouth lightly, before crushing fervently, moving in a way that was sure to bruise.
He has a glare that won't quit. Burning intensity that should be banned, else it'll catch the whole station alight. Sam glares and entire countries topple. Or he looks at you with sympathy, empathy even, and your entire resolve topples. You want to tell him stuff you've not told anyone before, just because he's gazing at you patiently.
He used to look so dead. Not out of it. Not away in the ether. Just not there at all. He'd be staring off into the middle distance and his eyes would be murky, devoid of verve, lacking in soul. It terrified Gene. So he decided to do something about it. He worked on getting a different expression in those eyes that could be so big and bright. Anger, confusion, lust, anything other, anything else. He succeeded.