WORD COUNT: 3500-ish.
STYLE/WARNINGS: Brown Cortina. Sam/Gene. Fluff. Spoilers through S1.04.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: For duckyone, who totally asked for it. >3 Title taken from an episode of Pushing Daisies. Director of
DISCLAIMER: Life on Mars is copyright Kudos and the BBC. No infringement is intended and no money is being made.
Lord of the Pies
Sam frowned as he gazed over the items he'd just gathered and put into his basket.
This, to anyone who knew him, wouldn't have seemed particularly odd. He did a lot of frowning, especially these days. The truth was, it didn't matter whether or not he was actually unhappy; it was just this faint tinge of suspicion that clouded his face and made it scrunch up in a very wrinkly way on a fairly regular basis. If one really knew him, they'd call it his default face, since it was most likely the sort of face he pulled only when he didn't know what other expression to wear.
In 2006, his face would have been a carefully-schooled blank mask. Here, it was instead perpetually frowny. Sometimes in concentration, other times in annoyance, and still other times just because Gwen's burger had gone down a bit funny.
In this place and in this time, rather surprisingly, the frown was not meted out because Sam was greatly displeased at the variety and quality of ingredients he was able to find down the shops in order to indulge one of his very carefully-selected pastimes. Something he'd made quite a habit of in 2006.
Again, anyone who did actually know him would have considered a revelation of such a secret pastime to be nothing short of no revelation at all. However, since there weren't that many people who did actually know him, Sam's secret was as safe as he wanted to keep it.
Quite simply, what Sam liked most of all was to bake.
Certainly, he also liked to cook. Everyone knew that. That was very nearly a part of his public face. Even Joni had experienced his kitchen gallantries, and she'd only known---no, been acquainted with---him for a very short time.
But baking? Baking made much more sense, really, to someone of Sam's known quantities. He was an exacting man. A thorough man. A man of procedure, of books, and most importantly of performing procedures by whichever books contained them in their pages.
Cooking required a lot of improvisation, you see---something which, in Sam's case, he'd had to learn. Which probably explains a lot more than anything else you'll learn about Sam Tyler today.
Baking, though? He could lose himself for hours in the theory and practise of baking. Give him something to knead and indeed, he was a happy, happy boy.
This exacting attention to detail was, at present, one of the reasons he was currently frowning over the contents of his basket at market---although it wasn't exactly indicative of displeasure.
Unlike many other times, when he'd been less than impressed with the rather more limited selection of ingredients available in his current situation, the frown this time was brought on by nothing less than sheer, unadulterated joy. Only Sam's face didn't quite know how to register it, and so, at least initially, it started out as the much more familiar and comforting frown.
If he'd given it any great amount of thought, he'd have realised that Hob Nobs didn't yet exist in 1973. So he'd never have gone to market looking for them in aid of whipping up a batch of his favourite Banoffee Pie for when he had the Guv over later this evening. As he was preoccupied with other matters, however, he'd drawn up a careful shopping list and searched diligently through the store for the non-existent biscuits.
Once the truth dawned on him, however, it did as it was often wont to do---it set him free.
A pastry crust! Sam's face split into a wide grin, and indeed a low chuckle emitted from somewhere in his middle, possibly as low as his diaphragm. He bounced back down the aisles, basket swinging jauntily on his arm as he clicked his heels together in delight and badly startled one Horatia Smythe-Browning, aged 52 years, who had only ventured out of her house to obtain more tea and pink wafers and was now very sorry she'd bothered.
It's not as though it's a deviation, exactly. All the originals were made with pastry crusts anyway, if I recall correctly. Anyway, they must have been, since Hob Nobs didn't---don't---exist! And I remember this pie from when I was a kid! Sam thought to himself as he gathered up his newly-necessitated ingredients.
As Gene entered Sam's flat, he sniffed the air appraisingly. There was the smell of buttery pastry pre-baking in the oven---tinged with a faintly metallic smell that made him twitch his nose in a way only a man looking to get a good thumping would have described as "cute" or possibly even "adorable." Following his nose, he took two steps round the corner into the pitiful galley Sam liked to call a kitchen and stared in amazement down at the scene before him.
"Lazy Lucy, aren't you supposed to take the cream out of the tin before you put it in the pot? And you're the one always going on about fumes and killing the environment and all that nonsense," Gene snorted as he grabbed the handle of the small pot in question and gave it a good shake, trying to rattle the metal can inside against the pot in order to emphasize his point.
"Don't DO that! It needs to stay covered with water or else it will explode!" Sam huffed angrily as he rushed over to grab the pan away from Gene.
"Right. Now you've lost me completely." Gene threw up his hands in disgust and backed away as the water sloshed over the side of the pan whilst Sam rearranged the pot on the burner.
"I'm making banoffee pie." Sam exaggerated each syllable in an overly-patient way, as though speaking to a very small, very recalcitrant child.
"What you're making is words that don't exist." Gene glared back, unfazed by Sam's childishness. It wasn't, after all, anything new or exciting. Well, maybe a bit of the latter.
"Oh, come on, Gene, surely you must have had it by now! It's a rage sweeping the nation, I checked! Soon it'll be all over the world! It's a delicious dessert made primarily of bananas and toffee, hence the name! And freshly whipped cream on top. Some people like to whip coffee into it; I vacillate, depending on what mood I'm in." Sam finished, as he used a small paring knife to slice long curlicues of chocolate off a bar he'd purchased earlier.
"You mean you have a mood other than 'sulky bollocks'?" Gene was disbelieving. "And what's that for, some poncey appetizer?" Despite his best efforts, a small glint managed to escape from Gene's eye as he said it, and Sam knew Gene was more intrigued by the chocolate than he perhaps wanted to admit.
"Indeed. Would you like me to show you it?" Sam seized the opportunity and grinned an utterly wicked grin, locking gazes with Gene and holding that glint that had surfaced just a moment ago hostage.
Gene gulped. "Don't you have to watch that?" he nodded toward the pot. "I thought you said you had to keep it covered with water lest it should explode and riddle your pretty face with shrapnel."
"It's nearly done. There's only about 5 minutes left, in fact," Sam said, still grinning as he bent low in front of Gene and rather pointedly eyed the zip on his trousers.
Gene gulped again, but stood his ground and otherwise pretended utter composure.
After about thirty seconds of this particular deadlock, Sam cleared his throat before speaking. "I need to get the pastry shell out of the oven?" he said, directing his gaze upward and locking once more with Gene's, all innocence and business.
"Course you do. Best get on with it then, don't keep me waiting with this kitchen wizardry of yours, Wonderpants." Gene, grateful for the breaking of the uneasy silence, immediately stepped aside and ceased blocking the oven door.
Still, he couldn't help but stare as Sam pulled the lovely, golden creation from the oven. Couldn't help but edge closer to watch with great interest as Sam lightly smoothed the soft toffee from the can he'd rescued from the pot on the stove over the base of the crust. And certainly didn't notice the hitch in his own breath as Sam began peeling the first of what looked to be a whole bunch of bananas.
"What are you doing that for? I thought you said it was a pie," Gene said accusingly.
"Weren't you listening when I told you what kind of pie it was?" Sam sounded a bit put out as he raised his eyes from his chopping board and lifted a newly-peeled banana to his lips. "Ba," he said, wrapping his lips delicately around the tip of the delicious tropical fruit. "Na," he said, sliding teeth and tongue further down along its length as his gaze locked with his DCI's, unblinking and unwavering. "Na," he declared emphatically as he delicately bit off a great chunk of said fruit and chewed as though it was the single most delicious thing he'd ever had in his mouth.
At this, Gene nearly choked, though Sam was fairly certain he was faking just to cover the fact of his blushing; the latter would be unheard of, whilst the former was perfectly reasonable.
"I'd best get this together then, hadn't I?" Sam said, swallowing the last of his tasty treat and licking his lips as he efficiently sliced the remaining bananas and arranged them neatly on top of the toffee, then covered the whole thing over with freshly whipped cream.
"There we are. Pretty as a picture," Sam said as he presented the finished pie to Gene with a flourish.
"What about the chocolate bits?" Gene almost moaned, obviously too distracted to offer further insult.
"Those are for when I serve it," Sam's wicked grin returned.
"Well, what are you waiting for, next New Year's Eve?" Gene slotted easily back into his expected role as comfortably as slipping on a pair of flannel pyjamas.
"Don't worry, I've got the matter well in hand. Why don't you have a seat in the other room and I'll bring the pie in a moment," Sam soothed, all attentiveness now as he smoothed his apron down self-consciously and pulled it taut and smooth and crisp in front.
Quite sure this was a setup and not entirely sure that he didn't mind, Gene did as he was told and went and sat on Sam's couch.
A few moments later, Sam followed him in with the pie and the shards of chocolate; the latter carefully scooped into a little bowl for neatness' sake. He also had a pie-server tucked into the pocket on his apron.
"What are you going to serve it on, the floor? You haven't brought any plates," Gene asked, although he was fairly certain he knew the answer.
This was, after all, a game Sam liked to play. It wasn't entirely scripted, of course---but one still got a good sense of one's blocking in the theatrical production of Sam's mind.
"Don't need any plates," Sam smirked, once again starting from the frown (although only for a split-second, but it was there) and working his way outward into less familiar territory. He removed the pie server from his pocket, dabbed a little whipped cream onto the end of it, and lightly splodged it across Gene's nose before lapping it lightly with his tongue. "Now I'd suggest you lose those clothes before they get all sticky," Sam said, very quietly.
Gene complied, too surprised to argue. This was new. Usually Sam was very hands-on, insisting on doing everything himself. Very much "Stand HERE, do THIS," and so on. It was part of why their relationship had the dynamic that it did---both of them wanted control, and neither one wanted to share. Hence, his major apprehension at Sam's suggestion. Did this mean he was in control, or was Sam? He started with his shoes, then toed off one sock, then the other as he unbuckled his belt and began undoing his trousers.
"Slowly, slowly...take your time..." Sam murmured under his breath, voice becoming rough as he watched the scene play out in front of him.
Thinks he's got the best of me, does he? We'll see about that, Gene thought, appraising the man who stood across from him as he undid the buttons on his shirt and slipped first one arm, then the other out. He now stood completely naked. And half-erect. It might have been more, but it was rather cold in Sam's flat; something which he wasn't entirely sure wasn't on purpose.
Sam stood and admired, still with pie in hand, and seemingly quite distracted by the sight presented before him. This gave Gene the opportunity he was looking for as he grabbed his belt and slipped it free from the loops in his trousers with an audible hissing sound. He then snapped it out in the air in front of him and caught Sam's very naked thigh underneath the apron.
Sam yelped in surprise and delight and nearly dropped his pie. The truth was, he didn't really want everything scripted. He only thought he did, when he thought about it. Right now, he wasn't doing a lot of thinking, which was exactly what he needed. In fact, he expended the only thoughtmaking capabilities he had at the moment when he decided to dive toward the couch Gene stood in front of, heedless of the pie in his hands.
"Watch out, Samantha, you great clumsy pillock!" Gene shouted just as the pie bounced off the floor and whipped cream splooshed up out of the tin, coating him from the knees up and exploding in his face.
But this, too, was actually what Sam had planned all along, if not exactly in the manner in which he'd intended it to happen.
"I did say I'd have you for dinner, didn't I?" Sam grinned wolfishly as he wielded the pie server in front of him whilst kneeling down in front of his Guv on the floor. "Now lie down, this won't hurt a bit. Unless you want..."
"I don't want." Gene interjected with a stern look.
Sam shrugged. "Fine with me, you are my superior, after all. I wouldn't want insubordination on my permanent record, you know." Sam grinned again as he gestured with the pie server. "Now. Down."
Gene arranged himself on the couch as best he could, trying not to get whipped cream all over the cushions.
As though reading his mind, Sam was all reassurance, "Oh, don't worry about the couch, Guv, I put new coverings on it earlier. Completely machine-washable and stainproof. Had to make them myself."
"You're a regular Suzy Homemaker. I don't know what should worry me more, the cushions or your tin of magic toffee," Gene grumbled as he settled into the cushions. There was a spring in Sam's couch that had an irritating way of poking one just in the left kidney if one laid a certain way on it, and he was determined that this time, it wouldn't cause a problem.
That was all he had time to think, however, as Sam was now smearing him liberally with the remainder of the contents of the pie tin. And then ever so carefully sprinkling the chocolate shards over his prone form.
Gene pouted as he smelled the delicious smells now emanating from further down his body. "Do you mean to tell me I don't get any?"
"I thought of that, too." Sam's voice grew husky as he put the tin down on the small table nearby and he knelt down next to the couch and began licking Gene clean.
He started slowly, patiently, like a very particular cat. Licking upward, starting with the right knee, up the inner thigh teasingly to where it met the bollocks, then back down. Another pass down to the knee, then back up again and outward. Then back over, now grazing the base of his cock, then teasingly down the left inner thigh. He continued arcing in similar patterns for what seemed like forever, until Gene nearly thought he was going to lose his mind and was considering grabbing Sam's head and forcing him into proper servicing position.
But that would never do. He'd done that before, and it never worked out well. He tried his best to remain patient, but Sam was very good at being an unrepentant cocktease. Gene tried thinking of something, anything in order to keep from going mad. It was hard to know what subjects were safe at times like these: Ray's moustache, for instance, would have been a step too far in the wrong direction.
He needn't have worried. With one last teasing swipe, this time over the very sensitive tip of Gene's cock, Sam grinned, looked him straight in the eyes, and swallowed down Gene's toffee-and-cream-and-banana-covered cock in one go. Almost like a pro, Gene marvelled, then stopped himself from venturing any further down that particular path. Sam took his cock deep into his throat, expertly wrapping his lips around his teeth to avoid injury and sucking away maniacally...now coming off entirely, now swirling his tongue down the underside, now carefully taking each of Gene's balls into his mouth in turn, sucking, then popping them out gently. Then licking just behind his balls, at which point Gene thought for sure he was going to form the world's first indoor geyser...and then Sam licked down around his anus and then...hesitated. Slowed. Stopped altogether.
"What in seven hells do you think you're doing?" Gene rasped. You just didn't interrupt at a crucial moment like this. Any bloke knew that, surely?
"I wasn't sure you wanted me to go further." Sam said, biting his lower lip.
If Gene hadn't been on point of exploding from frustration, he might have found this look endearing. As it was, he only found it maddening. "Do I really look as though I want you to stop, Sam?"
Sam flinched as though he'd been struck. Gene had never used his name. Ever. Not like this.
He came to his senses. "Right. Sorry about that."
And he demonstrated just how sorry he was, as he spent extra attention licking, sucking, nibbling, and generally driving Gene madder than he'd thought he could possibly go. Always just on the brink of coming, but Sam wouldn't let him. Not yet, anyway.
And then Sam began licking and nibbling down underneath his balls again. Rounded the tiny pink pucker, then poked inward experimentally. Gene couldn't restrain a very loud moan. Sam probed deeper with his tongue as he wrapped his fingers carefully around Gene's cock and balls, working them expertly as he licked and sucked and generally drove Gene completely round the bend and back again.
After several minutes of this, when he was quite certain what he was doing was bordering on cruelty, Sam switched positions very quickly. In went a finger, probing carefully around until he hit the prostate, and at the same time down went his mouth and throat forming a tight seal around Gene's convulsive, explosive cock, which now nearly caused Sam's head to whiplash with the force as he came rather violently and continued to shudder for a full ten minutes afterwards.
"Are you ready for your dessert?" Sam smiled when Gene finally opened his eyes quite some time later.
"If you're expecting the same out of me, Sammy-boy, I'll tell you flat out that my way works a little differently," Gene said. "And I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm going to need a few minutes to recover."
"That's not what I meant. This is." Sam said impatiently, as he straddled Gene and leaned down to kiss him.
Inside his mouth was a bit of pastry. Banana. Toffee. Chocolate. Whipped cream. Whipped Gene. All in very exacting amounts, all calculated for maximum taste potential. Carefully measured and weighed out on the scale of Sam's tongue.
Gene managed to swallow. "You were right. That is lovely." he panted, once he finally came up for air.
"Good, because it looks like we're quite a mess, and I'm going to need some help cleaning us up," Sam said, gesturing to their now-sticky bodies coated in toffee and cream and haphazard banana and pastry chunks.
"It'd be a shame to waste all this in the shower, wouldn't it?" Gene readily agreed.
They were nothing if not an efficient team. Their cleanup efforts were well rewarded, even if no-one outside the flat knew the heroic lengths to which they went that night. There was something to be said for teamwork, after all.