FANDOM: Life on Mars
RATING: Brown Cortina, slash: Sam/Gene
WORD COUNT: 1,430 words
AUTHOR'S NOTES: More smangst as a sequel to Miscommunication. Or rather a very little bit of smut, and quite a bit more angst. Sorry! We're still in amnesty over at 1973flashfic (I hope), so this has been written for the Drinks, Drugs and Danger Challenge. For dorsetgirl and mikes_grrl, who was sure I wouldn't rise to her challenge. *cue evil laugh*
DISCLAIMER: Life on Mars is copyright Kudos and the BBC. All Rights Reserved. No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made.
"No pressure. No pressure at all. Just two mates getting together and finding mutual satisfaction in each other."
It was just sex. That was all. Sam had it written down on a piece of paper to remind him. It bounced through the empty recesses of his head when there was nothing left to fill it. He should get it tattooed on the insides of his eyelids, it was carved upon his heart. Not that that particular bloody and broken organ could take much more of course.
It was just sex, that was all. And the worst of it was that while he could believe it, he couldn't, necessarily, feel it.
The end, when it came, was inevitable.
It was a dark and sombre affair as the members of CID gathered in the Railway Arms. The case had hit them all hard, a twelve-year-old girl beaten, raped and strangled. But It had affected the Guv the worst.
He slurred into his seventh pint, after untold nips of whisky, "This just isn't fair."
And that, Sam reflected, was the worst of all. Gene wasn't even trying to hide his intoxication. He had ceased to care to the point of not even putting on a face for the rest of his colleagues.
Gene slammed a hand down on the table, rattling the empty and full glasses alike, pointing at Sam with rage in his eyes. "And you. You useless tosser. You badger me about paperwork and procedure and when it matters… when it matters, it doesn't help at all!" His voice had risen to near shout as the rage mutated to dispair and the other inhabitants of the bar all backed off slightly, all relieved that they weren't in the firing range.
Sam really couldn't disagree. When the crunch had come, even with the evidence piled high, they just couldn't convict the fourteen-year-old boyfriend. Not a boy with a grammar school education and an hysterical mother who was a personal friend of the Chief Constable. The files had already vanished and all CID had been left with was the job of coming up with a plausible excuse for the victim's parents.
So Sam bit his tongue and watched with dismay as Gene sank deeper and deeper into an alcohol-fuelled depression.
Another round was plonked on the already full table, this time courtesy of Chris, and Sam barely hid his grimace. He had to get Gene out of here soon.
It was slightly unfair, he felt, that every man, and woman, in CID had implicitly laid the Guv's problems on himself, as the DI. But, if he really admitted it, it wasn't necessarily that much of a problem.
Finally Gene slumped forwards, knocking over the final drink and Sam took his chance, palming the keys he had surreptiously snagged several drinks before.
"Come on, Guv, time to get you out of here."
No, Sam reflected. The very worst thing was that Gene didn't put up any resistance at all. Shrugging on his coat with stumbling movements, leaning into Sam as his balance wavered and Sam was the subject of several sympathetic glances as he steered a compliant Gene out of the pub.
The ride back to the flat was brief. The few steps to the front door and up the stairs were less so. Gene slumped, less in inebriation and more in defeat, as Sam half-dragged him up the hallway and in through the door, divesting him of his coat with some difficulty before steering him over to the small bed and settling him down.
Gene collapsed backward, almost cracking his head on the back-board. Sam followed him, making sure the man was still breathing and Gene leaned forward, brushing his lips against Sam's.
"I love you," he said and passed out, unconscious.
Things went back to normal. Three weeks and a couple of simply-solved blags were enough to raise the Guv out of whatever dark place he had been languishing in and the whole of CID were relieved.
The improving mood of the place though didn't improve Sam's outlook though. A confession made in extremis was no confession at all, surely. Especially when the confessor did not seem to remember it being made.
And yet it still niggled at Sam. The arrangement had mutated beyond his control, perhaps that which had driven Gene into his bed so many times before was more than just stress relief; more than keeping an eye on the ranks; more even than a vague chance to humiliate and to blackmail.
And that was unfair, and Sam knew it. But it didn’t stop it crossing his mind at vulnerable moments. It didn't stop him questioning why it had happened in the first place and why it had kept on happening.
Three weeks. Three weeks of pretending. Three weeks of looking for an answer, three weeks of getting lost in his own mind, running over the same words, looking for a reason, looking for a way out of the tangled web he had driven himself into.
Three weeks of not receiving anything more than files, backhanded insults and even more backhanded praise.
Three weeks before Gene was once again in his bed.
Sam capitulated totally, at least in a physical sense. Spread his legs and let Gene do his worst, his best may be, but Sam, thoughts still careering through his head, pinging off each other, mutating with every contact, didn't necessarily appreciate it. He arched his back, moaned at the right moments, forcibly relaxed as Gene thrust into his body again and again, but the doubts still crowded there, muttering and pointing fingers, unable to be dispelled by physical intimacy alone.
Gene, with a hearty moan, came at last and, finally spent, pulled out, disentangling himself from their intimate embrace.
"It didn’t sound like you were quite there, Sammy-boy," he chuckled. "Here," and he reached around, ready and willing to finish him off.
But Sam batted his hand away. "I'm fine," he grunted. "A bit too much alcohol."
"Hasn't stopped you before," Gene chuckled again, intent on his goal. But finding it, his eyes widened. "Oh."
Sam turned on his side, back to the other man. "No bother, really."
Sam could feel Gene staring at him, taking in his defensive posture, his vulnerable state before lifting himself off the bed as Sam curled in on himself, miserable.
"And so it ends," Gene muttered. "Well, we always expected it to. A bit of mutual stress relief. That's what we said. Well, what you said. I was probably a little bit more direct in my language, but the gist was the same. And if it ain't mutual then it ain't stress relief, is it?" He slid his trousers on and slipped on his shoes, retrieving his shirt from the other side of the room.
Sam appeared not to listen, but in truth the words landed heavily in his ears, shattering his heart.
Gene finished buttoning the shirt and pulled on his coat. Walking to the door, he stopped and turned, still not looking at the forlorn figure on the bed. "I'm sorry, Sam. I should never have said anything." He turned back and opened the door.
Sam lay still for a moment, shocked, before leaping out of the bed, his hand closing over Gene's wrist as he started to pull the door to. He pulled the door back open and looked at Gene.
Gene looked surprised, but nodded warily, re-entering the bedsit and closing the door behind him. He leaned against it, not committing to any course of action.
"You said you loved me," stated Sam.
Gene grimaced, turning his face away. "I'm not in the mood for a girly chat, Sam. There's a bottle of scotch out there with my name on it."
"You said you loved me," repeated Sam. "And you meant it."
Gene's stared at Sam, blanching, his eyes wide and scared. "If..."
Sam spoke quickly, cutting off Gene's words. "You love me. And I love you." He said the last part carefully, watching Gene's reaction, watching as the fear bled out of his features. Finally seeing understanding there he moved forwards, pinning Gene against the door and leaning in to kiss him.
Gene moved his arms around the younger man, pulling him in close, reciprocating, deepening the kiss, hands running over the naked form in his arms.
Sam finally pulled back, flushed and smiling. "This isn't going to change a thing about us, is it? Not really."
Gene shook his head, drawing Sam back into his arms. "No, Sammy-boy. But at least now we're being honest with each other."