Characters: Gene Hunt, Sam Tyler
Rating: Green Cortina
Word Count: 1,040 words
Summary: A hot day in Manchester, and Gene contemplates Sam; a little sad.
It was hot. So fuckin' hot. Gene couldn't remember ever being so hot before in his life. You just didn't get hot in Manchester. You got cold and wet and chilled to the bone and pissed off at footpaths like skating rinks and roads rim-deep in mud and snow. So, it was bloody northern England and it didn't get hot, did it.
Except it was and had been for two bleeding days. With so many people using air conditioners and fans there was constant blackouts. The coats and jackets had long since got tossed aside, and the ties followed, and then the shirts until most of them were working in their singlets, except the women and even they'd stripped down to the decent minimum. A good thing the powers that be rarely visited Gene's domain, they'd have had kittens at the sight of all that semi-dressed personnel. And even the crims were takin' the day off because there'd been hardly a call in for more than a bag snatch. Everyone was too bloody hot. It was like the world had turned into the wife's oven, all sealed and miserable and too bloody, stinking hot.
He propped his legs up on the desk, rolled his sleeves up and wished for a cold beer. The thought of it made him salivate. The image of it swam before his eyes; a pint glass, the moisture sliding down the sides, that first chilling rush of cold ale over his tongue and down his gullet. It was almost bloody orgasmic.
A figure passed before his gaze and he focused on Tyler. For once, there was no black leather jacket; it was hung over the back of his chair, and his black shirt was rolled up to the elbows. Even that skinny nonce was feeling the weather; Gene watched him wipe the back of his hand over his forehead, and he moved about with none of his usual perky energy . It didn't seem to slow him down in other ways though - he was causing groans throughout the office as he issued requests for this report or that case file. Didn't seem to have a Go Slow switch, Tyler.
Gene's eyes narrowed as contemplated one Samuel Tyler. He was such an odd bird, a manic whirlwind of a man who bounced from crazed to irritatingly smug to completely confusing. Often before a man had even had his first drink for the day, and wasn't in a mood to cope with it all. He'd turned Gene Hunt's tidy, comfortable little world upside down with his Hyde techniques and his in-yer-face attitude and refusal to do things the Hunt way. Good had come of it, of course, lots of good. They were a straighter, cleaner bunch of coppers now, and even Gene slept better with some of his self-esteem back in place. He realised he'd come to accept less because it was what he was used to. Tyler had a way of pulling a man out of his comfortable space, expanding his horizons, whether he liked it or not.
And then there was the other thing, the thing Gene could never discuss with anyone, could never talk about to anyone, could only whisper in the quiet places of his head. The thing that ate at his guts, that had him turning to the bottle to try and drown it because it was vile and bad and wrong.
The thing that woke him up in the middle of the night hard and hot, even when it was normal Manchester weather, when he was wrapped in his blankets with the wife snoring beside him. The thoughts and dreams and hungers. The forbidden sin of buggery, that he'd tried to wipe away with work and booze and being a man's man. Because the thing that woke him up all hard and hungry was the dream of a slim figure in his arms, all slick and moaning, arms and legs wrapped around, as he pushed himself inside, groaning and sobbing his pleasure, as he came inside that eager, hungry body -- the body that had no tits, had a prick and balls as big as his own and a face that looked a lot like Sam Tyler.
He'd known for a long time that he was wrong in some way, but denied it as long as he could. He'd got married, hadn't he, though it was a lukewarm relationship that had settled over time into a weary acceptance. The missus knew he liked her in his own way, maybe even loved her. She was a good woman, a loyal woman who kept his house and shared his bed and rarely complained about his bad habits, which were many. Thinking the thoughts he did, he felt ashamed for her sake. She didn't deserve a sodomite for a husband.
Tyler walked into his office and he looked up, fairly sure his face showed none of his thoughts. "What can I do for you, sunshine?"
Sam sighed and wriggled his shoulders. "Get me out of polyester and into cotton? Or, if not, sign this requisition. We need a couple of new filing cabinets, another set of shelves for the collating den…"
He rambled on and Gene let him for once, watching the play of expression on his face, the way the ratty short hair stuck to his damp face, the way he could speak with his whole body the way a child did, all energy and little restraint. A little voice said You feel more for him than you did for your wife on the day you married her. And that was a close to love as he'd ever come.
He snorted, hunched forward and Sam paused, frowning. "If it's too much, I can cut down on the paper order…"
"No, my trusty offsider, let there be paper. Give it 'ere." He signed the requisition and Tyler left, happy with a job well done. Gene watched him go, let his mind dwell on fantasies for a few moments, then dismissed them with that familiar practised pain and bent back to his own work. Tyler would never know the stranger he worked with, a man who was ninety degrees at odds with who he appeared to be.