Rating: Brown Cortina
Word Count: 1766 words.
Notes: Sam/Gene PWP. Title from the song "Fever".
There's a bead of sweat edging its way down Sam's neck. It's going slowly, extremely slowly, shimmering as if in the reflected glare of a sun that's far too hot for any time of year in Manchester, let alone spring. But they're in Gene's office, so it's fanciful imagination. It would be better to be outside, praying for a light breeze, but Gene's not going to suggest that, because it's the kind of thing a child would say. Chris has already asked if they can go play football twice.
Sam's hair has plastered to his forehead and curled with the damp, giving him an almost roman appearance - classically handsome, you might say, only you'd have to be very drunk to say it out loud. If Gene ran his fingers through that hair it'd stick up at all angles, and stay there too, making Sam a particularly attractive pin-cushion. It'd make him look different, that's for sure. Not so severe. Not so reined in.
Gene stares as Sam bends down, scrunching his face up in concentration as he fiddles with manila folders in the filing cabinet.
"What're you looking for now?"
"Not looking for anything, after last time. I'm organising. Sorting. You know. The kind of thing you've never done in your life, ever."
"I can organise. I can sort. Piss-ups in breweries and suspect's noses. Bloody good at it, I'm told."
"So you choose not to, then?"
"That's the long and the short of it, yeah."
Sam's shirt is clinging to the tops of his arms and his back. It's almost gone see-through in some parts, and his wiry muscles are clearly defined under the polyester. The collar has attached itself to Sam's neck and isn't letting go.
"There are all kinds of things you could be doing, Samuel, but you choose to be here, pissing me off," Gene says, knowing he has to speak, because if he doesn't speak, he might start doing something stupid like "oohing" and "ahhing", and as if it wasn't bad enough that his eyes haven't left Sam's form since he came into the room. He had been reading. It had been good, reading. Not as good as examining the curves and straight lines of his DI, but considerably safer, all things considered.
Sam straightens back up and squints at Gene. He starts to roll up his left shirt-sleeve, methodical and quick. "I like being here," he says, simply.
"Pissing me off," Gene supplies.
With both sleeves rolled up, Sam returns to the cabinet. "If I were really annoying you, you'd run me out of here with one hand 'round the scruff of my neck and the other pressing firmly against my right kidney. You're enjoying the show."
Gene can see the edge of a quirk of an eyebrow as easily as he can hear the smirk in Sam's voice. "I don't know how stupid you think I am, Gene, but I am a copper."
Gene swallows, thousands of words of denial on the tip of his tongue. "Am I that obvious?"
Sam slants his head to one side and regards Gene as he places folder after folder back into place along metal rungs. There's a film of sweat over his forehead that highlights the glittering of his eyes. "Only to someone who's paying extra close attention."
Gene's mouth goes dry. "And why would you be doing that?"
Sam shuts the drawer and stands again, spreading dust along his thighs. He steps towards Gene's desk with a determined gait. "I used my deductive reasoning. You use your instinct."
Half an hour later, Gene's declared it lunch and given Chris his best football - "That was given me by Roy Paul, so don't lose it, or you'll lose your liver, got it?" He hasn't said a thing about him and Tyler going out to eat, because they do it all the time, and mentioning it this time would be suspect. He's walked out to the Cortina and driven both him and Sam to Sam's flat.
"Mind the bottle," Sam says. Gene looks down in time to see an empty bottle of scotch by his loafer.
"Any reason you're decorating your floor with abandoned glassware?"
"It adds an interesting ambiance."
It's boiling in Sam's flat. Stuffy. Gene didn't bother to wear the camel-hair, but even the shirt feels like too much. He doesn't know what to do with himself, so he leans against the wall radiating calm confidence. It's the best defence. Sam watches him through half-closed eyes and smiles.
"Would you like something?"
"Got any beer?"
Sam saunters over to his cupboard and pulls out two beers. His fingers brush against Gene's as he hands one over and Gene's spine tingles in ways it hasn't since he last had his life on the line. Which was two weeks ago Tuesday, thanks to Tyler's dangerous but unflappable ability to rile criminals up.
They stand there sipping quietly. They've both made the first move, now. They've acknowledged something's going on. Gene is caught between knowing what he wants to do and knowing damn well that wanting isn't the same as needing, and Sam's, well --- Gene doesn't know why he's stopped being the aggressor.
Gene doesn't need another complication on top of constant conflict and demands from higher up. He doesn't need another vice that people would string him up for if given half the chance. He does need to lick that glistening hollow in Sam's neck. To press up against him and hear his breath come out in short, sharp bursts. He doesn't know why, but he does.
He sets his can on the top of Sam's cot, a make-shift shelf conveniently by his hand. He reaches forward and takes Sam's too.
One hand undoes his top buttons as the other rests on Sam's shoulder. Sam tilts his head and drags his fingers down Gene's chest and belly as they're exposed, tips rubbing lightly against his skin. He crowds in close and kisses Gene straight on the lips, which surprises him a little, and pleases him a lot.
Gene's shirt drops to the floor and he works on Sam's shirt with a kind of reverence, kissing along the way.
"We could take the whole day off," Gene says. "Shouldn't, but we could. They're all dozing out there. It's too hot for crime."
"The whole of the criminal sector's fled to Brighton, most likely," Sam returns cheerfully, and the bright tone is so unlike anything Gene's ever heard come from Sam's lips that he has to stop and stare.
"D'you think so?"
"Wouldn't blame them, would you?"
Gene considers this and realises there's nowhere he'd like to be more than here with Sam.
Sam's shirtless, now - shirtless and shining, a pink flush over his cheeks and smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
"How long have you known?" Gene asks as he slides Sam's zip down.
"Same amount of time as you I'd wager," Sam returns, also returning the favour and ridding Gene of his trousers and underwear. "I dunno, it just feels right, somehow." He half-snorts. "In a wrong kind of way."
"That's you all over, in't it? Right in a wrong kind of way. Or wrong in a right kind of way. Two steps forward, three steps back, but by God, look at the spectacle."
Sam's breath huffs against Gene's cheek. "Gene? Stop talking."
Gene presses his lips together and does his best. At any moment he's about to start "oohing" and "ahhing" and there won't be a damn thing he could do to stop it.
He presses his tongue into Sam's mouth and wraps his hand around Sam's cock. Sam gives a stifled groan and reciprocates. His hand is steady and firm around Gene's cock. It's like he knows exactly what Gene wants and Gene figures he shouldn't really be surprised, because Sam nearly always knows Gene's wishes - just chooses to actively go against them.
Sam strokes up at the same time Gene does, but adds a little twist to his movements that has Gene bucking forward rather more quickly than he'd like. He pumps with a steady rhythm and Gene feels his chest constricting with a pain that is all pleasure.
If Gene thought he was hot before, he's burning up now. Sam's skin next to his is a firebrand, and he's not sure which of them is claiming the other. He's slick and he's pulsing against Sam. Sam moves in just the right time and stops as Gene swipes his thumb over the top of his cock. He pulls his lips away from Gene's and nuzzles into his neck instead, increasing the speed with which he strokes. Gene takes Sam's lead and does the same, until they're synchronised.
Sam's hand is warm and tight and Gene can't help it when his voice betrays him and he starts to make soft grunting noises that could be mistaken for something else --- whimpers, for instance.
He can feel it start to happen gradually, the heat creeping up his spine, his balls drawing tight. He makes a choked-off noise as warning, but Sam comes first, shuddering against him and moaning deeply. Gene comes seconds later, spilling sticky and warm before rolling back and leaning again against the wall, locking his knees so that he doesn't crumple to the ground.
"They say we're at the beginning of a heatwave," Gene says after he's rummaged in his discarded trousers for his pack of cigarettes. He offers one to Sam as a joke, but Sam takes it and lights it against his own. They settle on the cot, Gene's head and shoulders against the headboard and Sam straddling him, legs dangling off the sides.
"I could make some kind of clichéd quip here, but I choose not to," Sam responds.
"No remarks about 'we're generating enough heat anyway', then?"
"Shame." Gene puffs thoughtfully. "Not even anything about 'ignition', or 'a spark of lust'?"
Sam blows smoke towards Gene and smiles deviously. "You're getting your metaphors mixed up again - that's electricity."
Gene feigns innocence. "Oh, right."
Sam's smile widens into a grin, he arches forward and kisses Gene. "I told a lie. Here it is, 'we've more than enough wood to start a fire of our own!'"
Gene shakes his head and groans. "I think I preferred you when you were organising."
"Yeah. Suits you best."
"I was only doing it to show off my arse."
Gene holds his cigarette between his teeth and cups his hands against Sam's buttocks. "And a lovely arse it is too."
Sam glances at the watch still around his wrist. "I expect you'll be saying that again in about half an hour."
There's another bead of sweat edging its way down Sam's neck. Gene pulls Sam forward with one hand, removing his cigarette, and licks the bead of sweat up, tasting salt and sweet. "Ten minutes, more like."