Rating: Blue Cortina (suggested slash)
Word Count: 942
Notes: Getting myself back into writing and only my second venture into this fandom. I am rusty and not a little nervous. Challenges always seem to be a good way to leap into the fray of things. Much encouragement was given by my amazing beta and friend candesgirl so *hugs* to her.
Summary: Sam can't sleep and Gene barges in on him to drag him out.
Some nights, the walls close in on him. As they move to crush him, the flowers plastered there start to dance, an eerie green kaleidoscope of motion lit only by the street lights shining in. He squeezes his eyes shut, knowing it will stop if only for a brief moment. Most nights he attributes it to the Scotch, the one thing he’s found solace in. Other nights, there is no sane reason for it, but then there is nothing much sane about this world. He sighs and flicks the light back on, light that at least keeps the monsters at bay. He really should repaint the flat, crisp and white like the walls back home. Crisp and white and sterile. That thought comes to him unbidden but the stark reality of it frightens him. The Sam of 2006 would never have considered his pristine flat to be sterile, yet the thought of it now, all polished with its chrome fixtures and minimalist walls seem somehow foreign and cold. At least the walls here are alive, too alive, he chuckles. He’s been here too bloody long, where ever here really is.
He needs another drink and throws the covers aside resigned that there’d be little sleep again tonight. He should have gone to the pub with the lot of them, ignored Annie’s advice to go home and get some sleep. He decides that if the walls start churning again, he’ll go. He pours the amber solace into an unwashed tumbler and stares imagining each petal being plucked and crushed. Nothing, no movement. Giving up, he throws the Scotch down his throat.
“You in there Tyler?” Pounding accompanies the voice of his DCI. Sam wonders what the hell Gene is doing here as he stares at the door willing the man to go away. This is all in his head after all, a figment of his comatose brain.
“Tyler?” The pounding starts again. “If ya don’t open the bloody door, I’ll open it for ya.”
So much for having control over this figment. Rather than having to repair his door and bare the wrath of his landlady yet again, Sam choses acceptance. He might just as well find out where this is going and takes the two strides needed to cross to the door. As he unlocks it, Gene falls over the threshold and against Sam, knocking him to the floor.
“Bloody hell, Guv, I was getting to it,” he says to the face looming too close to his own. Gene is heavier than he thought. Sam tries in vain to shove the man off of him but Gene is not budging.
“Well, ya could o’ said somethin’ so as I didn’t try to bash it down again.”
“Ya could have had a little patience. I might have been sleepin’.”
“But ya weren’t, was ya?”
“Do ya think you could let me up. Can’t breathe with your bloody big weight on me.” Sam isn’t about to admit to his DCI that the feel of him pressed into him is causing a bloody big erection. That’s never happened to him before, at least not with a bloke lying on top of him. Last and only time he’d been pinned like this was during a football match when he’d been tripped and his opponent had made sure he wasn’t going back in the game. All he had felt then was anger. He never imagined that Gene Hunt reeking of stale smoke and whiskey would ever cause the kind of reaction Sam is now experiencing. Sam stares at him, so close, as close as that first day they’d met, the day Sam had been wrenched into 1973 and into Gene’s office.
He squirms trying to escape. The shock of what he feels pressing into his thigh unnerves him and he stops.
“What’s the matter? Can’t take a liitle rough and tumble?” Gene growls. “Seems to me you like it well enough.”
“Get off me,” Sam says and summons the strength to roll Gene’s body off of him. He jumps quickly to his feet and walks over to the bottle, pouring himself another glass. “What’d you come here for Gene?”
Sam will not turn to face Gene. He has to make sense of this, compose himself before he faces Gene again.
“Well, truth be told, Sammy boy, I came to see if you wanted to come by the pub, have a pint with the rest of the team. Told them I’d drag you down kickin’ and screamin’ if I had to. Can’t let them down now.”
“Don’t know why you want me there.”
“Come on. Don’t make me get all soft like. You done good by us all today and you belong there.”
Sam takes a deep breath, and lets it out slowly, the air hissing between his lips. He belonged there. He belonged here.
“You know you want to,” Gene breaks into Sam’s thoughts.
Sam is afraid that this is exactly what he wants. He wants the flowered walls to move, he wants the unwashed glasses filled with Scotch to wash away his old world, he wants to join the team, his team. But the thing that he fears the most is that he wants Gene Hunt and he suspects Gene wants him too. That fear will wait to be conquered another day. One step at a time. He turns and smiles at Gene.
“All right Guv. So do we put on a show, have you drag me in there kickin’ and screamin’?”
“’Course! I do have a reputation to maintain.”
Sam grabs his coat and as he closes the door behind him, winks at the flowers.