Fighting to Survive
Fists flying, head pounding, the pressure was unbearable. He shifted his stance, trying to get comfortable on his feet. Nothing was working.
He watched in despair as the other man grinned. ”Not so much fun on the other end, is it Sammy-boy? D’you think I do this for fun? I do it for you, Dorothy. ’Cos you need smacking out of that head of yours sometimes. ’S not good for a man to live inside his own head all the time, Sam. You need to come out here with the rest of us. Come back to the land of the living.”
He lowered his gaze, chest heaving, as he tried to calm himself. It had seemed like a good idea – land one on the Guv for a change. He had a vague idea he’d tried before, but yesterday was dim in his mind. He knew he couldn’t take Gene down, not sober anyway, but he hadn’t expected him to simply laugh in his face. “That it? That the best you can manage? You’ll have to hit harder than that, Sammy boy, I’ve had tarts could hit harder than that. While they’re on the job.”
Five minutes and ten punches later, degenerating into slaps by the end, Sam was almost crying with frustration and exhaustion. He put his chin up angrily and surged forward one more time, both fists raised to blot out the sight of Gene’s taunting. The right fist landed, grazed, and slid, wrong-footing Sam as he followed it through with the left. With a sob, he watched helplessly as Gene reached up and caught his arm effortlessly, drawing him in.
“Hey,” he soothed, wrapping both arms round Sam. “Hey, you’ll get there. Already standing a bit longer each time. ’Nother few weeks, we’ll have you back at the station.”
He drew back just enough to look Sam in the eye. “It’s in your mind, Sam. Your strength, it’s in your mind. But even you can’t live just in your mind. Mens sana in corpore sano and all that bollocks. Got to get out of there, Sammy, got to get up and move and fight and come back from this.”
“Have you any idea how if feels, Guv? Do you have any idea? Lying here by myself all day, waiting for each hour so I can take another bloody tablet and do another bloody exercise? I’m going mad here, Gene! How long is it now? A week, ten days?”
“Can’t believe you were never in the Army, Sam, you’re running your recovery like a ruddy military operation! Got to loosen up, let your mind wander. Some of those cold cases you’re always on about. Or listen to the radio. Or just...” he reached down to Sam’s zip, “...let your body lead the way.”
He undid the zip and slid a hand in, fingers questing gently. “Your body knows what it’s doing, Sam, if you’ll let it. Stop bossing it about and listen to it.”
Sam groaned as Gene’s hand found a rhythm that echoed through his entire body. Weak as he was, he still felt his cock rising to the familiar fingers, his muscles clenching feebly as he arched into Gene’s hand. As Gene stroked him firmly, gently, his vision blurred and he put both arms round Gene’s neck to keep himself upright. Holding on, face pressed into Gene’s sweating neck and his entire being focussed on Gene’s purposeful hand, he was so tired he didn’t care that it was all over in a minute or two.
He was still trying to mumble an apology as Gene tried to clean him up.
“Shut it, you silly sod, I’ll get mine when you’re better. I’d get down there and give you a proper seeing to, but you’d only fall over, so we’ll stick with this for now. Come on, daft bugger, let’s get you back to bed.”
* * *
Gene came out of the bathroom and straightened his trousers as he walked back to the bed. He stood for a moment, watching Sam bonelessly sleeping.
It was all taking a lot longer even than the doctors had said. Six weeks so far. Silly bugger wouldn’t stop thinking, and planning and fretting. Just wasn’t giving himself a chance. Always had to be on the go: even in the hospital straight afterwards he’d been nagging Gene to bring him case files and witness statements. He was burning himself out, scraping his nerves raw with tension instead of lying back and letting his body heal.
Gene smiled as he let himself out. He’d found the trick now, though, found how to harness that fighting spirit to work for Sam instead of against him.
Another two weeks should see it done. Another two weeks of slipping out of the station unobserved every lunchtime, driving to the house as quickly as he could and irritating the hell out of Tyler till he came out fighting.
Literally fighting. Get him riled up enough to forget his pansy constipated little hourly exercise sheets; get him out of that bed for a minute or two longer every day, indignation burning him up, then get him roused up and rutting Gene’s hand with just a touch more vigour every time.
Help him, spent, back into bed, to sleep until Gene came back at six. Deal with his own arousal, briefly and clinically, before heading back to the station for another long afternoon doing Sam’s work as well as his own while Sam slept and uncoiled and healed.