A silly piece of slashy fic, my own personal antidote to the angst and heartache that's becoming something of a fact of life. Also my first attempt at slash (in this fandom, anyway) - something I've been meaning to get into for a while (as I ship Sam/Gene unashamedly and bigstylie!)
Pairing: Sam/Gene. Slash
Spoilers: S2 ep 7
Summary: Set within S2ep7, a bit of slashy silliness that shows the dangers of dressing up!
"Unless…" Sam mused, remembering Annie and her road safety campaign. Tufty the squirrel. He’d been scared sick, as a child, of the oversized expressionless rodent and his spookily accident-prone friends. Maybe, in retrospect, Tufty’s message would have served him well had he bothered to pay any proper attention. Still, perhaps it would prove useful after all.
Gene’s patience towards meaningful silences was less than legendary. "Unless what?" he growled. "Come on, out with it, Tyler."
Sam looked levelly at his DCI, assessing his reaction, calculating the odds of finding himself thrust roughly against the nearest available section of wall yet again. He decided it was worth the risk.
"Well, guv – Gene…" Rank titles seemed suddenly inappropriate, given that Detective Chief Inspector Hunt was currently under suspicion of one – no, make that two murders, and Detective Inspector Tyler was almost certainly guilty of harbouring a fugitive and obstructing the course of justice. Gene raised an eyebrow, noting the change of address without comment.
"I think I know how we can get you into CID without being recognised. Not sure you’re going to like it much, though." Sam grinned, prompting a deeply suspicious glare.
"Oh great. What crackpot idea has the superbrain come up with now?"
The grin faded. "Look, guv." Back to rank again. Sam figured it was the most effective means of persuasion he had. "You’re not really in a position to be picky. You’re just going to have to trust me."
A pause, suddenly profound and solemn, the humour fading like smoke. "I trust you."
Sam resisted the urge to reach out to his companion, to offer a comfort that could well be misplaced. He doubted Gene would exactly thank him for it anyway.
"Right then," he said briskly. "Wait here."
Half an hour or so later, after a hurried visit to the community centre and a conversation with Annie, so utterly bizarre that it didn’t bear repetition, Sam staggered up to his flat, laden with velvet, fur and a giant rodent head.
He let himself in, juggling keys with some difficulty. Gene was stretched out on Sam’s bed, smoke from the latest cigarette curling lazily upward to add its own stains to a ceiling past the point of caring. He looked Sam’s way without much interest, sitting bolt upright as he took in the burden he was carrying.
"What the bloody hell…?" The look of comprehension and dismay that hurtled onto his face was frankly comical. "Oh no, Tyler. You have got to be kidding me. If you think…"
Sam was hot, tired from yet another broken and disturbed night, and not in the mood for reasonable discussion. He dumped the costume unceremoniously on the floor, giving the head a kick for good measure.
"Fine," he bit out. "If you’ve got a better suggestion, now would be a really good time to let me in on it." He stood, bristling with challenge.
Gene stared at his DI, and something in his eyes seemed to soften imperceptibly. For a moment, he seemed about to say something, settling instead for a neutral, "Fair enough." Pulling himself up from the bed, he stubbed out the cigarette in a handily placed saucer. "Give it here then."
Wordlessly, Sam picked up the body of the costume. Gene took it, holding it up back-to-front against himself, the huge bushy tail swaying gently. One corner of his mouth lifted in a wry grimace. Lifting his voice to a slightly gruff falsetto, he lisped, "How do I look?"
Sam considered this. Tousled and, as yet, unshaven, lines of strain and worry etched into the rugged face but offset by an irrepressible gleam of humour in the intense blue eyes, stance ever so slightly defensive as he did his best to make the most of an awful situation. Frankly, he looked bloody gorgeous. Possibly not the response he was hoping for, though.
Sam cleared his throat, forced a laugh. "You look – a picture, guv."
Gene relaxed, just a little. "Right then, let’s get this over with." He stepped into the legs of the costume, pulling it up over his hips. Began to curse as he tried to free the arms, which had somehow managed to get tangled up with the brush, and the zip by the looks of things. "Bloody hell, Tyler, I’m tying myself in knots here. For Christ’s sake get over here and give us a hand."
Sam managed, by an admirable effort of will, to suppress the urge to hoot with gleeful laughter. "You need my help, then?" He just couldn’t help himself, he had to press home the point. The glare Gene launched at him could have stripped paint.
"Listen, Sammy-boy, if you don’t get your backside over here RIGHT NOW it’ll be you needing help. Got it?"
"Oh, right." Sam nodded blithely, giving in. Moving over to stand behind Gene, he assessed the muddle.
"Hang on," he said. "I can see what’s happened." One of the arms was inside out, hanging down inside the costume and out through the zip at the back. In his struggles to get in, Gene apparently had managed to get the upper arm securely wedged somewhere in the depths of the suit. Sam slid one hand inside, trying to locate the problem, searching fingers slipping gently between the inner fabric and Gene’s cotton-covered chest.
Gene flinched violently, his attempt to jerk away hindered by the tangled suit. Instantly Sam stilled, suddenly awash with sensations. The heat of skin radiating through the thin cotton shirt against his palm. The rise and fall of the chest, faster and shallower than before. The soft bristles of the brush tickling gently on one cheek. His own body, pressed with unprecedented intimacy against the DCI’s back. Well, not entirely unprecedented – the two men had achieved this level of physical closeness before, under cover of anger, frustration, nice masculine emotions that masked with safety the urge to touch.
"Tyler?" Gene’s voice penetrated the stillness, an uncharacteristic hesitancy belying the rough words. "What the bloody hell are you – playing at?" The last part tailed off into nothing, a token resistance at best. He stood frozen, waiting.
With breathtaking gentleness, Sam eased his hand further into the costume, allowing it to trail down across Gene’s chest and come to rest lightly on his stomach, noting in reaction what could only be termed a shiver. And still Gene made no attempt to move. Suddenly, Sam was suffused with a heady sense of power that brought a heated flush to his cheeks and transmitted itself straight down to his groin.
"Well well, Gene," he said softly. "You do seem to be in a spot of trouble here." Pressing himself closer, the fibres of the brush caressing his burning face, he snaked his hand lower, satisfied with the reaction he found. "The question is, what are we going to do about it?"
Long, taut moments passed, silence broken only by ragged breathing. Sam’s tongue flicked out to moisten suddenly dry lips, the knowledge of final control over this uncontrollable man threatening to overwhelm him.
He should have known better. Without warning, and with astonishing speed, Gene brought one hand round inside the suit to clamp down brutally on Sam’s wrist, simultaneously pushing backwards and twisting until Sam, unbalanced, crashed jarringly onto the carpet, Gene landing heavily on him, straddling his thighs while wrenching off the top half of the suit.
Sam gasped, winded, screwing his eyes shut in protection from the searing intensity confronting him, bracing himself for the punch he was sure was imminent.
Unprepared for the hand which grasped hold of his groin with enough force to make him cry out. "Big mistake, Sammy-boy." Oh really? He’d reached that conclusion for himself. Defiantly he opened his eyes, prepared to face down whatever punishment his guv thought he had coming, closing them again on a choked gasp as Gene’s hand relaxed, stroking and teasing until Sam was openly shivering.
"You don’t get to choose, Sam. If this happens, I choose where and when." Gene’s voice, barely more than a whisper, dipped lower. "And I say now." His mouth came down on Sam’s with crushing force, lips and teeth grinding together as the battle took on swirling, pounding levels of desperation and need.
The squirrel’s head gazed on, expressionless, as the tangle of writhing fur, cotton, velvet, arms and legs reached a peak and collapsed, exhausted, in a jumbled gasping heap.
Minutes passed. At length a bare arm freed itself from the pile, fingers groping around until they closed on a packet of cigarettes. Gene shook one out, lit it, inhaled deeply and sighed the smoke upwards.
Sam watched, content but wary, seeking in vain any clue in Gene’s expression, greeted by a well-practised mask of inscrutability. Deciding that someone would have to say something eventually, and it might as well be him, he opted for something placatory.
"Listen, Gene – I don’t know what came over me…"
The mask slipped fractionally. "That’d be me," Gene responded dryly.
A gurgle of laughter escaped Sam, and he lay back, savouring the moment. "Well, it’s reassuring to know that the Manchester Constabulary are so passionate about road safety."
The punch Gene landed seemed as appropriate a response as any.