LoM Fic: A Difference of Opinion (PG-13, Sam/Gene)
Title ~ A Difference of Opinion
Rating ~ Blue Cortina (PG-13) for language
Pairing ~ Sam/Gene
Summary ~ Three weeks into an undercover operation, Sam is pulled in to the station and told that he is being taken off the case …
Original Request ~ Sam/Gene, having a blazing row, but a (reasonably) happy ending, please!
Notes ~ Written for the lifein1973 Ficathon 2008. My sincerest thanks go to amproof for the beta and invaluable advice. Any remaining errors are my own.
Length ~ 2,819 words
Disclaimer ~ Life on Mars belongs to the BBC and Kudos; I (sadly) own nothing.
Sam stared at the cell wall, quietly seething. He hadn’t been having a good day to start with, and being arrested on the street and dragged in like a common criminal hadn’t helped in the slightest. Of course, he was posing as a common criminal at the moment - but still. Almost all of Manchester’s finest knew that he was trying to infiltrate the city’s meanest drugs ring, and Sam knew they would only bring him in on Gene’s orders. Knowing that only served to irritate him further; they had a procedure for setting up meetings, and this was not it. Typical Hunt.
To make matters worse, his wrists were chafing under the vicious grip of the handcuffs. Sam made a mental note to speak to someone about that when he returned to his normal job, his normal life. Not that anything about his life was normal any more.
The metal shutter on the door clattered as it was pulled back, and Sam caught a glimpse of familiar green eyes before the hatch slammed shut again and the sound of jangling keys filtered through the heavy door. Sam got to his feet as Gene pushed open the cell door and stepped into the room.
“What the bleeding hell do you think you’re playing at?” he asked, unable to suppress his frustration at being left to stew in a cell without any explanation for over half an hour.
“I’m saving your neck,” Gene replied. He seized one of Sam’s wrists and jerked it up to waist-height so that he could fit a key into the cuffs. They fell away a moment later, leaving red rings on Sam’s skin. Gene’s eyes narrowed in concern, a gentle thumb tracing over the marks on the wrist he still held. Sam jerked his hand away, too annoyed to tolerate tenderness. Gene slipped the cuffs into a pocket and looked up. “I’m taking you off the case.”
Sam stared at him, his lips parted in shock. “What?”
“You heard me,” Gene replied simply. He turned to leave the cell. “Come on - I want your report on my desk before teatime.”
Sam grabbed his arm, pulling him back and swinging Gene around to face him. “You can’t do this - I’m this close -”
“Doesn’t matter,” Gene growled, shrugging Sam’s hand away. “You’re off the case.”
Sam closed his eyes momentarily, trying to compose himself, suppressing the urge to snap. He told himself that Gene simply didn’t understand how close he was to getting hard evidence, evidence that would put the entire gang away for a good long time. He took a steadying breath.
“Listen,” he said, trying to reason with Gene. “You said yourself that we needed someone undercover to blow this whole operation open - now I’m inside, it’s a waste not to let me finish the job. We won’t get another chance like this.”
“Yeah, well I’ve changed my mind, haven’t I?” Gene told him firmly. He wasn’t in the mood for this sort of confrontation; it would be too easy to slip and reveal something that would betray his emotions. Besides, Sam ought to be glad to be back in the civilized world of CID. He shouldn’t want to go back to surrounding himself with scum. Gene grabbed him by the collar and hauled him out into the corridor. “CID, report - now!”
“Why are you pulling me out?” Sam demanded. He didn’t follow Gene as he started down the corridor towards the stairs. Sam gritted his teeth; all he wanted was a reason, surely that wasn’t too much to ask. He raised his voice as Gene began to climb the stairs. “Hunt! Why are you pulling me off the case?”
Gene ignored him, jogging up the stairs without turning. He reached the landing and carried on up out of sight. Sam rolled his eyes and bolted after him. Weeks of undercover work had knocked off all his crisp ‘Hyde’ corners; his brain no longer defaulted to skipping around anyone who was in the way. Sam shoved baffled PCs out of his path so hard that they bounced off the walls, not bothering to shout an apology over his shoulder.
He caught up with Gene at the top of the stairs. He barrelled into the larger man, taking him by surprise, and slammed him into the nearest wall. Gene collided with a door, which, to Sam’s surprise, swung open under their combined weight.
Somehow, he managed to keep them both upright. They were in someone’s office; it was deserted, but files lay open on the desk. A part of Sam’s brain - one of the few parts that wasn’t turned half-Neanderthal by undercover work or anger - was horrified at the breach of proper procedure, but for the moment he had more important things to deal with than another department’s lax standards. He shoved Gene into the abandoned chair. Gene landed with a grunt, planting his feet firmly on the floor to stop the chair from shooting backwards on its casters.
“Why,” Sam asked again, clipping each word, “Are you taking me off the case?”
He barely had the chance to draw a breath before Gene came at him, slamming his body into a partition wall. It shook under the impact.
“Because, Tyler,” he said quietly, his face so close to Sam’s that he could tell from Gene’s breath that he had recently taken a swig from one of his hip-flasks, “You won’t be able to handle it if you get any deeper.”
Anger lent Sam the strength he needed to shove Gene off him. He threw a punch, not intending for it to connect. Gene caught his fist, spinning him and trying to force his arm up against his spine; Sam carried on turning, throwing Gene off-balance and reversing their positions. Once he was sure there was a wall behind him, Sam back-pedalled, slamming Gene into it so hard that his grip on Sam’s hand relaxed momentarily. Sam wrenched his fist away and backed off.
“Can’t handle it, can I not?”
“Not with your prissy Hyde ways,” Gene snarled, sagging a little against the wall. Satisfied that they would be exchanging only verbal blows for the next couple of minutes, Sam relaxed out of his fighters’ crouch.
“I think I’ve proved that I can handle things just fine - ‘Hyde ways’ or not - more times than I can count, Guv,” Sam said. He leant a hand on the corner of the desk, still breathing heavily. “Let me carry on - I can get them, I just need a bit more time -”
“No,” Gene said flatly, straightening up. Sam opened his mouth to argue further, but Gene lifted a hand to silence him. “I said no.”
“This is stupid! If I was any other officer -”
“Yeah, but you’re not any other officer!” Gene shouted. He didn’t want to discuss his reasoning in the Station; surely Sam could see that. Perhaps later, under the influence of a few pints and in a quiet, undisturbed corner of the Railway Arms, he might be persuaded to talk - but not here, where anyone could overhear. Sam, however, was too incensed to notice the change in Gene’s tone.
“No,” he spat. “I’m DI Sam Tyler, from bloody Hyde - you know, just because I do things by the sodding book doesn’t mean I’m - incompetent - incapable -”
“That’s not what I meant, you daft bastard!” Gene hissed, his voice full of urgency. He glanced uneasily at the door; the corridor seemed to be deserted, but he didn’t dare raise his voice above an insistent murmur. “I’m pulling you off the case because I’m worried about you!”
Sam stopped short, his protests dying on his lips. Gene looked livid, probably because Sam had managed to drag the admission out of him. Sam licked his lips, trying to marshal his thoughts. Eventually, Gene sighed and grabbed his arm, depositing him firmly in the chair. Gene himself perched on the corner of the desk and took a steadying breath.
“I know you’re a capable officer,” he said after a moment. Then, grudgingly, almost as an afterthought, he added, “Sam.”
Sam felt the corners of his mouth twitching upwards; it was always nice to be recognised as a good officer by a superior - especially a superior as hard to please as Gene Hunt. He reached out to put a hand on Gene’s knee, then thought better of it; Gene was still fuming, and if he tried such a display of affection - especially somewhere as public as the Station - he was likely to get his fingers broken.
“Then why are you worried?” he asked, his hand hovering vaguely in the air. “If you know I’m capable -”
“’Cause if those bastards find out you’re a copper - and word on the street is that they’re checking up on you - they won’t kill you. But before they’ve finished, you’ll be wishing they had.”
Gene wasn’t looking at him; he was staring blankly at the wall behind Sam, his face set. Sam could read in his expression what Gene hadn’t said - what he wouldn’t, couldn’t say: that he was worried they would find out; that he might find Sam’s broken body in the canal three weeks on; that he couldn’t bear that thought. Sam swallowed hard as understanding finally dawned.
This had nothing to do with his competence or ability. Gene was taking him off the case because he cared; that was why he was so reluctant to discuss it. Sam risked placing a hand over one of Gene’s, squeezing gently; the other man didn’t even twitch.
Sam took a deep breath, steadying himself. If Gene’s reason for pulling him out of the undercover work was his feelings, Sam couldn’t agree to come back. Their personal relationship could not be allowed to interfere with their work. Still, if he wanted to confront Gene about it, he would have to tread carefully. “Listen, Gene. I only need a couple more days -”
“God, you’re worse than a bloody bulldog - you just don’t let go, do you?” Gene snapped, throwing Sam’s hand off his and rising to his feet. He paced restlessly into a corner, deliberately distancing himself from Sam while he collected himself. He had already ventured too far into territory he wasn’t familiar with, and he wasn’t prepared to be pushed any further. When he finally turned, his expression told Sam that he would brook no argument. “You are off the case. End of discussion. You write up your report, and you go home to your cruddy little flat, and you have beans-on-toast for tea! Then you come in to work tomorrow, and we try to work out what their next move will be.”
“If you’d give me the chance, I could find out what their next move will be!” Sam sulked, folding his arms across his chest to surreptitiously hug himself.
“Too dangerous,” Gene said firmly, shaking his head.
“If I were Ray,” Sam said quietly, fixing Gene with a glare. He wasn’t about to back down on this; he would not allow Gene to coddle him. “Or Chris - or any of the others; Annie, even - if I was somebody else, would you let me go back?”
“No,” Gene replied. Sam looked up sharply, eyes wide with surprise. Gene sniffed at him. “What, think you get preferential treatment? Dream on, Gladys.”
It was true, for the most part; he wouldn’t let any of his people endanger their lives infiltrating a drugs ring for the sake of evidence. Their jobs were hazardous enough, especially when they were working undercover; it wasn’t worth the risk, once the criminals started asking too many questions. However, for anyone else, he would probably have waited a couple more days before having them brought in. Still, Sam didn’t need to know that; Gene was done with heartfelt confessions for the time being - and besides, his DI was arrogant enough without having his ego inflated further. Gene strode to the door and yanked it open, jerking his head towards the corridor.
Sam took the hint and sullenly climbed to his feet. Gene had won; if he wasn’t being singled out, Sam couldn’t argue that their relationship was interfering with their work and force Gene to let him go back to the gang. He sloped out into the corridor and started towards the lifts, more annoyed now with his own lack of evidence than with Gene. Gene let the door swing shut, then fell into step beside him.
After a short wait, the lift arrived on their floor. Gene stepped inside, closely followed by Sam, and leant into a corner, watching the other man carefully. Sam was staring at Gene’s shoes, his head bent and his shoulder hunched, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. He was wearing the put-out expression he always wore when Gene belittled one of his precious procedures. The doors closed after a few seconds, and finally Gene spoke. “Thought you’d be pleased I wasn’t singling you out.”
“Oh, God forbid,” Sam snapped, with more vehemence than he really felt. Gene scowled, and immediately Sam wished he hadn’t spoken. It wasn’t fair to bite Gene’s head off, not when he was really annoyed with himself.
“I just can’t please you, can I? If I treated you different from everybody else, you’d crucify me for that, too!”
“I don’t want you to treat me differently,” Sam sighed, rubbing his eyes and wishing he could make Gene understand. “I just wish you’d let me go back undercover - I don’t have any concrete evidence.”
Gene reached out and caught Sam’s chin between forefinger and thumb, lifting his face until their eyes met before letting go. Sam raised his eyebrows, surprised by the uncharacteristically intimate gesture.
“You lasted more than three weeks - which is better than Ray or Chris have ever managed, and more than long enough. Concrete or not, you’ll have something,” he told Sam, smiling slightly. He was right, Sam realised; he was bound to have found out something that they could use to get them on their way to a solid conviction. He felt himself starting to smile back, his gloom staved off for the time being. Then Gene huffed a derisive laugh. “Although with your la-di-da manners, I’ve not got a clue how they believed for a minute you were one of them …”
Sam snorted, amused by Gene’s mockery. “Gene Hunt: king of the backhanded compliment.”
Gene glanced at him, the corner of his mouth twitching in what Sam chose to interpret as a tiny smile. The lift doors slid open, and Gene reached out to clap Sam on the shoulder. “Come on, Sammy-boy - proper policing to be done.”
“You wouldn’t know proper policing if it came up and bit you,” Sam teased good-naturedly as they stepped out into the corridor.
“I don’t know about the policing you’ve been doing, but proper or not mine rarely bites,” Gene replied smartly, shouldering the door to the outer office open. Sam caught it as it swung shut again, rolling his eyes.
“I was speaking metaphorically,” he sighed as he followed Gene across the room. He grabbed a football out of the air as it sailed towards his chest, tossing it to Chris with a disapproving look. Gene turned just in front of the door to his office and waited until Sam reached his desk.
“Yeah, well,” Gene replied, turning around as he reached the door to his office and putting his hands on his hips. “So was I. If there’s any biting to be done in this job, we should be the ones doing it. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like that report so’s I know roughly where I should be sinking my teeth in.”
Sam shook his head, grinning in amusement as he took his seat at his desk. “Right, Guv.”
“Oh, and I noticed a gap on one of my windows,” Gene continued calmly, staring out across the room with obviously forced serenity. “Somebody want to do something about that?”
Chris dropped the football, letting it roll under Ray’s desk. Sam heard him muttering an apology as he squeezed past Gene, who turned his gaze to the ceiling and folded his arms while he waited. Sam covered his smile with one hand. If he was honest with himself, he had almost missed being in the office, trying to complete paperwork surrounded by noise and inappropriate behaviour and impromptu kickabouts that knocked the posters off Gene’s wall. Chris ducked out of Gene’s office a few moments later and hovered by the door, holding it open. “All fixed, Guv.”
“Right,” Gene said. He nodded once to Sam, then turned and swept into his office, slamming the door behind him. Sam heard Chris’ sigh of relief as he passed on his way back to his desk. He smiled to himself as he pulled a report sheet out of a drawer and started to fill it in.
end
.
Rating ~ Blue Cortina (PG-13) for language
Pairing ~ Sam/Gene
Summary ~ Three weeks into an undercover operation, Sam is pulled in to the station and told that he is being taken off the case …
Original Request ~ Sam/Gene, having a blazing row, but a (reasonably) happy ending, please!
Notes ~ Written for the lifein1973 Ficathon 2008. My sincerest thanks go to amproof for the beta and invaluable advice. Any remaining errors are my own.
Length ~ 2,819 words
Disclaimer ~ Life on Mars belongs to the BBC and Kudos; I (sadly) own nothing.
Sam stared at the cell wall, quietly seething. He hadn’t been having a good day to start with, and being arrested on the street and dragged in like a common criminal hadn’t helped in the slightest. Of course, he was posing as a common criminal at the moment - but still. Almost all of Manchester’s finest knew that he was trying to infiltrate the city’s meanest drugs ring, and Sam knew they would only bring him in on Gene’s orders. Knowing that only served to irritate him further; they had a procedure for setting up meetings, and this was not it. Typical Hunt.
To make matters worse, his wrists were chafing under the vicious grip of the handcuffs. Sam made a mental note to speak to someone about that when he returned to his normal job, his normal life. Not that anything about his life was normal any more.
The metal shutter on the door clattered as it was pulled back, and Sam caught a glimpse of familiar green eyes before the hatch slammed shut again and the sound of jangling keys filtered through the heavy door. Sam got to his feet as Gene pushed open the cell door and stepped into the room.
“What the bleeding hell do you think you’re playing at?” he asked, unable to suppress his frustration at being left to stew in a cell without any explanation for over half an hour.
“I’m saving your neck,” Gene replied. He seized one of Sam’s wrists and jerked it up to waist-height so that he could fit a key into the cuffs. They fell away a moment later, leaving red rings on Sam’s skin. Gene’s eyes narrowed in concern, a gentle thumb tracing over the marks on the wrist he still held. Sam jerked his hand away, too annoyed to tolerate tenderness. Gene slipped the cuffs into a pocket and looked up. “I’m taking you off the case.”
Sam stared at him, his lips parted in shock. “What?”
“You heard me,” Gene replied simply. He turned to leave the cell. “Come on - I want your report on my desk before teatime.”
Sam grabbed his arm, pulling him back and swinging Gene around to face him. “You can’t do this - I’m this close -”
“Doesn’t matter,” Gene growled, shrugging Sam’s hand away. “You’re off the case.”
Sam closed his eyes momentarily, trying to compose himself, suppressing the urge to snap. He told himself that Gene simply didn’t understand how close he was to getting hard evidence, evidence that would put the entire gang away for a good long time. He took a steadying breath.
“Listen,” he said, trying to reason with Gene. “You said yourself that we needed someone undercover to blow this whole operation open - now I’m inside, it’s a waste not to let me finish the job. We won’t get another chance like this.”
“Yeah, well I’ve changed my mind, haven’t I?” Gene told him firmly. He wasn’t in the mood for this sort of confrontation; it would be too easy to slip and reveal something that would betray his emotions. Besides, Sam ought to be glad to be back in the civilized world of CID. He shouldn’t want to go back to surrounding himself with scum. Gene grabbed him by the collar and hauled him out into the corridor. “CID, report - now!”
“Why are you pulling me out?” Sam demanded. He didn’t follow Gene as he started down the corridor towards the stairs. Sam gritted his teeth; all he wanted was a reason, surely that wasn’t too much to ask. He raised his voice as Gene began to climb the stairs. “Hunt! Why are you pulling me off the case?”
Gene ignored him, jogging up the stairs without turning. He reached the landing and carried on up out of sight. Sam rolled his eyes and bolted after him. Weeks of undercover work had knocked off all his crisp ‘Hyde’ corners; his brain no longer defaulted to skipping around anyone who was in the way. Sam shoved baffled PCs out of his path so hard that they bounced off the walls, not bothering to shout an apology over his shoulder.
He caught up with Gene at the top of the stairs. He barrelled into the larger man, taking him by surprise, and slammed him into the nearest wall. Gene collided with a door, which, to Sam’s surprise, swung open under their combined weight.
Somehow, he managed to keep them both upright. They were in someone’s office; it was deserted, but files lay open on the desk. A part of Sam’s brain - one of the few parts that wasn’t turned half-Neanderthal by undercover work or anger - was horrified at the breach of proper procedure, but for the moment he had more important things to deal with than another department’s lax standards. He shoved Gene into the abandoned chair. Gene landed with a grunt, planting his feet firmly on the floor to stop the chair from shooting backwards on its casters.
“Why,” Sam asked again, clipping each word, “Are you taking me off the case?”
He barely had the chance to draw a breath before Gene came at him, slamming his body into a partition wall. It shook under the impact.
“Because, Tyler,” he said quietly, his face so close to Sam’s that he could tell from Gene’s breath that he had recently taken a swig from one of his hip-flasks, “You won’t be able to handle it if you get any deeper.”
Anger lent Sam the strength he needed to shove Gene off him. He threw a punch, not intending for it to connect. Gene caught his fist, spinning him and trying to force his arm up against his spine; Sam carried on turning, throwing Gene off-balance and reversing their positions. Once he was sure there was a wall behind him, Sam back-pedalled, slamming Gene into it so hard that his grip on Sam’s hand relaxed momentarily. Sam wrenched his fist away and backed off.
“Can’t handle it, can I not?”
“Not with your prissy Hyde ways,” Gene snarled, sagging a little against the wall. Satisfied that they would be exchanging only verbal blows for the next couple of minutes, Sam relaxed out of his fighters’ crouch.
“I think I’ve proved that I can handle things just fine - ‘Hyde ways’ or not - more times than I can count, Guv,” Sam said. He leant a hand on the corner of the desk, still breathing heavily. “Let me carry on - I can get them, I just need a bit more time -”
“No,” Gene said flatly, straightening up. Sam opened his mouth to argue further, but Gene lifted a hand to silence him. “I said no.”
“This is stupid! If I was any other officer -”
“Yeah, but you’re not any other officer!” Gene shouted. He didn’t want to discuss his reasoning in the Station; surely Sam could see that. Perhaps later, under the influence of a few pints and in a quiet, undisturbed corner of the Railway Arms, he might be persuaded to talk - but not here, where anyone could overhear. Sam, however, was too incensed to notice the change in Gene’s tone.
“No,” he spat. “I’m DI Sam Tyler, from bloody Hyde - you know, just because I do things by the sodding book doesn’t mean I’m - incompetent - incapable -”
“That’s not what I meant, you daft bastard!” Gene hissed, his voice full of urgency. He glanced uneasily at the door; the corridor seemed to be deserted, but he didn’t dare raise his voice above an insistent murmur. “I’m pulling you off the case because I’m worried about you!”
Sam stopped short, his protests dying on his lips. Gene looked livid, probably because Sam had managed to drag the admission out of him. Sam licked his lips, trying to marshal his thoughts. Eventually, Gene sighed and grabbed his arm, depositing him firmly in the chair. Gene himself perched on the corner of the desk and took a steadying breath.
“I know you’re a capable officer,” he said after a moment. Then, grudgingly, almost as an afterthought, he added, “Sam.”
Sam felt the corners of his mouth twitching upwards; it was always nice to be recognised as a good officer by a superior - especially a superior as hard to please as Gene Hunt. He reached out to put a hand on Gene’s knee, then thought better of it; Gene was still fuming, and if he tried such a display of affection - especially somewhere as public as the Station - he was likely to get his fingers broken.
“Then why are you worried?” he asked, his hand hovering vaguely in the air. “If you know I’m capable -”
“’Cause if those bastards find out you’re a copper - and word on the street is that they’re checking up on you - they won’t kill you. But before they’ve finished, you’ll be wishing they had.”
Gene wasn’t looking at him; he was staring blankly at the wall behind Sam, his face set. Sam could read in his expression what Gene hadn’t said - what he wouldn’t, couldn’t say: that he was worried they would find out; that he might find Sam’s broken body in the canal three weeks on; that he couldn’t bear that thought. Sam swallowed hard as understanding finally dawned.
This had nothing to do with his competence or ability. Gene was taking him off the case because he cared; that was why he was so reluctant to discuss it. Sam risked placing a hand over one of Gene’s, squeezing gently; the other man didn’t even twitch.
Sam took a deep breath, steadying himself. If Gene’s reason for pulling him out of the undercover work was his feelings, Sam couldn’t agree to come back. Their personal relationship could not be allowed to interfere with their work. Still, if he wanted to confront Gene about it, he would have to tread carefully. “Listen, Gene. I only need a couple more days -”
“God, you’re worse than a bloody bulldog - you just don’t let go, do you?” Gene snapped, throwing Sam’s hand off his and rising to his feet. He paced restlessly into a corner, deliberately distancing himself from Sam while he collected himself. He had already ventured too far into territory he wasn’t familiar with, and he wasn’t prepared to be pushed any further. When he finally turned, his expression told Sam that he would brook no argument. “You are off the case. End of discussion. You write up your report, and you go home to your cruddy little flat, and you have beans-on-toast for tea! Then you come in to work tomorrow, and we try to work out what their next move will be.”
“If you’d give me the chance, I could find out what their next move will be!” Sam sulked, folding his arms across his chest to surreptitiously hug himself.
“Too dangerous,” Gene said firmly, shaking his head.
“If I were Ray,” Sam said quietly, fixing Gene with a glare. He wasn’t about to back down on this; he would not allow Gene to coddle him. “Or Chris - or any of the others; Annie, even - if I was somebody else, would you let me go back?”
“No,” Gene replied. Sam looked up sharply, eyes wide with surprise. Gene sniffed at him. “What, think you get preferential treatment? Dream on, Gladys.”
It was true, for the most part; he wouldn’t let any of his people endanger their lives infiltrating a drugs ring for the sake of evidence. Their jobs were hazardous enough, especially when they were working undercover; it wasn’t worth the risk, once the criminals started asking too many questions. However, for anyone else, he would probably have waited a couple more days before having them brought in. Still, Sam didn’t need to know that; Gene was done with heartfelt confessions for the time being - and besides, his DI was arrogant enough without having his ego inflated further. Gene strode to the door and yanked it open, jerking his head towards the corridor.
Sam took the hint and sullenly climbed to his feet. Gene had won; if he wasn’t being singled out, Sam couldn’t argue that their relationship was interfering with their work and force Gene to let him go back to the gang. He sloped out into the corridor and started towards the lifts, more annoyed now with his own lack of evidence than with Gene. Gene let the door swing shut, then fell into step beside him.
After a short wait, the lift arrived on their floor. Gene stepped inside, closely followed by Sam, and leant into a corner, watching the other man carefully. Sam was staring at Gene’s shoes, his head bent and his shoulder hunched, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. He was wearing the put-out expression he always wore when Gene belittled one of his precious procedures. The doors closed after a few seconds, and finally Gene spoke. “Thought you’d be pleased I wasn’t singling you out.”
“Oh, God forbid,” Sam snapped, with more vehemence than he really felt. Gene scowled, and immediately Sam wished he hadn’t spoken. It wasn’t fair to bite Gene’s head off, not when he was really annoyed with himself.
“I just can’t please you, can I? If I treated you different from everybody else, you’d crucify me for that, too!”
“I don’t want you to treat me differently,” Sam sighed, rubbing his eyes and wishing he could make Gene understand. “I just wish you’d let me go back undercover - I don’t have any concrete evidence.”
Gene reached out and caught Sam’s chin between forefinger and thumb, lifting his face until their eyes met before letting go. Sam raised his eyebrows, surprised by the uncharacteristically intimate gesture.
“You lasted more than three weeks - which is better than Ray or Chris have ever managed, and more than long enough. Concrete or not, you’ll have something,” he told Sam, smiling slightly. He was right, Sam realised; he was bound to have found out something that they could use to get them on their way to a solid conviction. He felt himself starting to smile back, his gloom staved off for the time being. Then Gene huffed a derisive laugh. “Although with your la-di-da manners, I’ve not got a clue how they believed for a minute you were one of them …”
Sam snorted, amused by Gene’s mockery. “Gene Hunt: king of the backhanded compliment.”
Gene glanced at him, the corner of his mouth twitching in what Sam chose to interpret as a tiny smile. The lift doors slid open, and Gene reached out to clap Sam on the shoulder. “Come on, Sammy-boy - proper policing to be done.”
“You wouldn’t know proper policing if it came up and bit you,” Sam teased good-naturedly as they stepped out into the corridor.
“I don’t know about the policing you’ve been doing, but proper or not mine rarely bites,” Gene replied smartly, shouldering the door to the outer office open. Sam caught it as it swung shut again, rolling his eyes.
“I was speaking metaphorically,” he sighed as he followed Gene across the room. He grabbed a football out of the air as it sailed towards his chest, tossing it to Chris with a disapproving look. Gene turned just in front of the door to his office and waited until Sam reached his desk.
“Yeah, well,” Gene replied, turning around as he reached the door to his office and putting his hands on his hips. “So was I. If there’s any biting to be done in this job, we should be the ones doing it. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like that report so’s I know roughly where I should be sinking my teeth in.”
Sam shook his head, grinning in amusement as he took his seat at his desk. “Right, Guv.”
“Oh, and I noticed a gap on one of my windows,” Gene continued calmly, staring out across the room with obviously forced serenity. “Somebody want to do something about that?”
Chris dropped the football, letting it roll under Ray’s desk. Sam heard him muttering an apology as he squeezed past Gene, who turned his gaze to the ceiling and folded his arms while he waited. Sam covered his smile with one hand. If he was honest with himself, he had almost missed being in the office, trying to complete paperwork surrounded by noise and inappropriate behaviour and impromptu kickabouts that knocked the posters off Gene’s wall. Chris ducked out of Gene’s office a few moments later and hovered by the door, holding it open. “All fixed, Guv.”
“Right,” Gene said. He nodded once to Sam, then turned and swept into his office, slamming the door behind him. Sam heard Chris’ sigh of relief as he passed on his way back to his desk. He smiled to himself as he pulled a report sheet out of a drawer and started to fill it in.
end
.