[fic] From Hollow Into Light
TITLE: From Hollow Into Light
AUTHOR: Janni
WORD COUNT: 1131.97-ish
STYLE/WARNINGS: Brown Cortina. Ray/Sam. Total and complete crack.
AUTHORS' NOTES: For usomitai, who I have adored unreasoningly for eight years now (as she pointed out the other day :O). She's never had any LoM fic out of me, though, so I thought she should. >3 For everyone else: how many times can I tell you I'm sorry? Chances are, you don't believe me anyway. Title borrowed from Ms. Shirley Manson. Flash-beta-read by the insanely brilliant m31andy. :D
DISCLAIMER: Life on Mars is copyright Kudos and the BBC. No infringement is intended and no money is being made. Though really, I'm not sure what it would *mean* about the world if money was being made on this...
FROM HOLLOW INTO LIGHT
This wasn't supposed to happen.
It came back in flashes, whenever he least wanted it to. Sticky, tangled, sweat-slicked limbs. Fingernails tearing up his back, clawing so deeply they left great, gaping slashes that stung like nothing else in the shower the next morning. How he'd banged his head twice; first into the wall, then into the sad wire frame that great poof had called a headboard.
At least I got my own back, Ray winced as he remembered. Those carpet burns between Sam's thighs as he'd ridden Ray's 'tache like he thought Ray was a bucking bronco. Well, except for the part where Sam was the one doing all the bucking. God was in the detail, after all.
He'd known the whole time it was happening that it would never happen again; would, in fact, never have happened in the first place were it not for the Guv. And how he was such an unrepentant cocktease.
He'd seen the way Sam worried his lip as he sent smouldering, wounded stares at the Guv as he aimed his darts. Seen the way the Guv pointedly ignored them, even though Ray himself could feel the heat of Sam's gaze from where he was sitting. Didn't matter that he wasn't even in the line of fire, it was so hot.
He'd ignored the fact he shouldn't even care, really. It wasn't as though he wanted Sam. If he was gonna do the dirty with someone that frail and birdlike, he wanted an actual bird. Not some airy-fairy poofter like Sam-bloody-Tyler.
Oh, not like he had proof.
And that, Ray thought, was when things had started to go completely pear-shaped. He held his head painfully and moaned as he remembered.
The events that had followed were these: as he'd sat and drank and watched Sam smoulder angrily and get progressively more pissed as the night wore on, he, too, drank in massive quantities. But he wasn't pissed. Oh no, not Ray Carling. He was far too much a man's man to not be able to hold his booze. No, the booze helped him become a philosopher. A theorist. A downright scholar. Ray nodded sagely to no-one in particular as he thought this last thought and smiled to himself.
I've got no proof he's a poof, he'd thought. And then congratulated himself and added "poet" to the list of things he was now becoming. What's he always going on about again? Empirical data? Variables? Tangible evidence??? Ray took another steadying swig from his eleventeenth pint of bitter.
Wiping the foam off his moustache determinedly, Ray had made his move.
******
Of course, he'd been right. Things, as ever, remained normal down in CID. Nothing changed after that night at all, and of course it never happened again. He wasn't any more inclined to take his DI seriously, and his DI wasn't inclined to think him any less a neanderthal, either.
To his way of thinking, this wasn't an altogether undesirable turn of events. He'd worried things might be awkward; he was usually all mouth when it came to people he worked with, and maybe occasionally hands-on (especially when it came to Cartwright's gorgeous bum), but he didn't usually make it a habit to shit where he lived. He liked to think he had some standards of decorum, after all.
Which he promptly lost on or about the third day in a row he'd spent sicking up the contents of his gut before coming into work. He was rarely ever sick, as a rule, and when he was, it was never serious---so he always went in to work anyway. He figured it was fair trade for when he took off for the occasional footy match.
The first day, no-one had really noticed. The second, Cartwright had remarked he was looking a little peaky, and Ray leered and made some comment about "give us a kiss and make it all better, Florence Nightingale," and Cartwright had rushed away hurriedly.
And on the third, his humiliation was complete when he managed to drag himself into work only to have to rush off to the bogs not ten minutes after he'd walked through the door. He'd been in such a rush, he'd nearly knocked his DI through the wall as he'd crouched in front of him and retched miserably into the bowl between them.
"Dry heaves? Those are the worst," Sam was genuinely sympathetic, for a moment forgetting the rather awkward position they were in.
Ray glared up at Sam, utterly miserable. Then paled. "You weren't...I'm not..." he nearly stuttered as his eyes lowered involuntarily. Don't let him think you're looking... he thought. Which, of course, made his eyes disobey completely.
"Well, I'm not now. Not with your head in the way," Sam huffed. "But there's something I ought to tell you..."
"What can you possibly have to tell me now?" Ray glared some more, the full effect of which was considerably muted by another miserable bout of retching and heaving up nothing at all.
"How long would you say you've been sick like this?" Sam asked, suddenly peering at Ray's face very intently.
"Three days. Why?" Ray was too exhausted and demoralised to come up with an appropriately rude response.
"Could be morning sickness," Sam began, slowly, simultaneously bringing his hands down to protect his exposed bits as he straddled the back of the toilet and tried to back even further away from Ray.
"In case you've somehow missed it, I'm not a bird," Ray glared. "And that's not funny."
"It's OK, Ray. Everyone will just think you've spent too much time down the boozer and your gut's expanding with jolly good cheer. Hey, by my calculations, you'll be able to volunteer as a bloody impressive Santa this year!" Sam beamed, excited at the prospect.
"Just think of all those good little girls and boys piling onto your lap and sicking up on your red velveteen coat! Of course, you'll always have at least two good kids on you at all times. More, of course, if you're carrying twins. Or triplets. Or...octuplets!" Sam's eyes glassed over with completely unsuppressed mirth.
"I adore kids. I bet you'd never have guessed. Oh, I'll be happy to watch them anytime you need to get out, Ray. You can count on me," Sam smiled, voice suffused with warmth.
Ray's head cracked nastily on the toilet as he passed out. And he managed to heave up again on the way down, so at least he had something other than hard tile to land on.
~~~fin~~~
AUTHOR: Janni
WORD COUNT: 1131.97-ish
STYLE/WARNINGS: Brown Cortina. Ray/Sam. Total and complete crack.
AUTHORS' NOTES: For usomitai, who I have adored unreasoningly for eight years now (as she pointed out the other day :O). She's never had any LoM fic out of me, though, so I thought she should. >3 For everyone else: how many times can I tell you I'm sorry? Chances are, you don't believe me anyway. Title borrowed from Ms. Shirley Manson. Flash-beta-read by the insanely brilliant m31andy. :D
DISCLAIMER: Life on Mars is copyright Kudos and the BBC. No infringement is intended and no money is being made. Though really, I'm not sure what it would *mean* about the world if money was being made on this...
FROM HOLLOW INTO LIGHT
This wasn't supposed to happen.
It came back in flashes, whenever he least wanted it to. Sticky, tangled, sweat-slicked limbs. Fingernails tearing up his back, clawing so deeply they left great, gaping slashes that stung like nothing else in the shower the next morning. How he'd banged his head twice; first into the wall, then into the sad wire frame that great poof had called a headboard.
At least I got my own back, Ray winced as he remembered. Those carpet burns between Sam's thighs as he'd ridden Ray's 'tache like he thought Ray was a bucking bronco. Well, except for the part where Sam was the one doing all the bucking. God was in the detail, after all.
He'd known the whole time it was happening that it would never happen again; would, in fact, never have happened in the first place were it not for the Guv. And how he was such an unrepentant cocktease.
He'd seen the way Sam worried his lip as he sent smouldering, wounded stares at the Guv as he aimed his darts. Seen the way the Guv pointedly ignored them, even though Ray himself could feel the heat of Sam's gaze from where he was sitting. Didn't matter that he wasn't even in the line of fire, it was so hot.
He'd ignored the fact he shouldn't even care, really. It wasn't as though he wanted Sam. If he was gonna do the dirty with someone that frail and birdlike, he wanted an actual bird. Not some airy-fairy poofter like Sam-bloody-Tyler.
Oh, not like he had proof.
And that, Ray thought, was when things had started to go completely pear-shaped. He held his head painfully and moaned as he remembered.
The events that had followed were these: as he'd sat and drank and watched Sam smoulder angrily and get progressively more pissed as the night wore on, he, too, drank in massive quantities. But he wasn't pissed. Oh no, not Ray Carling. He was far too much a man's man to not be able to hold his booze. No, the booze helped him become a philosopher. A theorist. A downright scholar. Ray nodded sagely to no-one in particular as he thought this last thought and smiled to himself.
I've got no proof he's a poof, he'd thought. And then congratulated himself and added "poet" to the list of things he was now becoming. What's he always going on about again? Empirical data? Variables? Tangible evidence??? Ray took another steadying swig from his eleventeenth pint of bitter.
Wiping the foam off his moustache determinedly, Ray had made his move.
******
Of course, he'd been right. Things, as ever, remained normal down in CID. Nothing changed after that night at all, and of course it never happened again. He wasn't any more inclined to take his DI seriously, and his DI wasn't inclined to think him any less a neanderthal, either.
To his way of thinking, this wasn't an altogether undesirable turn of events. He'd worried things might be awkward; he was usually all mouth when it came to people he worked with, and maybe occasionally hands-on (especially when it came to Cartwright's gorgeous bum), but he didn't usually make it a habit to shit where he lived. He liked to think he had some standards of decorum, after all.
Which he promptly lost on or about the third day in a row he'd spent sicking up the contents of his gut before coming into work. He was rarely ever sick, as a rule, and when he was, it was never serious---so he always went in to work anyway. He figured it was fair trade for when he took off for the occasional footy match.
The first day, no-one had really noticed. The second, Cartwright had remarked he was looking a little peaky, and Ray leered and made some comment about "give us a kiss and make it all better, Florence Nightingale," and Cartwright had rushed away hurriedly.
And on the third, his humiliation was complete when he managed to drag himself into work only to have to rush off to the bogs not ten minutes after he'd walked through the door. He'd been in such a rush, he'd nearly knocked his DI through the wall as he'd crouched in front of him and retched miserably into the bowl between them.
"Dry heaves? Those are the worst," Sam was genuinely sympathetic, for a moment forgetting the rather awkward position they were in.
Ray glared up at Sam, utterly miserable. Then paled. "You weren't...I'm not..." he nearly stuttered as his eyes lowered involuntarily. Don't let him think you're looking... he thought. Which, of course, made his eyes disobey completely.
"Well, I'm not now. Not with your head in the way," Sam huffed. "But there's something I ought to tell you..."
"What can you possibly have to tell me now?" Ray glared some more, the full effect of which was considerably muted by another miserable bout of retching and heaving up nothing at all.
"How long would you say you've been sick like this?" Sam asked, suddenly peering at Ray's face very intently.
"Three days. Why?" Ray was too exhausted and demoralised to come up with an appropriately rude response.
"Could be morning sickness," Sam began, slowly, simultaneously bringing his hands down to protect his exposed bits as he straddled the back of the toilet and tried to back even further away from Ray.
"In case you've somehow missed it, I'm not a bird," Ray glared. "And that's not funny."
"It's OK, Ray. Everyone will just think you've spent too much time down the boozer and your gut's expanding with jolly good cheer. Hey, by my calculations, you'll be able to volunteer as a bloody impressive Santa this year!" Sam beamed, excited at the prospect.
"Just think of all those good little girls and boys piling onto your lap and sicking up on your red velveteen coat! Of course, you'll always have at least two good kids on you at all times. More, of course, if you're carrying twins. Or triplets. Or...octuplets!" Sam's eyes glassed over with completely unsuppressed mirth.
"I adore kids. I bet you'd never have guessed. Oh, I'll be happy to watch them anytime you need to get out, Ray. You can count on me," Sam smiled, voice suffused with warmth.
Ray's head cracked nastily on the toilet as he passed out. And he managed to heave up again on the way down, so at least he had something other than hard tile to land on.
~~~fin~~~