You Pays Your Money; Fanfic_whore; Greeny-blue Cortina
Title: You Pays Your Money
Author: Fanfic_whore
Pairing: Sam/Gene
Rating: Greeny-Blue Cortina?
Word Count: 1136
Summary: Erm…you takes your choice?
Spoilers: Yup, 1:04, 2:02 and 2:08.
A/N: I am having the week from hell. The day I start to feel better my computer ups and dies. No power in its brains. So it’s currently on its way to hospital in a DHL van, with all my random scribblings and my on-going fics. Let joy be unrestrained. And now I have to make do with one of those old machines with the hamster in the back whose processor intermittently copes with my broadband connection. So it’s fingers crossed that they wont actually have to touch the hard drive. Only fiddle about with some power related things and get it back to me sharpish, like. Prayers, goat sacrifices and strange chanting all gratefully accepted.
Anyway, I’ve been craving some happy Gene/Sam (actually I’ve been moaning and whining for some, but we’re glossing over that…) and in the end decided to write some myself. So here be fic. Enjoy.
You Pays Your Money
Sam lay on the floor of his apartment and closed his eyes. It wasn’t the old flat. This was new. New, with a slightly higher ceiling and a different artex pattern. And less depressing wallpaper. And a bed. A bed that can withstand more than a fly landing on it. Which is rather convenient as Gene’s slumped heavily atop it’s covers. Sam remembers being up there at one point. Some point before the room began spinning and the floor became an appealingly stable option.
Though that was an hour ago. And now the three generous shots of whiskey on an empty stomach are less about feeling warm and mellow and more about his brain making a bid for freedom. With a very small, blunt instrument.
Sobering up. He hates it. But it’s that or wake up tomorrow morning and find that small blunt instrument has mutated into a freakishly large chisel. And Gene’s well on his way to that. As usual.
“We did good today Sam,” Gene begins from on high, “one less…”
“Bastard murder lose in my city,” Sam chimed, finishing the sentence as Gene trailed off.
He opened his eyes and squinted in the glare of the hall light. The apartment was still small. “Don’t matter if you’re trying to crap, cook or clean, you don’t need to move two feet,” as Gene had so charmingly put it. But it was new. One he’d chosen himself. Really chosen. Jumped off a building, walked back into his life, picked up a paper, slapped down a deposit and chosen. chosen, chosen.
Sam opened his eyes further as his pupils adjusted to the light and glanced up at Gene. His head was big. And swaying. With tiredness and alcohol and smoke. His pupils were wide and dilated. Unfocused and ill-defined.
“You need to stop drinking,” Sam observed.
Gene moved slowly, dipped his head until his eyes locked with Sam’s, cocking his head a little to the side.
“And how do you know what I need?” Gene asked, his tone light, conversational. Jocular.
Sam smiled and dropped his head to the carpet. “Because my spider sense is tingling. My Sam-sense is tingling.” Clearly his mouth had sobered up long before his head. Because that was a perfectly articulated and yet perfectly loopy sentence.
Gene sighed and shook his head.
“What?” Sam demanded, “you must have heard of Spiderman. Marvel comics. 1962.”
“Yeah, I was out of nappies by then,” Gene told him sardonically.
Sam shrugged and turned his head to the side, resting his cheek against the cream, woollen carpet, glancing up at Gene with warm, brown eyes.
“You all of a tingle then?” Gene asked, jabbing lightly at Sam with his foot.
Sam rolled onto his side and pillowed his head on his arm.
“No,” he said simply.
And he had meant it to be simple. Only it wasn’t. Because somehow he’d made the word a challenge; a proposition. He groaned, closed his eyes and blamed Australian soaps. Blamed the way they ended a sentence on an up note. Blamed the way they turned every statement into a question.
Sam opened his eyes and found Gene had moved barely a muscle. Bright eyes were staring down at him. Eyes that shifted between blue and green; shifted according to the light; to the night and day; to the phase of the moon; to the wreaths of smoke surrounding them. Bright eyes that didn’t close and didn’t look away.
Sam smiled and rubbed his cheek against his arm, enjoying the slide of skin. Okay so maybe it wasn’t all the Aussies’ fault, he conceded. Maybe his three open buttons and rolled up sleeves had something to do with it. Maybe the fact Gene’s foot was still stroking along his thigh had something to do with it. Maybe nine months of rebuilding a damn fine partnership through bad and worse and stuttering sexual tension had something to do with it.
Then suddenly hands were dragging him upward, pulling him onto the bed, spreading him over Gene; arms and legs splayed across fabric and skin and blankets.
Sam realised he was still smiling. Grinning. A grin that threatened to split his face.
“Know what I need yet?” Gene asked as he pulled at Sam’s collar and bit lightly into his shoulder. His first taste of Sam. Salt and scent and sweat.
Sam pulled gently away from the touch and pushed himself up, a hand on Gene’s chest, thighs straddling his hips. He glanced at his Guv. Down this time instead of up. Beneath him Gene flinched a little, a slight squirm running through his chest. Yet he lay still. Accepted the temporary submission. And Sam flexed his thighs enjoying the feeling of power that flowed through him. Flexed and pushed himself closer to Gene. Let him feel the strength. Watching as Gene’s eyes darkened, feeling the sudden swell of his chest as he drew in a long shuddering breath.
And Sam figured he probably did know what Gene needed. He knew he needed this. Them. The one-two balance of opposites. The endless, vicious arguments that had been twisted and turned so many times they were almost a dance. Needed the fight. Needed the friend. Needed to know that when he fell; when the next Warren came a-calling or the next Woolfe howled at the door, someone would be there.
Sam tightened his thighs further and pushed down on Gene’s chest, feeling his own breathing hitch and shallow as Gene’s eyes fell half shut and an edge of fear slipped into his face.
Gene needed this. Needed someone to take control. Needed someone to haul him back from the edge. All the edges.
Needed someone to walk him gently toward that realisation.
Sam relaxed his grip a fraction and quirked a grin.
“Haven’t a clue,” he said quietly, made it sound like an admission. Then he tightened his thighs, gripped hard at Gene’s shirt and rolled to the side.
New bed. Bigger bed.
And then Gene was over him, nestled between his legs, hands either side of his head.
“Got an idea what you want though,” Sam suggested, voice sultry and low as he unfastened Gene’s tie, fingers stroking at the flesh of his open collar.
Above him Gene half smiled, his face suddenly flushed, eyes a little feral. A little possessive.
“Got you all of a tingle have I Tyler?” He asked with glee, pushing his crotch hard against Sam’s.
Sam took the tie in one hand and dropped it over the side of the bed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.
Great. It appeared he’d inadvertently invented a new catchphrase.
Only as Gene’s eyes focused on his lips and the heat between them crackled and thrummed, Sam found he didn’t really care.
After all this was what he’d chosen.
Author: Fanfic_whore
Pairing: Sam/Gene
Rating: Greeny-Blue Cortina?
Word Count: 1136
Summary: Erm…you takes your choice?
Spoilers: Yup, 1:04, 2:02 and 2:08.
A/N: I am having the week from hell. The day I start to feel better my computer ups and dies. No power in its brains. So it’s currently on its way to hospital in a DHL van, with all my random scribblings and my on-going fics. Let joy be unrestrained. And now I have to make do with one of those old machines with the hamster in the back whose processor intermittently copes with my broadband connection. So it’s fingers crossed that they wont actually have to touch the hard drive. Only fiddle about with some power related things and get it back to me sharpish, like. Prayers, goat sacrifices and strange chanting all gratefully accepted.
Anyway, I’ve been craving some happy Gene/Sam (actually I’ve been moaning and whining for some, but we’re glossing over that…) and in the end decided to write some myself. So here be fic. Enjoy.
You Pays Your Money
Sam lay on the floor of his apartment and closed his eyes. It wasn’t the old flat. This was new. New, with a slightly higher ceiling and a different artex pattern. And less depressing wallpaper. And a bed. A bed that can withstand more than a fly landing on it. Which is rather convenient as Gene’s slumped heavily atop it’s covers. Sam remembers being up there at one point. Some point before the room began spinning and the floor became an appealingly stable option.
Though that was an hour ago. And now the three generous shots of whiskey on an empty stomach are less about feeling warm and mellow and more about his brain making a bid for freedom. With a very small, blunt instrument.
Sobering up. He hates it. But it’s that or wake up tomorrow morning and find that small blunt instrument has mutated into a freakishly large chisel. And Gene’s well on his way to that. As usual.
“We did good today Sam,” Gene begins from on high, “one less…”
“Bastard murder lose in my city,” Sam chimed, finishing the sentence as Gene trailed off.
He opened his eyes and squinted in the glare of the hall light. The apartment was still small. “Don’t matter if you’re trying to crap, cook or clean, you don’t need to move two feet,” as Gene had so charmingly put it. But it was new. One he’d chosen himself. Really chosen. Jumped off a building, walked back into his life, picked up a paper, slapped down a deposit and chosen. chosen, chosen.
Sam opened his eyes further as his pupils adjusted to the light and glanced up at Gene. His head was big. And swaying. With tiredness and alcohol and smoke. His pupils were wide and dilated. Unfocused and ill-defined.
“You need to stop drinking,” Sam observed.
Gene moved slowly, dipped his head until his eyes locked with Sam’s, cocking his head a little to the side.
“And how do you know what I need?” Gene asked, his tone light, conversational. Jocular.
Sam smiled and dropped his head to the carpet. “Because my spider sense is tingling. My Sam-sense is tingling.” Clearly his mouth had sobered up long before his head. Because that was a perfectly articulated and yet perfectly loopy sentence.
Gene sighed and shook his head.
“What?” Sam demanded, “you must have heard of Spiderman. Marvel comics. 1962.”
“Yeah, I was out of nappies by then,” Gene told him sardonically.
Sam shrugged and turned his head to the side, resting his cheek against the cream, woollen carpet, glancing up at Gene with warm, brown eyes.
“You all of a tingle then?” Gene asked, jabbing lightly at Sam with his foot.
Sam rolled onto his side and pillowed his head on his arm.
“No,” he said simply.
And he had meant it to be simple. Only it wasn’t. Because somehow he’d made the word a challenge; a proposition. He groaned, closed his eyes and blamed Australian soaps. Blamed the way they ended a sentence on an up note. Blamed the way they turned every statement into a question.
Sam opened his eyes and found Gene had moved barely a muscle. Bright eyes were staring down at him. Eyes that shifted between blue and green; shifted according to the light; to the night and day; to the phase of the moon; to the wreaths of smoke surrounding them. Bright eyes that didn’t close and didn’t look away.
Sam smiled and rubbed his cheek against his arm, enjoying the slide of skin. Okay so maybe it wasn’t all the Aussies’ fault, he conceded. Maybe his three open buttons and rolled up sleeves had something to do with it. Maybe the fact Gene’s foot was still stroking along his thigh had something to do with it. Maybe nine months of rebuilding a damn fine partnership through bad and worse and stuttering sexual tension had something to do with it.
Then suddenly hands were dragging him upward, pulling him onto the bed, spreading him over Gene; arms and legs splayed across fabric and skin and blankets.
Sam realised he was still smiling. Grinning. A grin that threatened to split his face.
“Know what I need yet?” Gene asked as he pulled at Sam’s collar and bit lightly into his shoulder. His first taste of Sam. Salt and scent and sweat.
Sam pulled gently away from the touch and pushed himself up, a hand on Gene’s chest, thighs straddling his hips. He glanced at his Guv. Down this time instead of up. Beneath him Gene flinched a little, a slight squirm running through his chest. Yet he lay still. Accepted the temporary submission. And Sam flexed his thighs enjoying the feeling of power that flowed through him. Flexed and pushed himself closer to Gene. Let him feel the strength. Watching as Gene’s eyes darkened, feeling the sudden swell of his chest as he drew in a long shuddering breath.
And Sam figured he probably did know what Gene needed. He knew he needed this. Them. The one-two balance of opposites. The endless, vicious arguments that had been twisted and turned so many times they were almost a dance. Needed the fight. Needed the friend. Needed to know that when he fell; when the next Warren came a-calling or the next Woolfe howled at the door, someone would be there.
Sam tightened his thighs further and pushed down on Gene’s chest, feeling his own breathing hitch and shallow as Gene’s eyes fell half shut and an edge of fear slipped into his face.
Gene needed this. Needed someone to take control. Needed someone to haul him back from the edge. All the edges.
Needed someone to walk him gently toward that realisation.
Sam relaxed his grip a fraction and quirked a grin.
“Haven’t a clue,” he said quietly, made it sound like an admission. Then he tightened his thighs, gripped hard at Gene’s shirt and rolled to the side.
New bed. Bigger bed.
And then Gene was over him, nestled between his legs, hands either side of his head.
“Got an idea what you want though,” Sam suggested, voice sultry and low as he unfastened Gene’s tie, fingers stroking at the flesh of his open collar.
Above him Gene half smiled, his face suddenly flushed, eyes a little feral. A little possessive.
“Got you all of a tingle have I Tyler?” He asked with glee, pushing his crotch hard against Sam’s.
Sam took the tie in one hand and dropped it over the side of the bed, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.
Great. It appeared he’d inadvertently invented a new catchphrase.
Only as Gene’s eyes focused on his lips and the heat between them crackled and thrummed, Sam found he didn’t really care.
After all this was what he’d chosen.