Fic: Bel Canto
Title: Bel Canto
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sam/Gene
Words: 6,000
Warnings: nada
Notes: A million thanks to elynittria, a far better beta than I deserve.
Summary: Sam and Gene investigate theft at the Manchester Opera House.
“Here, Guv. Two lumps,” Sam said, placing a teacup at Gene's elbow.
Gene ignored it, head bent over his paperwork - and that right there should have been a warning. Gene Hunt didn't do paperwork. “Don't do that.”
“Don't do what, exactly?” Sam said.
“Don't always be bringing me tea and suchlike. Don't fuss.” Gene cast a look toward the open door of his office. “It looks bad.” Outside, the station was quiet and empty except for Chris, who was drowsing over a stack of news clippings. His face was inches from his desk and getting closer by the moment.
“I thought a brew might be welcome. You were up late last night-” Gene shot him an alarmed look, “-going over those case files.”
“Don't,” Gene said, “make me knock you for six.”
“Better not,” Sam said, his good mood entirely evaporated. “All that physical contact? Far more incriminating than a cup of tea.” He kept his voice low, conversational, though he could have shouted for all the difference it would make; Chris' forehead had made it to the edge of his desk, and left to his own devices, he wouldn't wake until tea-time.
“It's been months, Gene,” Sam said, his voice softening. “No one knows. No one will. It's a cup of tea, not a bloody engagement ring.”
He resisted the impulse to touch Gene - even a pat on the shoulder would be risky with his mood this ugly. Sam nudged the tea a bit closer instead. Gene reached out and shoved the cup and saucer off the desk. The cup shattered, splashing tea up the leg of Sam's trousers.
Chris jerked awake with a cry. “You all right, Guv?” he asked, wiping spittle from the corner of his mouth.
“We're fine, Chris. Sam's just knocked over my tea. Fingers like a pig's tits.” He stood and straightened his jacket. “Clean that up, would you?” he said to Sam on his way out.
---
Sam didn't see him again until lunch. He'd considered finding some errand to keep him away from the station, but there was a very real chance that Gene wouldn't notice his absence, so what was the point?
He was in the cafeteria, picking out the bit of salad that hadn't been completely drenched in green goddess dressing, when camel-hair swished into view.
“What is that?” Just three words but they contained a world of disgust.
“A green salad,” Sam said, pushing another wilted leaf aside. “Greenish salad. God, I miss arugula.”
“Yeah? Who's she?”
“It's a-”
“I don't care. Come on, we've got a case.” Gene grabbed the collar of Sam's shirt and hauled him to his feet.
“We've got loads of cases,” Sam said.
“This one's special,” Gene said, propelling him toward the door. “There've been a string of thefts down at the Opera House,” he explained once they were both in the Cortina. “Cash, jewellery, clothes - not the till, though.”
“And this case is special?” Sam asked. Usually it took a murder to get Gene's attention.
“Donatella Cordescu is in town to sing Butterfly and it's her stuff what's been nicked.”
“Madame Butterfly?” Sam asked, confused by the note of awe in Gene's voice.
“Of course Madame Butterfly, you great div,” Gene replied, deeply irritated. “And she's one of the greatest sopranos living today, so they're bringing in the best to find out who's been pinching her ice. And I'm bringing you along to keep you out of trouble.”
“So some diva's missing jewellery is getting top priority here? Not the, oh, murder we had been working on?”
“Donatella Cordescu isn't 'some diva'; she's a goddess. Voice to make the angels weep.”
Sam shook his head in confusion. “She fit?” he guessed.
“Jubblies like a dead heat in a zeppelin race.”
“Ah,” Sam said, “And it all makes sense.”
Gene braked hard, bringing the car to an abrupt stop before the Manchester Opera House. Sam lagged behind Gene up the wide steps, a sense of déjà vu washing over him.
This wasn't his first time here. Or it was, actually, but the first time in his personal chronology wouldn't be for two decades. He had taken - will have taken? - a date here in some misguided effort to seem cultured and urbane. He would be impressed then, too, though the theatre had been plastered with posters for Starlight Express.
Above the pillars and arches of the building's façade an engraving proclaimed THE PLAY MIRRORS LIFE.
“God, I hope not,” Sam said.
“Quit muttering to yourself,” Gene said, holding open one of the bronze doors for him.
The theatre manager met them in the atrium, a timid, mousey man who kept looking as though he wanted to shush them, even when he was the one talking.
“Miss Cordescu can be quite … high-strung,” he said, wringing his hands. “So discretion is absolutely imperative.”
“Discretion is my middle name,” Gene said with a reassuring smile. “So if you'll show us to her dressing room....”
Mr Richards hesitated a moment longer and then strode off, leading them through the maze of backstage corridors.
“Discretion is your middle name?” Sam whispered to Gene as they were led up a winding staircase.
“It's more of an ironic nickname,” Gene said. He caught the back of Sam's neck and pulled him in to whisper, “And how 'bout if you shut your gob, eh?” His fingers lingered longer than necessary to convey his point.
They reached the dressing rooms, each star's name written on the door. Miss Cordescu's was the very last one.
Mr Richards knocked very softly. “Miss Cordescu?”
“I am sleep~ing,” a voice sing-songed back.
“The inspectors have arrived.” There was a long pause. “If you wish, I can send them-”
“Sweetheart, I hope you're decent, because I'm coming in,” Gene said, shouldering Mr Richards aside and opening the door. Sam threw Mr Richards an apologetic glance and followed.
Donatella lounged on a fainting couch in the corner of the room, looking not in the least alarmed to have men bursting into her room.
“Miss Cordescu, my abject apologies,” Mr Richards said, bowing deeply. Donatella waved one well-manicured hand.
“Si, si, you foolish little man. It is too late! They are here. And you may go-”
“-Really, I am so sorry for the inconvenience-”
“I said go!”
Mr Richards fled. Donatella rose gracefully from the couch. She clutched the neck of her silk dressing gown, putting more flesh on display rather than less. Gene's judgement about her bosom had been vulgar but accurate, Sam couldn't help but notice. The silk's scarlet colour contrasted sharply with her pale skin and platinum hair.
“You are a liar, sir,” she told Gene, her lips the same scarlet as her robe. Her hair was set in elaborate curls and waves like a 1940's screen siren. Sam could make out dark roots even in the poor light from the bulbs over the vanity.
“You wound me, pet. Most birds wait until I've said something to 'em to call me a liar,” Gene said, amused. “Mind telling me what I lied about?”
“You said that you hoped I am decent,” she said with a pout. Her thick accent added unnecessary vowels to the ends of words. “But I am thinking you were very much hoping that I am not decent at all.”
“She's got your number,” Sam said, but Gene was already taking Donatella's offered hand and kissing it.
“Can you blame me?” Gene asked and Donatella giggled, covering her mouth - which would have been charming if she had been four and not pushing forty.
“Oh God.” Sam pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I am also thinking you are going to be trouble, Mr…?”
“DCI Gene Hunt,” Gene supplied. “Please call me Gene.”
“And I'm DI Sam Tyler,” Sam offered. “Please call me DI Tyler.” He pulled his notepad and pen from his jacket pocket. “Now, Miss Cordescu, would you please list the stolen items?”
“Won't you have some champagne?” She addressed Gene as though she couldn't hear Sam. “Sit, sit. I am a terrible hostess.”
She ushered Gene to the couch, arranging the pillows about him before pouring two glasses of champagne and passing him one.
Sam took a seat at the vanity as Donatella situated herself next to Gene, her entire body turned toward him as though he were magnetic.
“To the most celebrated soprano in the world,” he said, lifting his glass.
“No, to the most handsome detective,” she offered, and they clinked glasses.
“Gag me,” Sam said, to no one in particular. “We're trying to investigate a crime, actually, so now that the pleasantries have been exchanged….”
Donatella threw her hands up, champagne sloshing over the rim of her glass. “You English! You are all the same - rush, rush, rush! Always in a hurry!”
“Don't let him upset you, love. I'm afraid he's a bit of an eager beaver.”
“If only all men were as understanding as you, Gene.”
Gene cast a sly glance in Sam's direction as he took her hand. Sam scrawled a few choice words on his notepad, none of which had any relevance to the case. Cosmetics and perfume bottles cluttered the vanity and pictures were tucked into the mirror. Some were of Donatella and her castmates or friends. Others were just of Donatella herself. She'd signed quite a few.
Gene coaxed the details of the theft out of her. The items only went missing after a performance. The emerald earrings had disappeared first, her best pearls next, then a mink stole.
“And my best silk kimono gone, too! Oh! Gene, if you could see me in that. But perhaps it is too short - your silly propriety here. I am not understanding it.”
“Sammy, take a note. We're getting that robe back if it kills us,” Gene said.
Another knock came at the door. “Miss Cordescu, the photographer from the paper is here, and the seamstress has finished the alterations.”
“Yes, yes, I am coming,” Donatella said crossly. She rose and turned to Gene, who came to his feet. “My apologies, but I must go. That horrid little man. All the time, he pesters me!”
“We quite understand,” Gene said.
“I'm sure you've got a very pressing hair appointment as well,” Sam said through a polite smile. He didn't stand up, feeling stubborn.
“Anything I can do to help the investigation,” she started, but Gene waved the offer away.
“No, don't you fret, love. We've got all we need from you.”
“Yes,” Sam said, “We'll start making some inquiries-”
“-Knocking some heads-”
“-Do you mind if we search your room for evidence?”
“Searching my personal things? My most private clothing?” She pressed her hand to her chest in horror, but then she smiled. “Of course not. But in return you must promise me that you will come to the show tonight. I insist!”
“Thank you for the invitation,” Sam said, “but as police officers we can't accept favours. It's this new thing we're trying out, very experimental.”
“Bah!” Donatella said, unimpressed by his argument. “Nonsense! It is a gift between friends. It would be an insult if you did not come.”
“And we wouldn't dream of insulting you - would we, Sammy?” Gene shot him a look that said Sam was in for a bollocking if he didn't knock it on the head.
“Good, good!” In her three-inch heels, she was nearly as tall as Gene, making it easy for her to bestow a kiss on each of his cheeks. “Ciao, darlings!”
“Ciao,” Gene said staring after her as she sashayed out of the room.
Sam waited for the door to swing shut before he said, “You've got lipstick on your cheek. And did you just say ciao?”
“I rather like that bird,” Gene said, rubbing his neck.
“I noticed,” Sam snapped. He turned back to the vanity and started digging through the scattered cosmetics. Donatella kept her jewellery in an oversized rosewood box. It probably hadn't taken more than a good shake to jimmy open the catch - if she'd locked it at all.
“Not jealous are you, Sam?” Gene said behind him. Sam examined the jewellery box for signs of tampering. The snick of the door being locked behind him caught his attention and he looked up to see Gene in the mirror.
“I've no reason to be jealous.”
“Really? Is that so?” Gene's reflection moved closer and Sam met his eyes in the glass, but he refused to turn around. “An aviation blonde with huge knockers - which happens to be just my type - starts giving me the glad-eye, and that doesn't make you jealous?”
“Our … arrangement, such as it bloody is, isn't exclusive. It's nothing to me if you're getting a leg over with some high-maintenance diva with an exaggerated ego.”
“High-maintenance divas with exaggerated egos are also something of a weakness of mine.” Gene was right behind Sam, his hands coming to rest on his shoulders - more neck than shoulder, really.
“I thought you wanted to be careful,” Sam said, shaking him off.
“Who's going to see us?” Gene asked. He braced a hand to either side of Sam on the table, leaning over him.
“Dammit, Gene. You can't change the rules when it's convenient.”
“Still have a cob on about this morning, then?” Gene said, an infuriating note of amusement in his voice. He nosed the hair behind Sam's ear, his breath hot on Sam's neck.
“You're an absolute bastard,” Sam said softly.
Gene murmured an agreement, working one hand down the front of Sam's shirt. The other came up to tug Sam's hair until he tilted his head so Gene could kiss the point of Sam's jaw and down his neck.
Sam allowed it for a minute, his resolve teetering, but he finally pushed Gene's hand away and stood, knocking the chair over in his hurry. He backed away, straightening the collar of his shirt.
“This is a crime scene,” he said when he was sure he was in control of his voice. “And we're on the job. You look for evidence here. I'm going to go start interviewing the chorus.”
“Don't you walk-” Gene started, but Sam was already gone.
The interviews yielded fuck-all. The confusion backstage during a performance would have made it easy enough for a thief to slip in and out unnoticed, through the stage door or even back into the audience. Or it could have been an inside job - someone familiar with the theatre, with the comings and goings of the actors. All of this fine investigative process left him at square one.
“Wear something nice tonight,” Gene said, when they finally returned to CID. “I'll pick you up at half seven.”
“What?” Sam said.
“Madame Butterfly. We're seeing it. Tonight. Try not to look like shite.”
---
Gene swept in fifteen minutes late, the door hitting the wall hard enough to dent the plaster. Sam started to complain that Gene didn't have to risk taking the door off its hinges, but he got distracted because Gene was wearing a tux. Not some god-awful powder blue monstrosity of which this decade was so fond, but a classic single-breasted tux with waistcoat and bow-tie, a white carnation tucked in his lapel.
“Christ,” Sam said, when he got his mouth working again.
“What?” Gene said, tugging on the cuff of his sleeve.
“Nothing. It's just … you look good.” Sam suddenly felt rather self-conscious in his own navy, mostly polyester suit; he'd thought it looked rather sharp when he'd put it on.
“Ah.” Gene swallowed and gave a little half-smile.
“And I can't believe you own a tux.”
“The Missus and I used to enjoy taking in a show now and again. It's been mouldering in the back of the closet for years now. Had a bugger of a time getting the waistcoat done up. If I breathe I'll lose a button.” He held up another carnation. “Don't make too much of this. I just don't want you to make me look bad.”
“Gene Hunt, man of culture and style.” Sam tucked the flower through the buttonhole on his jacket. “Who knew?”
“Don't let on to the others.”
“Not a word,” Sam promised.
---
The springs in the cushion of his chair had begun to go and the velveteen had worn off the corners. Sam shifted and stretched his legs as best he could. At least the view of the stage was good.
The orchestra hummed as it warmed up, and Gene shoved Sam's elbow off the armrest.
“Shouldn't we be backstage?” Sam asked. His foot was already falling asleep. The program said there were two intermissions; that couldn't be a good sign.
“We should wait. Catch 'em red-handed. I thought you would appreciate a little strategy?”
The lights in the theatre dimmed and the conductor popped up from the pit to take a bow.
“This is hardly a strategy,” Sam said over the applause.
“Belt up, Sammy. If you talk through this bleeding opera, I swear to God when I'm done with you, you'll think Butterfly had the right idea when she carked it.”
Sam was familiar with the plot in a general sort of way but he found himself consulting the program to try to suss out the specifics. He quit trying to do that when Gene kicked him for making the paper crinkle.
When Donatella stepped out onto the stage, Sam forgot about the program entirely. She wore a black wig and a kimono, but it wasn't the costume that made her a completely different woman; the way she held herself, even the length of her stride, was different. There was a softness or throatiness or something Sam couldn't identify to her voice. Not like the shrill, grating sopranos Sam had heard on his previous experience with opera.
When the intermission came, Sam found himself leaning forward, elbows on his knees. He shook himself and remembered that he wasn't actually here for personal enrichment.
“I'm going to go look around backstage,” he said to Gene. “I'll be back.”
“Right. Have fun,” Gene said, settling further into his seat.
Sam slipped backstage easily enough, flashing his warrant card at the stage manager when she protested.
The door to the chorus's dressing room was open, and Sam stationed himself outside, listening.
“Enjoying the show, Mr Tyler?”
Sam jumped and Donatella took his arm, steering him toward her dressing room. “Come. Come and tell me what you are thinking of it.”
“I really am working, actually,” Sam said, but the door was already shut and she stood before it to prevent his escape. “And I'm sure you've got to prepare for the next act.”
“I prefer company,” Donatella said pursing her lips in a little kiss. “So tell me, do you enjoy Butterfly's tale?”
“The music is brilliant,” Sam said. “You have a beautiful voice.”
Donatella inclined her head to accept the compliment as her due. “And what does Gene think? Is he enjoying it as well?”
“I'm sure he is,” Sam said, irritation rising. “And I'm sure you'll get the chance to ask him later. He'll see to that.”
She settled herself on the chair before the vanity and propped her feet up. “Didn't anybody ever tell you not to sleep with the boss, Mr Tyler?” she asked, her lilting Italian accent abruptly replaced by a broad American one.
“I'm not in a relationship with DCI Hunt,” Sam said, with the kind of unpleasant jolt that normally accompanied miscalculating the number of stairs.
“I didn't say you were in a relationship,” Donatella said cheerfully. “I said you were sleeping together - don't bother lying, honey. You're a terrible liar.”
Sam opened his mouth to argue, but she had him. It was a bit too late for sputtering indignation and he really was a terrible liar. “You're American?”
“Born and bred in Holt, Missouri,” she said in a conspiratorial stage whisper. “So, you and Gene?”
“I have no comment at this time,” he said, which made her laugh and clap her hands in delight.
“Pleading the fifth, huh.” Donatella put a finger to her lips. “Don't worry, sport. I'm good at keeping secrets.”
“Apparently you've had a lot of practice,” Sam said, swallowing to wet his throat. “Miss Cordescu.”
“It's Miss Gunderson, actually. Donna Gunderson.” She stuck out her hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
They shook, Sam wondering if perhaps he'd fallen asleep and failed to notice, and that this was a very bizarre dream.
“Donatella's my stage name - would you go see a Gunderson sing Butterfly? - but all my nearest and dearest still call me Donna.”
“I see.”
“But that's boring. I left so I'd never have to think of Holt again. How long have you and that dishy DCI of yours not been in a relationship?”
“That's really none of your business.”
“Curiosity's my favourite vice. Though not my only one,” she said, winking. “What's it like working together, sleeping together?”
“I don't think you need to know-”
“Geez, that must be so great,” she said with a rather toothy grin.
“It's not …” He'd meant to finish with any of your affair or possibly at all relevant but he didn't say either of those things. He just let the words hang there.
“It's not great?” she asked, frowning.
From somewhere deep within him a high, almost hysterical laugh welled up. “Great? Is it great?” He scrubbed his face with his hands, shoulders still shaking with laughter. “Gene Hunt is a self-loathing closet-case who thinks simple affection - let alone something as, as pathetic as love - is a sign of weakness. Every day I have to wonder when he's going to weigh the sex against the risk and realise that I'm not worth it. … And I knew this before I started sleeping with him, so what kind of masochist does that make me?” He panted, having run out of breath.
Donna sighed heavily. “Oh, honey. You sit yourself down. I'll get the bourbon.” She produced a half-empty bottle and a glass from the drawer of her vanity and poured him a double.
He downed it in a couple of ragged swallows. “I hate bourbon,” he said with a shudder. He could already feel the alcohol hitting him, the burn at the back of his throat, down to his belly.
“Now,” she said, refilling his glass with a more modest measure of alcohol. “Tell me all about it.”
Sam shrugged. “No point, really. It's just a … thing. And when this thing ends, I'll be lucky if I still have my job.” He swirled the bourbon around his glass. “Not that I'll want it.”
“How long has this thing been going on?”
“Oh God, uh.” Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. “Six months? No, closer to a year. At first I thought there might be some actual affection there, but now I'm increasingly of the opinion that I am a complete and utter fool.” He looked over at Donna, her carefully painted brows knit in concern. “Butterfly and I have a lot in common.” The bourbon was definitely hitting him. “And we should both get over it.”
Donna nodded sympathetically. “Aw, sugar. That's tough.”
“How did you know? About us, I mean.” Sam took another swallow of the bourbon.
“Honey, I've spent the last thirty years in the theatre. I know an act when I see one.”
“I really do loathe him,” Sam said.
“No. You don't,” Donna said gently but with irritating certainty.
“It would be nice to have some sort of acknowledgement. Something - anything - to know that he held me in slightly higher regard than an easy screw.”
“Places for the top of the second act, please,” said the intercom.
“You stay and drink your bourbon, but I'm afraid that's my call,” Donna said, standing. She squeezed his shoulder as she made her way out. “You know, Butterfly got the declarations of love and the fancy promises. She got the wedding.” She shrugged and gave him a wry smile, the most genuine he'd seen from her. “Fat lot of good it did her in the end.”
Sam lingered a while in her dressing room, though he didn't finish the bourbon. By the time he left, the second act had started and the ushers had closed the doors, so he found a spot in the wings. The stage manager glared at him, looking up from her lighted score before the next cue.
Sam tried to peer out into the audience, but with the house lights down, the seats were completely black. Onstage, Donatella had become Butterfly again, now arguing with her faithful maid about whether or not Pinkerton would return.
She began to sing the one aria he knew from the show. It began softly, the orchestra quiet, but it grew, reflecting Butterfly's fervour. He thought he saw Donatella look right at him, but a second later, he wasn't sure. Sam glanced across the stage into the opposite wing and saw Gene. He stood between the side curtain and the scrim, haloed by the reflected stage lights. In his tux, he looked dashing, larger than life, like he was a character waiting to go on.
But Gene wasn't watching Donatella; he was watching Sam.
Sam didn't move, held rapt as the aria grew to a crescendo, a tidal wave of sound. The hair on the back of his neck prickled, and he held still, almost afraid to breathe. The actor playing Sharpless broke Sam's reverie as he shouldered him aside to make an entrance.
“Sorry,” Sam mouthed and slipped back out of the stage door and down the hall. He took a drink from a water fountain and splashed his face.
He waited in the lobby until the next intermission and then slipped back into his seat. Gene still hadn't returned by the time the lights dimmed for the third act to begin, and Sam watched alone as the opera drew to its inevitable conclusion.
The whole audience came to its feet for the curtain call, Sam among them, though he thought the company took more bows than were strictly necessary. The crowd filtered out into the lobby, abandoned programs littering the aisles.
He found Gene, finally, backstage in the green-room, a snifter in one hand and a complicated hors d'oeuvre in the other. Donatella - Sam could tell she was in character the moment he saw her - was at his side. She gesticulated, her bracelets jangling as she narrated some story.
“Sam!” Gene shouted and raised his glass in greeting from across the room.
San nodded an acknowledgement and worked around the perimeter, getting elbowed twice for his pains.
“DI Tyler, tell us how you liked the show,” Donatella instructed him. She'd washed off her stage make-up, but her normal cosmetics were only slightly less garish.
“Bravissima,” Sam said. “But I still think Butterfly should have cut her losses.”
“She did cut her losses,” Gene said evenly, giving Sam an indecipherable look. “Were you and the signorina discussing the opera?”
“A little,” Donatella said. “Your DI thinks Butterfly should, how did he say? - Move on.”
Gene shook his head in disgust and pity. “Leave it to Sam Tyler to come up with a daft notion like that. The greatest passion of her life, and he thinks she should move on.”
“Yes, Gene,” Donatella said, giving him a coy smile. “You cannot pick your passions. You are seized by them.” She grabbed the sleeve of his jacket to illustrate her point.
“And that worked out so well for Butterfly,” Sam said. “Forgive me if I prefer my life were a comedy rather than a tragedy. Right now it seems to be a farce.”
“You are not light-hearted enough for a farce, I think,” Donatella said and laughed. “But tell me, you are both coming to the after-party, yes?”
“Afraid we'll have to give it a miss,” Sam said, trying for a tone that said please leave well enough alone, but subtly. “We've got an early day tomorrow - still have that thief to catch, after all.”
“No, we don't,” Gene said. “Got her trussed up already. Just waiting for Chris to come round and take her to the station.”
“What?” Sam said, nonplussed.
Gene gestured with his glass; a dejected young woman in a kimono and dishevelled wig sat in the corner, her wrists handcuffed through the back of her chair.
“One of the chorus girls,” Gene said. “I suspected her this afternoon, but I caught her red-handed in the third act. Daft bird hadn't even thought to hide the goods elsewhere.”
“And you didn't tell me any of this because....” Sam said through gritted teeth.
“Forgot.” Gene shrugged offhandedly.
“Forgot?” Sam repeated, but Donatella cut in before he could get started.
“Bene!” Donatella said, clapping her hands. “So there is no reason for you not to come!”
“No,” Sam said, eyes still narrowed. “I suppose not.”
---
The party was held in the penthouse suite of the Pomona Hotel, the rooms all silver and white art deco. They were escorted by Donatella herself, who took them both by the elbow. She winked at Sam when Gene wasn't looking. Sam seized a drink off the tray of a passing waiter at the first opportunity. In keeping with the décor, the music was jazzy, reminding Sam of big bands and swing dance. Donatella looked the part of a silver-screen siren, wearing a huge fur stole and the recovered rope of pearls, her hair once again elaborately styled.
Sam found a chair in an unobtrusive nook and sat with his drink, watching as Gene and Donatella took turns congratulating each other. The press of so many bodies and the smoke of so many cigarettes made the room oppressive, and he escaped through the French doors out onto the balcony, open to allow in fresh air.
The night was cool and wet, though it wasn't exactly raining. The moon broke through the cloud cover, illuminating the balcony's sculpted topiaries and making the Manchester skyline beautiful in a way Sam rarely appreciated.
“Have you ever considered untwisting your knickers?”
Sam didn't turn, leaning against the stone railing instead. A car stopped in front of the hotel to let people out.
“I'm not angry,” Sam said. “I'm tired.”
“Not angry? You've been up and down like a tart's knickers all day.” Gene came to stand next to Sam, mirroring his posture, elbows on the balcony.
“You should have told me about that chorus girl.”
“What - do I have to tell you everything now?”
“Everything relevant to the case would be nice,” Sam said.
Gene shrugged and produced a packet of cigarettes. He tapped one out and offered it to Sam before lighting it. “Me mum'd listen to Madame Butterfly on her old gramophone. One of the three records she had. Tchaikovsky's Marche Slave and what was the other?” He took a drag of the cigarette and released it slowly as he considered. “...The Lane Sisters. But Butterfly was her favourite. She'd listen to it when Dad was out with the boys, which is to say, every night. I'd fall asleep to it - by the third act, I'd be out.”
“Some lullaby,” Sam said, and Gene nodded absently.
“She'd tell us the story, but she always changed the ending. In her version Pinkerton returns and they live happily ever after. Butterfly got the happy ending even if my mum didn't. I was seventeen before I realised the bloody thing was a tragedy.” He flicked ash off the end of his cigarette. “Christ, I hadn't thought of that in years.”
Sam looked over at Gene; his bow tie was undone and his collar unbuttoned. The desire to touch him came over Sam, sharp, almost physical. It wasn't sexual, at least not mostly, but just a bone-deep longing to slip his hand under Gene's coat and feel his heat, to press his forehead to Gene's neck, or to just lean against him. It made Sam want to cry, but he laughed instead, startling Gene.
“What is it now, Tyler?” he said, exasperated.
“Sorry,” Sam said. “It's nothing.” Gene gave him a dubious look while Sam got a hold of himself. “The absurdity of it all just overcame me. I'm better now.” He cleared his throat. “And I want you to know, for the record, that I have no expectations.”
“That's good. Brilliant,” Gene said. “What expectations don't you have?”
“I just … never mind.”
“No, no, Samuel. I want to hear this. I'm sure it's quite enlightening.”
“I meant what I said earlier,” Sam started, regretting opening his mouth without an exit strategy. “About it being no concern of mine who you sleep with.”
“So you are jealous of the Italian bird,” Gene said, a note of triumph in his voice.
“No, I'm really not,” Sam said. “I'm just not making this out to be more than it is.”
“Are you done playing the tragic heroine? Don't let me rush you; I know how you enjoy it.” Gene waited for a beat and then continued, “I'm only going to say this once, so you best listen: I won't ever take you 'round to meet my aged mother. We won't be spending our holidays together - maybe a dirty weekend here or there, but never a proper to-do with a slideshow for our friends at the end of it. And I won't ever stroll down the street with you hand-in-bloody-hand.”
He had his lighter out, flicking the lid open and closed. “I won't ever do all the little things everyone else takes for granted, because I can't. And I won't ever be able to make it up to you and I'm not going to waste my breath trying. We'd both know it was a load of bollocks.
“But I will do my best to get you out of whatever scrapes you get yourself into and sneak chocolates past the nurse when those scrapes land you in hospital. I'll always be the first to point out when you're being a little gobshite and that you're not half as clever as you think you are. You'll be the last thing I think about before I go to bed and the first thing I think about when I wake up.” For the first time during this speech he glanced over at Sam. “It might not be enough. Probably, it isn't. But it's all I've got and you'll have to decide for yourself whether to take it or leave it.”
Gene didn't give Sam a chance to respond, tugging at his waistcoat and straightening his jacket. “Now, I'm getting to get out of here; I could use a real drink.” He walked away, cutting a swathe through the party-goers as they hurried to get out of his way or were shoved aside.
Sam watched him and then followed a moment later. Donatella caught his eye from across the room, turning from an admirer young enough to be her son and raising her champagne flute. Sam gave a little half wave, then drained his own glass and hurried after Gene.
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sam/Gene
Words: 6,000
Warnings: nada
Notes: A million thanks to elynittria, a far better beta than I deserve.
Summary: Sam and Gene investigate theft at the Manchester Opera House.
“Here, Guv. Two lumps,” Sam said, placing a teacup at Gene's elbow.
Gene ignored it, head bent over his paperwork - and that right there should have been a warning. Gene Hunt didn't do paperwork. “Don't do that.”
“Don't do what, exactly?” Sam said.
“Don't always be bringing me tea and suchlike. Don't fuss.” Gene cast a look toward the open door of his office. “It looks bad.” Outside, the station was quiet and empty except for Chris, who was drowsing over a stack of news clippings. His face was inches from his desk and getting closer by the moment.
“I thought a brew might be welcome. You were up late last night-” Gene shot him an alarmed look, “-going over those case files.”
“Don't,” Gene said, “make me knock you for six.”
“Better not,” Sam said, his good mood entirely evaporated. “All that physical contact? Far more incriminating than a cup of tea.” He kept his voice low, conversational, though he could have shouted for all the difference it would make; Chris' forehead had made it to the edge of his desk, and left to his own devices, he wouldn't wake until tea-time.
“It's been months, Gene,” Sam said, his voice softening. “No one knows. No one will. It's a cup of tea, not a bloody engagement ring.”
He resisted the impulse to touch Gene - even a pat on the shoulder would be risky with his mood this ugly. Sam nudged the tea a bit closer instead. Gene reached out and shoved the cup and saucer off the desk. The cup shattered, splashing tea up the leg of Sam's trousers.
Chris jerked awake with a cry. “You all right, Guv?” he asked, wiping spittle from the corner of his mouth.
“We're fine, Chris. Sam's just knocked over my tea. Fingers like a pig's tits.” He stood and straightened his jacket. “Clean that up, would you?” he said to Sam on his way out.
---
Sam didn't see him again until lunch. He'd considered finding some errand to keep him away from the station, but there was a very real chance that Gene wouldn't notice his absence, so what was the point?
He was in the cafeteria, picking out the bit of salad that hadn't been completely drenched in green goddess dressing, when camel-hair swished into view.
“What is that?” Just three words but they contained a world of disgust.
“A green salad,” Sam said, pushing another wilted leaf aside. “Greenish salad. God, I miss arugula.”
“Yeah? Who's she?”
“It's a-”
“I don't care. Come on, we've got a case.” Gene grabbed the collar of Sam's shirt and hauled him to his feet.
“We've got loads of cases,” Sam said.
“This one's special,” Gene said, propelling him toward the door. “There've been a string of thefts down at the Opera House,” he explained once they were both in the Cortina. “Cash, jewellery, clothes - not the till, though.”
“And this case is special?” Sam asked. Usually it took a murder to get Gene's attention.
“Donatella Cordescu is in town to sing Butterfly and it's her stuff what's been nicked.”
“Madame Butterfly?” Sam asked, confused by the note of awe in Gene's voice.
“Of course Madame Butterfly, you great div,” Gene replied, deeply irritated. “And she's one of the greatest sopranos living today, so they're bringing in the best to find out who's been pinching her ice. And I'm bringing you along to keep you out of trouble.”
“So some diva's missing jewellery is getting top priority here? Not the, oh, murder we had been working on?”
“Donatella Cordescu isn't 'some diva'; she's a goddess. Voice to make the angels weep.”
Sam shook his head in confusion. “She fit?” he guessed.
“Jubblies like a dead heat in a zeppelin race.”
“Ah,” Sam said, “And it all makes sense.”
Gene braked hard, bringing the car to an abrupt stop before the Manchester Opera House. Sam lagged behind Gene up the wide steps, a sense of déjà vu washing over him.
This wasn't his first time here. Or it was, actually, but the first time in his personal chronology wouldn't be for two decades. He had taken - will have taken? - a date here in some misguided effort to seem cultured and urbane. He would be impressed then, too, though the theatre had been plastered with posters for Starlight Express.
Above the pillars and arches of the building's façade an engraving proclaimed THE PLAY MIRRORS LIFE.
“God, I hope not,” Sam said.
“Quit muttering to yourself,” Gene said, holding open one of the bronze doors for him.
The theatre manager met them in the atrium, a timid, mousey man who kept looking as though he wanted to shush them, even when he was the one talking.
“Miss Cordescu can be quite … high-strung,” he said, wringing his hands. “So discretion is absolutely imperative.”
“Discretion is my middle name,” Gene said with a reassuring smile. “So if you'll show us to her dressing room....”
Mr Richards hesitated a moment longer and then strode off, leading them through the maze of backstage corridors.
“Discretion is your middle name?” Sam whispered to Gene as they were led up a winding staircase.
“It's more of an ironic nickname,” Gene said. He caught the back of Sam's neck and pulled him in to whisper, “And how 'bout if you shut your gob, eh?” His fingers lingered longer than necessary to convey his point.
They reached the dressing rooms, each star's name written on the door. Miss Cordescu's was the very last one.
Mr Richards knocked very softly. “Miss Cordescu?”
“I am sleep~ing,” a voice sing-songed back.
“The inspectors have arrived.” There was a long pause. “If you wish, I can send them-”
“Sweetheart, I hope you're decent, because I'm coming in,” Gene said, shouldering Mr Richards aside and opening the door. Sam threw Mr Richards an apologetic glance and followed.
Donatella lounged on a fainting couch in the corner of the room, looking not in the least alarmed to have men bursting into her room.
“Miss Cordescu, my abject apologies,” Mr Richards said, bowing deeply. Donatella waved one well-manicured hand.
“Si, si, you foolish little man. It is too late! They are here. And you may go-”
“-Really, I am so sorry for the inconvenience-”
“I said go!”
Mr Richards fled. Donatella rose gracefully from the couch. She clutched the neck of her silk dressing gown, putting more flesh on display rather than less. Gene's judgement about her bosom had been vulgar but accurate, Sam couldn't help but notice. The silk's scarlet colour contrasted sharply with her pale skin and platinum hair.
“You are a liar, sir,” she told Gene, her lips the same scarlet as her robe. Her hair was set in elaborate curls and waves like a 1940's screen siren. Sam could make out dark roots even in the poor light from the bulbs over the vanity.
“You wound me, pet. Most birds wait until I've said something to 'em to call me a liar,” Gene said, amused. “Mind telling me what I lied about?”
“You said that you hoped I am decent,” she said with a pout. Her thick accent added unnecessary vowels to the ends of words. “But I am thinking you were very much hoping that I am not decent at all.”
“She's got your number,” Sam said, but Gene was already taking Donatella's offered hand and kissing it.
“Can you blame me?” Gene asked and Donatella giggled, covering her mouth - which would have been charming if she had been four and not pushing forty.
“Oh God.” Sam pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I am also thinking you are going to be trouble, Mr…?”
“DCI Gene Hunt,” Gene supplied. “Please call me Gene.”
“And I'm DI Sam Tyler,” Sam offered. “Please call me DI Tyler.” He pulled his notepad and pen from his jacket pocket. “Now, Miss Cordescu, would you please list the stolen items?”
“Won't you have some champagne?” She addressed Gene as though she couldn't hear Sam. “Sit, sit. I am a terrible hostess.”
She ushered Gene to the couch, arranging the pillows about him before pouring two glasses of champagne and passing him one.
Sam took a seat at the vanity as Donatella situated herself next to Gene, her entire body turned toward him as though he were magnetic.
“To the most celebrated soprano in the world,” he said, lifting his glass.
“No, to the most handsome detective,” she offered, and they clinked glasses.
“Gag me,” Sam said, to no one in particular. “We're trying to investigate a crime, actually, so now that the pleasantries have been exchanged….”
Donatella threw her hands up, champagne sloshing over the rim of her glass. “You English! You are all the same - rush, rush, rush! Always in a hurry!”
“Don't let him upset you, love. I'm afraid he's a bit of an eager beaver.”
“If only all men were as understanding as you, Gene.”
Gene cast a sly glance in Sam's direction as he took her hand. Sam scrawled a few choice words on his notepad, none of which had any relevance to the case. Cosmetics and perfume bottles cluttered the vanity and pictures were tucked into the mirror. Some were of Donatella and her castmates or friends. Others were just of Donatella herself. She'd signed quite a few.
Gene coaxed the details of the theft out of her. The items only went missing after a performance. The emerald earrings had disappeared first, her best pearls next, then a mink stole.
“And my best silk kimono gone, too! Oh! Gene, if you could see me in that. But perhaps it is too short - your silly propriety here. I am not understanding it.”
“Sammy, take a note. We're getting that robe back if it kills us,” Gene said.
Another knock came at the door. “Miss Cordescu, the photographer from the paper is here, and the seamstress has finished the alterations.”
“Yes, yes, I am coming,” Donatella said crossly. She rose and turned to Gene, who came to his feet. “My apologies, but I must go. That horrid little man. All the time, he pesters me!”
“We quite understand,” Gene said.
“I'm sure you've got a very pressing hair appointment as well,” Sam said through a polite smile. He didn't stand up, feeling stubborn.
“Anything I can do to help the investigation,” she started, but Gene waved the offer away.
“No, don't you fret, love. We've got all we need from you.”
“Yes,” Sam said, “We'll start making some inquiries-”
“-Knocking some heads-”
“-Do you mind if we search your room for evidence?”
“Searching my personal things? My most private clothing?” She pressed her hand to her chest in horror, but then she smiled. “Of course not. But in return you must promise me that you will come to the show tonight. I insist!”
“Thank you for the invitation,” Sam said, “but as police officers we can't accept favours. It's this new thing we're trying out, very experimental.”
“Bah!” Donatella said, unimpressed by his argument. “Nonsense! It is a gift between friends. It would be an insult if you did not come.”
“And we wouldn't dream of insulting you - would we, Sammy?” Gene shot him a look that said Sam was in for a bollocking if he didn't knock it on the head.
“Good, good!” In her three-inch heels, she was nearly as tall as Gene, making it easy for her to bestow a kiss on each of his cheeks. “Ciao, darlings!”
“Ciao,” Gene said staring after her as she sashayed out of the room.
Sam waited for the door to swing shut before he said, “You've got lipstick on your cheek. And did you just say ciao?”
“I rather like that bird,” Gene said, rubbing his neck.
“I noticed,” Sam snapped. He turned back to the vanity and started digging through the scattered cosmetics. Donatella kept her jewellery in an oversized rosewood box. It probably hadn't taken more than a good shake to jimmy open the catch - if she'd locked it at all.
“Not jealous are you, Sam?” Gene said behind him. Sam examined the jewellery box for signs of tampering. The snick of the door being locked behind him caught his attention and he looked up to see Gene in the mirror.
“I've no reason to be jealous.”
“Really? Is that so?” Gene's reflection moved closer and Sam met his eyes in the glass, but he refused to turn around. “An aviation blonde with huge knockers - which happens to be just my type - starts giving me the glad-eye, and that doesn't make you jealous?”
“Our … arrangement, such as it bloody is, isn't exclusive. It's nothing to me if you're getting a leg over with some high-maintenance diva with an exaggerated ego.”
“High-maintenance divas with exaggerated egos are also something of a weakness of mine.” Gene was right behind Sam, his hands coming to rest on his shoulders - more neck than shoulder, really.
“I thought you wanted to be careful,” Sam said, shaking him off.
“Who's going to see us?” Gene asked. He braced a hand to either side of Sam on the table, leaning over him.
“Dammit, Gene. You can't change the rules when it's convenient.”
“Still have a cob on about this morning, then?” Gene said, an infuriating note of amusement in his voice. He nosed the hair behind Sam's ear, his breath hot on Sam's neck.
“You're an absolute bastard,” Sam said softly.
Gene murmured an agreement, working one hand down the front of Sam's shirt. The other came up to tug Sam's hair until he tilted his head so Gene could kiss the point of Sam's jaw and down his neck.
Sam allowed it for a minute, his resolve teetering, but he finally pushed Gene's hand away and stood, knocking the chair over in his hurry. He backed away, straightening the collar of his shirt.
“This is a crime scene,” he said when he was sure he was in control of his voice. “And we're on the job. You look for evidence here. I'm going to go start interviewing the chorus.”
“Don't you walk-” Gene started, but Sam was already gone.
The interviews yielded fuck-all. The confusion backstage during a performance would have made it easy enough for a thief to slip in and out unnoticed, through the stage door or even back into the audience. Or it could have been an inside job - someone familiar with the theatre, with the comings and goings of the actors. All of this fine investigative process left him at square one.
“Wear something nice tonight,” Gene said, when they finally returned to CID. “I'll pick you up at half seven.”
“What?” Sam said.
“Madame Butterfly. We're seeing it. Tonight. Try not to look like shite.”
---
Gene swept in fifteen minutes late, the door hitting the wall hard enough to dent the plaster. Sam started to complain that Gene didn't have to risk taking the door off its hinges, but he got distracted because Gene was wearing a tux. Not some god-awful powder blue monstrosity of which this decade was so fond, but a classic single-breasted tux with waistcoat and bow-tie, a white carnation tucked in his lapel.
“Christ,” Sam said, when he got his mouth working again.
“What?” Gene said, tugging on the cuff of his sleeve.
“Nothing. It's just … you look good.” Sam suddenly felt rather self-conscious in his own navy, mostly polyester suit; he'd thought it looked rather sharp when he'd put it on.
“Ah.” Gene swallowed and gave a little half-smile.
“And I can't believe you own a tux.”
“The Missus and I used to enjoy taking in a show now and again. It's been mouldering in the back of the closet for years now. Had a bugger of a time getting the waistcoat done up. If I breathe I'll lose a button.” He held up another carnation. “Don't make too much of this. I just don't want you to make me look bad.”
“Gene Hunt, man of culture and style.” Sam tucked the flower through the buttonhole on his jacket. “Who knew?”
“Don't let on to the others.”
“Not a word,” Sam promised.
---
The springs in the cushion of his chair had begun to go and the velveteen had worn off the corners. Sam shifted and stretched his legs as best he could. At least the view of the stage was good.
The orchestra hummed as it warmed up, and Gene shoved Sam's elbow off the armrest.
“Shouldn't we be backstage?” Sam asked. His foot was already falling asleep. The program said there were two intermissions; that couldn't be a good sign.
“We should wait. Catch 'em red-handed. I thought you would appreciate a little strategy?”
The lights in the theatre dimmed and the conductor popped up from the pit to take a bow.
“This is hardly a strategy,” Sam said over the applause.
“Belt up, Sammy. If you talk through this bleeding opera, I swear to God when I'm done with you, you'll think Butterfly had the right idea when she carked it.”
Sam was familiar with the plot in a general sort of way but he found himself consulting the program to try to suss out the specifics. He quit trying to do that when Gene kicked him for making the paper crinkle.
When Donatella stepped out onto the stage, Sam forgot about the program entirely. She wore a black wig and a kimono, but it wasn't the costume that made her a completely different woman; the way she held herself, even the length of her stride, was different. There was a softness or throatiness or something Sam couldn't identify to her voice. Not like the shrill, grating sopranos Sam had heard on his previous experience with opera.
When the intermission came, Sam found himself leaning forward, elbows on his knees. He shook himself and remembered that he wasn't actually here for personal enrichment.
“I'm going to go look around backstage,” he said to Gene. “I'll be back.”
“Right. Have fun,” Gene said, settling further into his seat.
Sam slipped backstage easily enough, flashing his warrant card at the stage manager when she protested.
The door to the chorus's dressing room was open, and Sam stationed himself outside, listening.
“Enjoying the show, Mr Tyler?”
Sam jumped and Donatella took his arm, steering him toward her dressing room. “Come. Come and tell me what you are thinking of it.”
“I really am working, actually,” Sam said, but the door was already shut and she stood before it to prevent his escape. “And I'm sure you've got to prepare for the next act.”
“I prefer company,” Donatella said pursing her lips in a little kiss. “So tell me, do you enjoy Butterfly's tale?”
“The music is brilliant,” Sam said. “You have a beautiful voice.”
Donatella inclined her head to accept the compliment as her due. “And what does Gene think? Is he enjoying it as well?”
“I'm sure he is,” Sam said, irritation rising. “And I'm sure you'll get the chance to ask him later. He'll see to that.”
She settled herself on the chair before the vanity and propped her feet up. “Didn't anybody ever tell you not to sleep with the boss, Mr Tyler?” she asked, her lilting Italian accent abruptly replaced by a broad American one.
“I'm not in a relationship with DCI Hunt,” Sam said, with the kind of unpleasant jolt that normally accompanied miscalculating the number of stairs.
“I didn't say you were in a relationship,” Donatella said cheerfully. “I said you were sleeping together - don't bother lying, honey. You're a terrible liar.”
Sam opened his mouth to argue, but she had him. It was a bit too late for sputtering indignation and he really was a terrible liar. “You're American?”
“Born and bred in Holt, Missouri,” she said in a conspiratorial stage whisper. “So, you and Gene?”
“I have no comment at this time,” he said, which made her laugh and clap her hands in delight.
“Pleading the fifth, huh.” Donatella put a finger to her lips. “Don't worry, sport. I'm good at keeping secrets.”
“Apparently you've had a lot of practice,” Sam said, swallowing to wet his throat. “Miss Cordescu.”
“It's Miss Gunderson, actually. Donna Gunderson.” She stuck out her hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
They shook, Sam wondering if perhaps he'd fallen asleep and failed to notice, and that this was a very bizarre dream.
“Donatella's my stage name - would you go see a Gunderson sing Butterfly? - but all my nearest and dearest still call me Donna.”
“I see.”
“But that's boring. I left so I'd never have to think of Holt again. How long have you and that dishy DCI of yours not been in a relationship?”
“That's really none of your business.”
“Curiosity's my favourite vice. Though not my only one,” she said, winking. “What's it like working together, sleeping together?”
“I don't think you need to know-”
“Geez, that must be so great,” she said with a rather toothy grin.
“It's not …” He'd meant to finish with any of your affair or possibly at all relevant but he didn't say either of those things. He just let the words hang there.
“It's not great?” she asked, frowning.
From somewhere deep within him a high, almost hysterical laugh welled up. “Great? Is it great?” He scrubbed his face with his hands, shoulders still shaking with laughter. “Gene Hunt is a self-loathing closet-case who thinks simple affection - let alone something as, as pathetic as love - is a sign of weakness. Every day I have to wonder when he's going to weigh the sex against the risk and realise that I'm not worth it. … And I knew this before I started sleeping with him, so what kind of masochist does that make me?” He panted, having run out of breath.
Donna sighed heavily. “Oh, honey. You sit yourself down. I'll get the bourbon.” She produced a half-empty bottle and a glass from the drawer of her vanity and poured him a double.
He downed it in a couple of ragged swallows. “I hate bourbon,” he said with a shudder. He could already feel the alcohol hitting him, the burn at the back of his throat, down to his belly.
“Now,” she said, refilling his glass with a more modest measure of alcohol. “Tell me all about it.”
Sam shrugged. “No point, really. It's just a … thing. And when this thing ends, I'll be lucky if I still have my job.” He swirled the bourbon around his glass. “Not that I'll want it.”
“How long has this thing been going on?”
“Oh God, uh.” Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. “Six months? No, closer to a year. At first I thought there might be some actual affection there, but now I'm increasingly of the opinion that I am a complete and utter fool.” He looked over at Donna, her carefully painted brows knit in concern. “Butterfly and I have a lot in common.” The bourbon was definitely hitting him. “And we should both get over it.”
Donna nodded sympathetically. “Aw, sugar. That's tough.”
“How did you know? About us, I mean.” Sam took another swallow of the bourbon.
“Honey, I've spent the last thirty years in the theatre. I know an act when I see one.”
“I really do loathe him,” Sam said.
“No. You don't,” Donna said gently but with irritating certainty.
“It would be nice to have some sort of acknowledgement. Something - anything - to know that he held me in slightly higher regard than an easy screw.”
“Places for the top of the second act, please,” said the intercom.
“You stay and drink your bourbon, but I'm afraid that's my call,” Donna said, standing. She squeezed his shoulder as she made her way out. “You know, Butterfly got the declarations of love and the fancy promises. She got the wedding.” She shrugged and gave him a wry smile, the most genuine he'd seen from her. “Fat lot of good it did her in the end.”
Sam lingered a while in her dressing room, though he didn't finish the bourbon. By the time he left, the second act had started and the ushers had closed the doors, so he found a spot in the wings. The stage manager glared at him, looking up from her lighted score before the next cue.
Sam tried to peer out into the audience, but with the house lights down, the seats were completely black. Onstage, Donatella had become Butterfly again, now arguing with her faithful maid about whether or not Pinkerton would return.
She began to sing the one aria he knew from the show. It began softly, the orchestra quiet, but it grew, reflecting Butterfly's fervour. He thought he saw Donatella look right at him, but a second later, he wasn't sure. Sam glanced across the stage into the opposite wing and saw Gene. He stood between the side curtain and the scrim, haloed by the reflected stage lights. In his tux, he looked dashing, larger than life, like he was a character waiting to go on.
But Gene wasn't watching Donatella; he was watching Sam.
Sam didn't move, held rapt as the aria grew to a crescendo, a tidal wave of sound. The hair on the back of his neck prickled, and he held still, almost afraid to breathe. The actor playing Sharpless broke Sam's reverie as he shouldered him aside to make an entrance.
“Sorry,” Sam mouthed and slipped back out of the stage door and down the hall. He took a drink from a water fountain and splashed his face.
He waited in the lobby until the next intermission and then slipped back into his seat. Gene still hadn't returned by the time the lights dimmed for the third act to begin, and Sam watched alone as the opera drew to its inevitable conclusion.
The whole audience came to its feet for the curtain call, Sam among them, though he thought the company took more bows than were strictly necessary. The crowd filtered out into the lobby, abandoned programs littering the aisles.
He found Gene, finally, backstage in the green-room, a snifter in one hand and a complicated hors d'oeuvre in the other. Donatella - Sam could tell she was in character the moment he saw her - was at his side. She gesticulated, her bracelets jangling as she narrated some story.
“Sam!” Gene shouted and raised his glass in greeting from across the room.
San nodded an acknowledgement and worked around the perimeter, getting elbowed twice for his pains.
“DI Tyler, tell us how you liked the show,” Donatella instructed him. She'd washed off her stage make-up, but her normal cosmetics were only slightly less garish.
“Bravissima,” Sam said. “But I still think Butterfly should have cut her losses.”
“She did cut her losses,” Gene said evenly, giving Sam an indecipherable look. “Were you and the signorina discussing the opera?”
“A little,” Donatella said. “Your DI thinks Butterfly should, how did he say? - Move on.”
Gene shook his head in disgust and pity. “Leave it to Sam Tyler to come up with a daft notion like that. The greatest passion of her life, and he thinks she should move on.”
“Yes, Gene,” Donatella said, giving him a coy smile. “You cannot pick your passions. You are seized by them.” She grabbed the sleeve of his jacket to illustrate her point.
“And that worked out so well for Butterfly,” Sam said. “Forgive me if I prefer my life were a comedy rather than a tragedy. Right now it seems to be a farce.”
“You are not light-hearted enough for a farce, I think,” Donatella said and laughed. “But tell me, you are both coming to the after-party, yes?”
“Afraid we'll have to give it a miss,” Sam said, trying for a tone that said please leave well enough alone, but subtly. “We've got an early day tomorrow - still have that thief to catch, after all.”
“No, we don't,” Gene said. “Got her trussed up already. Just waiting for Chris to come round and take her to the station.”
“What?” Sam said, nonplussed.
Gene gestured with his glass; a dejected young woman in a kimono and dishevelled wig sat in the corner, her wrists handcuffed through the back of her chair.
“One of the chorus girls,” Gene said. “I suspected her this afternoon, but I caught her red-handed in the third act. Daft bird hadn't even thought to hide the goods elsewhere.”
“And you didn't tell me any of this because....” Sam said through gritted teeth.
“Forgot.” Gene shrugged offhandedly.
“Forgot?” Sam repeated, but Donatella cut in before he could get started.
“Bene!” Donatella said, clapping her hands. “So there is no reason for you not to come!”
“No,” Sam said, eyes still narrowed. “I suppose not.”
---
The party was held in the penthouse suite of the Pomona Hotel, the rooms all silver and white art deco. They were escorted by Donatella herself, who took them both by the elbow. She winked at Sam when Gene wasn't looking. Sam seized a drink off the tray of a passing waiter at the first opportunity. In keeping with the décor, the music was jazzy, reminding Sam of big bands and swing dance. Donatella looked the part of a silver-screen siren, wearing a huge fur stole and the recovered rope of pearls, her hair once again elaborately styled.
Sam found a chair in an unobtrusive nook and sat with his drink, watching as Gene and Donatella took turns congratulating each other. The press of so many bodies and the smoke of so many cigarettes made the room oppressive, and he escaped through the French doors out onto the balcony, open to allow in fresh air.
The night was cool and wet, though it wasn't exactly raining. The moon broke through the cloud cover, illuminating the balcony's sculpted topiaries and making the Manchester skyline beautiful in a way Sam rarely appreciated.
“Have you ever considered untwisting your knickers?”
Sam didn't turn, leaning against the stone railing instead. A car stopped in front of the hotel to let people out.
“I'm not angry,” Sam said. “I'm tired.”
“Not angry? You've been up and down like a tart's knickers all day.” Gene came to stand next to Sam, mirroring his posture, elbows on the balcony.
“You should have told me about that chorus girl.”
“What - do I have to tell you everything now?”
“Everything relevant to the case would be nice,” Sam said.
Gene shrugged and produced a packet of cigarettes. He tapped one out and offered it to Sam before lighting it. “Me mum'd listen to Madame Butterfly on her old gramophone. One of the three records she had. Tchaikovsky's Marche Slave and what was the other?” He took a drag of the cigarette and released it slowly as he considered. “...The Lane Sisters. But Butterfly was her favourite. She'd listen to it when Dad was out with the boys, which is to say, every night. I'd fall asleep to it - by the third act, I'd be out.”
“Some lullaby,” Sam said, and Gene nodded absently.
“She'd tell us the story, but she always changed the ending. In her version Pinkerton returns and they live happily ever after. Butterfly got the happy ending even if my mum didn't. I was seventeen before I realised the bloody thing was a tragedy.” He flicked ash off the end of his cigarette. “Christ, I hadn't thought of that in years.”
Sam looked over at Gene; his bow tie was undone and his collar unbuttoned. The desire to touch him came over Sam, sharp, almost physical. It wasn't sexual, at least not mostly, but just a bone-deep longing to slip his hand under Gene's coat and feel his heat, to press his forehead to Gene's neck, or to just lean against him. It made Sam want to cry, but he laughed instead, startling Gene.
“What is it now, Tyler?” he said, exasperated.
“Sorry,” Sam said. “It's nothing.” Gene gave him a dubious look while Sam got a hold of himself. “The absurdity of it all just overcame me. I'm better now.” He cleared his throat. “And I want you to know, for the record, that I have no expectations.”
“That's good. Brilliant,” Gene said. “What expectations don't you have?”
“I just … never mind.”
“No, no, Samuel. I want to hear this. I'm sure it's quite enlightening.”
“I meant what I said earlier,” Sam started, regretting opening his mouth without an exit strategy. “About it being no concern of mine who you sleep with.”
“So you are jealous of the Italian bird,” Gene said, a note of triumph in his voice.
“No, I'm really not,” Sam said. “I'm just not making this out to be more than it is.”
“Are you done playing the tragic heroine? Don't let me rush you; I know how you enjoy it.” Gene waited for a beat and then continued, “I'm only going to say this once, so you best listen: I won't ever take you 'round to meet my aged mother. We won't be spending our holidays together - maybe a dirty weekend here or there, but never a proper to-do with a slideshow for our friends at the end of it. And I won't ever stroll down the street with you hand-in-bloody-hand.”
He had his lighter out, flicking the lid open and closed. “I won't ever do all the little things everyone else takes for granted, because I can't. And I won't ever be able to make it up to you and I'm not going to waste my breath trying. We'd both know it was a load of bollocks.
“But I will do my best to get you out of whatever scrapes you get yourself into and sneak chocolates past the nurse when those scrapes land you in hospital. I'll always be the first to point out when you're being a little gobshite and that you're not half as clever as you think you are. You'll be the last thing I think about before I go to bed and the first thing I think about when I wake up.” For the first time during this speech he glanced over at Sam. “It might not be enough. Probably, it isn't. But it's all I've got and you'll have to decide for yourself whether to take it or leave it.”
Gene didn't give Sam a chance to respond, tugging at his waistcoat and straightening his jacket. “Now, I'm getting to get out of here; I could use a real drink.” He walked away, cutting a swathe through the party-goers as they hurried to get out of his way or were shoved aside.
Sam watched him and then followed a moment later. Donatella caught his eye from across the room, turning from an admirer young enough to be her son and raising her champagne flute. Sam gave a little half wave, then drained his own glass and hurried after Gene.