(re)united - Sam/Gene, rated G, 1,750 words.
@danae-b gave me the prompts of “reunion” and Sam/Gene, so I wrote this. This fic is titled after this song, because I am me.
They haven’t spoken to each other for going on three weeks and Sam’s past the point of admitting he misses Gene’s voice. He misses its cadences and rhythms, the way Gene intersperses informal with formal speech so you can never quite be sure if what he’s going to say will sound grandiloquent or down-right ridiculous. He even misses the often derogatory pet-names, God help him.
Sam misses Gene’s surprising wisdom and his infuriating brutality, but he refuses to do anything about it, because Gene was wrong.
Gene’s been wrong before, of course, this shouldn’t feel like such a surprise, or a betrayal. He used to take hand-outs, stitch up crims, use abusive, underhanded tactics to get what he wanted when he wanted it. But lately, throughout the past few months, Sam thought they’d come to some sort of agreement. An unspoken one, sure, but he’d plenty of evidence to back it up. If they didn’t see eye-to-eye on how to proceed on a case they’d make that clear away from the prying eyes of their team. It was Gene who first started using plural pronouns, referred to their and them and they. It was Gene who’d first hauled Sam away to cuss him out. It was Gene who favoured late-night arguments at pub tables, away from the throng and buzz of everyone else.
Sam doesn’t understand how this time, this crucial time, when almost everything is at stake, Gene chose to humiliate Sam in front of everyone in CID. And not only did Gene humiliate Sam, but everything Sam said about the case was correct and Gene ignored him. It put the case in jeopardy, it reintroduced unnecessary tension back into the team and it… it hurt Sam’s feelings. It’s stupid, but it’s true.
“The Guv told me to talk to you to ask Annie about the Morrissey file. Or he asked me to tell you to talk to Annie about the Morrissey file. Or he— ”
“Thanks, Chris. I get the picture.”
“In the file?”
“What?”
“You’ll get the picture in the file? Is it only a picture that the Guv wants? Seemed to want to read over the facts.”
Sam narrows his eyes. This isn’t the first time Gene’s sent Chris to communicate with him to disastrous results. Better Chris than Ray, though, admittedly. “I think we’re at cross-purposes here,” Sam says. “I’ll get the file and give it to DCI Hunt. You go back to writing your report.”
Chris gives him a gormless grin and goes to his own desk, begins hen-pecking at the keys of his typewriter.
Sam sucks in a deep breath, two. He can do this. He’s had to do it within the past few weeks a couple of times. Get the file, leave it on Gene’s desk, leave the office-space and back to his own area within fifteen seconds, twenty at the most. Once he did it and they didn’t even glance at each other, it was so smooth and efficient. And if, in his heart of hearts, Sam wants to linger a while and poke the bear; he’s always been a bit of a masochist.
Sam pushes the door as quietly as he can, steps within the walls, eyes fixed on the ceiling, to remind himself he’s not so much alone in a room with Gene again, but only within a partitioned area of the wider office. This was a mistake, because Gene’s not at his desk, he’s apparently standing just past the doorway, and they collide with a smack, bang, wallop. Sam lets out a grunt and damn near topples backwards, but he’s stopped by Gene’s hands on his upper-arms, holding him still.
Sam looks into Gene’s eyes, shocked, and is taken aback by how blood-shot and world-weary they look.
“You all right?” Sam asks, reflexive, and fuck.
“I’m not the one who almost went A over T,” Gene counters, sounding weirdly offended by Sam’s courtesy to enquire after his health.
“No, but you are the one who looks like shit warmed up.”
Gene pushes him back with rather more force than necessary, sits on the edge of his desk. “You require my assistance?” he asks, in perfect mockery of Sam.
“Uh, no. Just dropping off the Morrissey file like you asked.”
Gene crosses his arms. “I never asked you for any file.”
“Well, no. Apparently you wanted Annie to get it for you, but I figured I’d cut out the middle man.”
“I never asked for any file. Someone’s been yanking your wang-dang-doodle, Nancy.”
Sam could murder Chris, he really could. With his mind, if possible, so as to reduce the mess.
“Bloody Chris,” Sam sighs.
Gene looks positively amused, his lips quirking at the corners. “And you call yourself a detective, Tyler, honestly.”
For a moment, two, Sam forgets about his disappointment in Gene and shares in the humour. He tips his head, his own small smile stretching as the gravity of the entire situation sets in – somehow, someway, he was bested by Chris Skelton.
“So how have you been?” Sam asks, because no one could ever say he’s a coward. No one could ever say he doesn’t adapt, either.
Gene shrugs a majestic shoulder. “Fine. You?”
“Fine.” Sam rocks back on his heels, makes an awkward gesture towards the doors.
“Fine’s not the same as good,” Gene ventures, because he’s one of the bravest people Sam’s ever known. His gaze is piercing. “Sort of like the difference between surviving and living. One’s okay, but the other’s preferable.”
Sam studies Gene, sees the metaphorical olive branch floating in mid-air between them. “I know what you mean.”
“So what will it take to get you yammering in my ear again like a particularly excitable gnat?”
Sam raises his eyebrows. Gene’s direct, and blunt, and often brutal. But this seems more than that. Sam can match him, if need be. Sam can best him, when pushed. “An apology would be nice.”
“Gene Hunt doesn’t apologise.”
“Gene Hunt’s a mythical creation you’ve built to help you deal with the world. I don’t need a sorry from your larger than life persona. I just want one from you.”
“Because I made you look a fool?”
“Because you made us look foolish. Because up until November we were putting on a united front and it was working, Gene. We were working. But you had to throw it all away because your authority must be absolute, because you must be the big man, because you must be obeyed.”
Sam expects Gene to either go deadly quiet or shout his head off, but he doesn’t. His shoulders slump and his smears a hand over his face, as if he could rub away the past three weeks.
“You ended up being right this time,” Gene says.
“That’s an admission, so we’re creeping closer.”
“And I should’ve dragged you to Lost and Found to make my disagreements known.”
“Another concession, you’re on a roll.”
“And I’m sorry, Sam.”
Sam waits a beat, two, waits for the punchline he’s sure will be coming any second. But Gene just gazes at him, a mixture of patient and anxious, like he’s worried what Sam’s reaction will be, but he’s willing to wait for it.
Sam doesn’t know how to respond. He literally has no clue. Never in his wildest dreams did he ever think Gene would actually say what he wanted to hear.
“I accept your apology,” Sam says eventually, moving forward to pat Gene on the shoulder.
Gene looks at him as if he has two heads, but Sam likes making contact. He hadn’t worked out how touch-starved he was, forgotten how much they tapped, swatted, nudged each other. There’s a frisson of delight up Sam’s spine from all the points they’re connected.
He hasn’t only missed Gene’s voice, Sam realises, but this too. They’re close, like this, close enough Sam can count Gene’s eyelashes and smell the whisky on his breath. Close enough Sam can feel Gene’s warmth, through musky-scented polyester.
Sam’s hand drags down Gene’s shoulder to his upper-arm, more of a caress than anything else, and he has a moment of clarity – he was as angry as he was not only because of a wounded pride, not only because it set the team back, but because they’d been building to a nearness that was frightening, before Gene had pulled his little stunt.
Gene rests his hands on Sam’s hips, thumbs hooking into his waistband. He looks up at Sam through his lashes, gusts out a sigh. Sam stares at him, edging ever closer, tilting his head down and to the side.
When their lips are almost touching, Sam lets his uncertainty take over. “You really want to do this?”
Gene tugs him closer. “Don’t you?”
The kiss, when they finally kiss, is slower and more deliberate than Sam was expecting. It’s softer and sweeter too. Gene kisses like this is where he’s put all his restraint, all of his careful consideration; it takes some coaxing to get him to open up and let Sam in. But his hands, God, they’re hot and heavy under Sam’s shirt within a matter of moments, calloused fingers working against the skin of his lower back, his hip.
When they pull apart, Sam can’t help but press his fingers to his lips, can feel the heat of a blush in his cheeks. He’d be embarrassed, but Gene’s hair is ruffled and he looks utterly shell-shocked, so at least Sam knows he’s not alone.
“I should go,” Sam says, adjusting his shirt until he’s neat and tidy again, idly brushing at Gene’s hair to get him looking halfway presentable. Gene sits there like a contented cat, pretending to smooth the material at Sam’s back. Sam has to consciously step away, speaking over his shoulder as he steps. “Talk later?”
“Yeah, yes, fine,” Gene replies, husky. Then he gives the most impish smile Sam’s ever seen, something that almost makes him walk right into Gene’s door. “Good.”
Sam’s looking forward to learning new things about Gene’s voice. Like how he sounds sleep-roughened, or the noises he makes when he’s on the edge, and the words he’ll use when his guard’s down and it’s just the two of them. He’s looking forward to hearing his cadences and rhythms, formal and informal speech, eloquence and inarticulateness, once Sam gets to touch Gene the way he wants.
He has a feeling, if today is any indication, that he’ll be hearing it all sooner rather than later.
