Title: Reasons
Pairing: Hunt/Tyler
Summary: Sam & Gene + alcohol / canal = confessions.
Rating: PG for the man-kissing.
Spoiler Warnings: Episode 8.
Word Count: ~1,300
Disclaimer:
Notes: Written for martianholiday as a gift-fic for severa. Prompt was: Sam/Gene "Why, Gladys? Why not 'Susan' or 'Doris'?"


Sam is drunk. Too drunk. But at least he’s drunk for all the right reasons. He numbers them in his head as he drinks the whiskey he never had a taste for in the future. Sam likes order, likes things in straight lines and numbered lists. Keeping everything compartmentalised – nothing touching, personal and private completely separate.

Reason One: Vic Tyler. His father. A villain.

“Plannin’ on settlin’ down with that bottle?” Hunt’s looking at him strangely and Sam can’t blame him. He has, after all, been staring into the whiskey bottle for five minutes now. He hands the bottle back and changes tack, staring into the canal instead.

Reason Two: Little Sammy Tyler. Meeting yourself is meant to destroy the timeline, or something. It certainly messes your head up.

“Penny for your thoughts, Gladys,” Hunt says after taking a noisy swig from the bottle. Sam can’t recall the journey from the Arms to the canal. Just sliding down the slightly damp brick wall to sit with outstretched legs with Hunt strong and silent beside him.

Reason Three: Pointing a gun at the Guv. Nowhen in time will that ever have been a good idea.

I’m sorry, thinks Sam, about Vic, about the gun, about being a prat, about everything. I could never shoot you, Sam wants to say, not now, not ever. How have you done this to me, he needs to say, turned me round, change me, changed the way I think? Instead:

“Why Gladys?” Sam asks, “Out of all the names – why Gladys? Why not ‘Susan’ or ‘Doris’?”

Hunt looks at him – really looks at him. Holds Sam’s eyes with his own, concentration etched in his brow. Sam wants to laugh nervously, to break the sudden stillness. Wants to touch a hand to the other man’s hand, arm, jawline. Bury a hand in Gene’s hair and draw that partly open mouth onto his own.

Reason Four: An unseemly attraction to his direct superior. A man so not gay as to be almost offensively straight. (Not that Sam’s particularly gay – but he’s always been actively curious)

Hunt’s looking at him thoughtfully. He takes another slow swig from the bottle and let’s out a long breath.

“When I were a young man me’n the lads used to go out to the Saturday night dances,” Hunt says, leaning his head back against the rough wall and closing his eyes.

“What does that –” Sam starts but Hunt holds a finger to his lips and Sam stops.

“We were good with birds,” Hunt says, smiling, “Good looking lads, the lot of us, the birds were all over us. But there was one prettier than the rest. Tall, with legs up to her arms and, well, lovely tits, not to put too finer point on it”

“Is there a point to this anecdote?” Sam asks, he’s heard enough of Hunt’s pulling stories to last him a life time.

“Just, listen, alright,” Hunt opens his eyes and glares at Sam for a moment before continuing, “She was top of the peckin’ order – everything we thought we wanted, but couldn’t have. We all dreamt of the night she’d let one of us have the last dance. She never gave me that chance”

“Well, that’s sad, I guess,” Sam says after the silence hangs just a fraction too long, “But I don’t see what it has to do with me”

“Her name was Gladys, Sam,” Hunt says as he flips the bottle cap into the canal, eyes fixed firmly on the ripples.

It was like a light clicking on inside Sam’s head. Like the final piece of a puzzle falling into place when you didn’t even realise you’d been trying to complete one. It worried Sam that he had to be drunk to put it all together. He couldn’t stop himself from laughing – Gene Hunt was coming out, sort of, to him.

“Great,” Gene huffs, “Here I am – confessin’ something that could ruin my career and you’re laughing at me”

“No,” Sam says, still laughing, “It’s not that”

Gene sniffs loudly and draws his long legs up, beginning the long struggle to stand up right, and Sam sobers instantly.

“No,” he says, firmer now, one hand shooting out to grab one of Gene’s. Gene tries to pull away and Sam slides the hand up to grip Gene’s arm, forcing him back down. Gene’s avoiding Sam’s eyes but Sam can see that the older man’s face is showing hurt – something Sam’s never seen before on the Guv. He gentles his grip but doesn’t let go.

“Don’t go,” Sam says softly, “Stay with me”

“If you’re just going to laugh,” Gene mutters petulantly, still not turning his head to look at Sam.

“It’s not that,” Sam says, raising his other hand to touch Gene’s pockmarked cheek. Gene flinches slightly but doesn’t move away from the touch.

“It’s not what you think,” Sam says, and he turns Gene’s head with his hand, forcing the other man to look at him.

“What then?” Gene barks and there’s a trace of annoyance there that is much more like the Gene Hunt that throws people against walls as a greeting.

“Gene, I –” Sam thinks of the million things he wants to say right now but can’t find the words to speak them. Instead:

He slides his hand along Gene’s jawline, watches his fingers rather than Gene’s widening eyes, traces the contours of the other man’s cheek with those fingers – trying to memorise by touch. He moves his own body so he can face Gene properly – running the hand behind Gene’s neck to curl into the soft hair there. Gene sighs a little and his eyelids flutter for a moment – it’s enough to give Sam permission for what’s next.

Sam doesn’t pull Gene to him, knows better than to trying moving the other man like that. Instead he moves his own head closer, resting his forehead against Gene’s. He draws a breath through his nose, smelling ash and cigarette smoke and cheap whiskey all mixed up with the earthy, warm scent of Gene, finding himself suddenly nervous for the first time in years. He can feel Gene watching him, cross-eyed from the proximity, and licks his lips quickly – tongue darting in and out.

And then Gene is kissing him. He doesn’t remember moving so he knows that Gene, impatient as always, took the initiative. Gene tastes like the bastard offspring of an ashtray and a distillery and Sam just doesn’t care because this is Gene. Gene kissing him and all Sam can think is finally and God, yes and never stop. Gene explores Sam’s mouth as if he’s afraid that he’ll never get another shot at it and the hand Sam has on Gene’s neck fists tightly into the hair Sam’s wanted to bury his hands in since the first time Gene threw him up against something hard and unmoving.

The position is awkward and one of Sam’s arms is trapped between his body and Gene’s but none of it matters when Gene growls, soft and low and Sam thinks that he might just end himself there.

Gene lets go of him finally and Sam remembers that breathing is necessary for living and considering that living, by the hunger written on Gene’s face, is likely to involve more of Gene grabbing him and kissing him and Sam hopes, God help him, far more personal things he decides that living, here, now, is the best damn thing he can think of.

Gene is smiling and Sam can’t help smiling back, shaking his head a little in wonderment. Maybe, just maybe, being stuck in 1973 (if he is stuck in 1973) wouldn’t be so bad after all.

Reason Five: Being stuck in 1973 and, suddenly, discovering that he’s starting to care less about whether he ever gets home. In fact maybe he doesn’t even want to get home anymore.