Title: Sherbet
Summary: Sherbet. It's a wonderful thing, really. Quite amazing, when you get down to it.
Rating: PG
Spoiler Warnings: None
Word Count: ~1,500
Disclaimer: Sam, Gene and Life on Mars belong to Kudos and BBC. I worship at Matthew Graham's feet and beg his forgiveness for making Gene Hunt queer on a frequent basis.
Notes: This is 'I'm sorry your fic is late' fic for katie__pillar. I promise that the TW/LoM is on the way. Cross my heart. This stuck in my brain for the past couple of days and has started a terrible craving for sherbet (and a worse one for Australian Food). Enjoy!

"Here," Sam says as he pushes through the doors to Gene's office. A crumpled paper bag flutters through the air and Gene catches it deftly, surprised by the lightness. He looks at Sam quizzically but is ignored as the other man slumps down onto the settee and settles his head into his hands.

Gene pulls the bag open and empties the contents onto his desk. Half a dozen sherbet fountains tumble out, spilling a little of the dust that accompanies them. Gene pushes them together and lines them up, tracing his fingers over the hard paper packaging. He stares at them thoughtfully, wondering when Sam had noticed his weakness for sherbet

"If you think," he starts, lifting one and untwisting the paper from around the licorice stick, "That this is going to make up for today; you are sadly mistaken"

Sam says nothing, but heaves a sigh and leans back on the settee, slouching unattractively.

"I mean - it would take at least a forty-year old bottle of whiskey to do that," Gene continues with a twisted smile, tugging the licorice gently from the packaging but still managing to get the white dust all over his cuffs.

"I already said I was sorry for that," Sam mutters, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing a finger and thumb to them.

Gene frowns and tosses the licorice stick at Sam almost absent-mindedly, rolling the packet between his fingers to loosen the tightly packed sherbet The stick lands on Sam's chest, just below where that daft medallion Sam's always wearing is hanging out of his shirt. Gene finds himself staring as Sam picks the stick up and slips it between his lips, sucking listlessly at the dark sweet.

"Sorry doesn't cover it when it's a cock-up that big," Gene says before tipping his head back and tapping some of the sherbet into his mouth. As the sweettang of the sherbet dissolves on his tongue he tries to make himself angry over the events of the afternoon but finds he's too tired to do even that.

Sam had argued extensively, and loudly, that the witness Gene was sure was actually involved with the crime was innocent. Sam had reiterated an old argument that without evidence you couldn't base everything on gut instinct. Gene conceded to Sam a lot quicker than usual, mostly because he was tired, and let the witness go instead of banging him up on some trumped up charge.

When Ray and Chris discovered some evidence that pointed to Gene being correct Gene was gracious enough to only say 'I told you so' once as they drove the witness' address. There they met a charming old lady that had genuinely never heard of the witness (Gene could always tell when they were lying. Now Gene was furious.

They had spent the entire afternoon trawling the streets of Manchester for the missing witness turned suspect only to come up empty handed. Gene's vision was starting to blur a little around the edges so he dismissed his men with the view to starting again tomorrow and retired to his office.

"Why do you always have to be right, Sam?" Gene asks, levelling a trademarked stare at the other man. Sam opens his eyes and glances at Gene quickly, as if he can't bring himself to meet Gene's eyes. He leans forward on the settee and rests his chin on folded hands.

"I'm not always right," Sam says, his tone morbid even for Sam, as he casts his eyes downwards.

Gene snorts in surprise, blowing sherbet across his desk, and can't help but smile at Sam.

"That's new," he says, scrutinizing Sam's tense position on the settee.

"What?" Sam asks, looks up with a little surprise of his own, as if he was expecting something different.

"You don't normally admit to it," Gene says, thoughtfully tipping a little more sherbet into his mouth, "That you're capable of being wrong"

"It's been a bad day, Gene," Sam says and there's something in his eyes that catches at Gene's heart a little. Contrary to popular belief Gene does care about people, his team, his men (and women he supposes), cares when there's something wrong. Sometimes, when Sam is like this, the man seems so broken and lost that even Gene can't help but notice.

Gene stands and moves over to the settee, deciding to make a gesture of support, wanting desperately to do something to cheer the other man up. He settles down beside Sam, perched uncomfortably on the edge, not really certain of himself.

It's unsettling to Gene Hunt, to not be certain of himself. He's always tried to think in black and white, to ignore the shades of grey, them and me, Reds and Blues, men and women, the Sheriff and the Man in Black. Sam confuses everything, turns Gene's world around and upside down for good measure, makes Gene question himself.

He wants it to stop. He doesn't want it to stop. He doesn't know what he wants any more. Aside from Sam being there, to probe, to push him, to make him feel like a better man, like a better copper.

And when Sam is broken Gene feels an overwhelming urge to fix him. So he sits beside Sam and puts a heavy hand on the other man's shoulder. Sam makes no move to push him away, seems puzzled by Gene's actions and for a moment Gene thinks maybe this was a bad idea. Sam is staring at Gene's upper lip and Gene finds himself shivering a little.

"Have I -" Gene starts but gets no further as Sam reaches up and presses a thumb to Gene's upper lip and he realises, belatedly, that there's still a dusting of sherbet sticking there. Gene can hear his heartbeat in his ears as Sam's thumb runs back and forth over his lips, doing nothing to disperse the sherbet, but a lot to make Gene's breathing quicken.

Sam's brow furrows, as if he's annoyed at the sherbet for resisting his efforts, and Gene suppresses a smile at that. It would be like Sam to show that bloody-mindedness even when breaking half a dozen social taboos. Sam's tongue pokes out between his lips as he concentrates and Gene finds himself staring at it and swallowing slightly.

He lets Sam tilt his head further into the dingy office light, resisting a sudden urge to lick at the thumb still pressed to his lips. Sam meets his eyes and Gene tightens his hand on Sam's shoulder reflexively at what he sees there. Sam's breathing is softer than Gene's but seems just as quick. Sam must find what he wants in Gene's eyes because suddenly the thumb is gone as Sam shifts his hand to cup Gene's cheek, stroking the pockmarked skin gently. He tilts Gene's head a little more and Gene has barely a moment to figure out if he really wants this or not before Sam's lips close over his, that pink tongue licking the sherbet away.

Gene gasps into the action, opens his mouth to Sam and tastes the dark sourness of licorice mixed with mint. Feels the tang of the sherbet on Sam's tongue and marvels in the fizzing sensation. This is a novel way to eat sherbet, he decides, one he'd like to try more often.

He doesn't know, as he lifts his free hand to grip the back of Sam's neck, stopping the other man from pulling back, when exactly he started wanting this. Wanting Sam. He'd been as straight as a die all his life. But Sam. Sam.

Sam pulls back suddenly, slipping from Gene's grip and Gene hates himself for feeling bereft without the other man's touch. Sam looks at Gene as if he expects Gene to hit him, and Gene can't blame him for it, he sort of wants to lash out and make things black and white again. But it's weak, weaker than it's ever been. He wonders when that urge to fight, that heated friction between them, turned from anger and hatred to the lust that's making his body do all sorts of uncomfortable things.

“I -” Sam starts but Gene stops him this time, pressing his fingers to Sam's lips.

“If you're going to apologise again,” Gene says, surprised that his voice is hoarse, thick with emotion, “Don't. I don't want it. Not for this”

Sam's expression is a picture, Gene thinks, and he'd see the humour in the situation if he wasn't about to break about fifty social taboos. He slides his hand around Sam's neck and pulls the smaller man forward, crushing their lips together in a breath-stealing kiss. Sam freezes for a moment then relaxes in Gene's grip, opening his mouth and twining his tongue around Gene's with something approaching fervour.

It seems so clear to Gene now, with Sam's hands sliding under his shirt and stroking the warm flesh there, where everything has been heading for so long. It feels right that this should finally happen, that he should be tugging at Sam's shirt in his haste to get at Sam's flesh.

The case can wait till tomorrow. All Gene wants right now is this. All Gene needs right now is this.

Sherbet. It's a wonderful thing, really. Quite amazing, when you get down to it.