Oz
by
elfin
"No hard feelings?"
They both turn, Sam and Gene, to see DCI Frank Morgan standing behind
them, arms spread like the prince of darkness, each clawed hand
grasping an unopened bottle of whiskey. Gene tilts sideways a
fraction, as if moved by some innate need to put some distance between
himself and the blood-sucking DCI from Hyde. It's an instinct Sam
can understand even if he doesn't share it. His gaze moves
between them, from one to the other, catching on Gene.
He's still in the greenish suit jacket and light blue shirt he was
wearing the previous night when he appeared in Sam's flat. He
showered this morning, shaved with Sam's own razor, but he still looks
crumpled, exhausted from a lack of sleep yet wired from the adrenaline
and fear still crawling in his system.
There's a memory from this morning's early hours held firm in Sam's
mind. The confessional in his tiny flat, Sam's reassurance that
he believed Gene and trusted him. Watching his Guv drop his head
into his hands, long fingers sweep through unkempt hair. Filling
a cheap tumbler with expensive whiskey and shuffling forward on his
knees, tentatively laying one hand over Gene's, fingers brushing silk
blond strands, lowering it to press the glass into the palm.
"Gene. Here."
"Sam... It isn't a drink I need right now."
Knowing how much that admission cost him; far more than the
confession of his connection to the murder victims. Taking the
glass from Gene's hand, lowering it to the carpet, cradling either side
of Gene's heavy head, leaning forward until their foreheads touch - the
reaction electric. Gene's fingers twisting through and around his
own; his head lifting and tilting, mouth claiming Sam's like it was his
birthright, Sam's body seeming to respond of its own volition, rising,
pushing, getting his tongue into Gene's mouth, deepening the kiss.
There had been less grace in the sex - if jerking each other off in
hasty desperation could be referred to as such - but more emotion and
feeling than in any Sam had ever had. Since that first moment
when his spine had cracked against Gene's filing cabinet and he'd
inadvertently breathed in half a brewery and a hundred packets of fags
a tension had been building steadily so that when it broke it had
consumed them both.
He brings himself back to the here and now - still unable to refer to
this as the present - and tears his eyes from where Gene's shirt is
open, and smooth, tempting flesh is on display. He watches his
Guv cautiously accept one of the bottles from Morgan's hands, turn and
give it to Ray as an offering of peace he shouldn't have been the one
making.
He turns back and Morgan sticks out his free hand. They both look
at it, as surprised as one another it seems at these gestures of
altruism. Sam glances at Gene as he's working out whether or not
to shake it and as he makes his decision something in Sam's mind clicks
over to a slightly different perspective. In a moment of blinding
realisation everything slots into place like one of those strange metal
puzzles his Uncle Dave used to buy him for Christmas. Without
another thought he swivels and smacks the palm of his hand as hard and
as suddenly as he can into the centre of Frank Morgan's chest, shoving
him backwards, breaking his handshake with Gene.
"Get your fucking hands off him!"
Morgan's eyes harden, widen, and the fake offer of reconciliation slips
from the sharply angled face as he stares anger and betrayal at
Sam. Gene's eyes also widen but in contrast his expression is
pleasure and pride crowding around a somewhat confused smile.
"Something's wrong." It's a prelude to babbling he knows but he
needs to sort his thoughts into order. He has flashes, moments of
clarity but when he looks at Morgan the threads of sense become
confused and tangled. He focuses on Gene, sharp blue eyes staring
back at him. He recalls looking into those eyes in the dawn
light; kissing full lips and a welcoming mouth. "Things he says…
about nails in your coffin. He's trying to destroy you, using me
to do it and I won't!" He turns to Morgan, eyes flashing.
"I won't do it!"
Morgan's expression holds steady now it's blank and bland once again. "Not even to go home, Sam?"
A shake of his head, 'no', and he resolutely doesn't question that
sudden inference. "I won't hurt him to satisfy your cause,
whatever the hell it is, and I won't sacrifice him to further my
own. If that means I stay here…" he sweeps his gaze over Gene's
stunned face, "fine. I stay here."
"And what exactly does drab, dull 1973 hold for you, Sam?" He
asks the question as if they're alone, as if the room and its drunken
occupants have faded into the background. Only they haven't; it's
this exchange - he and Morgan and Gene - that has.
Sam looks around the assembled, motley crew and feels something he
hasn't felt in a long, long time. True happiness. Real
satisfaction. "Let me introduce you. DS Ray Carling, the
tin man, who's developing a heart with my help. DC Chris Skelton,
the scarecrow, someone who's always had a brain he just needs to be
taught how to use it. DC Annie Cartwright, not precisely the
Cowardly Lion but a woman who has to learn to trust in herself."
Gene's still staring at him, partly in amusement, partly in
disbelief. But Morgan isn't amused. "Which makes DCI Hunt
here… what? The Wicked Witch of the West?"
Sam grins. "No. That would be you. Gene's my Wizard of Oz."
Slamming the second bottle of whiskey on the desk, Morgan shakes his
head. "You're wrong. I'm the Good Witch of the North.
I'm the one with the ruby slippers." As he turns to leave, the
volume of sound in the room increases around them and Sam lifts his
glass to Gene's, breaking whatever remains of the spell.
"What the 'ell was all that about?"
Resisting the urge to lean across and kiss his Guv on the mouth right
here and now, Sam rotates his glass so that the backs of his fingers
brush against Gene's. "He's insane. We should have him
sectioned."
Gene's eyes narrow, assessing. "Either him or you. I'm worried about you, Sam." And Sam shrugs,
"And more than usual?"
Lips curl and blue eyes slip to his whiskey. "No."
The brief contact of their fingers isn't enough and Sam leans over,
pats Gene on the arm and hesitates. "Come back to my place
tonight," he asks, barely loud enough to be heard.
"No."
"Please."
"Oh, all right then, Dorothy."
The nickname makes Sam feel warm inside. He doesn't mind that
Morgan's left. Oz isn't a bad place to be stuck, it has its
attractions.
FIN
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