Sunday Mornings

by elfin


"I'm dying."
"Rubbish.  You look like you do every Sunday morning."*


"Why Saturdays?"  Lying on his side, supported on one elbow, Sam trailed fingertips over the smooth skin laid out in front of him.  "Not that I'm complaining."

Gene caught his hand, took it to his mouth and kissed each teasing fingertip in turn in a rare display of gentle affection, more genuine than anything Sam had ever known.  "The wife has had her Bingo night every Saturday night since we were married.  I go to the pub, she assumes I stay over at Ray's."

Sam traced his index finger over Gene's bottom lip.  "Where did you go, before I came along?"

"I stayed over at Ray's."  Sam couldn't stop his eyebrows from rising.  Gene's eyes rolled once.  "Kipped in his spare room.  Believe it or not, Sammy, you're the only one of my team who likes to spend their weekends shagging the boss."  

Sam grinned.  "I don't believe it.  Chris and Ray follow you around like lost puppies.  I think they fancy you."

A large hand came up and swept over his head.  "That wine's gone to your head."  Large blue eyes, so soft, Sam thought he could drown in the need he saw there.  

The first Saturday night they'd spent together it had been sex born of a fight outside the pub, an attraction like magnetism suddenly snapping into being as Gene leaned into Sam against the cold, damp brick wall of the Railway Arms.  Something had changed in an instant, hate into heat, fear and frustration into desire and for a second Sam had thought Gene would kiss him there and then - brutal and unashamedly real - out there in the sodium-lit street.  But instead Gene had stepped back as if pushed, and it had been up to Sam to suggest they go to his place.

That first night, Sam had imagined Gene would leave afterwards; maybe that sated passion would turn into bitter violence.  But he'd never honestly believed it, and he hadn't really been surprised when, instead, Gene had cuddled into him and fallen asleep.  He'd still been there in the morning, making coffee and frying eggs as Sam's hangover had kicked in full force and he was sick in the tiny bathroom.  Since then, it had been an unspoken arrangement, one that had made some tiny speck of sense of the madness Sam lived with.  Saturday night, no matter where they were, what they were doing, how much they'd had to drink, no matter if Sam went home alone.  Gene would always turn up.  They'd make love, all pent-up desire and lost emotions.  Sometimes it was hard and rough, unapologetically physical and over in minutes.  Sometimes it was achingly gentle, almost loving, and lasting for hours.

And in the morning, while Sam suffered, Gene brewed and cooked.  He always left just before lunch, to get back to a wife who hadn't loved him in a very long time.  

It was, Sam had decided, a small slice of heaven in an otherwise fucked up existence.  How Gene Hunt had become his idea heaven was beyond him.  If he was a product of Sam's imagination, he had a seriously warped one.  But then, hadn't he already known that?

"I can hear the cogs, Sam."  He smiled, wriggled down and pillowed his head on Gene's shoulder.  Just on the edge of sleep, he heard, "she was talking about giving up Bingo," and wrapped one arm possessively around Gene's waist.  Gene chuckled and held him tighter.  Not like they could give this up now.  They were addicted, both of them.



*from series 2, episode 1

 

FIN

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