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They're barely two months into 1974 and Gene hates it with a noble passion already. Crime rates are up, overtime pay is nonexistent, and Gene's divorce papers have nearly finished filtering their way through the courts. He's been living on his own in a box of a flat since before Christmas, and just to top it off all sweet, he's spending this delightful February evening freezing his bollocks off behind some crack den excuse for a club with Sam bloody Tyler.
The man in question throws him a sullen look, like Gene's personally at fault for the whole business. "He's not here. He's not going to be here if we stand around another hour with our fingers crossed. Time to call it a night."
Gene had been just about ready to admit the same thing, actually, but now he feels himself bristle at the accusatory tone. "My snouts don't let me down, Gladys, they damn well know better. He'll be here." He takes a swig of whiskey from his flask, nearly finishing it off. It’s just about the only thing keeping him warm.
"He was supposed to meet us -" Sam checks his watch impatiently. "Forty minutes ago! You've lost your touch, Guv, he's not coming."
"Watch your mouth," he warns, deeply offended by the implication that someone as pathetic as Wilks isn't scared enough to come running when Gene calls. Little bastard is late, and that's bad enough, but he must know that if he stands them up entirely Gene will come down on him like the wrath of god himself.
Sam just rolls his eyes, unimpressed. "Fine. Enjoy the rest of your night. I'm going home."
He makes to brush past, heading for the mouth of the alley they're standing in, but Gene grabs a handful of his sleeve and hauls him back. "You most certainly are not. You are going to stand here like the loyal deputy you are until I decide we're done here, do I make myself clear?"
His DI knocks him away, flashing a glare. "No, this is a waste of both our time -"
And Gene's temper must be closer to breaking point than he'd realised, because suddenly he's got his hands on Sam's shoulders and is all but lifting him off his feet, shoving him up against the filthy wall of the club. Sam's breath gusts out of him as his back collides with the brickwork, and before he can get his bearings, Gene presses his forearm across his chest and braces all his considerable weight there, effectively pinning the smaller man in place.
"Won't say it again. You get to leave when I do."
Furious and surprised, Sam stares at him in silence for a second, and then bursts into motion trying to claw and push his way free. "Get the fuck off me. Just because you've got nothing better to do with yourself than -"
"Don't you finish that sentence if you want to live, Sam, I swear to -"
"Get off!" Sam snarls it in his face, at his limit. But he can't get the leverage to aim a decent punch, so he moves to bring his knee up.
Gene won't have it. He presses flush against him, intending to flatten the scrappy little shit into compliance if he has to. Instead, in a slight turn up for the books, he feels the other man's hard on nudge up against his leg and he freezes.
They both do, Sam as horribly aware of what's just happened as he is, judging by the dumbfounded look on his face, the sharp little intake of breath. Gene's so stunned by the realisation that for a second he can't react. Sam breathes out in a rush, gaze dropping noticeably towards his mouth.
And then Gene's recoiling, as he has to, but not before delivering a vicious jab to his DI's gut. It catches Sam undefended, and he doubles over with a dramatic wheeze as Gene backs off to a safe distance at the other side of the alleyway. He swipes his hair back off his forehead, rolls his shoulders under the familiar weight of his coat, trying to claw back equilibrium. Sam stays bent over, one hand braced on his thigh, the other curled up round his stomach, milking it for all he’s worth. Or quite possibly waiting for the incriminating tent in his knickers to go down, who knows.
"Jesus sodding Christ, Tyler, no wonder I can't ever get a straight answer out of you, you bent little twerp!"
It's out of his mouth before he can think better of it, a mistake, an acknowledgement that should have gone unspoken. He wipes an unsteady hand down his mouth, jaw clenched tight, like he can stop any further choice remarks tumbling loose.
"Sorry," Sam grits out at last, finally straightening up. He slumps back against the wall, still wincing a bit, looking resentfully anywhere but at Gene. "Didn't mean to make assaulting me in any way uncomfortable for you, Guv, carry on." There's a flush of embarrassed colour across his face, lips pressed thin with that priggish, snot-nosed anger he's always so quick with.
It is, frankly, nowhere near the right and decent amount of terror a man in his position should be showing just now.
"Should do, an' all," Gene threatens. He regrets it immediately, but only because he recognises there's not enough real heat in it. He's still too doused by shock. He tries again. "Should kick your poncey arse up and down this street, see if you can still get it up after I put your head through that wall. Toss you in the sodding cells after - or did you forget I'd be well within my rights, Detective Inspector?"
"You wouldn't, actually," Sam bites back. His lip curls, all scorn and challenge, and his eyes flash with more furious conviction than Gene seems to be able to summon right now. "But go on, try it. Dare you." He straightens up off the wall, hands free of his pockets, clearly expecting Gene to follow through on giving him a good hiding and doing precisely nothing to try and deter it.
Gene just stares at him, feels his stomach churn with a combination of alcohol and anger and disgust. He's waiting for Sam to catch a bloody clue, to issue any kind of denial, even the thinnest of excuses. Then Gene could smack him again, just to drive home the lesson, and they could get on with the important business of pretending none of this had ever happened.
But the stupid little prick isn't going to, he realises, infuriated. He can see that same look come over him that he gets on cases telling anyone who'll listen how to do a thing: certainty and defiance all mantled up round him, a righteous yapping terrier with its fur stuck up, spoiling for a fight. He's glaring directly at Gene, daring him to say something, practically begging to have his empty head kicked in.
He wonders if Sam understands that most blokes would - should - beat the living daylights out of him for that stunt. Worse, for standing there all brazen like, not even pretending at shame, filthy tart.
"Wilks clearly ain't showing," is all he says, though, muttering it at the wall somewhere adjacent to Sam. The words come out clipped, oddly formal. "Time to call it a night, DI Tyler."
Sam blinks, visibly deflating at the lack of fight. He opens his mouth, hesitates with a faintly confused expression.
And Gene can't stand to hear whatever prying question or observation is just waiting to be said like sacrilege, so he turns on his heel and stalks out of the alley, out into the street where the Cortina is parked, slamming his way into the vehicle with a flustered ruffle of coat. He turns the keys in the ignition, flicks on the heating because it's cold enough even inside the car that he can see his own shaky exhale mist in front of him. Then he sits gripping the steering wheel too hard, scowling thunderously at the street ahead of him.
After a while, Sam slouches out of the alley as well, hands buried in the pockets of his leather jacket as he makes his way round to the passenger side. Gene doesn't look over when he gets in. Neither of them say a word as he starts up the car and pulls out into the night.
Something in Sam runs a million-miles-a-bloody-hour. Gene can see it, usually. Thoughts constantly racing behind his eyes, all calculation and rapid-fire logic. Moods that swerve wildly between extremes, changing too fast for the mere mortals who make up the rest of Manchester Constabulary to keep pace with. The best Gene can typically manage is to roll with the punches, to take whatever unexpected flash of temper or smart-mouthed grin gets aimed his way without batting an eye. He's gotten good at that much, at least, even if he can't always predict what comes next. A quick wit as well, is Tyler, though Gene's loathe to admit it. Never slow on the uptake, never late with his dry, biting sarcasm that gets right up Gene's nose most of the time.
He's gone slow now, though. Subdued, not paying attention. Hasn't noticed that Gene's gone off course for taking him home, too busy glaring morosely into the footwell like a sulky kid. Tosser.
He only stirs when Gene turns the car into reverse, twisting in his seat so he can look out through the back window and steer them into the narrow alley between high factory buildings he's come looking for.
"What're you doing?" Sam asks suspiciously, looking round.
Gene ignores him, keeps reversing the Cortina until he's satisfied they're past the reach of streetlights. They'd had a bust here last month, he knows the factories on either side are boarded up and derelict, that no one comes here for any reason above board, and the scruffy little shits who might creep by for reasons not above board would know better than to approach or look too closely at a car parked down the recesses of a dark alley this time of night.
He needs somewhere like this, if they're actually going to do this. Somewhere impersonal and hidden, somewhere he can leave right quick if needed.
"Where are we?" Sam demands, as Gene stops the car a bit too sharply. "What is this?"
Gene shuts the engine off, but that plunges them into near silence inside the car and he immediately regrets it, turning the keys again and jabbing at the radio until it plays something.
"Guv?"
"Don't you ever get tired of yammering in my ear?" It's said with a heavy kind of resignation, and he darts a glance somewhere in Sam’s general vicinity.
His DI is staring at him like he's grown a second head, turned in his seat slightly so his back is partially against the passenger door. He's got his hand within inches of the handle, expression hard and wary, and Gene realises he might have taken his threats to rough him up more seriously than first thought.
Gene slumps down, low as he can in the confined space, hands still clamped on the steering wheel so hard his knuckles ache. "Are you, then?" he asks roughly, addressing the speedometer.
"...Am I what?"
He swallows, something clicking in his throat. Fidgets until the leather seat creaks beneath him, feels heat creep up the back of his neck until it stings.
"Queer."
There's a badly timed lull between songs, and the quiet pause is excruciating for all involved. Sam's gone completely still, pressed tight into his corner of the car. His eyebrows go up in obvious surprise and he blinks a few times, like he's actually considering the question.
"Bit," he admits, eventually, just like that.
Startled, Gene looks over at him. Even though he's the one that asked, he thinks maybe he wasn't prepared for so honest an answer. He's never heard anyone own it like that, so easy. Like it was something that could just be said, like it wasn't awful. Like saying it to his DCI of all people wasn't likely to get him punched in the face at best, thrown in handcuffs and stripped of his career at worst. No bastard sense of self-preservation, even in this.
He clears his throat brusquely, looking away again as he realises he has no idea how to respond.
"That why we're here, then?" Sam prompts after a while. He's still tense, won't quite relinquish his grip on the door.
Gene's jaw is clenched so tight his teeth hurt, a muscle twitching in his cheek. He can't get words out to answer.
Sam squints out into the darkness beyond the car, nervous tick betrayed in licking his lip. "Look, is this... Is this an 'unwitnessed beating' kind of an alley or a 'furtive handjob' kind of an alley? Just so I'm ready."
"Jesus Christ." Gene puts his elbow up on the ridge of the window, rubs hard over his eyes until he's pinching the bridge of his nose. This is a mistake. He hasn’t banked on Tyler's constant smart mouth, his blunt insistence on stating the obvious when euphemism would do everyone a favour. Hasn’t banked on his own inability to hear it without a sickening lurch of horror.
"Guv -"
"Don't. Forget it. This was -"
Sam reaches over, grabs his wrist where he's going for the gear stick to start the car moving again, and Gene goes rigid at the contact. He can't move, can't do anything but look down uselessly at the hand daring to touch him. Creeping under his sleeve even, against skin, forefinger grazing up over the back of his driving glove like a test. That's more his language, at least. The inconspicuous gesture, the unvoiced question. Plausible deniability.
Not quite looking up, he nods once.
Sam relaxes incrementally, finally easing away from the door. His throat moves as he swallows, eyes wide in his face like he's just as astonished by the turn of events. He keeps his hold on Gene's wrist as he shifts about awkwardly in his seat, darting a glance, and then starts to lean over. His leather jacket creaks as his other arm comes up, hand reaching for Gene's collar, curling round the side of his neck and trying to tug him closer.
Gene nearly throws himself out his own door, but settles for shoving quick and panicked at Sam's chest. "The bloody hell do you think you're doing?!" he demands, voice gone gruff with embarrassment.
Sam falls back, hands held up in confusion. "I thought -"
"I'm not sodding well kissing you, you great fairy!"
The other man stares at him for a few stunned seconds - and then looks utterly incensed. "Oh, sorry, was I just supposed to perform on demand?" he asks mockingly, all snooty, whinging disapproval. "Quick wank, no eye contact, pretend we hardly know each other?"
Yes! Gene desperately wants to hiss, that's exactly what this cursed fucking disaster of an idea was supposed to be, how can the oblivious little div not know that?! But he's choking too badly on his own indignity, can only shake his head with wordless outrage.
"I'm not one of your fucking prostitutes," Sam bitches, as offended and uptight as he ever is about anything that comes out of Gene's mouth. "Got no interest in... in servicing you anonymously in the back seat, ta."
"What did you think was going to happen?" he snaps back, surprising himself. "Candlelit dinner and a serenade in the hopes you let me under your skirt?!"
"I didn't think anything was going to happen!" Sam points out waspishly. "You're the one driving me to this fucking... crime scene in waiting under the assumption I'll be only too happy to get you off." He exhales scornfully, facing forward and shaking his head. "Didn't even ask, you twat."
Gene gapes, floored by the accusation that this is somehow all on him, when Sam's the one flaunting it, practically getting off on an honest bit of tussling and all but bragging about his perversion when asked. Sam's the one trying to snog him like they're at the drive-in, and now getting prissy about his virtue. Christ, it would have been easier all around if he'd picked up an actual woman, professional or otherwise.
"Well excuse me for getting the wrong idea about you, Gladys. Can't blame a man if you will go humping his leg in back alleys, mind."
Sam's glare is damn near lethal. "Me?! Maybe if you ever kept your hands to yourself for more than five minutes -"
"Oh you should be so lucky, you jumped up bit of -"
"Should have realised the screaming repression the third time you shoved me up against a wall in one bloody afternoon." He sneers, the very picture of disdain, and turns pointedly towards the side window with his arms folded. There's nothing out there, just the graffitied brick wall of the factory, and Gene thinks he looks frankly ridiculous.
"You'd make a shit prossie, anyway," he spits viciously. "I already pay you to do what I say, and you can't manage it longer than two hours put together!"
Sam continues looking out the side window, face turned away. He's not saying anything, and in the ensuing silence Gene sees his shoulders twitch. For a heart-stopping, mortifying few seconds he's absolutely convinced the other man is crying.
An inelegant snort escapes abruptly, and Sam brings a fist up to his mouth like he's trying to stifle anything further. Gene blinks as he catches sight of his profile, realises the daft sod is grinning.
"Oh fuck off," he mutters, defeated, and Sam tips his head back and cackles.
It's another of those lightning-fast mood swings he never sees coming, and he's as blindsided as ever. Gene tongues the inside of his cheek, glowering sternly through the windshield and trying to school his expression straight. The Cortina shakes faintly around him with Sam's laughter, as vibrant and shocking and all-consuming as his rare good moods ever are. It's just as contagious as always, too. Gene drags his hand over his mouth like he can flatten down the automatic answering smile he can feel tugging there.
"I think that's the nastiest thing you've ever said to me, Guv," his DI says, wounded, and Gene scoffs a helpless laugh into his palm.
He's done for, then. Can't stop the wave of mirth that crashes down over him as he realises the genuine absurdity of what they're arguing about. Sam's practically a giggling heap next to him, utterly delighted by the slight against his working girl professionalism, and Gene makes the mistake of looking over. Something promptly twinges in his chest at the sight he's met with. Sam is smiling freely, gone all loose and relaxed at the sudden break in tension, his head tipped back against the seat so the long line of his throat is bared. His eyes are crinkled up at the corners, deep laugh-lines evidence that he hasn't always been so permanently serious. It's a good look on him, makes him seem younger suddenly. Makes him... pretty, a bit.
As he continues to stare, Sam tips his head towards him, and Gene is too slow in hiding the fascination he knows is showing. He sees Sam clock it - always too quick on the uptake for Gene's peace of mind. The wild grin fades, becomes something more subdued. His amber gaze goes lazy, flicking quick over Gene and then back up to his face.
"Sure you don't want...?"
He scowls, the brief reprieve of humour fast evaporating. "What are you playing at? Made yourself clear, don't need to -"
"I don't think I did, though."
They both stop, staring uncertainly at each other. Gene isn't sure he wants to know, but even so the question slips out unbidden.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Sam bites his lip, seeming to debate with himself for a moment, and then turns further towards him. He raises his eyebrows in obvious query, and Gene realises he's asking permission this time.
He’s never kissed a bloke before. Never had one want to kiss him, that he knows of. That's for the pervs who actually make a lifestyle out of this, and he's definitely never felt that particular need.
So when Sam leans towards him again, obvious in his intent, he can't stop his instinctive flinch. Sam pauses, but he's still close enough that Gene can feel the light breeze of him breathing. Those sharp, calculating eyes visibly assess him. Then, with trademark obstinacy, he puts a hand on the back of Gene's neck to hold him still and closes the last bit of distance.
It's a quick, dry press of lips that only lasts a few seconds before Sam's pulling back to check, and even so Gene's chest tightens like he's finally having a coronary. He can't move, can't do anything but stare bemused at Sam's mouth, appalled by the strength of his own reaction.
"That okay?" Sam asks warily, like he wants a god damn performance review, and Gene can only grab his jacket and tug in response.
Tentative isn't the word, this time. Sam practically crashes into him, dragging an unsteady breath as he opens his mouth against Gene's, fingers curling on his coat collar. For some reason Gene's not expecting the faint scratch of another man's stubble, wavers a bit at the newness of it, and his hesitation is enough that Sam gets the chance to slip his tongue in. It's the most forward anyone's ever been with him. He immediately reaches across, fists his hand rough in the other man's shirt, intending to shove him away. He's not sure which of them is more surprised when he holds him in place instead.
But the angle's not right. There's a crick in his neck already from turning sideways, and the gap between seats is wide enough that they have to stretch across. Sam pulls back, impatient frown on his face, already starting to move.
"Wait. Just. Let me -"
And then suddenly he's sliding right into his lap, wiggling in between Gene and the steering wheel somehow, grunting discomfort as he slings a leg over and shoves his knee down against the door. Gene is so stunned he doesn't even protest, can only hold his hands up out of the way as Sam straddles him. It's awkward and there's not enough room, really, two grown men playing at it like teenagers in his front seat. Sam's heavier than he looks and in this position the back of his head keeps bumping against the roof of the car with every unwary movement - but he's got that familiar determined expression as he looks down at Gene and settles properly into his lap.
The message is easy enough to grasp for even Gene's reeling senses: Sam's going to be seen and felt and acknowledged, if they're doing this. Nothing anonymous about his stupid boot heel digging into Gene's leg or the faint waft of that nancy fancy aftershave he's got on. Won't be ignored, will Tyler, not ever.
Gene's still got his hands raised and hovering uselessly, and Sam just watches while he decides what to do. It takes him a moment. He has to swallow, gather his shredded nerves before he can slowly lower his palms against Sam's spread thighs.
Must be permission or something, because Sam takes that as the signal to kiss him again, full on and filthy. And he's admittedly not 100% sure, but Gene thinks that Sam doth protest too much because he sure as hell kisses like a right tart, when he gets going. He leans over him, tilts Gene's head back and coaxes his mouth open with a lick. Gene barely stops himself gasping into it like a girl getting touched up for the first time, burning with embarrassment and lust in equal measures.
He's never met a bloke who'd be willing to do half of this. Not one who wasn't plying a trade on street corners, anyway. Even with those few likeminded individuals Gene's known over the years - that is, blokes like him, willing to lend a helping hand on occasion if circumstances allowed - there'd always been an unspoken but nevertheless strictly adhered to code of conduct.
Sam doesn't know it, or possibly doesn't care, because he's got his tongue in Gene's mouth and he's moaning like a two-bit whore.
"Sodding hell, Sam," he manages to rasp, incredulous, because for the life of him he can't articulate how indecent that is, how completely obscene.
The other man must have a fair idea anyway, because he curls a sly smile right against Gene's mouth and slowly rocks forward in his lap. The movement presses his erection straight into Gene's belly, shifts his weight against Gene's own considerable hard on. He groans at the sensation, can't stop himself, and grabs at the narrow hips to try and get him to do it again. Sam complies, bracing against Gene's shoulders for balance as he slides himself forward, practically rubbing off on him. His eyes are open, half-lidded, watching Gene's reaction to the performance like he's hungry for it.
It's somehow the sexiest thing that's ever been done to him, and he has a horrible suspicion it shows on his face.
He leans back, just far enough to take a proper look, and again feels that shock of visual dissonance at the distinctly male body sitting astride him. His breath catches a bit and he has to brace himself, before finally daring to put a hand against Sam's flat stomach. Doesn't usually go in for copping a feel, not with blokes, beyond the clumsy fumbling required to get them both off in short order. But fuck it, Sam's just tossed the rule book out the window, he might as well enjoy himself now the damage is already done.
But he's got his gloves on still, and Sam's layered in clothing. He hesitates, then reaches round behind the other man so he can tug both gloves off, grunting at the effort of maneuvering in the tight space. The movement brings his face close to Sam's collar, the bared patch of skin where his St Christopher glints, and he can smell sweat and leather and aftershave. Before he can think better of it, he buries his nose in the open shirt collar, opens his mouth against the hollow dip of clavicles.
Sam gasps, one arm winding round his shoulders, other hand going up into his hair as though to hold him in place. Gene finally gets his bare hands under the leather jacket, gropes at Sam's waist without any kind of finesse, tasting the skin at the base of his throat. He can actually feel the vibration of it when Sam hums approval, head tipped back, hips working against him.
"Mouthy sod," Gene accuses breathlessly. He's not sure why he's surprised, of course he can't shut up even for this. He bites at a collarbone, oddly gratified when the other man's voice pitches up even louder in surprise.
Then he’s clawing Sam's shirt out of his belt, smoothing the flat of his palm up the warm expanse of skin across his back, pressing fingertips into the groove of his spine. Sam explores him similarly, hands moving down inside his coat, restless over the width of his chest and the outward curve of his stomach. Gene feels the urge to suck his gut in, has to consciously clamp down on it, because he'll be damned before the day comes he tries to impress Sam bloody Tyler. Sam doesn't seem bothered anyway, grabbing at him enthusiastically, kissing open-mouthed.
Then he reaches for one of Gene's hands where it rests on his hip, guides it round to his front. He pushes it down between his legs, shameless, and Gene swears quietly as he finds himself palming at the hard bulge in his corduroys.
"Please," Sam murmurs against his cheek, soft, eyes closed as he rocks against him.
And Gene's brain nearly short-circuits, not least because that might be the only mannered thing he's ever heard him say. He feels feverish with it, realises he's already fumbling at the other man's belt buckle, dragging it open, trying to get the buttons undone. Sam mutters meaningless encouragement, leaning back enough to watch.
Gene's wanked men off before. A few times, not often, and all before he met the missus. So the mechanics aren't unknown to him, and the feeling of hard flesh slapping into his palm isn't entirely unfamiliar.
He thinks this might be the first time he's ever looked, though. Never really wanted to before, too furtive and frantic through every quick encounter he remembers, wanting it over nearly as much as he wanted the guilty relief of shooting his load.
Sam clearly doesn't subscribe to the same philosophy, because he stares boldly down between them, mouth dropped open a bit, as Gene closes his hand round the length of his dick. Sam's fingers curl tight on the lapels of his coat, pathetic needy sound tumbling out of him, and Gene looks down as well before he can stop himself.
Shouldn't be the gut-punch that it is, really, but he still hears himself hissing a heartfelt, "Fuck," at the sight.
Sam's wet at the tip, flushed with arousal. Gene shudders out a breath as he carefully works back the foreskin, swipes his thumb over the leaking pre-come. On his next inhale he catches the heady salt-smell of sex and it's all he can do not to groan out his own sudden desperation. He starts stroking in earnest, caught between watching the movement of his hand and looking up at Sam's expression. He's got his forehead all scrunched up with want, panting, leaning into Gene like it's the only thing keeping him upright. He keeps jerking his hips forward in excitement, fucking into Gene's fist and inadvertently grinding over his erection.
"There, like that, yeah," Sam instructs quietly, bossy as he ever is, though in this context it's more appealing than Gene's accustomed to.
He puts his free hand on the small of Sam's back, pulls him tight. He's a solid, hefty weight in his lap, all flat planes and wiry muscle, so distinctly male it hurts. His hands keep moving restlessly over Gene's shoulders and chest and stomach, and it occurs vaguely to him that he's never been groped quite so blatantly before. It's driving him insane, makes his balls ache with how badly he wants Sam's hands lower down.
Sam falls forward, leaning over Gene as his movements get faster. Not quite kissing, but he's got his mouth open, and close enough that Gene can feel the damp, frantic gust of his breath. His eyes are glassy, pupils blown wide, and Gene suddenly wants to keep him there, wants him looking straight back at him when he finishes. He reaches up to hold him in place, the bristle of Sam's short hair against his palm yet another sensory novelty that flares in his brain.
"Come on, Sammy."
"I am, don't stop, don't stop, don't -"
Sam breaks off with a cry, eyes squeezing shut, body jerking taught against him. He doesn't have the decency to catch it in his hand, and Gene feels the warm spatter against his shirtfront. He bucks up in response, astonished, reeling with how much it turns him on. He grasps at the back of Sam's jacket, pulls him down hard into his lap - and somehow it's enough.
He comes in his pants like a sodding teenager, shuddering, pressing his face into Sam's neck to get the smell of him. He claws at him as he shoves his hips up a few times, and Sam pants and clings in turn, both of them moving without the slightest bit of coordination. He only goes still again when it's over, eyes closed, chest heaving.
There's slick on his fingers when he lets go of Sam's dick, and he hastily wipes them off on the corduroys, ignoring the lazy noise of protest. The other man rests against him for a few more seconds, and then carefully leans back.
"Did you just...?"
Gene darts a glance up, completely unable to keep the look of confounded guilt off his face as he sees Sam realise what's just happened.
"Not a word," he barks, quick, feeling mortification seep through him. He braces himself for that obnoxious, arrogant smirk the other man gets whenever he thinks he's won a victory. Gene might have to smack it off his face if it makes an appearance just now, a man has limits.
But Sam mostly just looks surprised, blinking and offering a hesitant smile, like he's unsure whether or not to be pleased. "Fuck, wanted to do it," he says by way of explanation, still trying to catch his breath. He slumps forward again, planting a perfunctory kiss on Gene's surprised mouth as he puts himself away. Gene scowls, deeply flustered by the gesture.
"Off me, Gladys, can't feel my legs."
Sam grins brightly, and tries to figure out how exactly to manage that. It's somehow far more difficult untangling themselves, the Cortina rocking with their shifting weight, and Gene grunts as he gets kneed in the stomach. Sam falls heavily back into the passenger seat, unrepentant, leaving him to squirm with discomfort as he feels the mess in his pants starting to cool. Christ, this is the worst state he's ever been in. He has no idea how he's let it happen.
They're quiet a while, regaining composure. Gene's hands shake faintly as he takes out his cigarettes and manages to light one, inhaling gratefully like it'll somehow repair his destroyed nerves. Give him a minute and he'll get himself back under control, get the car moving and pretend like everything is normal. He's done it before, he knows the drill. Although, admittedly, not with someone he still has to see on a daily basis. Or someone he's sort of, nearly friends with. And never with anyone as irrepressibly, unforgivably brazen about it as Tyler.
Small chance he's made a minor miscalculation, all things considered.
He catches Sam looking over, follows the line of his attention down to the cig he's holding. And what the hell, he supposes they've just shared worse. Wordlessly, he holds it out in offering.
Sam takes it off him carefully, raising it to his mouth to take a drag that Gene can't quite look away from. He holds it in his lungs while he actually bothers to crack the window, then tilts his head to courteously blow the stream of smoke out into the night air like it makes a blind bit of difference to the already nicotine-stained car interior. Gene silently shakes his head in exasperation, but lets him take another puff before beckoning impatiently for it back.
"You know," Sam says thoughtfully, smoke curling round the words as he turns to look Gene dead in the eye, "if you take me somewhere with a bed next time I'll blow you."
Gene promptly chokes on his cigarette - and there's that stupid smirk, the prick.