Piss Artist Fandoms

Diaries Of A Piss Artist

Wed, 25 Jun 2008 12:05:49 GMT

Finally got my arse together and made myself an original work journal.

You can find it here, but it's only got one bit of work in it so don't get too excited!

I could really use some support and friendly faces over there, so please add me as friend! I'll be putting up wee bits of drawing, writing, poetry (if the mood takes me, which it won't) and anything else I deem worthy, and as ever concrit is invaluable.

ALSO: Apologies to those who are waiting on updates to WIPs, I'm been mind-numbingly busy at college but will be back with you all shortly. Tah very much, like.

Fan Video Index

Fri, 30 May 2008 13:10:25 GMT

Fandom: Ashes to Ashes (Property of Kudos/BBC)

Song: Heartbeat by Scouting For Girls
Pairing: Gene/Alex
Spoilers: Clips from Episode 1.1
Format: Youtube
Comments: This is my first fanvid, so try to be gentle. I while ago it was suggested that this song would be brilliant for an Alex/Gene vid, so I thought I'd give it a go. My first editing experience taught me that irritation occurs quickly after having listening to the same song a dozen times. I'm not sure how Gene/Alex centric this is, but it was my first go!

A2A Fanvid: Heartbeat - Scouting for Girls

Fri, 30 May 2008 13:05:56 GMT

Fandom: Ashes to Ashes (Property of Kudos/BBC)
Song: Heartbeat by Scouting For Girls
Spoilers: Clips from Episode 1.1
Format: Youtube
Comments: This is my first fanvid, so try to be gentle. I while ago it was suggested that this song would be brilliant for an Alex/Gene vid, so I thought I'd give it a go. My first editing experience taught me that irritation occurs quickly after having listening to the same song a dozen times. I'm not sure how Gene/Alex centric this is, but it was my first go!

Didn't Deny It - Part Three

Thu, 22 May 2008 17:29:02 GMT

Title: Didn’t Deny It (3/?)
Pairing: Sam/Gene
Rating/Warnings: PG-13 - vague reference to you-know-what of the slash variety.
Spoilers: None
Author’s note:

scruby suggested a fic based on these pics, where Sam has a beard. Thanks to unadulterated bullying gentle cajoling, this is now a multi-part fic .This is Part Three, in which Sam plays the seductor.
Summary: “Buried up to your whats in your what, Tyler?”

Part One, Part Two, Part Three

The Archives was a section of the library shut off from the rest of the building, housing all the oldest and most valuable books. The only people who were allowed in there unsupervised were the archive staff, and those who were accompanied by archive staff. Luckily, ‘Jimmy’ was one of the select few. He met Gene at the Enquires desk, a massive oak thing with several massive guest books strewn over its surface, and walked with him through the cavernous panelled hallways and up sweeping carpeted staircases, his hands in his pockets.

“Morris Burton,” Gene said, “doesn’t have a thing on ‘im.”

“Told you,” Sam replied. Gene shook his head.

“Doesn’t mean he en’t in on it.”

“In on what? We don’t even know what Henderson’s planning, yet. ‘Ow can we assume someone’s involved in something that hasn’t happened yet?”

“And whose fault is that, Mr-I-Can-Gain-His-Sodding-Trust? What have you found out? Not a bloody sausage.”

“And you still ‘aven’t had a sodding shave.”

Gene looked smugly at him. “Better now, is it?”

Sam stopped walking and looked properly. Gene faced him, slipping his hands into his pockets too.

“I’m not sure,” Sam said, frowning slightly. “I think yours needs a… shape, or something.”

“What d’you mean?”

Sam tilted his head to the side slightly. “I think you look older like this. Maybe if you trimmed it here,” he said, poking Gene in the side of face. Well, not poking exactly. What he in fact did was draw a line on Gene’s face with his finger, but they both chose to interpret it as poking. “Least then it’d look semi-deliberate, rather than lazy.”

Gene nodded. “Hm. So ‘ow come yours is alright all shape-less?”

Sam shrugged, and they resumed their walk down the corridor. “It might not have a shape but I do keep it… tidy.”

They drew to a halt outside Archives and Sam rummaged in his pocket for the key.

“I think this might’ve been one o’ the most ridiculous discussions I’ve ever ‘ad wi’ you, Jimmy.”

“And we’ve ‘ad a fair few. Now shut up and act like an intellectual.”

“A what?”

Archives was dark, cavernous. Smelt like damp but felt so dry Gene coughed, dust swirled and filtered and shone in the light falling lazily in through monumental windows onto the faded carpets, and felt warm. Too warm.

“God, this place is atrocious,” Gene said. Sam shook his head, cocking an eyebrow, and without words led Gene down to the furthest stack. Gene thought he was looking more and more like a librarian every day, as he watched Sam pull out one of the long ladders attached to the shelving unit and slid it along its shafts to the middle of the row, climbing swiftly.

“‘Ere, Gladys, what’s with the woolly jumper?”

Sam glanced down. He was wearing grey trousers, a smooth white shirt with a sort of purple – maroon maybe – sleeveless pullover over the top. Sam shrugged.

“Honestly? Always wanted one but they’re so not cool it’s unbelievable. Now I can wear it ‘cause, let’s face it, I’m a bloody librarian.”

Gene’s first reaction was to chuckle, bemused, and wandered off to have a snoop around and keep watch while Sam searched for whatever it was he was searching for. His second, rather delayed and thoroughly disconcerting reaction, was to wonder why he cared what Sam was bloody wearing. He told himself it was because he didn’t want the case going cold ‘cause Sam wasn’t playing his part very well.

“This bloody beard is killing me, Sam,” Gene called, slipping along on the other stacks, pulling random books off the shelves and thinking about replacing them haphazardly, or back to front and upside down, just to annoy Sam later. Then he thought that there was a good chance Sam’d get told off, and that’d take the operation back strides, so he didn’t.

“Gene?”

He spun round, not having noticed Sam coming up behind him, and turned so quickly he knocked the book Tyler was holding out of his hands. They both lunged for it – it was heavy and valuable-looking, and probably important to the case if Sam thought it worth trying to get him to read it – and collided, hands and arms and pages everywhere. The book came to rest balanced precariously between them, and seemed to be about the same size and weight as a small tire – how Sam’d managed to carry it alone was anyone’s guess considering what an incredible fairy he was. Sam, in his panic to try and stop the book getting damaged, had pinned it between them, grabbing Gene’s arm to steady one side and grabbing Gene’s shirt on the other.

“You really are a colossal prat, aren’t yeh?” Gene said, over the top of the musty pages. The top of Sam’s head told him to piss off and help him get the book over to one of the massive oak tables in the middle of the room. Grunting, he and Sam managed to disentangle themselves and haul the book over to the patch of sunlight.

“I’m not one-‘undred percent—”

“I’ve been tellin’ you that for years…”

Sam glared hotly at him.

“But I think, whatever they’ve been workin’ on, it’s something to do with this.”

“What come mouldy old book? Nah, I don’t think so, Sam, murders and thieves don’t read.”

Sam gaped. “D’you ever hear yourself? Honestly, thieves don’t read, course thieves read—”

“No, Sam, they don’t read, they certainly don’t read big poncy musty tomes like this’n. Scum don’t think this much.”

“Yeah, but, Gene, these aren’t ordinary scum. They’re educated scum. They’re clever. Really clever.”

“Damn them.”

“Don’t worry,” Sam grinned. “I’m clever too.”

The door at the far end of the room rattled and Sam and Gene looked around so quickly Sam thought he heard Gene’s neck crack.

“Someone’s coming. Here, put these on and go look clever.”

Gene looked at the pair of glasses Sam had just handed him. “What’re these?”

“Glasses. Good job you’ve only got to look clever, eh? Now go!”

“I’m not—”

“Do it, Gene.”

“I’ll ‘ave you feh this—”

“Go.”

Gene stomped off to one of the stacks at the back, grumbling, and Sam awkwardly returned the massive volume to its place on the shelves. By the time Dicky Henderson unlocked the door, Sam was sat at the reading table with three or four books before him, looking like he’d been there for hours.

Henderson nodded back over his shoulder, hands in his pockets. “Why was the door locked?”

Sam pulled a vaguely confused look onto his face.

“Hm? Oh, sorry, I was in one of the far stacks earlier, didn’t want people strolling in and me not noticing.”

“Oh. Right.” Dicky looked at his feet for a second, as thought trying to think of something to say. Sam felt discomforted. The Dicky Henderson he knew wasn’t shy or uncertain, and if he was he never appeared to be. Henderson was trying to put on the appearance of sudden bashfulness, and Sam wasn’t fooled. Eventually, Dicky nodded towards the papers before Sam. “What’re you doing?”

Sam ruffled the pages of the book nearest him. “Just some research. What about you?”

Dicky Henderson smiled slightly and sat down opposite Sam. “Something similar, I suppose. Jimmy, can I ask you a question?”

“Mm?”

“Your friend, Gene Hunt. Well, something you said – he looked like he’d ‘been kipping at the station’. I’m sorry to have done this done this but I looked him up – he’s a police officer.”

Sam nodded, seeing where this was going and hiding his surprise smoothly. “Yes?”

“Well, you said you used to work together – you’re a police officer too.”

Sam shook his head. “Used to be. Not anymore.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Dicky said, softly, in lilting tones that spoke of a middle class upbringing, a father who was a doctor and a mother with a drink problem. “What happened?”

“Summarily dismissed from the Force,” Sam replied, after a brief hesitation. To give the impression the Henderson had his full attention, Sam closed the book before him and leant forward in his seat, fiddling with his pen. It was hard to mistake the look the blonde, slim bloke was giving him, even in this day and age.

“Are you open-minded, Dicky?”

“How open-minded?”

Sam shrugged. “If I tell you why I was dismissed, will you hold it against me?”

Dicky’s mask of cautious curiosity slipped for a moment, and suddenly his desire at the prospect of holding something powerful, some important piece of information over another person to use as strings to their puppet was as plain as the glasses perched primly on the end of his nose. It wasn’t a look Sam was used to on polite, intelligent young men, but it fitted Henderson.

“I don’t judge people, Jimmy,” Henderson said calmly, with a small attractive smile.

“That’s good,” Sam replied, just as quietly, and he noticed how thick the air in the room had become, and envisaged Gene, hidden in the shadows at the back of the room, straining to hear. “Because I was dismissed – rather on the spot, I must say – when they found me one, bright afternoon, buried up to my balls in my superior officer.”

In the heavy silence of the room, the shallow plodding thud of something heavy hitting the ground at the back of the room and the following hissed curse was unmistakable and deafening to Sam. He looked at Henderson, but he was busy blinking and trying to look surprised, and apparently didn’t hear. Sam hid his chuckle.

He was surprised at how plain the thought process was on Henderson’s face. He’d expected not to have been able to read it at all, but there it was: excitement, fear, a hint of undeniably thick interest that Sam chose to ignore for the following glimmer of power behind the eyes. Dicky pretended to look a little horrified.

“That’s abominable.”

Sam – Jimmy, he reminded himself, scratching his chin – shrugged.

“It’s abominable that I allowed it to happen with my superior, with a colleague,” he conceded, hearing his own voice getting steadily more posh, more clipped. “You don’t really think that the… action was abominable, do you?”

Sam fixed Henderson with the most searching, knowing, devouring gaze he possessed. He even thought at him, I know, I know, we’re on the same page, here, mate. Eventually, Henderson’s face broke into a small smile.

“No. No, Jim, not abominable.” He sighed. “Doesn’t do to say it out loud, though, does it?”

Sam grinned. “No. So… we’re friends, yeah? Got to be really, after such a discussion.” Sam thought about saying it – all queers together – for the briefest moment. But instead just hoped that Henderson really was following the conversation properly.

Henderson nodded, offering Sam his hand. Over the books and the papers they shook hands, and settled back into there respective seats.

“So why d’you still hang around with Hunt?” Henderson asked, and Sam had to remember that he was still under inquisition. He spun the truth slightly.

“He was the plod that found me and the other bloke. Walked in on us. Now he asks me favours, blackmail essentially. I cut him in on a few lucrative sidelines, and he turns his head the other way for a few funny handshakes. Checks and balances, we called it.”

Henderson looked enthralled, but hid it well. Sam stood up.

“Right. I better get on with the cataloguing. You coming?”

Henderson nodded, getting up and following him to the door. When Henderson had started off downstairs, Sam doubled back, claiming to have forgotten to shut a cabinet or something, and crept back through the shelves until he ran almost headlong into Gene.

“Buried up to your what’s in your what, Tyler?”

Sam grinned, plucking the spectacles he’d given him earlier from Gene’s nose and slipping them into his top pocket.

“Don’t worry Gene, it was only a story. Didn’t you see ‘ow int’rested he was?”

“Tha’s one word, Sam—”

“Look,” Sam said, softly, grabbing his arm, and not letting go despite Gene’s furtive glance. “This is perfect, really. Jimmy’s in a great position. Henderson not only thinks that he’s got something incriminating on him, but he knows Jim’s got a man on the inside of Manchester’s finest and he doesn’t like copper’s too much. We’ve got him by the balls, Guv, he’ll be falling over himself to let Jimmy in on… well, on whatever it is they’re plotting.”

Gene grasped Sam’s hand and pulled it away from his arm.

“All he knows is that Jimmy likes it on the inside of Manchester’s finest,” he hissed.

Sam noticed something unmentionable in Gene’s expression, and he prodded, stepping well within the socially acceptable bounds of personal space.

“Jimmy’s not the only one. Gene.”

As A Bloody Christmas Tree (2/?)

Thu, 15 May 2008 13:54:27 GMT

Title: As A Bloody Christmas Tree (2/?)
Rating/Warnings: Not sure, let's go with PG-13 for the swearing and cheek.
Pairing: Gene/Sam
Author's note: Second part of my Gene-and-Sam-meet-in-HMV-in-the-present series. Un-beta'd - sorry!
Summary: “Too soon for a snog then, is it?”

Part One, Part Two

Y’know, before, when Sam had considered HMV to be mundane and meaningless? He was having an exceptionally hard time retaining that opinion. HMV was about buying things, about cruising around on auto-pilot and not thinking, for a change. Or it had been. The thing is, now, whenever Sam thought about HMV, Sam thought about Gene. And thinking about Gene was never mundane, and was certainly never, ever remotely meaningless.

“Oi, Gladys.”

Sam sighed. Clearly his request for three and half minutes piece to listen to one bloody song was going to be completely ignored. Sam grinned, slipping off his headphones and out of the sound booth.

“Yes, Gene?”

“Nothin’, s’just funny when you have to untangle yourself to ‘ear what I say then get yourself wired up again,” Gene replied, leaning against the wall of the booth with a smug grin on his face.

“You’re nothing but a pain in the arse, you are,” said Sam, trying to sound angry.

“I’m sure an arse as fine as your good self’s can handle it, now,” said Gene, as he straightened up, yanking Sam’s collar straight where he’d got the headphones caught on it, “can we go to the pub yet?”

“I’m not finished yet—” Sam protested, but Gene coughed and cut across him.

“Sammy, the only reason I agreed to your bloody second date proposition was ‘cause you said, and I quote, ‘D’you want to come for a drink?’ I have yet to set eyes on any kind of alcoholic beverage. This is gettin’ very close to false advertisin’.”

“Wasn’t because of my fine arse, then?”

Gene’s lips pursed slightly.

“‘Course not. Now, because I’m a nice bloke, you can listen to your bloody song. Then we’re goin’ to the ruddy pub if I have to carry your fine arse there myself.”

Sam grinned, grabbing the headphones again. “Thanks. Obviously you realise we’d have been there already if you hadn’t have got me out of the booth in the first place…”

“Put them ‘eadphones on before I give you clip round the ear, Tyler.”

Sam put them down. “Alright, let’s go…”

Gene looked satisfied, but smirked. “You sure?”

“Never been more sure of anything in my entire life.”

“Well, if that’s ‘ow you feel, the place round the corner does a lovely pint of Ruddles with a nice Shepard’s pie…”

“I can barely contain my excitement.”

“Sounds messy.”

Sam sighed and shook his head as they left HMV and walked up the paved streets of the city centre. He peered up at the sky, an endless stretch of devastating blue without a cloud in sight, and a bright, warm sun. He lifted his face to it.

“Wasn’t just ‘cause you said we could go to the pub, y’know.”

Sam looked at Gene. “No?”

He shook his head. “No,” he replied, glancing sideways at him. “Like yeh. That’s all. Probably would’ve said ‘yeah’ if you’d asked me to come out’n watch you shoot kittens.”

Sam grinned. “We can do that next time.”

Gene looked up, sharpish. “Next time?”

“Yeah, one of my most unfortunate hobbies is actually kitten-killing.”

Gene wrinkled his nose. “Maybe I was a bit hasty.”

Sam chuckled. “They’re showin’ re-runs of old westerns down at the Obelisk cinema, what d’you think? Figured we wouldn’t actually have to watch the film that way, we could just sit in the back row and canoodle.”

“Ah, well, y’see you’ve made a tactical error there, Sammy.”

“Let me guess, you’re not that kind of bloke? No public displays of affection for you, eh?”

“I’m exactly that kind of bloke. Just not while Clint’s Eastwood’s on. It’s like heresy.”

“I see,” Sam said, barely containing a grin in an effort, Gene thought, to look wounded. “And public affection?”

Gene looked at him for a minute. “Depends ‘ow much I like the bloke.”

“Well, as the answer to that could certainly go either way, I won’t ask…”

“Spoil sport. We goin’ to see Clint, then?”

Sam looked surprised. “What… no canoodling?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Well… alright. But you’re buying the bloody popcorn. And I want a bag of hideously over-priced Minstrels if I’m not even goin’ to get felt up.”

“Fine by me. Just don’t interrupt the Sheriff.”

“That wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought it’d be,” Sam admitted, two and a half hours later, at they emerged, blinking, into the twilight outside the cinema. He offered the half-full bag of Minstrels to Gene, who shook his head.

“Nah, I fancy something a bit more fillin’. ‘S’pose you’ll want me to buy you dinner an’ all, seein’ as you’ve already cooked?”

“Well, as you’re offerin’. As long as it’s somewhere a bit… classy.”

Gene sighed over dramatically. “‘Ere, don’t get cheeky. Otherwise it’ll be Wetherspoons for you.”

“Heaven forbid.”

They wandered back towards town along the canal, talking about Clint Eastwood’s many attributes, munching Minstrels in the bright light. Gene breathed in, deep into the bottom of his belly.

“S’all revoltingly romantic really, in’t it?”

Sam nodded, swallowing. “Yeah. I was thinking that. You’re looking lovely, by the way. Blue suits you.”

“Give over.”

Sam laughed. “Fine. S’true though,” he added, looking him briskly up and down, taking in his grey suit, blue shirt. Gene shoved him dangerously close to the water’s edge, and Sam thought maybe he shouldn’t push it. A few minutes later, though, as he turned off the canal towpath and climbed towards town, leading their way up the narrow concrete steps, he felt Gene’s eyes on his arse, and grinned.

“From this angle you’re not lookin’ too bad yourself, Tyler.”

“You’re just tryin’ to get into my knickers, Hunt.”

“Too right.”

Swinging round to cross the canal bridge, Gene fell into step with Sam.

“‘Ey, second date right?” he asked, as Sam paused half way across and leant on the rounded stone wall, gazing off down the river. Gene stood next to him, his hands in his pockets.

“Yeah?” Sam replied, twisting to see him. Gene looked like he was up to something.

“Too soon for a snog then, is it?”

Sam was caught half way between surprise and amusement.

“Yeah. Yeah I reckon it is. You haven’t even got me dinner yet.”

Gene looked at the floor, pouting slightly.

“Come on, else Gino’ll run out of carbonara,” he said, looking up and throwing an arm over Sam’s shoulders, steering him towards the other side of the bridge. Sam slipped his hands into his pockets.

“So, we’ve ‘ad my heartfelt tale of woe and misery that led me to being the brilliant copper I am today,” Gene said. “What’s your story?”

Sam shrugged. “‘Fraid mine’s not nearly as interesting.”

Gene laughed grimly. “Be glad it isn’t.”

Sam could say nothing to that, so he didn’t. Gene didn’t seem angry, but did, for a brief spell, seem lost in his own thoughts. Sam left him to them, happy to have the uncomfortable weight of his arm over his shoulders.

“Come on then, sulky bollocks. Tell the tale. Even if it is duller than a librarian at a stamp collecting convention.”

Sam smiled. “I just always wanted to be a police man. When I was a kid me dad bought me a tiny helmet and everything. ‘Course, at the time I didn’t know there was anything better than being a plod. I just wanted the shiny badge. When I was little my house was always full of women. I liked the idea of being a big manly man who could keep ‘em all safe, I think.”

“Well. One out of two in’t bad. Also explains ‘ow come you’ve taken such a strong liking to cock. Now, where's me kiss?”

Sam laughed. "No. Dinner."

“Did buy you them Minstrels though,” he said, with a small smirk.

“So what, you want a peck on the cheek then?”

“Hideously expensive Minstrels.”

Sam grinned. “Fine.”

Gene stepped up nearer to him, effectively pinning him against the bridge wall. It was peculiar, Sam thought. He could feel the great drop, the emptiness behind him, the fear of falling into the water below, but knew at the same time there wasn’t the remotest possibility of it happening. He felt like the great empty space behind him, that twinge of dizziness, was in his belly as well. Gene wasn’t doing anything.

“What are you waiting for?” Sam asked.

“What d’you think? I paid for the sweets – you’re doin’ the kissing, not me.”

Sam laughed, though he did worry momentarily that it was more of a gurgle.

“What are you waitin’ for?” Gene asked, after several long, arduous moments stood in the warm sun, carefully trying to read each other’s expressions, and Sam felt Gene’s breath on his cheek, and wondered what he was waiting for.

Sam shifted slightly, realising with the smallest, most infinitesimal amount of irritation that he had to tiptoe ever so slightly to reach Gene’s lips, irritation that miraculously disappeared when he pressed his mouth to Gene’s, and felt Gene pressing back softly. It was a moment that stretched stupidly out, feeling like an age while you were within it, and millisecond when it ended, as Sam slid back down the wall.

Gene looked a bit pink.

“There? Wasn’t so hard, was it Gladys?”

Sam tried to look smug, because he certainly felt it, but feared he might’ve just looked a bit dopey.

“Easy peasy.”

Gene laughed, and swung his arm around Sam’s shoulders, steering them off towards town again. Sam put his hands in his pockets and licked his lips.

“Come on, else Gino’ll run out of carbonara.”

A short few minutes later, a tiny window of flickering light and sound appeared around the corner, and Gene pushed Sam ahead of him. Sam tried not to think about his hand lingering on his arse, but it was difficult to miss.

“‘Don Gino’s’?” Sam read, from the sign over the restaurant window.

“Yeah. Nice place, good food. Wine’s not bad neither. Very effective if you want to get people squiffy and seduce ‘em.”

“Was that what you were planning then?”

Gene shrugged and Sam sat down opposite him and leant on the table.

“You know I probably wouldn’t mind,” Sam said softly, glancing swiftly upwards.

“Hmm,” Gene chuckled. “Thing is, I’m an old-fashioned kind of bloke.”

“What, like, courtin’ and stuff?”

Gene nodded, and slowly, Sam matched to with a grin of his own.

“In that case, you better get the good wine, none of the house plonk crap.”

LoM-US Icons

Thu, 15 May 2008 11:49:06 GMT

Small batch of icons inspired by the LoM-US trailer, and Sam crying again shamelessly pinched for acidpenguin46, here. Enjoy!


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Life On Mars Icons 2.1

Tue, 13 May 2008 20:13:00 GMT

Life On Mars Icons: Series Two, Episode One

Somebody's borrowed me Series One boxset, so in a change to the scheduled program, I've made a leap to Series Two, Episode One. Usual intro stands: not bases, but will do customs, please credit, and a comment or two would be lovely!


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As A Bloody Christmas Tree (1/?)

Wed, 07 May 2008 16:23:57 GMT

Title: As A Bloody Christmas Tree (1/?)
Rating/Warnings: Not sure, let's go with PG-13 for the swearing, it's infrequent.
Pairing: Gene/Sam
Author's note: Set in the present, Gene and Sam meet in HMV. Inspired by LoM episode 2.6, in which "music supermarkets" are mentioned, and I thought of HMV.
Summary: "The problem wasn’t with her liking men. The issue was more ‘bout me having the same problem.”

Part One, Part Two

Sam liked shopping. Yes, he knew it was a controversial thing to think. But contrary to popular opinion in the male gender, he had no problem with shopping. In a way he found it therapeutic. It was always nice to concentrate on something relatively mundane and meaningless when the job was getting to you.

HMV was particularly calming. Even when it was completely packed with people, as it was today. It was wall-to-wall with frustrated, angry Christmas shoppers, no doubt infuriated by people like him, browsing, taking their time, meandering through the store as though it wasn’t, in fact, the end of the world.

He was wandering past the Bowie section, minding his own business, flicking through the rows of CDs with swift clicks, when some great twat barged into him. He turned around, and was almost immediately smothered by a heavy camel hair coat and a tirade of abuse.

Shaking himself off, he turned to his assailant.

“Do you have some kind of problem?” he asked, as lightly as he could. The bloke in the coat glowered at him.

“Not if you keep out of the way so I can get this over and done with as quickly as possible,” he said. “Y’know, I bloody ‘ate Christmas shoppin’. All these toffee-nosed pricks with full bags and that slightly insane glint in their eye. Supermarket’s the worst: some people have murderous intentions with them trolleys. It’s more like a massive RTA on the M4 than grocery shoppin’.”

Sam laughed, despite the fact that this bloke was looking a bit murderous himself.

“I’m Sam Tyler,” he said, holding out his hand. Camel-coat looked at it, warily.

“DCI Gene Hunt,” he said eventually, going back to the CD rack.

“You’re a DCI?” Sam asked, reaching automatically for his warrant badge. “Snap,” he said. A look of great relief swept over Hunt’s face.

“Thank God,” he said. “All coppers got to stick together, you can ‘elp me find pissin’ Michael Buble.”

“Michael Buble?” Sam nearly choked. “You don’t look like a Buble kind of a guy.”

“It’s for the ex-wife. Knew I would rue the day when she said, ‘let’s still be friends, Gene’. Should’ve just given ‘er the ‘ouse and got out while I could. Bloody woman. As it was I fought my arse of for an even split and ‘ave been payin’ through the nose for it ever since.”

“Women,” Sam agreed awkwardly, nodding. Gene shook his head ruefully and plucked a case from before him.

“Ah ha,” he said, triumphant. “Bu-bloody-ble. Wonderful. Now, let’s go pay f’this and then you can take me for a pint and explain to me ‘ow to you still seem to be relatively sane in the midst of this madness.”

Gene hung his coat up in the hall as Sam, apron around his waist, suggested, and he made himself comfortable in front of his fire in very short order, glass of wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other, listening to Tyler pottering about in the other room.

Sam apparently liked guests very much. It had taken him an incredibly short time to go from sitting in very-near awkward silence in one of the town centre pubs to Gene finding himself being invited to dinner. Gene had been impressed with the dispatch Sam had shown. Now, sitting in front of a roaring blaze, gazing at Sam’s Christmas tree and listening to some brilliant Lou Reed album Sam had put on, Gene couldn’t remember the last time an invite for dinner had seemed like such a fantastic happenstance.

And, as it turns out, Sam was an awfully good cook. Gene, while having previously enjoyed the consumption of food, found himself relishing it to an alarming degree. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something Sam did made food which should have been nothing special elevate itself to something remarkable.

There was something about Sam. Gene kept wondering what it was. There was something indefinable about him, he was clearing a man of the times, your proper twenty-first century modern gentleman, but there was a nostalgia about him, surrounding him. Gene knew that men like himself were somewhat of a dying breed in this day and age, if they weren’t already extinct, but Sam… Sam was like a man out of time, but comfortable enough in this one to pass. It wasn’t explainable, really.

“What was it,” Sam began, lifting his wine glass to lips, “that made you want to be a copper?”

A perfectly innocent question, but one which Gene had always difficulty answering honestly. He prepared his usual, stock response – ‘I hate scum’ – and thought again. Sam had an honest face, one that seemed eager to hear about him in all gory detail.

“Me mam died,” he said. Sam’s eyes fell to the table.

“I’m sorry…” he began, but Gene refilled their glasses shaking his head.

“You’ll be even sorrier in a sec – it was my dear old dad that did her in.”

Sam couldn’t even muster the fortitude to look sorry, he was openly shocked. Gene preferred it to polite niceties. Being up front was always easier. Sam said nothing, waiting.

“He was always a hard bastard, ‘specially when me and me brother were growin’ up. Y’know the type, had too much to drink, blamed us and mum for everything that’d gone wrong in his life, fucked-up by the war… Same old bullshit we hear every week down at the station by wives beaten black and blue and blamin’ themselves. And mum didn’t realise is wasn’t ‘er fault no more’n they do, he was just wrong in the ‘ead. She buried her head and hoped he’d get better, but the older we got the worse he got, the rougher…”

Sam swallowed. On the table, his hand twitched, just as Gene went to take another drink, but he seemed to stop himself.

“One day, when me and Stuart were ‘bout old enough to take him if we worked together, we came in from school and there were bags in the hall. Mum was sittin’ on the stairs waitin’ for us. Told us to pick up a bag each, turn around out the door and keep walkin’ ‘till we was safe. Told us she was tellin’ dad we were all leavin’ and there weren’t owt he could do, that she’d catch up with us. Never did, o’course.”

Sam blinked, fingering the stem of his wine glass, enraptured with the story. Gene knew he held a captive audience, and was surprised to find he wasn’t as uncomfortable with Sam’s scrutiny as he was with everyone else’s.

“Blamed myself,” he said gruffly. “So did Stu’. If we’d have stayed with ‘er he couldn’t have ‘urt her. But we ran like bloody scared children ‘till we got to the station and went as far as our pocket money would get us.”

“When did you find out?” Sam asked gently, concerned etched across his face. In the faltering fire light, Gene noticed things about Sam’s face that he hadn’t in the harsh light of day. Little marks of worry or of laughter, the tilt of his eye.

Gene chuckled. “We hid bloody well, y’know. Gave fake names, worked cash-in-hand. Rented a different place each month, livin’ out of bags, never settlin’. Took the police ages to find us, and when they did it was only ‘cause we let ‘em. We hadn’t heard from mum yet, obviously. ‘Course, hearin’ she’d died, Stuart lost it completely. Got into some bad stuff… drugs an’ that… I looked at what that scum had done to my fam’ly, to the people I cared ‘bout, and I told myself I’d stop it ‘appening to other people, I’d get scum like me dad out of my city. So I went back, signed up, and ‘ad me dad banged up within two month. Just carried on from there.”

He and Sam sat in silence for a long time, finishing their glasses slowly. Sam seemed almost on edge, but Gene was experiencing some kind of catharsis from having let Sam in on his past, and by the time Sam returned from clearing the plates away Gene was strewn across the sofa and feeling all too content with himself, and with life. Sam came through with another bottle of red and saw Gene, almost dozing, spread like a cat in front of the fire.

“Make you self at bloody home, why don’t you?” he chided, knocking Gene’s feet off the upholstery and plonking himself next to him. Gene held up his glass.

“Are you trying to get me pissed?”

“Not deliberately, no.”

“Well looks like you’re accidentally tryin’ to get me pissed then, ‘cause I’m sure as hell not sober any more.”

“Are you ever?” Sam grinned, settling back.

“Didn’t have a drink all day, thank-you-very-much. Well… one before I came over here for Dutch courage maybe, but tha’s all.”

“Dutch courage?” Sam repeated, looking at him. “Why, were you nervous?”

“Only ‘cause I wasn’t sure if I’d survive the food,” he replied, almost convincing himself. “Did a good job on that score though, well done Sammy.”

“Bien sur, Gene.”

“You can stop with the bloody French right now.”

Peace descended once more, the fire calming, bathing the room in warmth and light and comfort. It was too easy to fall asleep, but Gene found himself too conscious of Sam’s presence to be able to.

“Why did you and your wife separate?” Sam asked gingerly, eventually.

Gene finished his glass and poured another, topping-up Sam’s. He regarded him very closely for a moment, his expression unreadable. Finally, he took a sip.

“She likes men.”

“Oh,” Sam murmured. “Sorry. She cheated on you?”

Gene shook his head.

“No. The problem wasn’t with her liking men. The issue was more ‘bout me having the same problem.”

Sam looked bewildered for a moment, before realisation dawned.

“You’re gay?”

Gene nodded, sniffing into his glass. “As a bloody Christmas tree, Sammy-boy.”

Sam was completely floored. “You really don’t seem the… type.”

“Didn’t seem the type to buy Buble albums, either, remember. Though that genuinely was for the missus – I might be a roaring poofter but I’m not that far gone.”

Sam snorted rather attractively into his wine glass.

“I’d never have guessed.”

Gene blinked and looked, for the first time, the tiniest bit uneasy. He managed to bluster his way out of it though.

“Don’t have a problem with it, d’yeh?”

Sam’s smile, while small, was very knowing.

“Oh, believe me, there’s absolutely no problem,” he assured, sipping. Gene nodded, lifting his own glass.

“Be a bit hypocritical anyway, wouldn’t it, to have a problem with it?” Sam said eventually, grinning.

Gene almost choked. “What, you’re—?”

“Yes, as Christmas tree.”

“Were you gonna keep that quiet all night?” Gene spluttered.

Sam shrugged. Gene sighed heavily.

“Bloody Norah…”

Sam considered thoughtfully.

“Does mean one thing though.”

“And what is that, Gladys?” Gene asked, disgruntled.

“Instead of being two straight blokes having dinner, we now seem to be two gay blokes on a date.”

Gene looked up at Sam. Considered him in a completely new light, in fact.

“Well bloody well. It seems you’re right.”

Part Two

Miscellaneous Wallpaper

Mon, 05 May 2008 18:46:01 GMT

A somewhat random assortment of wallpapers. Enjoy, help yourselves etc. Hosted at Photobucket.

Cheers.

BAFTA Shoot Wallpaper

Mon, 05 May 2008 18:39:05 GMT

Once more the Radio Times BAFTA Shoot rears its head, this time inducing a wave of wallpaper-based tux-ness.

Help yourselves! Images hosted at Photobucket.

Philip Glenister and John Simm Icons (Radio Times BAFTA Shoot) (2/2)

Sun, 04 May 2008 14:30:33 GMT

Part two of the BAFTA shoot icons, as always credit and comment, these aren't bases etc, and as per usual split into plain and text icons.


1	2	3	4

5	6	7	8

9	10	11	12

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17	18	19


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5	6	7	8

9

Vickalology

Tue, 29 Apr 2008 14:00:31 GMT

Stolen from norfolkdumpling

Let others know a little more about yourself. Repost this with your name followed by "ology".

Technology:

Q. What is the wallpaper on your computer:

Q. How many televisions do you have in your house?
Four

BIOLOGY
Q. Are you right-handed or left-handed?
Right

Q. Have you ever had anything removed from your body?
Not unless nobody’s told me about it… Worrying thought.

Q. What is the last heavy item you lifted?
Portfolio for an interview at UWE university in Bristol, which I didn’t go to.

Q. Have you ever been knocked out?
Nope… Got hit round the bonce with a pool cue once though whilst trying to be heroic.

BULLSHITOLOGY
Q. If it were possible, would you want to know the day you were going to die?
Utterly, one-hundred percent, absolutely not. Talk about a ticking clock, man, no.

Q. If you could change your name, what would you change it to?
Something appropriately tom-boyish. I was almost called Lenny, but I’d be cool with Adrianne too – she’s frequently been my alter-ego when I’ve written myself into stories. She normally causes a lot of trouble.

Q. What color do you think looks best on you?
Quite like blue on me – I’m ginger and blue is the complimentary colour to orange *gets the art out*. I’m not a fan of anything pastel ‘cause I’ve got fair skin and red hair but I like anything a bit earthy as well. Red when I’m trying to seduce, obviously. Coral? No!

Q. Have you ever swallowed a non-food item?
Heh-heh… No.

DAREOLOGY
Q. Would you kiss a member of the same sex for $100?
Probably wouldn’t have to be that much, to be honest.

Q. Would you allow one of your little fingers to be cut off for $200,000?
(My sister: “Wouldn’t grow back, would it?”) Er, no. And no, I wouldn’t.

Q. Would you never blog again for $50,000
No, on principal. It’s a freedom of speech thing.

Q. Would you pose naked in a magazine for $250,000?
Why, you offering? Would Gene be there?

Q. Would you drink an entire bottle of hot sauce for $1000?
That’s so American! How big’s a bottle? I’d give it a go, anyway.

Q. Would you, without fear of punishment, take a human life for $1,000,000?
Which human? No, I wouldn’t. I mean come on, I got principled over blogging, I’m hardly going to support murder, am I?

DUMBOLOGY
Q. What is in your left pocket?
£1.70 and a yellow hair band, narrow.

Q. Is Napoleon Dynamite actually a good movie?
I en’t never seen it, I’m afraid.

Q. Do you have hardwood or carpet in your house?
Carpet, and a wee bit of lino. I wish it was wood and tile, but there you are.

Q. Do you sit or stand in the shower?
Stand. Chairs tend to get a bit soggy.

Q. How many pairs of flip-flops do you own?
None. Ghastly things.

LASTOLOGY
Q. Last person who texted you?
Friend from college. She got into a university.

Q. Last person who called you?
My sister. Was I coming out with her Saturday night? I did. It were fun.

Q. Last person you hugged?
*Sister spontaneous tries to squeeze me head off of my shoulders and calls it a hug.* She just wants a mention. Another one. Silly moo.

FAVORITOLOGY
Q. Number?
9

Q. Season?
Autumn, we’ve concluded. Apparently I look autumnal. Lovely.

Q. Color?
Orange. Burnt orange. Cortina-coloured, you might say.

CURRENTOLOGY
Q. Missing someone?
Yes. He doesn't know I am.

Q. Mood?
Relieved, and slightly wobbly. Huh.

Q. Listening to?
My sister’s endless whittering. (“Nah – I’m chattin’ shit.”)

Q. Watching?
Laptop, duh-brain.

Q. Worrying About?
Many, many things. Moving on.

Q. Wearing?
A starry red top and a silver necklace. Blue jeans and brown lush cowboy boots. Sexy.

RANDOMOLOGY
Q. First place you went this morning?
The fridge. There was nothing in it.

Q. What can you not wait to do?
Nothing: I’m very patient.

Q. Do you smile often?
Well, not when I’m just sitting in front of a PC screen, that’d be weird. The rest of the time I try to do it exclusively. Like my default setting. Can’t say it’s always a successful endeavour but one must try.

Q. Are you a friendly person?
A little overly so, sometimes. Do you want to be my friend?

Didn't Deny It - Part Two

Wed, 23 Apr 2008 23:32:06 GMT

Title: Didn’t Deny It (2/?)
Pairing: Sam/Gene
Rating/Warnings: PG – very mild swearing, man-love of the platonic variety (for now).
Spoilers: None
Author’s note:

scruby suggested a fic based on these pics, where Sam has a beard. Thanks to unadulterated bullying gentle cajoling, this is now a multi-part fic .This is Part Two, in which Gene plays catch-up. Un-beta’d, as always. Still PG, for the time being. Thanks to all those who shamelessly nagged!
Summary: “Gene, what the ‘ell happened to you?”

Part One, Part Two, Part Three

Sam did a double take as soon as he dropped into the passenger seat of the Cortina.

“Gene, what the ‘ell happened to you?”

Gene patted his cheeks.

“Tryin’ to catch up.”

Sam couldn’t drag his eyes away from the week-old stubble.

“You look like you should be selling the Big Issue.”

“Eh?”

He shook his head. “Never mind. It’s just… well, why haven’t you ‘ad a shave?”

Gene shrugged. “Got curious. I’ve never ‘ad a beard before. Yours looks good on yeh, wanted the see what it were like.”

“Oh,” Sam said, vaguely confused.

Gene leant his chin towards Sam.

“Go on. ‘Ave a scratch.”

He almost said no, but his curiosity got the better of him. It was at that stage half way between itchy and soft. Sam wasn’t sure if he liked it. He still thought Gene looked like a vagrant.

“‘Ow’s the under-cover op’ going?” Gene asked, handing him a bacon roll. They were sitting across the road from the Library, watching the people passing. Mostly students.

Sam scratched his chin.

“Alright. ‘Enderson hasn’t let me in on anything yet.”

“Think ee’s suspicious?” Gene asked attractively, through a mouthful of bread and barely-cooked bacon.

“Nah. Just think he wants to make sure I’m not dodgy.”

“Better keep doin’ what yeh doin’ then, ‘cause that beard probably don’t help your cause.”

“‘Ow d’you mean?”

“Sam, when I last saw yeh, it were only a bit worse’n this half-arsed excuse for face-fur. Know you look like Father Christmas ‘fore ‘ee let ‘imself go. S’hardly innocuous.”

“Heard worse things said about my beard before.”

“Oh aye?” Gene replied, eyeing him carefully. “‘Ow often d’you take up the Roger Whittaker look, then?”

“Told yeh, only for long-term under-cover stuff.”

“An’ ‘ow many time’ve you done long-term under-cover stuff?”

Sam raised his eyebrows briefly. “Fair few.”

“Bleedin’ ‘ell, you’re as tight as arseholes today. ‘Ope your more forth-comin’ when you find out what Henderson’s up’teh.”

“Oh, don’ worry,” Sam said, stashing his bacon roll’s paper wrapper in the Cortina’s glove box. It was a mark of how much Gene had missed having Sam in that seat that he didn’t say anything about it.

“S’been quiet in CID wi’out yeh, Sammy.”

He grinned. “Bet you’re all glad of five minutes peace from me whitterin’, eh? Glad of a break from the naggin’?”

Gene looked at him. “You know I’ve done all me paperwork, don’t yeh?”

Sam gaped.

“You haven’t?”

“Have.” Gene gazed at the look of unadulterated amazement on Sam’s face, before lowering his gaze.

“Well, y’know,” he went on, tapping the steering wheel, before looking off down the road, squinting in the sun light. “Thought I better in case you went and got yehself done in. D’you know ‘ow much paperwork there is on Force deaths? I’d’ve needed another desk.”

Sam followed his gaze across the street. Gene was watching a slim bloke with bright, blond hair that fell into his eyes and a pair of square, dark-rimmed glasses and a blue pullover skip down the steps. His hair looked white in the sun.

“Tha’s Henderson,” Sam muttered. If Henderson looked this way, he could easily explain Gene’s presence, if Henderson could even see through the reflections on the Cortina’s windscreen in this sun.

“What, that scrawny bloke? ‘Ee look more like a librarian than you do.”

He was still wearing corduroy, and he still hated it. More so now the weather was warm. Sam shrugged himself out of his jacket.

“Well, he is a librarian.”

Gene shifted in his seat. “Bit pretty to be a librarian, in’ee?”

Sam shrugged with one shoulder, automatically clutching the handle over the door, through force of habit. “Not all people who work in lib’ries have to look like Quasimodo, Gene.”

They watched Henderson leave the pavement and mount a sun-soaked rise of glass in front of the building, standing out of reach of the shade thrown by the tall oaks chewed into the grass. He lit a cigarette.

“Not as clever as he looks, then,” Gene muttered with a hint of victory in his voice. Sam leant over and plucked Gene’s packet of fags from his breast pocket, and waved them in front of him.

“Whereas you’re the model of the health-conscious New Age bloke, aren’t you?”

Gene huffed, but his attention was on Henderson again, who’d been approached by another young man, in clean cut grey trousers and a white shirt. Sam looked again.

“That’s Morris,” Sam said. “He’s works in the Archives.”

“Wha’s’at, then?”

“He collates, collects, numbers, organises…”

Gene chuckled. “Sounds like you two would make a right pair.”

“Nah, he’s not interested…” Sam replied vaguely. Gene tried to ignore it.

Morris was looking at the spines of the small stack of leather-bound books he had in his arms. Eventually he picked one, apparently after some deliberation, and handed it to Henderson.

“What’s Morris’s surname?” Gene asked.

“Burton. Why?”

“He’s involved.”

Sam wrinkled his nose. “Nah, not Morris. Bloke’s too quiet. Harmless.”

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you, Sammy?” Gene said, meeting his eye as he reached over the back seat. Henderson had spotted Sam and Gene in the Cortina and was making what Sam could only describe as a bee-line. “It’s always the quiet one’s you’ve got teh watch.”

Henderson hopped onto the pavement, and Sam squinted against the glare from the road as he leant down to the window.

“You alright, Jimmy?” Henderson asked. Sam nodded.

“Fine. Dicky, this is Gene Hunt. He’s a mate of mine from me old job. Gene this is Dicky Henderson.”

“Good the see yeh,” said Gene’s waist. The rest of him was half way into the back seat.

“Old friend of Jim’s then?”

“Yeah. Go way back, we do, don’t we Jim?”

Sam nodded convincingly. “I were best man at his wedding.”

Henderson nodded, Morris’s book held to his chest, his body weight resting on the top of the door.

“Here, we better get back, Jimmy. Mrs Culter’ll have our knackers if we’re any longer. She hates manning the desk on her own.”

“Right. Well, I’ll see you, then, Gene.”

Gene slipped back into the front seat. “Yeah, alright. Oh, nearly forgot,” he said, thrusting a book into Sam’s hands. “Return this, will yeh?”

Sam looked at the cover, and Dicky Henderson peered over his shoulder.

“‘Little Women’?” he read.

Gene looked as surprised as Sam did, but covered it quickly with a brief smile, that Sam thought looked more like a grimace.

“He’s tryin’ to get in touch with his feminine side,” Sam said quickly. Dicky’s eyebrows twitched.

“Oh. Well… Good luck.”

Sam turned, barely containing his amusement. Gene frowned, but nodded over Sam’s shoulder at Henderson. “And good luck teh you, Dick.”

Sam’s lips tightened, but Henderson appeared oblivious to Hunt’s emphasis.

“See you when I see you then, Gene.”

Sam shook Gene’s hand, carefully, and clambered out of the Cortina. They’d already arranged to check-in again in a week. Gene smiled.

“Eh, with any luck me beard’ll be a bit more impressive by then.”

Sam paused, then leant back down, through the window.

“Gene.”

“What is it, Sa—Jimmy?”

“Have a shave.”

“‘Ow is that fair?”

Sam shook his head. “It’s not. But you won our hearts with a face as smooth as baby’s rear, remember? S’not the same when you look like you’ve been kippin’ at the station for week an’half.”

Gene was staring at Sam, but Henderson was loitering.

“I think he’s right, Mr Hunt. Some people, like Jimmy here, are meant for masculine whiles. You and I must content ourselves with all our feminine sides can offer.”

Sam tried to get Henderson out of ear shot of the car before Gene exploded.

Philip Glenister and John Simm Icons (Radio Times BAFTA Shoot) (1/2)

Wed, 23 Apr 2008 17:34:33 GMT

Icons from these, help yourselves in exchange for credit. Comments are nice, too.


1	2	3	4

5	6	7	8

9	10	11	12

13	14	15	16

17	18	19	20


1	2	3

Cheers.

John Simm and Philip Glenister, Radio Times BAFTA Shoot Originals

Wed, 23 Apr 2008 14:38:30 GMT

The original images from the Radio Times BAFTA shoot. God bless the Radio Times.

Icons: (1/2), (2/2) here.

Fic: Didn't Deny It (1/?), (2/?), (3/?) here.

Wallpaper: (1/1)

Trust

Wed, 23 Apr 2008 12:47:00 GMT

Title: Trust
Pairing: Sam/Gene
Rating/Warnings: PG, or Cortina equivalent.
Spoilers: Brief mention of the Railway Incident, 2.8. Nothing horrific but probably best to have seen it.
Author’s note: May be multi-parter, we’ll see how the work load is. Sorry, un-beta'd.
Summary: He followed Sam in silence, and with the look of a man carrying something extraordinarily heavy on his shoulders. It was a look opposite to how Sam was feeling. Indestructible. Like he could fly. Like he could soar.

There were many times, in 1973, before he’d left, that he’d been driven home by Gene. It had occurred to him several times that letting Gene drive him with a gullet half full of whiskey was possibly not the best idea. Now, he sat in the passenger seat as Gene pulled up, absorbing the smell of smoke and aftershave, of leather seats and wax polish, not moving. Gene waited for a long time, watching him out of the corner of his eye. Eventually, he sighed.

“If we’re gonna be sat ‘ere a while d’you mind if I ‘ave a smoke?”

Sam looked round. Why ask? “S’your car.”

“Oh bloody well then,” he replied, rolling his eyes and lighting up. “Won’t bother askin’ your opinion next time. ‘Onestly, yeh try to be considerate…”

Sam laughed. “Considerate? You?” He couldn’t stop laughing. Gene just sat watching as the laughter shook Sam, until he couldn’t resist it anymore. Something about Sam’s giggling fit tickled him, and soon he couldn’t stop either. They sat in the car for a very long time, as it filled with smoke, laughing ridiculously at the whole silly thing at the railway tracks, until slowly the laughter quietened. Sam glanced at Gene’s cigarette.

“Can I?” he asked suddenly, nodding towards it. Gene blinked.

“Y’don’t smoke?”

Sam shook his head. “Just want one.”

Gene shrugged. Sam had meant a new one, but Gene took a quick final drag and held out his own. “‘Ere.”

Hesitating only momentarily, Sam took it, and breathed in very slowly. Of course, he hadn’t smoked in so long that he nearly coughed his lungs up, Gene watching him with barely concealed delight, but he felt it all. The nicotine, the soreness in his throat, tasted tobacco and what he thought, for a bizarrely intense second, might have been Gene. It was this thought that made him realise just how intimate it was. Sharing a cigarette. Sitting alone in a darkened car in the street in the middle of the night and not caring that it was cold, that it was cramped. Breathing each other’s air suddenly seemed luxuriously close, not that Gene would admit it. Sam looked over and grinned at him.

“You’re a weird one, Sammy,” Gene said, with levity. “We were nearly killed today. No, forget killed. We were nearly obliterated. And you’re ‘appier than I’ve ever seen yeh.”

Sam nodded gleefully. “I’m alive, Gene, what’s not be happy about?”

Gene’s gaze fell momentarily, betraying him in way that never would have happened if he’d have stared Sam down. He lifted his chin again, but it was too late, Sam had seen the uncertainty.

“D’you want to come in? I think I might have a bottle of single malt, somewhere…”

Gene’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he nodded brusquely. “Alright.”

He followed Sam in silence, and with the look of a man carrying something extraordinarily heavy on his shoulders. It was a look opposite to how Sam was feeling. Indestructible. Like he could fly. Like he could soar.

The first thing Gene noticed, undoubtedly, was that Sam’s bed was gone.

“Bloody ‘ell, where’s the bedmobile gone?”

Sam gestured to the new bed. The new, wide, clean bed. Oh, but it was enticing. Like a warm summer field after months of city winter. It was still a tiny flat – it had to be shoved into the corner and the wardrobe had been replaced with something smaller in order the fit anything else in the room, but as long as he didn’t have to sleep on that bloody thing anymore, he didn’t care.

“Got rid of it. Couldn’t stand it a day longer, knowin’ I was here to stay.”

“Well…” Gene said, eyebrows raised. “I have to say, tha’s squashed any doubt I ‘ad in my mind.”

Sam gave him a look. “Pfft, you never doubted me. Not really.”

But Gene was staring intently at him.

“Thing is, I did, Sammy. For a while there, I really, really did.”

Sam saw the truth there, as Gene fixed him with a penetrating stare. He poured him a drink, and handed it to him as Gene made himself comfortable, stretching out on the fresh covers. Sitting next to him, elbows resting on his knees, Sam watched Gene sipping his whiskey, looking back over his shoulder.

“I didn’t mean for you to doubt my loyalty Gene,” he said, trying to find words to console or reassure, or what ever it was that Gene was looking for.

“It’s not about loyalty, you daft twat. Loyalty’s what yeh get from a dog, from a subordinate. From Ray or Chris or a bloody plod. Loyalty’s nothin’ but duty.”

“So what did you doubt?” Sam asked.

Gene stared so hard at the bottom of his scotch glass that Sam wouldn’t have been surprised if it had melted, and whiskey went all over the sheets. Finally, Gene looked up.

“Us, Sam.”

“‘Us’?”

He was answered with a nod. “We’re meant to be more than loyalty, more than duty. We’re meant to want to work together, trust each other. I’ve trusted you. For longer than I care to admit, and I when you turned your back, it ‘urt, Sam, there’s no denyin’ that. Hurt more’n anythin’ I’ve felt for a long time.”

Sam nodded. He wasn’t going to argue. He poured another glass of whiskey and slid back, into the corner, next to Gene, leaning again the headboard, stretching his legs out beside his DCI’s. He was right though, he wasn’t just his DCI. They were meant to be more.

“Y’came back though,” Gene said, sniffing. “Tha’s what matters.”

“But you still doubt me?” Sam already knew the answer. Gene emptied his whiskey glass, nodding.

“‘Fraid so, Tyler.”

“I’ll fix it,” Sam muttered. “I’m here, I’m staying. You’ve got my loyalty, and you’ve got anything else you ask for. Just ask, Gene.” He grinned a little. “Ask and you will receive.”

Gene held his eye for a long time. “Doesn’t tha’ depend on what I ask for?”

Sam smiled and shook his head, handing his empty glass over to Gene. Gene still looked contemplative.

“You can smoke, if you want,” Sam said after a long time in silence.

Gene glanced at him, looking him over carefully. He pulled his cigarette packet from his top pocket, only lowering his gaze to fish out a cigarette. He held it out to Sam.

“Split it?”

Sam, smiling grimly, agreed, taking the narrow stick between his fingers. Gene lit it, staring at Sam. Sam nearly looked away from the intensity in those green, green eyes. But he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

“Don’t singe the duvet.”

“No sir, Sammy.”

By the end of the cigarette, the filter was damp, and Sam more aware than ever of his and the Guv’s proximity. But it was still unresolved. Gene was still here, and still looked miserable.

“Eh,” Gene uttered, quietly, as they stubbed out the cigarettes in one of the glasses. “I’ve got it. Got me request.”

“It’s not a one-time only thing, Gene, don’t feel you have to—”

“Kiss me.”

Sam blinked. “You what?”

“You ‘eard. ‘Ard enough sayin’ it once, I’m not sayin’ it again. You said if I asked, I’d receive. I’ve asked. Will you do it?”

“Never thought you’d ask me that, though—”

“So you won’t?”

“I didn’t say that—”

“Yeah, but if you were cocker’oop about the idea it’d be done already.” He shook his head. “Sam, if I can’t trust you teh—”

Sam tasted like cigarettes. It wasn’t what he’d have imagined. It was almost sudden, except that Sam had paused, nose to nose with him, just before his mouth had met his. It was a strange sensation. He felt so disconnected from his body. But at the same time, fire erupted in his chest through panic and elation. He’d expected something harder, if Sam had done it, and it’d been a possibility that he wouldn’t have. But it wasn’t. It was so unobtrusive he wasn’t even sure it was happening at all.

When Sam pulled back to have a look at him, Gene saw he was panting a bit. It made him very aware of what had happened. All too aware, and suddenly a huge doubt the size and weight of a bowling ball landed in his stomach, and felt like it was crushing his intestines. The last time he’d felt his stomach go from high to low to quickly he’d been on the Roller Coaster in Blackpool. Sam was waiting for him to say something.

So he just nodded. “Good boy.” He got up, slipped on his coat, downed his whiskey and opened the door. “Good start.”

Sam stared, watching him go, and licked his lips.

Thanks very much, comments and queries gratefully received. To be continued?

Life On Mars Icons 1.3

Mon, 21 Apr 2008 21:43:04 GMT

Life On Mars Icons: Series One, Episode Three

Oh yes, here it is, that time again: icon time! Episode Three is up. As always these aren't bases, but I do customs, and credit and comments are welcomed like a long-lost rellie.


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Tah very much.

Seriously, Who Is This Guy?

Tue, 15 Apr 2008 18:13:19 GMT

It's been bugging me, so I'm throwing it out there: DOES ANYONE KNOW WHO THIS GUY IS!?

Life On Mars Icons 1.2

Mon, 14 Apr 2008 22:17:09 GMT

Life On Mars Icons: Series One, Episode Two

Series of icons from the second episode, continuing the Boxset Series. These aren't bases, but if you want any customs just send me a message. Credit is essential and a comment would much appreciated, as always.


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A Man Out Of Time (Doctor Who/Life On Mars Crossover)

Wed, 09 Apr 2008 12:10:23 GMT

Title: A Man Out Of Time (Doctor Who/Life On Mars Crossover)
Pairing: None.
Rating/Warnings: None, I should think. Let’s go with PG, for the possibility of swearing.
Spoilers: On and off, probably a fair few.
Author’s note: The Doctor accidentally materialises inside one of A-Division’s cells. Chaos ensues.
Summary: The man peered at him, considered him very carefully. It was then at the Doctor noticed. He felt strange. Odd, off-kilter, but not in a bad way. This man was out of sync.

This was very, very odd. It was starting to happen more and more. Everytime – well, not everytime, can’t be everytime, considering how many times he did this, but most times – most times, the vast majority of times that he pressed the ‘shuffle’ button on the TARDIS control panel, he ended up on Earth. Or somewhere near Earth. Or somewhere that looked suspiciously like Earth.

He’d done it again. Very, very odd, and not at all convenient that he’d landed inside a cell. Not a biological one, don’t be silly. A police cell, a holding cell. He’d landed in a jail cell before. Probably wouldn't go down very well. Plus, with the TARDIS squished in with him, there was, ostensibly, very little room.

Of course the noise would have attracted someone’s attention. The TARDIS really was quite loud. Maybe he should think about getting a silent mode.

The little metal window in the door slammed openly, just as loudly, and a small woman peered in.

“What the bloody ‘ell’re you doin’ in there?”

He looked around.

“Well, I would assume I’ve been arrested.”

The woman seemed to get bigger as she got angrier. She leant back and yelled at someone down the corridor.

“Annie, get the Guv, we’ve got some smart-arse kid in one of the cells playin’ silly-beggars. Tell ‘im we don’ know ‘ow ‘ee got in, and he’s got a wardrobe with ‘im. Wha’s yeh name?”

He grinned. “The Doctor.”

The woman rolled her eyes. “Real name, sir.”

“I’m afraid it is my real name, Madam.”

He knew she was going to say it. They always said it.

“Fine. Doctor who?”

He just grinned. “Just the Doctor.”

“Bloody ‘ell. You wait ‘til the Guv gets down ‘ere, ‘ee’ll bounce you off the sodding walls for a stunt like this.”

She made to swing the little window up again.

“Er, sorry, excuse me, sorry, but who’s the Guv?”

“Your worst nightmare, love.”

The Doctor swallowed. He had very vivid nightmares.

As it turned out, it wasn’t the Guv who saw him first. It was a slight individual with a short haircut and a very nice leather jacket. Sometimes he really missed wearing a leather jacket.

“You’ve give us bit of a turn, sir,” the man said, through the hole in the door.

“Oh, I do hope I haven’t caused too much trouble.”

The man peered at him, considered him very carefully. It was then at the Doctor noticed. He felt strange. Odd, off-kilter, but not in a bad way. This man was out of sync.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“DI Tyler.”

He laughed. The man in the leather jacket did not.

“Would be so kind as to tell me where, exactly I am, and… when?”

Tyler’s eyebrows skittered upwards.

“When, sir?”

“Hmm, yes. You see this box here? Time machine. Random setting, didn’t look at the console, ‘fraid I’ve got no idea where or when I am.”

Tyler’s eyes narrowed. Then he grinned a slightly worrying grin and shook his head.

“You’re one for the white-coat brigade, you are.”

“I like white coats. Had one once, very nice it was too, bit tricky to keep clean. But you know that I’m not insane, don’t you, Mr Tyler? Do you have a first name, by the way, feels funny, talking to a fellow time-traveller and having to stand on ceremony.”

Tyler blinked. “Sam.”

“You’re a man out of time, Sam Tyler. Maybe it’s something to do with the name. Another one, out of their place.”

Tyler looked uneasy, for the first time. Not for the last.

“You really just called ‘the Doctor’, sir?”

The Doctor grinned again. “That’s me.”

Tyler sniffed, laughed a laugh that was not so much insincere as restrained.

“As in ‘Doctor Who’?”

“Doctor who?”

“Never mind. You know, for a figment of my subconscious, you don’t ‘alf make my ‘ead hurt. Now sit down, shu’ddup, and wait for the Guv. ‘Ee’s busy beating the rest of the department at the inter-station darts rally at the moment, but I’m sure ‘ee’ll make time f’yeh. Bye, Doctor.”

To be continued…

Comments most appreciated.

Harry Potter Fan Fiction Index

Tue, 08 Apr 2008 16:06:18 GMT

Disclaimer: This is all JKR's fault... She deserves the honour and the blame.

Harry Potter Fan Fiction is hosted at FanFiction.net at the moment, but I'm sure one day I'll get around to shifting it all over here.

Title: Conversion (Fourteen Parts)
Pairing: Ginny/Draco
Rating/Warnings: K+/PG, for swearing, mainly.
Spoilers: Up to OotP
Author’s note: The only multi-part fic I've ever actually completed. When Draco's parents are killed by Voldemort, Ginny is suddenly there. How in hell can this possibly work?
Summary: He looked up, not with anger but with anguish. "Why?" he croaked, pleadingly, water soaking his face. Ginny moved within his periphery timidly, until she was opposite him. She bent her head very close to his, and for a second a terrified look of shock lit his features. He thought she was going to kiss him. Did she really appear that heartless? Instead, she opened her arms to him, and let him fall into them, as she had never expected him to.

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten, Part Eleven, Part Twelve, Part Thirteen, Part Fourteen.

Screw Your Police Dog

Wed, 26 Mar 2008 02:48:57 GMT

Title: Screw Your Police Dog
Pairing: Gene/Alex
Rating/Warnings: PG/Swearing
Spoilers: Mention of events in 1.7, but brief.
Author’s note: None, ‘part from it’s a bit soppy. Only a bit, mind.
Summary: "When we saw them ska boys the first time, he said, ‘go screw your police dog’. You being the police dog.”

“Why did you have to do this?” she asked, desperation in her voice, as she watched Gene pace his office. She’d come in to find him searching for his ‘redundant’ bottle of scotch. Now he was pacing, and he hadn’t been able to find it. The cleaners’d probably had it.

“Things weren’t gettin’ done. I don’ know how to police your way, the nineteen-eighties way, I on’y know my way.”

“Why? Why, Gene? You were learning. You were kicking and screaming and digging your heels in but you were learning, you were evolving, you were being a better man—”

“But not a better copper, Drake, it was only once we started doing things my way that we started to get somewhere—”

“But Gene… Guv,” she said, grabbing his arm to stop him pacing, “that doesn’t have to be your way. We could have worked it through. You were frustrated, I understand that, you felt out of your element. But you threatened to staple that boy’s hat to his head! I know you. You don’t know how much I know about you,” she said earnestly, softly, thinking of Sam Tyler’s detailed case report, and hoping that look on Gene’s face wasn’t anger. “Even in the old days, you’d have never threatened that. Physical coercion, yes, but that? Your attack on his was more personal—”

“‘Ow can you tell that?” Gene snapped. “Psy-bloody-chology, I know. Walk me through it, how d’you know how personally I was taking an interrogation—”

“Because of the hat,” she replied, gently. He’d stopped pacing. “The hat was representative of his character, it was personal to him. You could have beaten him up, but you threatened to staple a component of his identity into his skull. Aside from the sheer grotesqueness of the possibility, the whole act was symbolic, it was you telling him to tell you everything he knew because it was personal, and because of that you would pull no punches.”

Gene stared at her for a long time, clearly disturbed that her assumptions, her deductions were so accurate. Eventually he lowered his gaze, and she steered him towards a chair, squatting before him to look up, into his face. He avoided her eye.

“What I want to know is what he said that made it personal to you in the first place.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

She nodded. “I think it does.”

He looked at her again, Alex experiencing a combination of relief and anxiety, because when he didn’t meet her eye it usually meant he was nervous or guilty, and Gene Hunt was neither nervous nor guilty, and when he was it meant they all had something to worry about.

“It’s none of your concern, Alex,” he said, firmly, drawing a line.

“It was about me.”

He glowered at her, and she knew she was right. “It’s about me, isn’t it?” she went on. “It’s personal, it’s about me, it’s none of my concern. What did he say, what did he do to you, Gene?”

Gene sighed.

“Police dog.”

She frowned, shaking her head. “I don’t underst—”

“No, well you wouldn’t, you were too busy fussing over Holace and his bloody badges. When we saw them ska boys the first time, he said, ‘go screw your police dog’. You being the police dog.”

She still didn’t comprehend, and she knew he could see it in her face. He sighed again, leant forward.

“I can’t have scum calling people on my team, calling people I admire and respect thing like that,” he said. Alex looked at him, looked very carefully at his expression. At least he was looking her in the eye again.

“But if it had been Ray or Chris, would you have reacted like that?” she asked, bewildered. “I told you, I know you. People throw insults at the police all the time. It’s water off a duck’s back to you. So why this time…” Her eyes widened. She couldn’t stop them.

“And it appears the penny has finally dropped,” Gene said quietly.

Alex’s legs couldn’t hold her weight, suddenly. She sat down properly, on the floor, between Gene’s knees.

“You want to screw your police dog,” she muttered dimly. Gene almost chuckled. The side of his mouth twitched, anyway.

“Didn’t drop all the way, then.” His reached up, fingers on her neck, in her hair, and she just blinked. “I don’t want to screw my dog, I want to ruddy marry ‘er. Figuratively speaking, of course,” he added. Might be bad for her health if her eyebrows went much higher.

She appeared to have been rendered mute.

“Bolly, you might be a prissy bird, but you’re my prissy bird, and if I ‘ear anyone speak ‘bout you like that again I’ll do exactly what I did b’fore. Now I’m goin’ home to enjoy my leave in peace. I’ll see you if I ever get the sodding green light to come back t’work.”

And he left, rather suddenly, Alex thought, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

“It was definitely figuratively speaking,” she said, when Gene opened the door to his flat an hour later and saw her leaning there, against the door frame, a look of cool curiosity on her face.

“Definitely,” he said, swallowing.

She nodded. Looked up. “Meant to indicate that you didn’t just fancy me? That the feelings you have for me run deeper?”

Gene shifted uncomfortably under her gaze. “Well, you know, I wouldn’t say no, like, but essentially. Yes, yeah, that’s right.”

She nodded again, once. She raised an eyebrow. “Not love?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Bols.”

“Right. Well, in that case, I couldn’t find any Dover sole, but I’ve got salmon and lemon and butter and bottle of Luigi’s finest,” she said, holding out a brown paper bag and a bottle. “I think it’s time we rescheduled that dinner. Where’s the kitchen?”

Bolly Knickers

Wed, 26 Mar 2008 02:33:48 GMT

Title: Bolly Knickers
Pairing: Gene/Alex
Rating/Warnings: None
Spoilers: None
Author’s note: Gene is dumbstruck. Short: 192 count.
Summary: “Bolly, what in the name of Clint Eastwood do you think you’re doing?”

Gene Hunt wasn’t often lost for words. He wasn’t often so completely dumbstruck that he couldn’t come up with something worth saying. He was rarely, if ever, speechless.

Right now, Gene Hunt was so past speechless that he was certain thunderstruck, gob smacked and utterly flabbergasted would apply too. In spades, in fact.

“Bolly, what in the name of Clint Eastwood do you think you’re doing?” he said, eventually, and very, very hoarsely.

“I am making your car smell nice again,” she replied innocently.

He swallowed, unable to lower his gaze. Unable to take his eyes off her. Unable to move.

“In your knickers?”

Because she was. In her knickers. In her expensive French knickers. In her expensive French knickers and not, bloody well not, much else. Oh no wait, she also wore rubber gloves and an expression taken from the most sordid, corrupt place of Satan’s own mind, and she was thoroughly sprawled across the bonnet of his beautiful, magnificent car. A car he loved. A car he loved because it had brought him this.

“Oh sweet Lord, Bolls. Oh sweet, merciful God.”

“Yes. I was hoping you’d feel that way.”

Thanks!

Wed, 26 Mar 2008 02:11:09 GMT

Just a quick apology to those whose Friends Pages may have been going vickalo-nuts over the past few hours, I'm in the process of archiving so there're posts flying about all over the place!

Thanks again for your patience, any problems you know where I am.

Cheers, Guv.

Dreamt Of Doing What, Gene?

Wed, 26 Mar 2008 01:36:25 GMT

Title: Dreamt of Doing What, Gene?
Pairing: Gene/Alex
Rating/Warnings: PG/Swearing
Spoilers: Brief references to Alex’s illness in 1.6, and if you haven’t seen the Vienna scene, you should steer clear. Steer clear, but go watch it immediately.
Author’s note: Gene’s got the lergy. Just because I like seeing him vulnerable…
Summary: “What did you dream of doing, Gene?”

“You’ve got the lergy, you have.”

“I’m fine.”

“No you’re not.”

“Fine, I’m not. You got me up from my death bed to tell me that? Tell me, Doctor Drake, at which point was it that you lost your bleeding will to live? Sod off behind I use what remains of my strength to tear your tarty head off.”

“I can’t do that, I’m afraid, I’m under orders.”

“From ‘oo?”

“Ray. His exact words were: ‘go check on the Guv, sir, ‘e’s like dying duck in a thunder storm when he’s under t’weather’. However,” she added, peering past the furious glare on Gene’s face, “you do look genuinely rather unwell.”

“Is that your expert medical opinion?”

“Absolutely, come on. You looked after me when I was ill, it’s time I returned the favour. I‘ll put you back to bed.”

“You know I’m suddenly feeling much better,” he replied, as a horrible hacking cough caught the end of his sentence.

“Come on,” she said again briskly. “Bed. I’ll make you some soup or something.”

“Oh, and she can cook. Your talents know no bloody bounds bleeding Mary Poppins.”

Alex almost shoved Gene through his flat and back into his bedroom, but refrained, just barely. “I wasn’t sure it was possible for you to get even more grumpy than you normally are. I see I was woefully mistaken.”

“I’m allowed t’be grumpy, I’m dyin’.”

“You’re not dying—”

“I most certainly am,” he said stubbornly, collapsing into his covers again.

“Aren’t you going to get undressed?”

“No thanks, love, I prefer a bit o’ friction.”

“Hah-bloody-hah.”

“Tha’ an’ I really don’ think I have the energy…” He did look really quite exhausted. Alex took matters into her own hands, sitting him up against his protests and tugging off his suit jacket and belt.

“Do you have pyjamas, or something?”

“Bottom draw.”

Alex bent down to rifle through the draw and heard a tired groan, followed by the sound of Gene moving. “Well if tha’s not a sight to make a man feel like a man again, I don’t know what is.”

“Stop looking at my arse, Gene.”

“Thinks it’s the one lookin’ at me, actu’ly.”

“A worrying thought. Ah, here.” She pulled out a pair of blue and white striped pyjamas. “Very nice, Gene, I do hope they match your eyes.”

“Alright, least you didn’t find the silk ones.”

“What, really?” she said, wide-eyed, turning to have another look.

“Joke, Alex, joke, calm your ruddy self down.”

“Hm. Right, you get changed, I’ll go see if there’s anything in this place worth cooking with.”

There wasn’t.

“Don’t you have any food in this place?” she called, hunting through the cupboards. She went back through to Gene’s room.

“Gene, there’s not a scrap of food in this entire flat,” she said, opening the door to Gene trying to struggle into his shirt. She was hit very suddenly by a mixture of pity, humour and embarrassed warmth. She didn’t like seeing Gene so very weak, it was disconcerting. But then, there was something oddly appealing about it.

“Alright, put your eyes back in and ‘elp me w’this. Some bloody nurse you are, I’ve met murders with a better bedside manner.”

Alex swallowed, pulling the shirt over his shoulders properly.

“You gonna sit there, or do me buttons up an’ all?” Gene asked, but in an uncharacteristically soft, almost uncertain voice. It was that which helped Alex get her head back together. She gave Gene a small smile, then took her time carefully fastening each button while he watched her expression.

“I did, however, find a vast quantity of whiskey. Ordinarily you know how I feel about the rate you imbibe, but as you’re poorly, here.”

She held out a glass half-full of whiskey, and from Gene’s expression she might as well have brought him the entire contents of the Bank of England.

“I could bloody kiss you.”

“Don’t hold back.”

Alex made sure he was sat in bed reasonably comfortably, passed him his bloody whiskey, then made a supply run. She was gone for no more than twenty, twenty-five minutes, but when she got back, Gene wasn’t happy.

“Where’d you go, I’ve been bored out of me flippin’ brains here.”

“Why didn’t you go to sleep?”

He didn’t quite meet her eye. “Does it matter, point is I’m bored. Entertain me.”

“I’ve got soup to make.”

He looked genuinely surprised.

“Thought I was joking, didn’t you?”

“Well yeah, actually.”

“I never joke about chicken soup, Gene.”

“Chicken— There’s a chippy down the road, why didn’t you jus’ go there?”

“You’ll see. There’s no substitute for a proper, home-made batch of chicken soup when you’re not well. Drink your whiskey?”

“Mine, yours, Fred-from-next-door’s…”

“Well it does seem to have made you slightly more compliant.”

Gene sat down on the couch very slowly, as though it was almost painful. Alex looked over from where she was unpacking the bags she’d brought back with her.

“You’re shivering. I’ll get your duvet.”

“Drake, I’m fine.”

“You are definitely not fine. Please, sit, and let me look after you.”

Gene sighed, but Drake could see the appeal of the offer was too much. He remained reluctantly silent.

“Good.”

She went through and took his duvet off his bed, and a pillow. She frowned. There was crumpled piece of paper lying there. Alex hesitated. There must have been a reason it was hidden under there.

“Drake! Yeh chicken’s burning!”

“Oh, balls!”

She managed to rescue the chicken before any serious damage was done, and she got on with covering up her ailing superior. He did not appreciate being called an ailing superior.

“Don’t grumble,” she chided, leaning over him to tuck him in. “And will you stop looking at my tits, please.”

“You’re practic’ly wavin’ ‘em in my face, Bolls. I’m a man, not a ruddy machine.”

“I’m afraid at the moment you’re a sick man, so be quiet and have another glass of whiskey if it’ll keep you quiet.”

“Thanks don’t mind if I do.”

Alex returned to the kitchenette, which seemed exceptionally clean, though more from neglect than diligent cleaning, she thought. She started chopping and peeling, and pouring wine over the chicken.

“Alex…”

“Hm?” There was a pause.

“Are you gonna get me that whiskey or am I goin’ to ‘ave to undo your marvellous straight-jacket jobby over ‘ere?”

“Yes, Guv.”

“‘Ey, you’re the one who said you were goin’ teh look after me.”

“I didn’t say ‘be your slave’.”

“Shame. Can think of a few things I’d ‘ave you do feh me.”

Alex finished constructing the soup in comfortable silence, listening the Gene’s breathing. She thought maybe he’d fallen asleep but when she turned around, wiping her hands, Gene’s eyes were decidedly open.

“Why don’t you have any food here, Gene?”

“Never here, am I? Always chasin’ around after you lot trying to clear up the mess you’ve all made.”

Alex looked around the small living room. It was the least homely place she’d ever seen. Not unkempt, just cold, clinical almost. Devoid of anything which might encourage the idea that someone was actually living there. Still, at least it wasn’t a complete pig sty. Alex looked at Gene, laid along the sofa, eyes closed, with that perpetual frown in place.

“What did you dream of doing, Gene?”

Gene looked round. His, “hm?” was casual enough, but she’d seen his eyes snap open. He knew what she was talking about.

“When you rescued me. I was on the sofa, like you are now. I was lying there thinking I was going to die. And you said, ‘I’ve bloody dreamt of doin’ this’.”

“Nah. Course I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Must’ve imagined it.”

“I didn’t Gene. I heard it. Dreamt of doing what, Gene?”

Gene, very slowly, sat up and looked at her. She lifted her eyebrows ever so slightly, but he still said nothing.

“You wanna know?”

She nodded.

“You really want me to tell you?”

“Yes, Gene. Yes.”

He breathed out softly.

“Then you’re not as clever as your smart-arse attitude has us believin’, Drake,” Gene said bluntly. Steadily, he met her eye. “‘Cause I’d have thought that it was as obvious as an ostrich in a chicken farm.”

“Yes, well,” she murmured. She looked up from her careful examination of the carpet, lifting her shin defensively. “Well I want to hear you say it.”

“Well ‘want’ doesn’t always get, does it?”

Alex growled. “Tell me! Tell me, Gene, why won’t you just say it? Dreamt of doing what, Gene, tell me!”

“Tell you?” Gene said loudly, leaping from the sofa in one stride, despite the obvious effort it cost him. “You want me to tell you? Well, Miss Priss, you’ll have go without. I don’ ‘ave teh bloody tell you a sodding thing!”

“Why, Gene, why?”

“Because I’m goin’ to show yeh.”

Before she even knew what was happening, Gene had crossed the room and completely stormed her mouth, hot and powerful and tasting of whiskey and warm, spicy tobacco. She was immediately so breathless that she gasped in air, and it felt like it had come straight from the bottom of Gene’s lungs, from the very depths of him.

When, finally, oh so finally, he let her go, shockingly sudden, and she blinked. She couldn’t remember how to do anything else.

“Now,” he breathed roughly, swallowing. “If only I weren’t so bloody poorly, I’d show you what else I’d been dreamin’ very long, very… thought-provoking dreams abou’. If. Only.”

He stalked off back to bed without another word. Alex just stood there, blinking.


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9	10	11	12

13	14	15	16

17	18	19	20

21	22	23	24

25	26	27	28

29	30	31	32

33	34	35	36

37	38	39	40

41	42	43	44

45	46	47	48

49	50	51


1	2	3	4

5	6	7	8

9	10	11	12

13	14	15	16

17	18	19	20

21	22	23	24

25	26	27	28

29	30	31	32

33	34	35	36

37	38	39	40

41	42	43	44

45	46	47	48

49	50	51	52

53	54	55	56

57	58	59	60

61	62	63	64

65	66	67	68

69	70	71	72

73	74	75	76

77	78	79	80

81	82	83	84

85	86	87	88

89	90	91	92

93	94	95	96

97	98	99	100

101	102	103	104

105	106	107	108

109	110	111	112

113	114	115	116

117	118	119	120

121	122	123	124

125	126	127


1	2	3	4

5	6	7	8

9	10	11	12

13	14	15	16

17	18	19	20

21	22	23	24

25	26	27	28

29	30	31	32

33	34	35	36

37	38	39	40

41	42	43	44

45	46	47


1	2	3	4

5	6	7	8

9	10	11	12

13	14	15	16

17	18	19	20

21	22	23	24

25	26	27	28

29	30	31	32

33	34	35	36

37	38	39	40

41	42	43	44

45	46	47	48

49	50	51	52

53	54	55	56

57	58	59	60

61	62	63	64

65	66	67	68

69	70	71	72

73	74	75	76

77	78	79	80

81	82	83	84

85	86	87	88

89	90	91	92

93	94	95	96

97	98	99	100

101	102	103	104

105	106	107	108

109	110	111	112

113	114	115	116

117	118	119	120

121	122	123	124

125	126	127	128

129	130	131	132

133	134


1	2	3	4

5	6	7	8

9	10	11	12

13	14	15	16

17	18	19	20

21	22	23	24

25	26	27	28

29	30	31	32

33	34	35	36

37	38	39	40

41	42	43	44

45


1	2	3	4

5	6	7	8

9	10	11	12

13	14	15	16

17	18	19	20

21	22	23	24

25	26	27	28

29	30	31	32

33	34	35	36

37	38	39	40

41	42	43	44

45	46	47	48

49	50	51	52

53	54	55	56

57	58	59	60

61	62	63	64

65	66	67	68

69	70	71	72

73	74	75


1	2	3	4

5	6	7	8

9	10	11	12

13	14	15	16

17	18	19	20

21	22	23	24

25	26	27	28

29	30	31	32

33	34	35	36

37	38	39	40

41	42	43	44

45	46	47	48

49	50	51


1	2	3	4

5	6	7	8

9	10	11	12

13	14	15	16

17	18	19	20

21	22	23	24

25	26	27	28

29	30	31	32

33	34	35	36

37	38	39	40

41	42	43	44

45	46	47	48

49	50	51	52

53	54	55	56

57	58	59	60

61	62	63	64

65	66	67	68

69	70	71	72

73	74	75	76

77	78	79	80

81	82	83	84

85	86	87	88

89	90	91	92

93	94	95	96

97	98	99	100

101	102	103	104

105	106	107	108

109	110	111	112

113	114	115	116

117	118	119	120

121	122	123	124

125	126	127


1	2	3	4

5	6	7	8

9	10	11	12

13	14	15	16

17	18	19	20

21	22	23	24

25	26	27	28

29	30	31	32

33	34	35	36

37	38	39	40

41	42	43	44

45	46	47


1	2	3	4

5	6	7	8

9	10	11	12

13	14	15	16

17	18	19	20

21	22	23	24

25	26	27	28

29	30	31	32

33	34	35	36

37	38	39	40

41	42	43	44

45	46	47	48

49	50	51	52

53	54	55	56

57	58	59	60

61	62	63	64

65	66	67	68

69	70	71	72

73	74	75	76

77	78	79	80

81	82	83	84

85	86	87	88

89	90	91	92

93	94	95	96

97	98	99	100

101	102	103	104

105	106	107	108

109	110	111	112

113	114	115	116

117	118	119	120

121	122	123	124

125	126	127	128

129	130	131	132

133	134


1	2	3	4

5	6	7	8

9	10	11	12

13	14	15	16

17	18	19	20

21	22	23	24

25	26	27	28

29	30	31	32

33	34	35	36

37	38	39	40

41	42	43	44

45


1	2	3	4

5	6	7	8

9	10	11	12

13	14	15	16

17	18	19	20

21	22	23	24

25	26	27	28

29	30	31	32

33	34	35	36

37	38	39	40

41	42	43	44

45	46	47	48

49	50	51	52

53	54	55	56

57	58	59	60

61	62	63	64

65	66	67	68

69	70	71	72

73	74	75


1	2	3	4

5	6	7	8

9	10	11	12

13	14	15	16

17	18	19	20

21	22	23	24

25	26	27	28

29	30	31	32

33	34	35	36

37	38	39	40

41	42	43	44

45	46	47	48

49	50	51


1	2	3	4

5	6	7	8

9	10	11	12

13	14	15	16

17	18	19	20

21	22	23	24

25	26	27	28

29	30	31	32

33	34	35	36

37	38	39	40

41	42	43	44

45	46	47	48

49	50	51	52

53	54	55	56

57	58	59	60

61	62	63	64

65	66	67	68

69	70	71	72

73	74	75	76

77	78	79	80

81	82	83	84

85	86	87	88

89	90	91	92

93	94	95	96

97	98	99	100

101	102	103	104

105	106	107	108

109	110	111	112

113	114	115	116

117	118	119	120

121	122	123	124

125	126	127


1	2	3	4

5	6	7	8

9	10	11	12

13	14	15	16

17	18	19	20

21	22	23	24

25	26	27	28

29	30	31	32

33	34	35	36

37	38	39	40

41	42	43	44

45	46	47


1	2	3	4

5	6	7	8

9	10	11	12

13	14	15	16

17	18	19	20

21	22	23	24

25	26	27	28

29	30	31	32

33	34	35	36

37	38	39	40

41	42	43	44

45	46	47	48

49	50	51	52

53	54	55	56

57	58	59	60

61	62	63	64

65	66	67	68

69	70	71	72

73	74	75	76

77	78	79	80

81	82	83	84

85	86	87	88

89	90	91	92

93	94	95	96

97	98	99	100

101	102	103	104

105	106	107	108

109	110	111	112

113	114	115	116

117	118	119	120

121	122	123	124

125	126	127	128

129	130	131	132

133	134


1	2	3	4

5	6	7	8

9	10	11	12

13	14	15	16

17	18	19	20

21	22	23	24

25	26	27	28

29	30	31	32

33	34	35	36

37	38	39	40

41	42	43	44

45