| "Tyler! NO!" The hollow boom of the train catching up with them had drowned out Hunt's yell - the scream it became - and left behind a dead silence. Hours later Gene sat on the steel slope of the grass bank, knees pulled up under his chin, half-empty bottle of whiskey hanging from his fingers, face a pale mask of shock, staring at the tracks where DI Sam Tyler had been hit by a train. On the opposite bank an army of uniforms was tearing the countryside apart looking for any sign of Sam - a body, a limb, speck of blood. Hunt had ordered them to the scene - every copper from Greater Manchester he could lay his long arm to - they'd listened to his orders and obeyed without question. He had them combing the area, starting from the spot where he'd last seen Sam - insane, crazy, gorgeous Sam - standing on the tracks looking back at him with an expression of such desperation even Gene's stone-clad heart had cracked in two. He didn't care what criminal activities were happening in his city this evening. They could loot the place and burn it to the ground, leave it in ashes and he wouldn't have taken a single man off this search. Ray dropped to sit beside Gene. "You're gonna get grass stains on your trousers - the Missus'll kill you." It was an attempt at humour that fell flatter than the best pancake on Shrove Tuesday. "It can't have hit him, Guv. There'd be limbs and� stuff everywhere. He must have run, bastard coward; left us. Told you, didn't I? Little git never gave a shit about any of us�." He actually turned to look at Gene, and what was waiting for him was a fierce mix of fury and grief. He backtracked, or tried to, "I mean, he was never one of us." "Shut up, Ray." It was all he could say. Anything more and he was in fear of unravelling the threads of dignity he'd hurriedly pulled around himself since losing it as the train had scooped Sam from the ground and smashed him to pieces. How could it have happened any differently? Tyler had been standing directly in its path. No time to run, to jump. Besides, even if he had made a break for it, no man could have turned his back on the screams that had sent the birds rising from the trees in a flurry of feathers and squawks. Gene's screams. Ray was nodding, and Gene saw his lips purse as if it was an effort to stop more vitriol from spilling out. Lifting the bottle of Bells, Gene took a burning slug of whiskey and closed his eyes, opening them quickly when all he could see in the intimate, red-hued darkness was Sam being hit by a train determined not to stop. Someone had tipped the gang off about the robbery. Whoever had blabbed had murdered his DI. He'd decided that, however unfair it happened to be; decided he would find that person and they wouldn't live long enough to see the inside of a jail cell. "Go away." Ray did as he was told. Gene didn't care what was going through his old friend's head. Messed up, egotistical little git he might have been, but no one had ever meant as much to him as Sam Tyler; he'd never felt so intensely for anyone before his whole life. Never before had one person - one man - wrought so much feeling in him. Before Sam, life had been simple, if not easy; up in the morning on the third bloody irritating call of the alarm, wash, shave, shit, dress, take a cuppa to the wife in bed before leaving the house and driving to the station via the caf� on Belmont Road for a fried egg bap with brown sauce. Criminals didn't stick to a routine; every day was different yet somehow the same - a blag, a stabbing, some nonce who should know better ripping off the kind of people who didn't have a sense of humour about that kind of thing. Turning a blind eye to those who paid the going bribe, arresting those who didn't. Time out half way through the day for lunch in the pub, knocking off at five for after-work, early evening and nightly drinks. Darts matches, the footy, and once a week an early night to shag the wife before inebriation made it physical impossibility. He remembered the afternoon he'd signed a transfer order for one DI Sam Tyler from Hyde. He'd hesitated before putting biro to paper - Ray had been hankering after the DI job since the ancient Inspector Grayson had retired weeks before. But in his head he'd known Ray wasn't ready for the promotion, hadn't actually proved himself capable of anything more than following his Guv's lead. And even though his gut told him Ray was a friend and blind loyalty should be enough he hadn't been able to do it. So he'd signed, and a week later, one morning just before lunch Sam Tyler had crashed into his city, his station and his life. Crazy, ranting about desks and PCs, disrupting the natural order of things. And that was how he'd continued, fighting Gene on every little thing, introducing gay boy science that was frighteningly impressive in a courtroom and nancy whatshecallem - processes - that drove Gene to distraction but annoyingly seemed to get results. That Tyler was insane he had no doubt, but he was a bloody good copper and he made Gene feel like a better man. Within months of his arrival Sam had turned Gene's world upside down. Learning fast if reluctantly, he'd put a stop to the bribe payments and made the consequences of retribution very clear to those who tried using threats in place of a wad of cash. With Sam's help he put a very big hole in organised crime in the city, and he had to admit that it was a cleaner place than it had been, if not necessarily a safer place for cops. But while he was being a better copper, he was becoming a worse husband. Those early nights home to shag the missus got fewer and further between. Sitting with Sam in the pub was a strangely preferable option, dragging Sam out to buy him a curry or fish and chips with gravy was better than going home for dinner with his wife. He took more abuse from his new DI than he would have let any bugger get away with in the past and still kept going back for more. At the start their fights were physical and let them work off some of the weird tension between them. But later, as they stopped throwing punches in the Men's Loos or having fisticuffs in the car park, and their fights became more verbal - more cerebral as Sam had once put it (although Gene wasn't sure what that meant) - he found himself looking for excuses to throw Sam up against the nearest wall or get him prone over the front of the car. He'd never been one for respecting what the plonks called 'personal space' but Sam seemed to invite the intrusion, or if not invite it at least encourage it. The problem was that all of this developed into something Gene couldn't name and didn't understand. And one night after two men with fishnet stockings on their heads had waved bloody great sawn-off shotguns at his genitals and tried to take Sam's precious head off with a fire axe, and they'd both had almost too much to drink, and the tension between them had racked up to an unbearable level they'd laid into each other in the alley next to the Railway Arms - all fists and dicks, lips and teeth, lust poured over violence. And from that one feral coupling in the gutter with the bitter stench of rotting food, dog shit and piss all around them, had come something terrifying but at the same time better than anything he'd ever known. It moved quickly from the alley to Sam's pokey flat; brick wall to metal bedstead and sickeningly soft mattress, and slowly from animalistic brutality to consuming desire. Whether Sam had known what was happening, Gene had no idea, but personally he didn't understand it, didn't want it, but couldn't live - couldn't breathe - without it. Evenings, nights, weekends, mornings. A drink before hand, meal after, staying into the small hours, waking up with the dawn. Gene privately and possessively cherished the morning of one particularly wonderful Sunday snuggled up on Sam's battered couch watching the footy. No sex, no arguments, just a comfortable peace he felt guilty for enjoying with another man. Snuggled! What kind of a word was that for an overweight, over the hill, homophobe�? A wry smile touched his lips followed by a clench of his gut and an almost overwhelming urge to throw up. He couldn't imagine having something like it with anyone else - with Ray or Chris or anyone he's ever known (except perhaps Harry� but that's buried so deep now). Sam� Sam wasn't anyone else. Sam was different to everyone. Sam felt like a part of himself that had been missing for years and when they were together he felt whole. Now Sam was gone. Dead. Run back to Hyde. He had no idea what was going on between Sam and Frank Morgan - that creepy bastard from Hyde - but it hadn't been anything good and in a way he didn't quite get yet, it had signalled the end of everything. Hesitant shoes climbed the incline and stopped a couple of feet away from him. He knew those shoes well; lighter, cleaner, smaller than Ray's by at least two sizes. "What is it, Chris?" He lifted his eyes with some effort and saw the swollen lips, red eyes and blotchy face of his - really Sam's - DC. He said nothing about it. If he weren't so bloody determined not to slow any emotion except for anger his own face would look like that. "He didn't abandon us, Guv. He wouldn't have done that." "So where is he, Sherlock?" The note of defeat in his voice surprised him, life had been against him before and he hadn't quit. This time he supposed it was different. "Frank Morgan." Chris stated the Hyde DCI's name like it was an answer in itself. "What about the bastard?" Chris obviously had to think about that one. "He's got sommat to do with this. He arranged it somehow." "Houdini is he? Waved his magic wand and DI Tyler disappeared into thin air?" "Er. No, Guv." Morgan. Sam had said - insisted - he didn't know him, hadn't known him when he was at Hyde, which had made Gene wonder if he really ever had been there or if it was some huge joke he wasn't a party to. But Morgan had acted like he knew Sam before�. Not knowing the history there wound Gene up something rotten - the whole business with the usurper DCI from Hyde had given him heart-burn and kept him awake at night, even when Sam had been tangled in the same sheets as him, those long limbs twisted with his own. Chris didn't wait around, Gene noticed belatedly; spoke his piece in defence of Sam and left again, avoiding the same gruff dismissal he presumably knew had already met Ray's attempt at conciliation. Gene took a deep breath of warm, stale air, lifted the bottle and tilted it to his lips, almost choking when a familiar weighted hand dropped onto his shoulder. ~ Reality was the waxy texture of the black railway workers' jacket beneath his fingers, the broad shoulder flexing and tensing inside the thick, stiff material. It robbed him of breath when he thought about it - giving up everything he'd known, his life, his hope of the last few nightmare months, to come back here, to be with this man. But although he'd fought the feelings tooth and nail, in the end he hadn't been able to deny Gene, and when one night in the alley next to the pub a punch to his stomach had been followed up with a bruising assault to his mouth, he'd gone with the kiss, still wary, still defensive, almost waiting for Hunt's brain to catch up with his dick. But with the seconds ticking by had come the slow realisation that for once his Guv's brain was in step with his body and when one large hand had cupped his cautiously filling cock and tightening balls through the rough denim, he'd quickly accepted the unspoken challenge and found the outline of Gene's substantial erection standing along the seam of his thin suit trousers. Why Gene Hunt? Why any man, he supposed would have been a better question, but if it had to be a man at all than why this one? Alcoholic (weren't they all?), overweight (but hard in all the right places), homophobic (yet happy to spend his spare time shagging his DI apparently), racist (despite spending a night sharing a hospital bed with comatose Indian just in case someone tried to whack him like they'd whacked his brother)�. Gene was a surprise in every way. Hardly a day had gone by in which Hunt hadn't unbalanced Sam's view of him with a word or an action or a confession; his brutal days in the army, early years as a policeman, Stephen Warren, Harry Wolfe, his brother, his Dad. So much history; hadn't Sam known deep down that he had to be real? How could a figment of his imagination engender such intense feelings? The love of his life, frightening as that idea was, was sitting on the ground staring up at him, gaunt expression caught somewhere between grief and horror, as if looking at a ghost. It brought tears of odd relief to Sam's eyes. He knew the first question teetering on his Guv's lips but also knew, as Gene apparently did, that there was little point in giving voice to it. 'How?' It hung there, between them, as one trembling hand reached up to touch Sam - to feel his arm, grasp it, closing the breach between them, stopping it from widening any further. Couldn't blame Gene for pulling away from him - not when he'd gone from being the Guv's deputy, his partner, trusted - and dare Sam think it? - loved, and overnight turned into a stranger, a betrayer, hell bent on destroying him and his team. Who could blame him for putting some space between them? He could feel, through Gene's hand, the tension in him, poised between two strong emotions, torn between absolutely relief and mindless violence. Sam would have bet on the latter winning out but as his wrist was wrenched downwards, strong arms grabbed him in a bear hug and he bent his knees to go with it, dropping to a crouch to push closer to the firm, anchoring bulk of his Guv. "Wishing I was here didn't make it real," Sam murmured into Gene's neck, "The answer is much crazier than that." Then came the violence. Gene pushed him away hard, easily unbalancing him from his crouching position. His arse hit the grass and before he could push himself up, Gene was on top of him, straddling him, one hand fisting the ground next to Sam's shoulder while the other landed a hard punch to his stomach. "You bastard!" Resisting the urge to fight back, Sam breathed through the worst of the pain and managed to get one hand up to Gene's head, feeling a brief moment of triumph when the man above him tensed in anticipation of the attack he'd assumed would come, but Sam only spread his fingers and gently combed them through the blond hair he'd visualised night after night. How much time had passed here? Hours, apparently, no more. Weeks had gone by since Sam had last seen Gene, running down this very bank, hair flying out behind him, screaming Sam's name as the noise of the train had drowned out everything and that white light from 2006 had blinded him. Gene's head dipped against Sam's hand and he braced for another punch, maybe a broken nose from a head butt. But nothing followed, and a second later Sam realised Gene was crying. "Hey, don't�. Gene, don't, please�." His other arm curved over Hunt's back intending on just reassurance, but Gene's mouth suddenly sought and found his own and he went into the harsh, desperate kiss as easily as he'd gone into the embrace. He heard voices, knew who they belonged to and frankly didn't care. After all, this was the best way of convincing Gene he was here, alive, real and breathing. He hadn't been able to keep his promise not to leave, but he'd done the next best thing, he'd come back. He'd looked around the meeting at the assembled men and women in power suits with dull ties, men and women who were coppers just like him yet who were less interested in catching criminals and more interested in discussion groups and public relations. He'd been just like them before DCI Gene Hunt had shown him that there was another way of doing things, an outmoded, prehistoric way. Yet incredibly, in some respects, a better way, with a little tempering by Sam. This was where he belonged, lying on his back with Gene's bulk on top of him; a fight turned into something else, something more, as it had in the past and undoubtedly would do again. Gene let him go, a silly grin on his face, sat up and shifted awkwardly to his feet, hand stretched out. Sam took it, smiling the same stupid grin, letting go of that hand as soon as he was standing but able to still feel Gene's hot touch, keep the memory of it until they could find somewhere a lot more private. "Look what I found!" Sam waited, wondered if either Ray or Chris would have the balls to say anything about what they'd surely witnessed a second ago. Ray's expression looked carefully schooled, or maybe he really was pleased to see Sam standing there - a miserable Gene Hunt was not something you wanted to face on a daily basis. Chris though, Chris threw his arms around him and caught him in a hug Sam couldn't return with his own arms trapped to his sides. "Ger'off him!" Gene's growl was enough to send a happy Chris scooting back. "Welcome back, Boss. Knew you wouldn't leave us." Ray's eyes narrowed, "How�?" But Gene cut him off. "Not important, Sergeant." Sam knew he'd have to come up with some explanation though, later. Perhaps he'd tell Gene the truth. Perhaps not. "Call off the search. Anyone who's thirsty, I'm buying." Ray left to tell the army of uniforms that it could go home, search over, body found - live and surprisingly well. Chris just wondered off with a beaming smile on his face. Sam almost shouted after him, 'call your girlfiend, see if she fancies downstairs inside,' but he didn't. Too Gene Hunt. Too vulgar. Still, he wanted to shout at the clouds and embrace the sky he'd leapt towards for delivering him to the only place he ever wanted to be. He lifted a hand to Gene's back and felt the trembling of taut muscles. "It's going to be okay, Guv." Gene turned and looked at him for a long time, assessing perhaps which questions he needed answers to and which he dare not even ask. "I'm staying." "No more madness about us all being in your mind?" Sam shook his head. Why did this man love him? "No more secretive phone calls to Hyde?" "No Guv. Besides, there's no one to answer them any more." Gene nodded slowly, trying apparently to understand something he simply couldn't. "And us?" "You're the sheriff and I'm the deputy." Gene leaned in although there was no one close enough to hear. "I meant the other us." Sam's smile broadening and as matter-of-factly as he could, he said, "You're my reason for living, Gene. You'd better start making me glad to be alive." His eyebrows danced as he plucked the Cortina's keys from the pocket of Gene's black jacket and ran up the bank before he ended up flat on his back again. That would have to wait for later. |