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