Chapter Text
Excerpt from The Case of Sergeant Sprinkles:
Sam: "Love and hatred is a very fine line. Just like the Mason-Dixie Line."
Luke: "Clive, it’s Mason-Dixon."
Sam: "Nope."
Luke: "Yes, it fuckin’ is."
Sam: "No it’s not."
Luke: "It’s Mason-Dixon, Clive."
Sam: "Nope."
Luke: "You always get – You’re so fuck – "
Sam: "I worked on the line."
Luke: "You’re so fuckin’ stubborn, Clive. You’re so fuckin’ stubborn. It’s your problem!"
Sam: "Oh, look at little brother, finally grew some testicles."
[…]
Luke: "We’re gonna cross that Mason-Dixon Line and – "
Sam: "Mason-Dixie Line!"
Luke: "Mason-Dixon Line!"
Sam: "DIXIE! Alright."
Luke: "You can fucking google it, you shit!"
Sam (singing): "I went on down to Dixie!" – "It’s not I went on down to Dixon! That’s like – "
Luke: "Oh my fucking god! I know for a fucking fact that it’s Mason-Dixon Line, Clive."
Sam: "Dixon. Okay. Alright. You’re the one with all the government intel believing everything the government says it’s called."
Luke: "Goddamnit. I really don’t fuckin’ wan’ to, but I’m gonna cross that line and I’m taking you with me."
Sam: "Which line? Say it right."
[…]
Luke: "Alright. I’m gonna cross that line –"
Sam: "Which line?"
Luke: "Okay, fine. The fucking Mason-Dixie Line."
Sam: "Thank you."
[…]
-----------------
Manchester, right after the show.
The applause had just faded, the stage empty. The music — turned up full volume — was already herding the crowd out of the room and into the bar up front. It thumped in Luke’s chest, tangling with the leftover adrenaline still rushing through his veins.
He shoved open one door, then another, before finally turning down the backstage corridor. People brushed past him — tech crew, a couple of other players, someone balancing a tray of glasses. Voices sparkled through the air, euphoric, buzzing, mixing with the slightly muffled music.
Luke’s pink button-up shirt clung damply to his back, and he absently shrugged into his cardigan.
All he could hear were Sam’s taunting words, looping in his head:
“Nope.”
“DIXIE!”
“Say it right…”
He’d said it with a grin, sure. In character. In the flow. On stage. And yet —
Luke walked down the corridor with brisk steps, Sam trailing at a more leisurely pace, a grin still tugging at his mouth as he stayed a few steps behind. The hallway smelled of fresh paint and old heating pipes. A flicker from the exit sign cast yellow across the floor.
“You are such a git…” Luke blurted out.
“A git? That’s new. I’ll take it as a compliment, if you don’t mind!”
Luke stopped, spun around, brows drawn tight. Everything about Sam was getting under his skin. He couldn’t even say why. Sam was just Sam — and usually Luke wasn’t the type to let himself get properly wound up by him. But tonight, somehow, Sam had pushed too far.
“Dixie?” Luke snapped.
Sam paused too, feigning surprise. “Sorry?”
“On stage. ‘Mason-Dixie Line’?! You know that’s wrong.”
Sam raised an eyebrow. “Wrong? Or maybe that’s just your opinion… brother dear.” At that last word his voice slipped into that demonically mischievous register Luke knew all too well from Sam’s stage roles.
Luke stared at him. For a second, Sam reminded him of the Evil-Make-A-Wish-Child. He drew in a sharp breath. “It’s a fact, Sam. A historical fact. You stood there and claimed the South was called ‘Dixie’ because of the ‘Mason-Dixie Line.’ What’s that even supposed to mean? It’s not even bad history — it’s nonsense history.”
“The audience laughed.”
“Because they didn’t know any better.”
“Or because they didn’t care.” Sam smiled again – his eyes sparkled playfully.
Luke huffed, leaning back against the wall opposite. “You do it on purpose.”
“Do what?”
“Drive me insane.”
Sam stepped forward until they stood face to face. Everyone else had drifted off — either into the dressing room or to the front, by the bar. Only faint music still pulsed softly up through the floor.
“Oh, come on,” Sam said softly. “You love it.”
“I really don’t.”
“Sure about that?”
Silence fell for a moment. Luke meant to say something — some sarcastic remark or sharp comment. But Sam’s gaze shifted. Softer now. More appraising.
“You were damn sexy up there,” he said – quietly, calmly, directly.
Luke’s breath hitched for a moment.
“What?”
“Your expression. Your timing. The way you flat-out refused to relent — until you did.”
“Because you forced me.”
“Exactly.” Sam closed the space by another step, only two paces apart now. “And you went with it. You hated it. And you loved it.”
Luke tried to hold his gaze – but failed.
A tingling prickled down his spine, a mix of frustration, leftover adrenaline and… Sam’s closeness.
“You’re impossible,” he muttered.
“But charming.”
“No.”
“Sexy, then?”
Luke looked up again. Sam’s face was inches from his own. His voice — low, husky, more breath than sound — slid right through him: “Say it again.”
“What?”
“That I drive you mad.”
Luke swallowed. And then, quieter than he intended: “You do drive me mad.”
Sam grinned. “Thought so.”
His hand found Luke’s hip. Not rough, not demanding — more like a dare, a test. Luke didn’t back away. Instead, he felt his shoulders press against the wall. Sam’s body hovered a breath away. The smell of sweat, of stage heat… and Sam’s breath ghosting his cheek.
Luke let his eyes flicker shut for a heartbeat. “What are you doing?”
“Whatever you want.”
“I —”
But the sentence ended in a gasp, as Sam leaned in then – his lips just grazing the base of Luke’s neck. Not a kiss. More a touch, a comma in the middle of a sentence that hadn't yet been finished.
“Sam —”
“Shhh.” He wandered his lips up Luke’s neck, slowly, until he reached his jaw.
“Don’t think. Just… feel.”
Sam eased back slightly, just enough to meet Luke’s eyes again. His look was calm, satisfied — almost teasingly in control. His fingers hooked lightly into Luke’s belt, casual, just firm enough to be felt. And Luke felt him. Every inch. His anger had dissolved into a tingling burn that ran up his spine, sharp and clear. Luke tilted his head, almost unconsciously, his gaze drifting down to Sam’s lips.
Sam leaned in again.
“You hate it when I get the last word, don’t you?” he murmured close to his ear, his warm breath brushing against his skin.
Luke flinched slightly. “I hate it when you talk bullshit and then refuse to admit it.”
Sam chuckled softly. “You hate it even more when I look good doing it.”
“You are so fucking —”
“What?”
He moved half a step closer, and now there was barely any air left between them. Sam's voice was calm, though it carried an undertone — playful, yet attentive. Like someone who felt at home in a game he had written the rules for.
“You’re blushing,” Sam said softly, watching him closely.
Luke bit his lip. He wanted to say something — anything to break the heat spreading beneath his skin.
But Sam’s hand slid higher, tracing the fabric along Luke’s waist, almost reaching his chest before pausing. Open. Not demanding. Just there.
“Just say the word, and I’ll stop…”
For a moment, the world stilled. The light from the corridor flickered faintly against the wall beside them. Indistinct chatter and distant laughter drifted from the bar.
“Sam…” Luke’s voice came out hoarse, rougher than he intended. He drew in a slow breath, then let it out again. Something inside him cleared, snapping into focus. His brow furrowed. His body was still close to Sam’s, his hand resting against his chest — when had that happened? — but his gaze wavered, searching its way back to reality.
“Yes?”
Luke’s eyes darted to the door at the end of the corridor, then back to Sam. His gaze was open. Challenging. Expectant. And far too intense.
“You are such a fucking prick…” Luke finally blurted out, half-laughing, half-chiding.
Sam grinned, letting his hand drop — deliberate, unbothered, almost savoring.
“I know.”
One last look, a ghost of a smile, and then he stepped back — casual, like nothing had happened at all.
“Sorry. Might’ve pushed it a little far.”
Luke took another deep breath. The heat in his face slowly subsided, letting him reassess the situation. “Wouldn’t be the first time…,” he replied, this time unable to hold back a smile.
Sam lifted his hands in mock surrender, then took a couple of steps back and turned to the side. “Come on. I owe you a pint, as a peace offering. And you can spill everything about Jeremiah Dixon. Maybe this time I’ll even pay attention."
Luke’s mouth fell open. He watched Sam make his way down the corridor towards the bar, hands loose in his pockets. Luke shook his head with a chuckle.
“Fucking prick…” he said again, louder.
Sam turned back mid-step — amused, smiling. “Coming, Mason-Dixie?”
Luke hesitated for a moment, then shook off the pause — reminded his legs to move — and pushed off the wall, following Sam into the next part of the evening.