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Sometimes, Sam yearns for a little romance: endearments that needn't be laced with sarcasm to make them palatable; some light conversation; a bit of candlelight and a soft surface; sex that doesn't start as a hot-blooded argument eight times out of ten and continue that way right up to the moment of release. Christ, a little wine and roses now and again, even. (Well, maybe not the roses; contrary to Gene's frequently-voiced opinions, Sam's more of a bloke at heart than that.) Just something to add poetry to the pornography.
Then there are moments like this.
Sam and Gene are sitting next to each other on an arse-numbingly cold concrete floor in the abandoned building they're supposed to be searching while the rest of the team is out following other leads. Their backs are leaning against the grimy brick wall they were using just minutes before as an entirely different form of support and they're catching their breaths, clothing back in order and shoulders bumping companionably in the easy silence that comes when words are neither needed nor wanted.
Sam rests his head against the rough, red brick, the stuff that makes up so much of Manchester's old skeleton, and fancies he can almost feel a pulse in it: the heartbeat of this vibrant, grotty, rough-edged city he and Gene both love beyond reason and are sworn to defend, body and soul. In the luminous clarity of mind that follows a hard, fast orgasm, colors seem brighter, edges sharper; the dust motes drifting through sunbeams gleam like flecks of gold dust, and the angular shadows filling the decrepit room create an abstract pattern that almost seems to hold a deeper meaning.
Gene digs in his coat pocket and retrieves a flask, which he passes to Sam, still in silence. Sam accepts, unscrews the lid, and takes a swig. He knows by now that the many flasks Gene carries are not equal. Some hold cheap rotgut, for when a fast, hard jolt is required. Some hold fair-to-middling whisky, for when a team member needs a boost or a show of friendly bonding is required with a civilian or superior. One flask holds the good stuff, the fine single-malt, and this is it.
Sam cradles the liquid fire in his mouth for a moment, savoring the flavor of it, fierce and complex as the man who'd offered it to him. He doesn't miss the subtlety of being given the opportunity to drink first. That small gesture contains volumes of meaning in Gene-speak. Sam swallows and feels the burn all the way down his throat, spreading out in his stomach until it blends with the afterglow suffusing his body.
At moments like this, Sam's willing to admit that whisky from a hip flask is vastly better than wine and roses could ever be and there's more than one kind of poetry in the world.
"Thanks," he says, voice low and rough, and passes the flask back to Gene. Gene's fingers brush unnecessarily against Sam's in the process: another small, calculated, meaningful gesture. Gene takes three long swallows and exhales, a lusty growl of pleasure. He screws the cap back on the flask with an air of finality, slips it in his pocket, and lurches to his feet.
"Right. Enough of that, Gladys. Time we where here doing what we came for," he announces. He doesn't offer Sam a hand up, but Sam doesn't expect it. Suppressing a smile as best he can, Sam stands (a great deal more gracefully than Gene) and steps from that rare, timeless moment of peace back into the wild current of motion and chaos that is policing the city, Hunt-style. Romance, such as it is, can wait.