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Gene prides himself on his ability to suss people out and have a working idea about their backstory within about ten minutes of contact. He’s good at predicting what they’ve done and what they’re yet to do. He knows when people are lying—to him or to themselves.
So it vexes him that Sam is a mystery. He knows very little about who he’s been, except that his parents did a number on him. He’s only good at predicting Sam’s predilections forty percent of the time. And Sam’s lies are so intricate they confound themselves. Gene’s spent countless hours trying to unravel him – pretending he doesn’t care, mind. Pretending he’s oblivious to Sam’s weirder moments. But he annoyingly does care and Gene’s never been oblivious about anything in his life. Sometimes wishes he could be, but detective work’s in his blood, sweat, and saliva.
Sam seems constantly torn between the man he wants to be and the man he’s been forced into becoming. He’s always teetering on the edge of a revelation. Basic human understanding sometimes eludes him. And yet, this is a bloke who is one of the finest coppers Gene’s ever met, let alone worked with. He wonders how Sam’s able to manage it, with half a brain. It must be the half that counts. And reads. And does basic arithmetic.
One of the things that’s most confusing about Sam is his insistence on being staid, boring and ‘grown up’, when Gene knows, is positive, that’s not who he is at his core. Sam’s permanently pissy expression couldn’t possibly be more of a contrast to his youthful grin. His compunction to put everything in its right place, including his short-cropped hair, is at odds with the wildness he displays when striving for justice, or the way he constantly seems to be wanting to break free. His uptight, upright moral righteousness is a slap in the face to his amoral slouching when he thinks Gene’s about to get a result.
Perhaps what Sam is, when it comes down to it, well, just maybe, he’s a study in when opposites collide and fuse together.
The problem is, if you spend all your time thinking about Sam instead of showing him the error of his ways, he pulls one over on you, lickety-split. It’s always better to engage the enemy than to stand afar and gaze at ‘em.
“Right, my prima ballerina, what’re your plans for today?”
Sam doesn’t bother to roll his eyes at Gene’s nicknames anymore, nor push him off his desk. That’s progress, of a sort.
“I’m reinterviewing Gary Dorchester about his witness statement from last week. There’s too many holes.”
It’s not a good enough reason to halt Gene in his tracks. It’s pathetic, as daily plans go. Sam’s usually got nine or eleven things lined up, clearly not today if that’s all he’s bothering to mention.
“No, you’re not. Give it to Cartwright, I’ve a mission for you.”
“Gene, I spoke to Dorchester last, it’s better if I conduct the interview, to pick up on inconsistencies.”
“You took extensive notes, didn’t you? You always do, these days. Your Cartwright is more than capable of spotting a lie or an omission.”
“Yeah, but –”
“No buts, not even your scrawny one. You’re coming with me.”
Gene grabs the back of Sam’s shirt and lifts him up, helpful-like. Sam flails for a moment, but gains his bearings and shrugs Gene’s hand off. He crosses his arms against his chest and looks Gene dead in the eye.
This is one of the forty percent of times when Gene can accurately predict what Sam’s about to do and say. He’ll get shirty and use Gene’s last name, it happens like clockwork, whenever Gene trips Sam up, away from his self-made schemes. It doesn’t matter what it is, he always wants some kind of convincing, he can be so set in his ways.
“You are not the boss of me, Hunt.”
And Bingo was his name, oh.
“I think you’ll find it’s in my job description, actually. Just under ‘catch snotty crims’, and interestingly, above ‘maintain Manchester-wide law and order’. They pay me to do it.”
“No. You’re the head of the department. You’re the guiding light. But we all need to be our own bosses in order to succeed. I went to a conference about it, back in Hyde.”
“Should’ve gone in Seek, because I don’t trust anything that comes from that damn place and I’m not gonna be swayed by such sanctimonious snivelling, Samantha. You’re doing as I bloody say. Come with me.”
Sam looks like he’s about two blinks away from not-so-spontaneous combustion, but he swipes his jacket off the back of his chair, and walks over to have a word with Cartwright, who’s been watching the exchange surreptitiously above a manilla folder and has a small smile on her lips, as if she, too, knew where this was heading. She probably did. She’s a smart one, and doesn’t she know it.
When Sam looks about ready to go, Gene grasps his arm and aids him on his way. No one can say he isn’t considerate.
“Please tell me this is worth it, Gene,” Sam says when they arrive at the Cortina, and it catches Gene off guard, because he’d expected the sentiment, but not the tone, not the supplication. For the first time, Gene starts to think perhaps he’s made a mistake.
But if there’s one thing that can be said about Gene, it’s that he doesn’t back down, away or up. He’s going to go full steam ahead.
An hour later they arrive at their destination. Gene walks Sam down the promenade, less Golden Mile than murky mile, to be honest. Blackpool is a bit of a sorry state during the daytime, especially now that fewer people want to visit when they could be jetting off to Spain. The flashing lights are pathetic in comparison to the glaring sun. But Gene chose here during the daytime precisely because there are fewer people around. Gene knows Sam can’t relax in crowds, says it makes him worry about threats from every corner, something about growing up with the ever-present worry a bomb’s gonna go off nearby. Except Sam’s too young for that, so Gene’s never had any idea why he explains it that way.
“Are we chasing a lead?” Sam asks, face scrunched up. “You got word someone’s legged it here?” He shakes his head. “Who? No one’s escaped recently, have they? I’d’ve heard about it.”
“You haven’t taken any of your leave days since you joined my department,” Gene says as answer.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Sam exclaims, loudly enough that a little old biddie walking by looks scandalised. Gene gives her a look of sympathetic apology. Sam winds his shoulders back as if itching to punch. “We’re not here on police business? You dragged me to this hellhole as punishment for working too hard?”
“I brought you here precisely because you see it as punishment rather than reward,” Gene says, slowly, holding Sam’s wrist and pressing a finger into his forehead as punctuation. “Now shut your trap and join me on the dodgems.”
Sam scowls, turns about-face and stalks off back in the direction of the Cortina. He’s quick when he wants to be, the little weasel. Now, usually, Gene Hunt Does Not Run, but he makes an exception here, dashing until he’s ahead of Sam, feet planted, shoulders pulled back, drawing himself up to every inch of his height taller than Sam. It might only be 2 inches, but it counts in moments like this.
“I’m not driving you back just so you can mope about the fact you missed Cartwright getting the same results you would’ve. If you think I wouldn’t leave you to sweat there by the car while I live it up, you’re sorely mistaken. You’ve really only one choice, Sammy-boy, so don’t resist.”
“I hate you.”
There is enough vehement truth in the words that Gene feels a small stab of something like pain in his lower gut, but it might just be a stitch from the unexpected exercise.
“That’s hunger speaking, that is. C’mon, I’ll buy you a chip butty.”
Sam turns his lip up in disgust, but he doesn’t shake Gene off as he takes his shoulder and leads him over to a nearby kiosk. He also takes two large bites of bread and salty fried goodness, ketchup smearing the corner of his mouth, as soon as the proffered treat is handed to him. One of the things Gene’s never had a handle on is how and when Sam adapts. There are those times when he’s resolute, unwavering, steadfast. And then those other times, like right now, when he just bends like a branch in the breeze. Half the time he’s all fight always, half the time he’s resigned in the face of adversity, and it’s perplexing.
But as it means Gene’s won this fight, it’s also gratifying.
“This is surprisingly good,” Sam says around a mouthful, as they continue their saunter past amusements and food carts.
There are a few families around, screaming children under the age of five, and bored-looking teens who should be in school, but the pavement is predominantly empty. Gene takes a bite of his own butty and agrees, it’s damn good. The right level of crisp in the chips, good amount of salt and grease. There’s nothing like wholesome nourishment by the seaside, under the sun and the chill of the air.
“Of course it’s good.”
“You gonna feed me all day?” Sam asks next, looking wistfully at another close food cart. “I haven’t had candy floss in yonks.”
“I’m not your sugar daddy.”
Sam barks out a laugh at this and Gene can’t help but grin in return, proud he’s elicited his desired response.
“Tell you what,” Gene amends. “If you beat me at dodgems, I’ll finance your sweet tooth.”
“How do you win at dodgems?”
“You successfully dodge, obviously.”
“I’ve seen you drive, Gene. You practically run down pedestrians for sport in a five minute journey to the pub.”
“And your point is?”
Sam narrows his eyes at him. They’re back where they’d begun when their argument started, but Sam’s nine times more relaxed now, smearing the last crumbs from his chin. He looks good like this – calmer, self-assured but not arrogant. “You’re on.”
Smashing Sam repeatedly into the barricades while navigating a small metal car is more fun than Gene’s had in his life. Sam’s actually remarkably talented at swerving away and then ramming back into Gene, throwing up a two-fingered salute that a mother and four year old in another car gawk at. Gene hits into him again for good measure, spinning him a full 180. The cars screech to a halt far too quickly and Sam’s hopping out before Gene can challenge him to another round, stalking off again with the strut he must’ve perfected in childhood.
“Where’re you off to?” Gene calls.
“Buying myself a consolation prize,” Sam yells back, and he’s off at the candy floss place, watching the machine whirr when Gene finally disentangles himself from his car’s seat belt, long legs cramping because of how he’d been forced to sit.
Sam goes lazy-eyed and emits a low moan when he takes a first bite of the confectionery, and Gene swallows against his too-dry tongue at how debauched that looks. Gene grabs a handful of Sam’s floss and crams it in his mouth in order to distract himself. It lasts the two seconds the sugar takes to dissolve.
Gene prides himself on knowing exactly who he is and what he wants. Doesn’t surprise himself often when it comes to his actions or his thoughts. It’s not that he’d say everything he does is calculated – but a decent portion is, even if it seems spontaneous to outsiders, even if his moods appear unpredictable and his deeds contradictory. He’s good at recognising when he’s lying to himself and the world.
This thing he feels for Sam is confounding. It’s not the first time he’s had a stirring in his loins because of a bloke – the least said about his time in close quarters with other fit, young men during National Service, the better – but the combination of genuine affection and attraction is frustrating. It’s something he’s only felt for women before. Two women, at that. Despite appearances and proclamations, Gene doesn’t exactly wear his heart on his sleeve. He’s been manfully pretending he’s heartless for two decades or more.
If it was lust without love, he could handle it. If it was love without lust, he’d manage that too. The mixture is the troubling part, the thing he wants to deny. But he can’t, not truly, not when he’s close to Sam, nor when they’re apart.
He cares about him, wants him to be happy, has a niggling suspicion he could make him happy, if given half the chance.
“How do you feel about heights?” Sam asks as he’s licking his fingers with little, mesmerising swipes of his tongue.
“Not fond.”
“Great. Let’s go on the Ferris Wheel next.”
Gene grumbles, but Sam buys the tickets before he can stop him and they get ushered onto a seat within a few seconds. Gene’s stomach twists as they rise higher, looking out above Blackpool. He’d close his eyes, but Sam already looks far too smug.
“I may need to thank you,” Sam says when they’re on the top, eyes wide as he stares at the unending vista before them. Gene’s chest constricts because he’s imagining how many ways his body will mangle, but he has to admit it’s impressive. “It pains me to say it, but it’s true.”
“You never noticed you haven’t taken a break all the time you’ve been with us?” Gene asks, because sometimes when you ask Sam he tells the truth, and sometimes his evasion is just as telling.
“Of course I noticed. But when I’m not working, I don’t know what to do with myself. My days off can be interminable.” Sam gets a distant look in his eye, exhales slowly as they make their descent back to the ground. “I don’t think I was always like this, but it’s been… a while. If I’m not fighting, I don’t know who I am.”
So, that’s it, right there. The reason Gene doesn’t understand Sam is that Sam doesn’t understand himself.
There are many comments Gene could say in response to this, most of them insulting. He could tell Sam the things he’s noticed about him; all the contrary information he’s gathered from extensive observation. He could admit that he has those moments as well, those months and years where the job is his entire world. He could say to Sam that he’s the only person he knows who could overthink what it means to live.
That last one would be a lie, but he likes the self-deprecating raise of Sam’s eyebrows when he realises he’s being a wanker. It almost makes up for the fact he can be the worst of all tossbags on occasion. Almost.
Instead of saying anything, though, Gene just slings his arm around Sam’s shoulders, friendly-like. To his utter amazement and barely concealed joy, Sam leans into him, wraps his own arm around his back, like they’ve done while half-cut and warbling at The Arms.
After several more amusements – Sam’s worryingly adept at shooting down metal ducks, and Gene’s a master of quoits - Gene leads Sam to a photo booth stationed at an abandoned part of the promenade. He has half-formed notions about what he wants. Though he’ll claim he’s never been a sentimental sort, he is, deep down in his core. He likes the idea of having a memento. A strip of film to keep tucked away that’ll serve as a reminder. Or something he can shove in Sam’s face when he’s being his arsiest.
“In you get,” Gene commands with a generous shove. Sam huffs out a sigh and clambers in, sitting in the centre of the small bench. “Shift over.”
“You won’t fit, you big lug,” Sam says, expression comically exaggerated.
“I absolutely will,” Gene counters, pressing Sam deeper into the booth so as to prove his point. He’s just about able to draw the curtain.
They’re squashed in like sardines. It turns out, photo booths aren’t designed for two grown men with broad shoulders and solid frames. Sam wriggles against him and Gene thinks he’s gonna try and climb out over his lap, but instead he’s tucking himself up under his arm again like after the Ferris Wheel, adjusting until they’re pressed so tight Gene can feel the heat of Sam’s skin through their shirts.
“That’s better,” Sam murmurs. He leans forward and presses the button, immediately drawing back again as soon as the machine begins to beep.
The first flash has Gene staring at the camera, not sure what his face is doing, caught unawares. The second, he’s smiling. The third, he’s turned to look at Sam and found his face a quarter of an inch away. The fourth, he’s leaned in and given him a peck on the cheek. It happens within ten seconds, but he feels Sam stiffen beside him, is close enough he can see the shock in his eyes.
It’s entirely possible this has been a risk too many, that Sam’s relationship with Cartwright runs deeper than it appears, that even if it doesn’t he’s never entertained anything of this nature with Gene. He certainly looks flummoxed. He hasn’t made any attempts to move.
“If I’d known the best way to shut you up was to kiss you, I’d’ve done it that first day you turned up at my station,” Gene says, because he can talk himself out of and into any situation of his choosing and flippancy is always his best bet.
“Put more money in the machine,” Sam demands, tone unyielding.
Gene leans out and does as he’s told, because as with all things Sam, he’s curious. The machine’s still ticking and buzzing processing the last strip, but he thinks the camera will work regardless. Curtain redrawn, Gene begins to ask what Sam’s planning when lips are planted against his own and Sam’s fingers tug him insistently closer by his collar. He moans in surprise and that opening has Sam deepening the kiss, licking into his mouth like he owns it.
Gene does not tremble when Sam’s hand cradles the back of his head. It’s a sudden blast of icy air that has his spine shivering. But he does rock into Sam’s kisses, plastering his own hand on his back to keep him where he wants him.
He’s not sure when they stop kissing, but the machine has stopped making noises and he has a fair idea they’d better get out and snatch their strips of film before there are any nosy passers-by. Sam’s got a flush that extends over his cheeks and down his long, thin neck. Gene wants to know how deep it gets under his shirt. He has a sudden flash of memory of Sam tied to his cot and how the tempting pink can reach his belly button. Hell.
He climbs out of the booth gingerly, his trousers feeling tighter than he’d like, and grabs the photos with a clumsy scrabble. Sam follows him a moment later, staring at him warily and Gene, remembering the terror he’d felt not a few moments before, has the urge to calm his fears. He wiggles his eyebrows. It does the trick. Sam unsuccessfully tries to hold back a smile, drawing his hand over the lower half of his face.
Thankfully, the street around them is still deserted. Probably just as well, because he doubts he and Sam are in any way subtle. They start their slow saunter back towards the amusements, the garish lights now serving a purpose as the sun begins to set.
“Even though I didn’t wanna come here, I kinda don’t wanna go back,” Sam muses, glancing around wistfully. “I think maybe the thing I didn’t count on is that it’s nice to get away from being me once in a while.”
“We can’t lose ourselves here, Sam,” Gene says, carefully. “I mean, it’s one long stretch of street. We’d have to be irreparably impaired.”
Sam elbows him, snuffling out a snort. “I know.”
“Anyhow, I don’t think you were any less yourself today.”
“No?”
“No. You grumbled, you argued, you made demands, you dragged me into things I didn’t want just as I did the same to you. Sounds like typical Tyler behaviour to me.”
Sam smiles again and it’s honestly one of the most beautiful sights Gene’s ever had the pleasure to behold. “Alright, then. It’s nice getting away from the constant need to push, and move towards the undeniable desire to push.”
“Much more accurate.”
Back at the Cortina, the light is dim, but Gene brings out the photos and glances at them anyway, angling them so Sam can see too. The first photo of the first strip sees him scowling and Sam looking bemused. The second they’re both grinning like idiots, more of a rictus than a natural expression of happiness. The third Gene’s head is a blur of movement and Sam’s smile has settled into something pretty. The fourth, Gene’s lips are puckered against Sam’s skin and Sam’s expression is complete shock. It’s Gene’s favourite shot of them all.
The other strip has Gene feeling quite randy, truth be told, even though two of the photos are smears of colour rather than discernible shape. The other two are the perfect balance, explicitly showing him and Sam snogging like teens. It’s a view that has Gene shifting in his seat, trying to surreptitiously adjust himself. Sam’s eyes are shut, but there’s still a look of single-minded focus on his face as he kisses Gene. One photo looks simultaneously ravenous and tender. There’s the instant recall of what it felt to have Sam’s tongue against his, the slide of his lips and drag of his fingers.
“Are we gonna share ‘em?” Sam asks, voice oddly hushed. “I like the idea of having something to remember it by.”
“We could, yeah. Could also recreate them in a photo booth closer to home,” Gene suggests, giving what he’s been reliably informed is a rakish grin.
Sam slouches back in his seat, stares at Gene. “Really?”
“You thought that was a one-off?”
“We came all the way to Blackpool, do you blame me?”
“I didn’t bring you here to seduce you, Sam. I brought you here and I seduced you, it’s a whatchamacallit, a correlation not a causation.”
Sam gazes at him steadily. “You’re a man of constant surprises, Gene Hunt. Every time I think I have you figured out, you go and flip me upside down again.”
Gene can’t decide how to respond to that. All this time he’s been attempting to solve the mystery that is Sam, while Sam’s been trying to do the same to him. Oddly, it makes sense. He has to admit that he can be made up of contradictions too, that part of him is always at war with another. That until Sam, he never wanted to admit it.
Gene settles on giving Sam a long and lingering once-over. “Good,” he says. “I like the idea of keeping you on your knees.”
“That’s not how that phrase goes.”
“It is now.”
Perhaps what Gene is, when it comes down to it, well, just maybe, he’s also a study in when opposites collide and fuse together.
And he and Sam are complementary puzzles, each soft and hard, inflexible and malleable, jaded and enthusiastic, clever and oh-so-foolish, so that when they slide into contact, there’s a magnetic attraction that impels them to stay close.
Gene realises he doesn’t want to spend forever thinking about that, though. He wants to learn how they fit through action and movement. Wants to feel Sam against him once more, pressed tight. Wants to touch him just as much as he wants to gaze at him. Remembering that he now has permission has him heating up in anticipation.
“Home?” he asks, voice surprisingly raspy considering all they’ve shared so far is a few kisses.
Sam looks outside and around the car, furtive-like, then leans in and presses a closed-mouthed yet stingingly hot kiss against Gene’s lips.
“Home,” he repeats.