But where could they go, bearing in mind that Gene, at least, would be known in a lot of places, and I doubt he'd be willing to risk giving anyone that sort of blackmail worthy material. So hotels and B&Bs are out. Even if he paid cash and gave a fake name, I doubt he'd risk it. Warren might have had access to a few understanding residences, but that's gone by the wayside, and would Gene really risk dragging Sam to a safehouse, presuming they even have any? Then the little room Nathan Fisher's dead dad used to rent out was remembered, and that's what inspired this fic: Six Feet Under.
Notes: Life on Mars, Sam/Gene, rated M for sexual references.
They lay across the bed at angles to each other, sated and half dreaming. Gene ran a lazy and casually possessive hand up and down Sam's thigh, over the rise of his buttocks to the small of his back and down again, watching the smile that teased at the corner of Sam's mouth as he did so. Not quite asleep, then.
"What do you think about? He asked softly, not expecting an answer, but Sam's eyes opened and regarded him.
Sam considered just what had been tumbling through his mind. Up until Gene had asked, his thoughts had just been pebbles on a beach, washing back and forth. Wanting to go, needing to stay, the greater part of him now wanting to be here, right here, right in this moment, and never leave, and the anguish it caused him, the realisation that piece by piece, the life he remembered was slipping away. That he was letting it.
He'd also been idly curious about this room. It was just a small dingy one room flat, located above a seedy looking jewellers that looked more hoc shop than anything else, a jeweller who owed Gene favours and discretions, the one who had sold Gene the very gold chain that Sam now wore, the jeweller who was quiet happy to have one or two cops lodging above his premises for the night, no questions asked.
Sam also wondered how long Gene had rented this room, at very favourable rates, no doubt, and for what purpose. How long had the heap bed been here, or the boxes of old cases files, sprouting folders and crime scene photos, or the uneven shelves of books that looked actually read, unlike the ones that lined Gene's front room bookshelf, for display purposes only. He especially wondered about the box of old vinyl LPs tucked away in the corner, and the turntable to play them, next to an old art deco radio.
Was it Gene's retreat from his wife and the furniture he wasn't allowed to sit on, or was it just a place to store old files and crap he hadn't yet the heart to get rid of, or was it something more sinister? Sam wildly imagined various scenarios involving forgery, smuggling and skulduggery.
Sam wondered if he was the first person Gene had ever invited up here, and he wondered at the sharp shiver of jealousy at the thought that he wasn't. He hadn't had time to ask any of this when he'd first been shown Gene's little hideaway. They'd fallen on each other before the door had even properly closed, Sam pulling up Gene's shirt and singlet and kissing his way across Gene's torso while Gene had tried to wrestle Sam's own clothes from him.
Nor could Sam find the words to ask why Gene was looking at him that way now, serious, sincere, as though the whole world began and ended with Sam and nothing else mattered. Not that Sam really had to.
In the end, Sam just blinked and answered: "Stuff."
Amusement instead of annoyance flickered in Gene's eyes.
"Just as well," he teased. "Sometimes I think I'd go mad if I really knew what went on in that head of yours. Best keep it to yourself, but just let me in, now and then, when it suits you."
"I'm happy here," Sam told him, letting him have that much. In fact, he was surprised he said it at all. For someone who was always pulling away and wanting to be somewhere else, it was quite a paradigm shift.
"You only like it because I'm good in bed," Gene teased, prowling closer, his breath tickling the fine auburn hairs that shone like golden down on Sam's pale skin. Such pale skin.
"Like ice cream," Gene observed, biting softly on one cheek, then biting again, nipping, when Sam giggled. He planted a long, slow kiss at the base of Sam's spine, then slowly tickled and dabbled his way south. Sam buried his face in the mattress, muffling his squeals.
There wasn't a square centimetre of Sam that Gene hadn't licked or sucked. It was one of the things that Sam loved best about Gene, and his time. Nothing was out of bounds or untouchable and it was all so innocent, just sweet, sticky fun. He squealed again. No one had ever made him feel like this. Not just what Gene was doing to him with fingers and tongue but the way he often looked at Sam, with trust, belonging and that lightning flash of understanding in his eyes, it made Sam swim with pleasure, like he was bathing in champagne, tickled by froth and bubbles as the warmth broke over him.
He'd come and Gene had turned him gently onto his back and was kissing him earnestly. Eyes still closed, Sam's arms found their way around Gene naturally, fitting perfectly as though they were made to be fitted together, like lock and key. He returned Gene's kisses, opening his mouth and arms to him.
He didn't know why he should care, why he should feel this way, if this was nothing but a dream. He was true at least in one thing: he was happy here. Gene made him feel complete, better than their two halves. Together, they made something so special, so good. There had to be a reason why he was here. Maybe this was it. Maybe he was thinking too much. Maybe he should just feel the man in his arms, and what that man was doing to him. And it was just nothing but the dream of a dying man, it was the wet dream to end them all.