Title: Thank You, Gene
Fandom: Life on Mars
Disclaimer: I don’t own these characters or their universe. BBC/Kudos do. I’m not making any money out of this.
Rating: Blue Cortina for language
Pairings: I wouldn’t want anyone to think I’d written gen, so let’s call it pre-slash. Sam/Gene, obviously.
Word Count: 447
Summary: Gene just has to talk to him and Sam feels better.
A/N: I’m know I’m not the only one struggling with various things at the moment, and I hope this will help a little. I started this afternoon very much where Sam is at the beginning of this fic, and writing it brought me to where he is at the end of it. Thank you, Gene.
Thank You, Gene
“Fucking arse!” Sam banged the phone down and leapt up from his seat. As he paced the room, he banged the walls and shouted again, finally returning to his seat in a crescendo of kicking and crashing. For a moment it looked as if the desk was going over.
“Shitting fucking useless piece of shit! What am I supposed to do now? Bastard bloody ... “
“Oi, Dorothy! Cut it out, this isn’t a bloody barracks, this is my department...”
Sam kept his fists clenched and his head down as he heard Gene walking casually towards him.
“...A place of professionalism and calm adherence to routine and procedure, or so my picky pain Inspector keeps telling me. Although I’m not seeing so much of the calm professionalism just at the moment.”
Sam took a deep breath and tried to relax enough to explain, but the sheer injustice of it all overwhelmed him again and, almost involuntarily, he smacked a fist down on the desk just as Gene settled himself on the one opposite.
“Come on then, tell Uncle Gene. What’s got your no-doubt sparkly clean knickers in such a twist this beautiful Summer’s evening? Girlfriend let you down? Voices on the phone stopped telling you what to do?”
Sam ignored the gibes and looked up at Gene. “It just makes me so bloody angry. Every time I think I’m getting on top of things, some bastard bloody thing goes and blows it all up. Right now I am so fucking pissed off I just want to break something.”
Gene looked at him thoughtfully. “You know, Sam, I haven’t heard language like that since Carling let slip to Dickie Fingers’ old lady about the sheep. It’s almost a relief to find you do actually know plain old Anglo-Saxon, you normally talk like you’ve swallowed a bloody dictionary.”
“Yeah, well, sorry. It’s just, where I.... Ah, forget it. I’m calming down now.”
“There, you see. Little chat with your Uncle Gene and everything seems better. And yes, a beer or three might be considered appropriate repayment. Kind of you to offer.”
“...er, right. Thank you, Gene.”
“Don’t mention it, Sammy boy. All in a day’s work – bang up blaggers, put away pornographers. Defuse Detective Inspectors. Hurry it up then, me stomach thinks me throat’s cut.”
Sam smiled, reluctantly. For all Gene’s rough treatment of prisoners, and his less than sympathetic attitude to many of Sam’s ideals, a few minutes in his company always had a strangely calming effect.
“You’re on. And if you’re really nice to me I’ll stand you a Scotch as well.”
Gene stopped at the door and grinned without looking back. “Took that for granted, Sam.”