Rating: White Cortina
Summary: a little fic for fern_tree! She requested Sam and Gene on a stakeout. My brain provided what I hope is entertaining and worthwhile banter.
At three in the morning Gene woke with a snort, jerking to awareness with what he fancied was catlike grace. Tyler, arms wrapped tight around himself on the other side of the Cortina, gave him a slow, weary look. Not disgust, not anger or scorn. There was a hint of a sympathetic smile around the corners of his mouth.
"Oi," rasped Gene. "Where's the tea?" Sam unwrapped himself enough to rummage around in the bag he had thoughtfully packed and placed in the car prior to their Christmas Eve stakeout. He handed over the Thermos cup. Gene took it thankfully and downed a few swigs of still warm, milky tea. "Anything happening?"
"Not a peep," said Sam, back to staring out the window at the rear entry of the dilapidated warehouse. "I'm almost ready to bet that McPherson made that call just to yank our chains on Christmas Eve."
"No. He's one of my most reliable snouts. Georgie-boy wouldn't lie to me. This is going to pay off, Sam."
Sam sighed, shifted. His shoulders, though tightly wound were shuddering visibly.
"If you thought I might not notice, you've forgotten that I am in fact your superior officer." Gene whisked the blanket off his own lap and tossed it into Sam's. "I'm not a girl and I didn't need coddling."
"You were snoring like a train until I tucked you in," Sam countered. Gene was glad to see that he wasn't above wrapping the brown wool around himself.
"I don't snore on stakeout."
Gene snorted. He unbuttoned his jacket and retrieved a flask from the interior pocket, and then buttoned it back up quickly. The night air was cold, no matter how he blustered. Sam had offered to bring two blankets. Next time he'd take him up on it. Or if they sat closer they could share. He took a gulp of whisky and exhaled explosively at the bite.
"Have a drink," he urged Sam, poking him with the flask. Sam extended one hand and took a genteel sip, then returned it. "Mind if I have a fag?"
"They'll see the smoke from the car."
"Not if we keep the windows closed."
Ah, there was the scornful look, full force, too. "You know how I feel--"
"Yeah, all right. No fags. Well, how about the butties?"
"You ate two at midnight."
"I am working up an appetite."
"How? Snoring and drinking?" But Sam was already delving into his bag again, and handed over a paper-wrapped package.
Gene opened it with delight, finding good thick bread with ham and soft cheese and a tangy mustard that was probably french, damn Tyler's girly-fine tastes. He ate it with audible relish, enjoying Sam's occasional looks of frustration almost as much as he enjoyed the sandwich.
"Do you think we can get back to business here?" Sam groused once Gene was finished and had handed the wrapper back to him to tuck away.
"I might go for a slash."
"Okay, but don't slam the door."
Gene opened his door and got out with admirable stealth, but then unzipped and relieved himself mere inches from the open car door.
"For God's sake!" came the response in a furious hiss. "Move away from the vehicle!"
"Not a good idea, that," Gene whispered in return. "Don't want them to spot me." He didn't get any on the Cortina, naturally, and of course he was only doing it to follow Tyler's "orders", but there was something titillating about poking at Sam's uptight nature and sense of propriety. He looked forward to getting back in to one of Sam's most superior, snooty expressions.
He zipped back up, straightened his coat and settled back in, easing the door closed with expertise, and finally looked over at his deputy.
Sam's eyes were wide, and a flush had risen on his fine cheekbones. "You're such a bastard."
"Can't ignore the call of nature."
"You bloody well ignore it until the moment you chose not to."
Gene made an innocent face. "You doubt my word?"
"Ha." Sam turned away again, hunching his shoulders under the blanket. "At least you're predictable. You can be depended on to infuriate me at every turn."
"And you," Gene tapped Sam's shoulder with his flask again, "can be relied on to take care of me on every stakeout." He fumbled in his other pocket and brought out two Crunchie bars, handing one over. "Merry Christmas, my little Deputy Dawg."
They ate in companionable silence, washing down the chocolate with sips of whisky, and when a cautious head emerged from the rear door of the warehouse they leapt in unison from the Ford Cortina with candy-scented roars of righteous indignation.