Sam's heart was in his throat as he parked the car in the deserted road and ran into The Warren.  It was deserted, and he had a feeling Warren wouldn't be waiting for him.  He'd come alone, not because he was worried about whatever Warren would do to Hunt if he didn't, but because he was worried about what had already been done.

Taking the keys to his own cuffs, he adeptly unlocked those around Hunt's wrists and carefully rolled him over onto his side, checking for any life-threatening injuries like a knife wound or a bullet hole.

"No."  Carefully Gene moved his head, left to right.  "No hospitals.  Nowt they can do for me anyway."

"No bastard's putting a needle up there, Sam.  Get me somewhere I can clean myself up and have a very stiff drink."

"Come on, I'll take you back to my place."

Sam listened to the raised voices of a gang of kids walking up the street - out too late for their own good - smashing a glass bottle outside his window and laughing over it. 

He had no idea what time it was, just that he couldn't sleep. 

Since leaving the club he hadn't said much.  At the flat he'd hobbled into the bathroom with Sam's help, had shooed Sam out of the way and emerged twenty minutes later after having had a luke-warm, shallow bath.  The bruising around his ribs was already a vivid purple - at best cracked, at worst broken.  Still there was nothing much a hospital would do over and above strapping them up and ordering him to rest.

"Have the bed," Sam had told him, "I'll take the sofa."

He'd handed him a bottle of scotch, and a glass which he didn't use, and watched helplessly as painfully Gene had made himself as comfortable as he possibly could, hitching over onto his side on the bed, tipping the scotch straight down his throat.

"I don't know what to say."

"We need to do something about him."

"Gene…."

Neither had said anything more.  Gene had very quickly drunk himself into a restless slumber and not long after he'd started to snore Sam had turned out the light.

He guessed Gene was hoping it would all go away, hoping he could pretend it had never happened and eventually the terrible memories would fade to nothing.  Sam thought different.  More likely that it would eat away at him.  That he'd relive the sensations, the pain and humiliation, time and time again, in sleep and in waking nightmares.  That it would tear him apart eventually; Warren would destroy him just as surely as he'd meant to.

He was just on the verge of unconsciousness when his brain picked up a strange sound; soft, almost inaudible. 

Silently, Sam pushed the blanket to the floor and slid off the sofa, crouched down, crawling across the floor the short distance to the bed.

Tentatively reaching out, unsure whether or not to touch, he touched his hand to the side of Gene's head.  He heard his own name muttered in a rough, broken voice, and his heart broke in sympathy. 

"It's okay," he murmured softly, knowing damn well that it wasn't.  He felt the head move under his and wrapped his arm tighter around the shaking man.  "We'll take out Warren, I promise."

He didn't say another word, stroking Gene's arm gently, thumb and fingertips brushing the fine, short blond hairs until finally Gene's body and mind seemed to shutdown and he tumbled slowly into a deep sleep. 

It was a longer time before Sam moved completely away.  He curled up in the corner of the sofa, put his head on his pillow and traced his gaze over Gene's face in the moonlight. 

He had no idea what to do about this, not in this time.  All he could do was take his lead from Gene, lay off his own fight for a while because there was another battle to be won.  And if his responsiveness deteriorated… he was certain Gene would push him hard enough for some reaction to register.  He had to believe that.  Because he was no longer willing to destroy Hunt's world to get back to his own.  Whatever that said about him, so be it.

He woke to the sound of running water and for a while lay still, eyes closed, listening to it.  His brain slowly supplied him with enough information about the previous night for him to put two and two together and take an educated guess as to what Hunt was doing in the bathroom.

Sam sat up, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, and a minute or so later Gene stepped out of the tiny room.

Sam shook his head.  "No problem."

"Okay.  Where's your car?"

Nodding, Sam rose from the sofa.  "Give me five minutes, I'll drive you home then drive you in.  If you're… up to it."

But although Hunt's broad frame was trembling, he made no move to violence, instead he spoke clearly and slowly,

"Gene… denying it isn't going to…."

Sam nodded cautiously, unable to swallow passed Hunt's fingers.  It was a couple of moments before the grip eased and he was released.  A second of silence, then Sam moved away to get washed, shaved and changed.

Despite the circumstances, Sam couldn't help but be fascinated.  He hadn't thought much about the lives of the people he was stuck with - honestly hadn't been sure they didn't just vanish when they weren't in sight. 

"The Missus is out," Gene told him quietly.  Sam wasn't sure if it was an invitation or not, until he added, "if you want to come in…."

The layout was typical for the house, the period.  Lounge at the front, kitchen and dining room at the back, stairs up from the chocolate-orange coloured hall.  Gene vaguely waved him through to the lounge by way of a white, wooden door before he vanished up the orange and blue pattern carpet on the stairs.

The dining room was large, with an oval Rosewood dining table and six matching chairs taking up most of the space, glass-fronted cupboards on the walls, dark brown carpet and a big window looking out over a neat lawn.

Here were the photos Sam had been looking for.  Aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews.  The usual wedding photo; Gene in a brown suit with an orange kipper tie, Mrs Hunt in a white dress that appeared to cover every part of her body except her face and a bouquet of white and orange flowers. 

Looking around him, he wondered why the Hunts didn't have children - was it a case of couldn't or wouldn't?

Sam turned away guiltily from the mantelpiece, as if caught doing something he shouldn't have been.  Just curiosity, Guv.  He was paid to be curious after all. 

Stopping in front of him in the doorway - approaching carefully, certain that Hunt would bolt - Sam lifted his fingers slowly to the injuries, tracing them with a feather-light touch.

Sam could do nothing but follow.

He could have taken a wild guess too at what would happen when they reached the station.  Gene had probably known for certain. 

But Sam was the only one who'd dare to ask.  The others would spread rumours amongst themselves, talk about him behind his back, and Gene would know.  But no one would say anything to his face, and no one would ever question him about it.

By the time he came out the whispered rumours were already circling.  As Sam was the most common cause of the Guv's changes in moods recently, most of them blamed him - he'd done something stupid, most likely, drop-kicked the DCI into the shite.  Sam didn't care.

No one would ever get close to the truth - the idea just wasn't in the collection of possibilities.

"Right.  I want everything there is on Stephen Warren.  Every alleged assault, every reported complaint, every unsolved death he's been linked with.  I want enough to bury him under so deep he never sees the light of day and I want it now."

~

Sam had no idea what time it was, stuck in the basement surrounded by open files.  He felt responsible.  They'd arrested Warren after Sam had pushed Gene to find the evidence against him for Joni's murder, but Warren had got off when the man they'd threatened into giving him up had turned up dead in the river.  With no witnesses to impress his guilt on a jury, Warren had walked free.  His attack on Hunt had been retaliation, a warning more serious than the one he'd sent Sam.

He glanced at his watch.  It was gone eight.  The others would have cleared out to the pub long ago.  Ironic that if they knew the reason for it they'd been down here with him, although half of it would have been an instinctive need to stay out of Hunt's way.  Neither Chris nor Ray would know how to face the Guv if they knew.

Only when he reached the Railway Arms did he start to worry.  Gene wasn't in there, getting slaughtered as Sam had expected.  No one had seen him since lunchtime.  It was, Sam was surprised to realise, only the second time he'd wished for the mobile phone to have been invented.  There was no way of finding Hunt, save for putting out an APB on the car.

But half a pint of larger later, he decided he'd waited long enough.  And by the time he got into his car and started the engine, starting to think about where to start looking, he was worrying that Hunt had gone after Warren on his own.

"Alpha 2, respond."  Sam reached for the ancient in-car telephone that was cutting-edge technology in these days.

"Alpha 2.  Shooting at The Warren, please attend."

"The Guv?  Haven't heard from him all day."

Sam sat in his car, face in his hands, trying to blot out what he'd seen in Stephen Warren's office.

He deserved it.  Even in Sam's 2006, politically-correct, modern-standards-of-policing brain, he deserved it.  But the idea that Hunt had shot him in cold-bloodied revenge didn't sit quite right.  Gene wasn't a murderer.  He was hurting and he was humiliated, but to shoot Warren, to kill him… Sam hoped he was better than that.

Sam drove out to the suburban home he'd been to that morning.  The lights were on downstairs but the Cortina wasn't anywhere to be seen and the last thing Sam wanted was to meet the Missus.

Hunt's car was parked down a side-street and Sam's heart was racing by the time he'd run up the stairs to his flat.

Inside, the room was dark, but by the moonlight slicing in through the slit in the curtains Sam could see Hunt sitting on the sofa, bottle in one hand, shoulders hunched over.

"Stephen Warren's dead."

"What?"

Gene's breath escaped his lungs in one breath of soul-deep relief.  He stared for a long time and must have seen something in Sam's face because suddenly he said, "You think… Sam, I didn't….."

"Oh, Christ…."

Eventually he felt Hunt trying to sit up and he let him go, dropping back to sit on his heels, watching as Gene put the bottle down and reached a shaking hand out to the sofa cushion next to him to pick up his fags and lighter.

"Tonight, only a couple of hours ago."

"Yes.  Very.  Whoever did it... put three pencils where the sun don't shine."

"Yeah."  It was difficult to resist the urge to touch, to comfort.  "Have you eaten anything?"

"You need to see a doctor."  But he already knew what the answer to that would be.  "Just... keep the wounds clean."  He let the full meaning of that settle in, knew when it had when Gene's head dropped, moving side to side.  "You need to eat.  Let me make you something."

"How about an omelette?"

"Saw a lot of this did you, in Hyde?"

"Blokes?"

"How did they deal with it, Sam?  ....  Because I don't think I am."

"You're doing fine."

Reaching across the gap between them, Sam put his hand on Gene's shoulder and squeezed gently.  "They'll never know if you don't tell them.  He's dead.  He's not going to tell another living soul."

"Did you see flashes?  Did you hear a camera?"  Gene shook his head quickly.  "I doubt Warren would have wanted evidence of what he'd done any more than you do."

"Have you told the missus?" he asked carefully a couple of minutes later.

"I just thought... she'd noticed there was something wrong."

"She'd still care if you'd been hurt...."

"It's okay."

"Eat that."

"Herbs."

"I'm blaming you if that hurts like buggery when it comes out the other end.  No pun intended."  Gene managed a smile at his own wise-crack as Sam washed up the plate, smiling back over his shoulder.  "Thanks, Sam.  For... this."

And for a couple of seconds they sat and looked at one another.

"Don't.  Stay.  Have the bed."

"Neither's the mattress."

It was quiet outside tonight.  Quiet inside too.  He didn't think for a second that Gene was asleep but he gave him the space and time he needed, lying awake himself until words were spoken in the darkness, rough, painful to say.

Sam didn't know how to respond so he said nothing.  He wasn't sure a reply was needed anyway.

"It wasn't sex," he murmured softly, "it was rape, violence.  It's about power, you know that."

"Them?"

Sam hesitated, not sure the words in his head were the right ones for the moment.  Not sure if they were even the ones he wanted to say.  But he couldn't help himself.  "It isn't, Gene."

Sam swallowed.  No was the truth, but not the whole truth.  Still, he could say it so easily and Gene would never know, would never be able to throw it back in his face when it suited him. 

"It's not the same," he half-whispered into the dark, eyes closed, cheek against the cold pillow.

"Sex, with a man.  It isn't rape.  It's… hard, yes, brutal at times, but never cruel.  It can be good, great.  It's passion and desire, it's…."

He struck out on pure instinct, not wanting to hurt Gene anymore than he already was but needing to defend himself, to stop this before it became a fight like the one in the hospital. 

"Gene?"

He heard the bed creak for a second time and against the dull light coming in from the window he could make out Gene's head just above the mattress.  Sam slid off the sofa onto the floor, sitting with his back to the cushions, watching the barely visible movement of Gene's head dropping back against the bed.

"For what?  Hitting me?  Or telling me I should have enjoyed Warren's advances?"  He spat the last two words across the gap between them.

"Because you're not listening.  You don't want to hear it and believe me, I can understand why."

"I know you didn't."

Carefully, Sam reached out and ghosted the backs of his fingers over the hair at the base of Gene's neck.  He thought Gene would shrug him off but instead, after a minute or so, he silently leaned just slightly into the touch.

"I've told you things I've never told a living soul.  I've told you things I would never, ever tell Ray and he's been my best friend for longer than I can remember."

"How did you know Warren was gay?"

"Before.  When Joni cuffed me to the bed."

"Anyway, after I'd nodded in all the right places and shaken his hand, they told me to go get a drink in the bar while they discussed some private business.  I was curious, ambitious, so I got a pint and snuck back into the room - wanted to know what they were talkin' about.  But they weren't talking.  My Guv was still sitting in his chair with Warren on his knees in front of him, sucking him off.  It was a dead giveaway."

"It said he preferred to have his willy sucked rather than cash in his hand.  I'm not homophobic, Sam, I just don't - didn't - like Warren."

The bed complained as it was used as a brace, then Gene's bulk rose up in front of Sam, gingerly settling onto the mattress on his side.

Again he lay awake listening to Gene's rhythmic breathing and replaying in his head what he'd said about the beer shower, wondering how Sam tasted, and the part about throwing him up against a wall to do something other than fight.

In the morning it was the same routine; to Gene home for him to wash and change, then on to the station.

'Darling - there are eggs and bacon in the fridge if you're home for breakfast, and there's a photo of you next to our bed - so that I don't forget what you look like.'

They left again without setting foot in the kitchen; Gene in a better-fitting, dark grey suit, blue shirt but once more without a tie (and this time Sam felt guilty for adding to the bruises on his throat).

Ray was checking the racing results. 

But a more commanding voice outside his head was already demanding to know who the primary suspect was.

"Wasn't it... isn't it all electro-shock therapy these days?"

Chris perked up.  "Not... entirely, Sir.  It stank in there."

"Go back, search the office and the club if you have to. Find it."

"Sam, go with him."

"Forensics are saying they don't think there are any usable fingerprints on the pencils," Chris told Sam as he drove over to The Warren for the third time in as many days.  "Murderer must have worn gloves when he… pushed them into Warren," there was a gruesome underlying note in Chris' voice, "blunt end first."

Sam stopped for a traffic light, those three words playing over and over in his head, Chris' voice becoming Gene's.

He hadn't looked closely enough to see that detail when he'd been in Warren's office last night.  But when he'd told Hunt that the man was dead, told him about the pencils, he'd said those same three words and it hadn't been a question.  It had been a statement.  A confession.

"I'll drop you at the club," he told Chris, "I need to speak to the coroner."

"What was the cause of death?"

Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes.  "The pencils...."

"Was he alive when they were inserted?"

"But why fight with him, then shoot him?  Why not just shoot him?  I mean, it's a deliberate shot.  They weren't fighting for the gun and it went off."

He drove back to the club, where Chris was already waiting outside.

"No, Boss.  Just that Warren smoked the same cigarettes as the Guv."  Off Sam's confused expression, he explained, "Found an empty packet on the floor under the desk."

It would never, ever cross Chris' mind that Gene Hunt had anything to do with Warren's death.  Even if he knew what Warren had done he probably still wouldn't have drawn the same suspicious conclusions Sam had.

Proof, perhaps.  Evidence that Gene had been there that night.  Was he so sure Sam would dispose of anything he found, so sure he'd protect him?

Gene was at his desk, feet up, head back, snoring softly.  And for a couple of seconds Sam stood in the doorway and watched him.  Then he backed out and closed the door behind him.  Gene wouldn't kill in cold blood, he decided without proof. 

Sam went, taking his theories with him, into the lion's den.

"Find anything at Warren's?"

Sam sat down in the chair opposite.  He couldn't remember if he'd ever sat in here before - before all this, all that had been between them was challenge and tension interspersed with moments of harmony.

But he didn't want to guess, he wanted to know.  "What happened?"

That assessing gaze dropped away from him, chin staying in his palm as his talked.  "I went to see him, to warn him that if he ever came near me again I'd shoot him; that we were through.  He was alone, I don't know where his goons were but he was just sitting behind his desk, grinning.  He said I'd make a good bum boy and he got up, came towards me.  I hit him and fought - proper man-to-man stuff I thought.  But his hands on me just reminded me and the next thing I knew I had him face down across his desk and I was yelling at him.  He was struggling and I'll never know where the strength came from, but I pinned his hands behind his back and tore his trousers down.  There were… pencils and pens on his desk, I grabbed a few and rammed them up his arse.  He was screaming and I saw the blood….  I told him that's how serious I was and left, went over to your place where you found me.  I didn't kill him, Sam, unless the pencils were the cause of death."  Sam shook his head.  "I didn't shoot him."

Gene smiled, sat back.  "Liar.  Last night you did, before you told me he was dead."

"I don't care about finding his killer, Sam.  You know that."

"You're putting a lot of trust in me."

"No.  I can live with this, I know you can.  You didn't kill him.  Even if you had…."

~

"Play," Sam told him quietly.  "They need you."  He wasn't talking about Gene's throwing skills and by the expression on the tired face, Gene got that.  But he downed half a pint in less than a minute and snatched the darts out of Chris' hand to the loud, drunken applause of both sides.

"Is Mr Hunt all right?"  The question took him by surprise - Nelson leaning over the bar wiping a beer glass with a blue-striped T-towel which caused Sam a momentary flashback to his own kitchen - the one in the factory studio apartment in 2006.  Never had his home - his time - felt so very far away.

The match finished, the pub emptied out, Nelson locked the doors. 

"I'm just going home," he started to reassure, and still Gene stood there, looking everywhere but straight at him.

The question became suddenly obvious, and bemused, Sam nodded.  "Come on.  On the way you can tell me what's going on between you and your missus so that you haven't seen each other in three days."

"Do you still feel like you don't belong here?"

"I've always belonged here, from the moment I was born.  But since the other night, everything's wrong.  I feel like a fish out of water."  He glanced across at Sam, sharing the joke.

"Thank goodness for that.  Wouldn't want to upset your fragile sensibilities."  The gentle humour in his voice made Sam smile. 

"Certain of that are you?"

Gene sighed deeply, bringing his coat tighter around him.  "Between you and me, Sammy-boy, you've touched me more over the last three days than she has in a year."

There didn't seem to be anything more to say on the matter, so he let it drop and they carried on walking in a strangely comfortable silence.

"It's your bed, Sam."  It isn't.  But he didn't say it.  "Besides, I'm used to sleeping on sofas, believe me."

In one final move he lay on his side, hands pushed under the pillow, facing where Gene was lying.

It was a while before Gene spoke; Sam thought he'd already gone to sleep but he didn't sound at all sleepy.

Sam frowned in the dark.  "Like what?"

"Lines?  White lines?  Lines of coke?  Double yellows?"

Time to blur a few lines of his own.

Something told him he hadn't gone too far, but the silence stretched long enough to make him think he wasn't going to get a response.

"Yeah."

"It's not a pre-requisite."

"There doesn't necessarily have to be beer."

"Why?"

Tentatively putting out his hand, he touched soft hair, ran the back of his thumb over pockmarked skin, around the shell of Gene's ear.

Gene leaned hesitantly into his fingers.  "I could have killed Warren."

"I wanted to."

He curved his palm around the shape of Gene's head, fingers sliding through hair like silk threads.

Leaning in so that the tip of his nose brushed Hunt's, he moved his head, left to right, then tilted it down.  "Don't have to."

It was better than good.  Gene's kiss was slow, sensuous; when his tongue slid lazily over Sam's, Sam pushed forward, Gene's arms went around his shoulders, and they fell, landing between the sofa and the bed, Sam climbing over Gene's lap, still mouth to mouth.

"This is wrong, Sam."

"I suppose Hyde's full of blokes holding hands."

"Pornography is sex.  It has its place as long as everyone's consenting."

Sam didn't feel the need to point out their current situation.  He momentarily considered backing off, but Gene's hands were still at his waist, just holding on loosely, so instead he pushed his fingers through the hair at the back of Gene's neck, caressing gently like it meant nothing.

'Why doesn't she touch you?'

He followed the line of Gene's spine down with his thumbs, moving them under the collar of his shirt, tracing tiny circles on the hot skin, reaching to touch under the material.

Still straddling him, Sam didn't change the slow, methodical massage, bringing his hands around to the front, sliding over the collarbone down to unfasten just one button.

"Sam…."  His name on a breath, more erotic than Gene could have possibly meant to it be.

Gene's hands stroked a long path around and up, roaming his back, coming up to settle uneasily at his bare shoulders, tucking under the wide straps of his vest. 

Gene jerked under him, groaning into the kiss, pressing up into Sam's palm.

He expected a nod, a gesture, not the murmured, "yes," in response.  Carefully he unzipped Gene's fly, sliding his hand inside, into his underwear, contacting hot, hard flesh, lifting the solid, thick cock into his hand, brushing the tip with his thumb.

Hands clutched at him, at his shoulders and arms, eyes now open then closed, acceptance and denial in equal measures.

Wrapping a strong grip around Gene's erection, Sam set a steady rhythm, using only the pressure he knew he needed to, massaging as well as gently pumping him, pushing the fingers of his other hand into soft blond hair, caressing his scalp, combing, stroking, kissing his mouth, sucking on Gene's tongue when it was slipped into his mouth.

Sam could see it in his expression; Gene straining for a climax that was just out of reach.  He took his fingers from the hair and brushed them over one hard nipple before pinching the brown bud.

When he opened his eyes, they were moist with unshed tears. 

"You okay?"

"Sam."  In a gesture that looked simply alien to him, Hunt was holding out his hand, palm up.  "Please."

The movement was hesitant but Hunt did as he was told, Sam lying behind him carefully, bare chest to the sweat-damp material of Gene's shirt, rubbing his toes along creased trousers.  He folded one arm on the pillow above his head so he could tangle his fingers in the blond hair, while he wrapped the other over Gene, catching his hand over his chest, holding it, palm to palm, knuckles brushing cooling skin.  Kissing the back of his neck gently, Sam murmured, "Get some sleep."

~

Careful not to make the bed creak - difficult when the sound was in the very fabric of the metal of the frame - he moved his hips back, away from the firm warmth of Gene's body.  Last thing Hunt needed was to wake up to a morning erection pressing up against his ass.  The trust he'd shown in Sam was incredible considering what Warren had forced on him, no way Sam was going to breach that.

The night he'd first touched Gene, really touched him, risked a gentle massage to the base of his skull when he lifted his head and hoped Gene was too drunk to remember it.  Too drunk to feel it.

~

Sam stopped as he walked in through the doors of the station and heard the quiet insistence of the young man standing at the front desk, catching Phyllis' eye.  She looked more than relieved to see him, suggesting,

Sam smiled at their visitor.  "What do you need to see DCI Hunt about?"

Sam stepped into Gene's office and closed the door behind him, leaning back on it, looking at Gene as if this was the first time he'd seen him.  It stole his breath to think about how much had changed; the shift in their relationship.  Did they even realise what they'd done?

"Sam…."

Gene let his head slide into his hands.  "Christ, Sam.  Why won't he just stay dead?"

"Okay, okay.  But not alone.  If he knows what happened I'll need you there to stop me from ringing his neck."

"I'll only speak to you," he stammered, pointing at Gene with a subtly trembling finger.

"You'll speak to us both.  DI Tyler here will protect your civil rights, so I wouldn't throw him out if I was you.  Leave it to me and I might start bouncing you around the walls when I get bored of what you've got to say."

Their visitor looked from one to the other and obviously decided to take Hunt's advice.  "It's… Malcolm Tucker.  People call me Mal."

"Stephen Warren.  Like I said."

"I… I killed him."

"I shot him.  I… I were there, that night."  His beady green eyes snapped over to look at Hunt.  "I went to the club.  I heard shouting in