Stamina, by bistokids (NC-17)

[jantalaimon.livejournal.com]

Fandom: LIFE ON MARS.
Author: bistokids
Author's fic site: Bistokids' Fic Index
Pairing: Sam/Gene
Word count: 3067.
Why this must be read: It's a follow-on from bistokids' earlier Fitness First, wherein the general and overall level of fitness amongst members of Manchester CID in 1973 is called into question. Some, however, were a bit confused as to where the slash came into play. "Stamina" was written to stop this particular line of questioning before it could get too far. It's not only hot, but hilarious into the bargain. I'm posting it today because if you're in the US, chances are you're feeling fairly bloated and perhaps even a bit ill right now from being overstuffed. Therefore, Dr. Janni suggests you take in a bit of both "Fitness" and "Stamina" and call me in the morning if you're still feeling any...untoward cramping. ;)

Shift over, Sam declined the general offer of the customary pint in the Arms, preferring to make his way back home. He stopped off briefly at the off licence, choosing a respectable-looking bottle of single malt. His mother had brought him up to make sure you had something in when you were expecting visitors. And he was expecting a visitor tonight.

He pottered aimlessly round the poky flat, flicking through the few channels on the television, picking up odds and ends left scattered around, washing up the breakfast things. Tried not to check the clock more than once every two minutes, but still jumped when he heard the expected pounding which, in the circumstances, was the equivalent of a polite tap. Taking a deep breath, he pulled open the door.

A pair of blazing green eyes bored into his own.

“Tyler.” There was a distinct edge to Gene’s tone.

“Hunt,” Sam responded in kind, his gaze calculatedly cool, assessing. He allowed his eyes to flicker down and back up, raking over the DCI with deliberate insolence, before turning away. “You’d better come in.”

Obediently enough, Gene followed Sam into the flat, the door slamming shut behind him. Sam poured two generous measures of the whisky, passing one across, and the two men shared a wordless moment of appreciation of the fine peaty taste, before Sam punctured the harmonious silence.

“So. Guv. Was there something you wanted?”

Gene took another gulp, set the glass carefully down.

“Funny you should ask, Tyler. I distinctly recall you raising a few questions about my physical abilities this morning. In front of my own team an’ all.”

“That’s right, now you come to mention it.” Sam smiled; a self-satisfied, angelically innocent beam designed purely to wind up the DCI. “I don’t recall seeing much evidence of the famous Hunt stamina when you were collapsed in a heap on the playing fields. Or am I forgetting something?”

Gene maintained his calm façade with admirable fortitude, acknowledging the hit with nothing more than a slight widening of the eyes.

“Does being a smug git come naturally to you, or do you have to practise?” His tone the very model of friendly enquiry. Sam’s grin widened.

“I do, actually. I fit it in between keeping fit enough to do my job properly, and pissing off overweight obnoxious senior officers.”

“Is that right?” Gene took a couple of steps forward, narrowing the gap between them, Sam’s smile faltering in the face of the menacing bulk of the obnoxious senior officer in question. Reaching out with one open hand, he delivered a light slap to Sam’s cheek before moving downwards to claim the forgotten whisky glass, placing it next to his own without breaking eye contact. Sam swallowed involuntarily, but held the gaze, breathing fast and shallow as the air between them seemed to fizz. Finally, Gene stepped back.

“You up for a small wager, Tyler?”

“A – a what?”

“A wager. A bet. Stakes to be decided after the event. Take it in turns, and whoever – lasts longest – wins. If you get my drift.”

Stamina