Taken 8/10

Taken 8/10

By: am1019 (amproof on livejournal)

This chapter rating: M to be safe (language, minor m/m sexuality)
Disclaimer: Not mine. If they were, I sure wouldn't do this to them.
Characters: Gene, Sam

What Can't Be Taken Back

"Did you like his prick touching you, Sam?" She was perched in his chair with her legs crossed Indian-style and that damn doll in her lap.

"I'm not talking to you." Sam scrunched up on the end of his bed and massaged his temples. Gene. God. Bruises all over him. No wonder he'd stopped punching Sam so much. Probably hurt to move. Wouldn't go asking for help, though, would he? Just tough it out. Damn machismo.

"Did you want to touch it, Sam?"

"I already was touching it. It was poking my thigh, wasn't it?" Surely the Guv hadn't meant anything by his erection. Sam got a stiff one when he got scared, too. Secret like that, made sense the Guv would have some blood pumping when he was about to be found out. And it had to go somewhere. Sam had felt it bumping against him when Gene held him, but Gene hadn't said anything about it. Well. Not like he would, anyway. Bring attention to one thing in that room, bring attention to it all.

"I mean with your hand. Did you want to wrap your fingers around it and give it a pull?" He stopped rubbing his head and glared at her.

"Little girls should not be saying things like that—especially not little girls who exist in my imagination."

"Well. Maybe you're a pervert."

"You mean 'gay'. There's nothing wrong with being gay. But I'm not… Please go away." He wasn't… No. He couldn't say that he wasn't gay because he'd had experiences. When he was young, a teenager, with other boys all standing around looking at each other, but they didn't touch. And it wasn't really gay. It was just being young. But he thought if he did it again as an adult, it would be gay. He didn't really mind the thought of doing it again. So. He couldn't say he wasn't gay. And he really couldn't say it when the answer was that yes, he did kind of want to 'give it a pull' and see what happened. But not until he sorted out whether or not the Guv felt the same.

The television switched to a program. It was Vic, standing in front of the blackboard giving a lecture on math. Sam hadn't known his father was able to explain calculus. His head was all in one piece. He looked like himself. He wielded the chalk with aplomb. Sam and the Test Card Girl watched for a few moments. Then she had to ruin it.

"Do you feel bad that you killed your daddy?"

"I didn't…"

"If you'd arrested him like you were supposed to, he would be in prison now, and he wouldn't have been near that explosion. He might have been killed in prison, though." She seemed to be attempting to be helpful. She rearranged the doll on her lap.

"This is not an improvement in the conversation." He reached forward and turned the volume up on the television.

"Do you want to talk about Gene's prick again?"

"No."

He leaned up and tapped the television. "Dad? I'm here."

Vic carried on with his lecture.

"Good night, Dad." It was going to be good, he thought, having his dad on the television where he could see him whenever he wanted. He gave the television a hug.

"That's not really him, Sam," she said.

"I know that."

Sam put himself to bed. He reached up to turn off the light, glancing towards the chair as he did, another "good night" on his lips, but she and the doll were gone. He fell back on the pillow. What was he thinking? Was she so much a part of his life now that he would wish her well as he drifted to sleep?

He stood in Gene's kitchen, wondering how he got there. Gene was standing at the counter, spreading butter onto a slice of bread. Its companion lay beside it, heaped high with Cornish beef. He either hadn't noticed Sam or was expecting him to talk to his back.

"I hurt you." Sam didn't know why he said this, but it seemed appropriate, somehow, especially when Gene put the butter knife down, closed the sandwich, and turned to face him. His tie was off, and collar open, even though he still wore his jacket. His chest was hairless and pink, and Sam wanted to touch it. He stepped towards him, hands outstretched. Gene didn't move as Sam laid a tentative finger on him.

"I'm so sorry, Guv." His vision fogged as his eyes brimmed with tears. Gene swam in front of him, dividing under his wavering focus. Sam wondered what he was apologizing for. That smart comment from the day he got thrown in the boot, probably. Or refusing to give him the lyrics to Les Miserables. Or losing it in the shower over his dad. He could take his pick. Probably hurt the Guv's feelings. If he had feelings…

"It's all right, Sammy boy. You were out of your head. We'll call it done, yeah? Bridge under the water and all that." Gene offered a token pat on Sam's arm and started to move aside. His expression was unreadable.

"I didn't know." Sam's hand snaked into Gene's hair, stopping him. Feeling like himself and yet not, Sam seemed to watch from someplace deep within as he pressed his tear-drenched cheek against Gene's face.

"But now that I remember, all that I want..." He stopped to kiss his earlobe gently "...is to do it again."

Something stirred in his belly as he spoke, and it came alive into flame as he felt Gene tense against him. He yanked Gene's head backwards by the hair and drove his knee into the Guv's crotch. Gene gasped and dropped like a boulder off a cliff. No question about the expression now. It was fear, out and out, facing up at him.

"This time, Gene, I'll give you a night we'll both remember." Sam looked down at the man on his knees. He played his fingers through Gene's hair and grinned. He understood now.

And he felt good.

"…of course what you have to remember when you hurt someone, is that eventually they'll hurt you back. You can spend the rest of your life waiting, watching…. Is that any way to live?" Vic said.

Sam's eyes popped open. He sat up, clawing the sheets off himself. Fuck. A dream. Only a dream. He scrubbed sweat off his arms, freezing. He hadn't…he wasn't… Fuck. On the television, his father continued his advice, abandoning the math for the moment.

"Looking over your shoulder, not sure if you're one step ahead, or one step behind?" Vic peered into the camera. "That is why you must never, ever hurt anyone, children. Now go back to sleep, Sammy. It's only a bad dream. Never let your guard down, son. Not even for a second. And remember that Daddy loves you." He pressed his hand to the screen, and Sam stretched towards it with his own. He laid his palm on the warm screen, static crackling against his skin. Too soon, Vic turned back to the blackboard and announced that next week he would be back to explain string theory. Sam sat back on his heels, prepared to wait, but the screen went dead and she was back. He switched her off and went into the bathroom to splash water on his face.

Where had that dream come from? Why would he think he had raped Gene? It was his brain overworking, he decided. Trying to explain getting crammed in the boot and driven around and the new voice he was hearing. Gene didn't need an excuse to rough him up, did he? Except he'd always had one before… Gene didn't even punch crims without a reason. Sam toweled his face and went to put his shirt on. He'd go see Gene. That was probably the best thing to do. Gene was just stressed from the attack, and he was taking it out on Sam. That's all it was. Or else, he was attracted to Sam, couldn't handle it, and was roughing him up instead. Well. If that were true, then Hunt had had a hard on for him from the start. He finished dressing and left, ignoring the feeling that what he was doing was as far from wise as possible.

He grabbed a cab on the lonely corner and gave directions to the Guv's house. It was past one in the morning, but he had no concerns that the man would be asleep. The cabbie's radio was playing Chet Baker. Sam tapped along on his knee. Between trumpet blasts, someone called his name, sounding desperate and angry or maybe just one or the other, but it wasn't strong enough to overpower the music, and when Chet started on a long riff, the voice died out altogether.

He knew Gene wouldn't tell him who had raped him, even if it was he who'd done it. Maybe especially if it was him. He'd have to trick it out of him somehow. Just so he could be sure. Sam twitched at this thought. Of course he was sure. He wasn't a rapist. He would never…to Gene. No. Not possible. But the looks, the strangeness… He'd get Gene to talk. Who was he going to trust if not Sam? It was only a dream. He'd seen the bruises and put himself in the mind of the attacker. Profiling. Just primitive profiling. That's all it was. Never mind that he had a hard on from it. It didn't mean a thing.

It had started raining. Sam got soaked just running up to Gene's door. He peered through the window and saw Gene sitting at the table with a sandwich, a glass, and bottle of Jack beside it. He knocked. He still didn't know what he would say. "Did I rape you?" didn't strike him as an intelligent opening line. He was sorting it out when Gene opened the door. Sam was assailed with the linger scents of a fry up and the dulcet tones of Roger Whittaker coming from the small radio on the countertop.

"What do you want?"

"Is the missus home?" Well. That hadn't been one of the options. But it was a good one.

He hesitated, and it reminded Sam of what teachers and parents taught children—never tell anyone you are home alone, even if you are; never let a stranger into your home. Gene's silence was enough of a sign that a negative answer was not necessary, but it came anyway, which also surprised Sam, because, following this line of comparison, he was expecting Gene to say the Missus was upstairs, waiting for him to get back to bed.

"At card club. Why?" Gene said.

"I wanted to talk to you without anyone around."

Gene stepped back and allowed him in, though he did not look pleased about it. Not that Sam could blame him, given that he had to know what Sam wanted to talk about. Plus, he was soaked through, water dripping off every bit of him.

"Don't move." Gene fetched a tea towel and handed it to him. Sam stood on the entry rug and wiped himself down. He handed the towel back. Gene gestured him in further and went to lean against the counter.

"So talk."

Sam closed the door. "This bloke who hurt you…"

"Hurt me? Christ, Tyler, women get hurt. Men get…"

"A kicking? The shite knocked out of themselves?"

Gene shrugged. He looked elsewhere and nodded, jaw set as if he was stopping himself from adding anything to Sam's list.

"Do you know who it was?"

"Told you it were a few guys."

"You going to go after them?"

"Don't see how that's your business, Tyler."

"If somebody did that to me, I'd be spending all my time plotting ways to kill him."

"I've got more important things on my mind. Like real crimes. I don't have time for revenge fantasies, Tyler." Sam noticed that Gene did not correct him this time on the number of attackers.

"Or maybe you're a pervert." He realized he was echoing Test Card Girl's words, and wondered if maybe she was right, and they were all perverts in some way.

"Think you know I am." There was a challenge in Gene's voice.

"I don't mean what happened in the shower today. I mean maybe you like being touched up. But you can't say anything about it, so if somebody forces you, you like it. Except it's not really forcing, is it? Because you want it. Bet I could touch you right now, Gene. And you wouldn't stop me."

Gene was glaring, and Sam knew he was putting his life at risk, and for what? If Gene didn't want to tell, why should he push him? But Gene hadn't moved, and for a moment it was exactly like in the dream. Sam came forward and rested a hand on Gene's hip. He pushed his fingers under Gene's shirt and touched cool skin.

He's a fighter, my Sammy. His mother, encouraging him through the radio.

Before Sam could lay the other on the opposite hip, he was on the floor, Gene standing over him, glaring, fist raised. Sam rolled out of kicking range. He stood up and brushed himself off. He kept his head bowed so Gene wouldn't see his smile. That proved it—there was no way his dream was true. He hadn't hurt Gene. He couldn't. Gene was stronger than him. He'd never be able to overpower Gene long enough to rape him. He was a fool for thinking so. A conceited prat.

Then he looked up and saw how Gene was staring at him, and the way he had picked up the empty bottle and was holding it like a bat, and the sound came out of him before he could stop it. "Oh." It was a breath given focus into a single, short exhalation, nothing more. And another, slightly louder. "Oh." Perhaps in response, perhaps by coincidence because he was still barely audible, Gene's wrist twitched and caused a nearly imperceptible vibration of the bottle.

And a good boy. Always such a well-behaved, polite boy.

For a moment there was only this, the two of them watching each other. And his mother's voice. Then Sam dragged himself over to the table and sat down. After a moment, Gene put the bottle down and sat, too. Gene finished his whiskey. He didn't gulp it, and he didn't offer Sam any. Outside, the rain had not let up. Sam clasped his knees and tried to remember why he couldn't remember. If Gene had said Sam had done it, he would not have believed it. But Gene did not say a thing. And so Sam had no space for doubt.

He kept his eyes on Gene, who did not look at him, but also did not seem to be avoiding looking at him. When he raised the glass to his lips, his hand did not shake.

Watching this, Sam understood. Gene was going to kill him. And he felt suddenly, unaccountably, calm.

Thunder crashed, shaking the windowpane. Gene set the empty glass down.

"You should stay here tonight. We have a guest room."

"I couldn't ask that of you."

"You going to make me beg you to stay out of the rain? I got a room; you got a need. It's not a difficult decision."

Sam closed his eyes, but a tear escaped and rolled down his cheek anyway. It embarrassed him, coming after the wave of calm.

"O.K."

Gene got up. "Christ, Tyler. It isn't worth tears. It's just a pull-out couch. Still—a bit nicer than your trap, I should think." He lumbered out of the room. Sam forced himself to follow. They went up a set of stairs, past a bathroom, and into a tiny room just behind it. Gene turned the light on. As promised, there was the couch. Gene started preparing it as Sam watched. He knew he should run, but his feet were rooted. He fixated on Gene's waist where his shirt had separated from his trousers and offered glimpses of skin as he leaned over the mattress to put the sheet on. He wanted to touch him, to line his fingers up with the finger-shaped bruises and see if they matched.

"I'm not going back to Hyde, am I?" he said.

Gene raised his head, looking over his shoulder as he hovered off-balance over the mattress. "Not unless you fancy being a staff of one." He snapped the last corner of the sheet down and stood back, slapping his hands together. "Well. If you need anything, get it yourself. I'm going to bed."

He left, and Sam sat down. Gene had made the bed with military efficiency. Bounce a coin off it and all that. He stared at the open door, across the landing to the Hunts' bedroom. Gene had not bothered to close his door, perhaps out of habit, and was walking casually back and forth between closet and bath, discarding clothes and gaining pajamas. He wandered a bit, circling with a toothbrush hanging mostly untouched from his mouth, idly scrubbing his teeth from time to time. All of this Sam observed with the same fascinated interest as someone watching a tiger prowling its enclosure in a zoo. There was the feeling of being somehow better off than the tiger, having space and freedom, but when Gene stopped and turned towards the door, staring into the dark with his green eyes, a chill fluttered through Sam—the same chill that reminded a man that the beast is not caged for its good but for the man's. And that the beast is never oblivious to the creatures who ogle it day in and day out. The door closed and Sam stared at it until the light creeping from beneath went out. And then he kept staring until his eyes grew heavy and he couldn't stare anymore.

He pushed himself up and walked towards Gene's room. He stood outside it, listening. He heard nothing. No snoring, no pacing, not even the rustle of a book's pages being turned. He touched the doorknob, knowing that if he opened it he would find Gene awake and immobile as Sam had been.

"…of course what you have to remember when you hurt someone, is that eventually they'll hurt you back. You can spend the rest of your life waiting, watching…. Is that any way to live?"

He had not hurt him. He was incapable of it. And yet. He stepped away from the door and stood again, fingers still stretched to touch it. And on the other side, silence.