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Gene stood smoking outside the shop, not really looking at the wares, but not really looking away either. He was smoking, frowning, shifting, and staying right where he was, half turned towards the door. They were supposed to meet there, so it made perfect sense for him to be waiting outside, and Gene was should have been looking down the road for Sam's beat up loaner to show. Only he was doing no such thing, mostly he was smoking and trying very hard to not look at the shop window.
Sam had judged the traffic on a busy retail street in the middle of the afternoon as not worth the headache and parked his clunker a block over, so he was on foot, standing across the street and watching his DCI sweat bullets in the chilly autumn air. They were there to take a report on the theft of some high-end luxury items, and that was all, but Gene's behavior was almost shifty, as if he were the fence for the stolen goods. Sam cocked his head, squinting, thinking carefully about the report Phyllis had fed him and wondering why something in his brain was going "click click click" as if trying to find the right gear.
Nothing really clicked into place though, because Sam was not even certain why he was here. According the Phyllis, the store owner asked for Gene personally, which at the time was a perfect match as Gene was already nearby at his favorite smoke shop. Sam had stopped bothering with the matter at that point, returning to his semi-annual attempts at organizing the Collating Den, only to be called out ten minutes later by Phyllis with orders to meet Gene here. Sam's assumption was that the case had turned nasty or complicated, but looking at Gene standing on the pavement, Sam thought he was one heartbeat away from pulling a runner. Sighing in annoyance, certain that Gene was angling to get to the pub early by foisting this case off on his DI, Sam walked across the street.
"Guv!"
"Bloody hell, took you long enough. Too busy fixing your pout in the mirror?"
"Shove off, I was working, you might remember what that's like." Sam tried not to grin, enjoying the banter that had the shoppers nearby stepping carefully around them.
"Nope. I leave the paperwork for the plonks; girls love that sort of thing."
"Guv, I do your paperwork."
"Exactly. Like I said." Gene answered automatically but his eyes shifted to the shop window and back. Sam bit back his reply when he saw what was in the window, and a faint memory of a bad night hit him like a board between the eyes.
"I hope you enjoy the party, Sam. Do try to keep Gene out of the coat closet."
"What?"
"Gene and fur. I'm sure you know. I just don't want to foot the cleaning bill again…"
The echo of Larry's voice was still ringing in his ears when he dragged his focus back to Gene, who was staring at him now, his eyes narrow and vicious in clear understanding of the leap of logic Sam just made.
"Don't go there, Sam."
Sam nodded, trying to figure out how to take the piss with Gene over the furriers – Madame Durand's Furs, the sign shop read – without outing them both right there on the pavement, and his mind drew a blank. Interpreting it as victory, Gene snorted and looked back down the street.
"Someone broke in last night – grab and run, through the back. We'll never see those coats again, and they won't come back for seconds, but we need to report it proper. So get on with it. I'll meet you later at the pub." Gene stomped off, not even looking to the side, avoiding looking at the shop at all costs. Sam stood for a second with his mouth gaping open, but finally turned and barreled into the shop.
Madame Durand was actually Mrs. Reed, Durand being her mother's maiden name, and the store reflected the history behind the family. The shop was elegant and stylish and a bit more posh than the neighborhood was nowadays, filled with the smell of leather and clean fur and the lavender scent the sales ladies wore. It was a store Sam's mother eyed longingly for years but never got the nerve to actually walk inside, a fact Sam bet could be said for many of the working class housewives who walked past it every day. The street had been a high-class area of town before the War, and the owners kept to what they knew: expensive goods sold in an exclusive environment to people with money to spare.
Or so Sam thought.
Before he could introduce himself, Mrs. Reed landed on him, smiling.
"You're the new one? That silly man! I'm so sorry Mr. Hunt did not come in! I have a new stole, Russian fox, nearly blue, brilliant piece, I had set aside for him!"
Standing like a fool with his notebook in his hand and a blank expression on his face, Sam nodded. "Oh?" He managed weakly.
"Oh yes, yes, let me see…" Mrs. Reed, stout and firm and proud like the bourgeoisie matron she was, walked to the back and pawed through a stack – a stack, Sam's mind boggled – of fur stoles. He had signed a few petitions in his time to ban the sale of fur and his conscious was hurting him, but it was hard not to be overwhelmed by the sensual effect of the rippling, sleek furs as they slid around in Mrs. Reed's hands. She pulled out a long stole, two feet wide and at least four feet long, that was just as she described: nearly blue in color, thick and almost creamy in texture. She came back and handed it to him, and he grabbed it as it slithered through his hands. It was magnificent.
"Oh, God…" Sam fought his instinct to recoil in horror as it warred with the pure primal instinct of hedonism.
"Yes, you see how wonderful it is. It just screamed 'Gene Hunt' the moment I saw it."
Wondering how much more gay his boyfriend could be that the local furrier thought a Russian Blue fox stole screamed his name, Sam tried to roll or fold or crumble the thing up to put aside, while also fumbling for his notebook again. Clucking, Mrs. Reed took the fur back.
"I'll let him know you're…ah, holding it for him."
"Oh? Oh, thank you, yes. And it's been a while, but ask if his boy over in Blackpool liked that mink jacket."
Sam stood, shocked motionless and blank.
Mrs. Reed looked back at him, a slow dawning horror spreading over her face. "Oh. Oh. You're not…he's…well it's been a couple of years, and I just…which I don't mean to imply…I think it was a cousin of his?" She finished lamely, obviously trying to deflect her major faux pas.
"Mrs. Reed, my name is Detective Inspector Sam Tyler, and DCI Hunt sent me in here to file a report on your stolen merchandise," Sam snapped out the words, trying to bore holes into her head with his eyes. She looked mortified, glancing at the stole on the table next to them, and it was very clear what she had originally thought Gene had sent him in for. Briefly, Sam wondered how many men in Manchester were wearing fur Gene bought for them, and then his thoughts curved off into the darkness of wondering what Gene and fur and a naked lover would do together, and he nearly saw red.
Pulling herself together, Mrs. Reed raised up her chin defiantly. "Yes well Mr. Hunt has been a good solid customer of our shop for years. He bought his wife a number of items from us, and for other members of his, ah, family as well. I'm sorry for any misunderstanding, as I thought it possible you were related."
Sam narrowed his eyes at the inflections in her voice, but did not answer. He flipped open his notebook and took out his pen and stood there, glaring at her, waiting for her to start. She stumbled for a moment but got her mettle back and soon it was just like any other robbery report. Gene was right, it was a quick smash-and-grab, the thieves not even knowing which merchandise was the most expensive; they had taken what they could resell with the least amount of fuss which fortunately for Mrs. Reed were a few off-size mink coats, some of the least valuable inventory in the store. Sam was back at the station within an hour, filling out the paperwork and looking around for Gene.
He was still looking for Gene when he got home later that night. It had been almost six months since Gene had moved Sam's things over while Sam was in hospital, and they had established a well-respected 'bachelor's pad' in the time since. Sam's official home was on the ground floor, to the back, a room that used to be a den. It was small and cramped and when Ray had not-so-accidentally stumbled into it during a holiday party he had called it "Sam's Hole" which everyone (including Gene and, traitorously, Annie) thought incredibly funny. Now, even Sam thought of it that way. It was a small, pointless room that held his clothes and a few book shelves and a bed he almost never used.
He dropped his jacket on the bed and returned to the kitchen, set on making something resembling a real meal for dinner. He had stopped by the pub for a quick pint and to check on Gene, if only to give him some mouth about the paperwork left piled on his desk, but Gene was not there and according to Nelson had not been there at any time earlier.
Normally Sam would not be bothered by this. Gene sometimes drifted off to watch a boxing match or go to the races, or David would call up in a fury over his latest failed romance – for such a handsome and intelligent man, he had terrible taste in romantic partners, Sam thought – and drag Gene out for drinks at some horrible dive called the Spotted Hog. From the evidence of the rank smell on his coat when Gene got home from those adventures, that bar was located in a sulfurous bog, and Sam was just as happy to miss out on the experience.
But tonight Gene's absence rankled him, and Sam slammed pots and bowls around loudly and without mercy. The combination of being reminded of Gene's apparently widely-known kink – a mystery to no one but Sam – and Gene's bevy of boy-toys from his past for whom he regularly bought fur jackets was enough to set Sam on edge. Gene's idea of a date usually involved a crime scene, not romance or expensive gifts, at least not with Sam. Obviously Sam was the exception to the rule -- again -- and he kicked the door to the refrigerator so hard he had to stop and re-close it properly. Angrily he picked up the butcher knife and aimed himself at the vegetables.
A nearly-pureed salad later, Sam was in no better of a mood, and a much more vicious mindset. Gene obviously had a fur fetish, and had admitted as much to Sam on rare occasions. Sam, for all of his lack of experience in homosexual sex when starting this relationship, had been more than willing (usually) to go along with Gene's ideas. Sam had suggested a few himself, which sometimes backfired (role playing: no) but Gene always at least tried them out. But in all this time, the fur thing remained hidden away in Gene's past, although it was not something he was ashamed of or even pretended was not common knowledge in the community. They never visited Larry's house without someone, even the butler, making a witty comment about "the coat closet incident" (although to be fair, David was the one who mentioned it the most).
Sam washed his hands and headed upstairs. There was not much to the house, and Sam had been through it pretty thoroughly in the aftermath of moving in. He had made it a personal mission to clear out anything that Gene's ex wife had left behind, which was most everything other than the furniture. There was one closet, though, that Gene commandeered and stood guard over. It was a hallway linen closet and not much could even be stored in it, for lack of room, other than small stacking boxes. Sam knew for a fact several of the boxes were filled with photos from Gene's childhood and his career in National Service, as well as his wedding album. Sam begrudged him nothing, because he understood the value of having a past, and let sleeping dogs lay.
That was then, however. Now, Sam decided it was war. Or, at least, time for him to play detective.
There were twelve boxes in the closet, most of them small. About half he knew the general contents of, and they were all on the lower shelves. He pulled out the first mystery box, then the second, then the third, and put them all back quickly. He was not certain of what he was looking for, but he was not there to pick apart Gene's privacy. Anything that did not seem relevant – an orange Fiestaware creamer which Sam could not even imagine Gene buying, for instance – was glossed over.
It was the second to last box, crammed up to the rafter at the very top, that finally revealed the secrets Sam had not known he was looking for. It was a medium sized card board box that Sam nearly ripped trying to drag out, and stuffed on top of the contents, in fact taking up a fair amount of the box itself, was a fur stole. Sam had no idea what kind of fur it was, other than the fact it was not mink. The fur was long and silky and Sam stared at it in shock because it was also dyed blue. Bright, sharp, bobby-uniform blue.
After the initial shock wore off, Sam sat down in the hall with the absurd stole lumped up next to him and dug into the box. Under it were bundles of magazine ads and fashion shoots for fur, all of which had been carefully cut out from magazines for years. Decades in fact, going back to the 1940s if the dress styles were any indication. Due to the nature of the topic the pictures were mostly of women, but there were a few upscale ads showing men in fur overcoats (and, usually, top hats). Under that was a photo book, wrapped closed with a blue ribbon, and Sam felt a twinge of guilt. He put the book back unopened, placed the magazine cut-outs on top, and sat for a while in the hall with the box between his legs, wondering if he just played the role of Pandora.
His hand fell on the fur stole, and he found himself absently petting the fur. He had never seen Gene touch this box, and it looked as if it had not been opened for quite a while. If Gene was a fur fetishist, he had been denying himself for years now, probably. The "coat closet incident" had happened some time before Sam had come along, and for all Sam knew it might have involved Gene's long-dead lost love, Mark. A dangerous topic to bring up even during the best of times.
Sam's bad leg – fully healed but never fully functional, even six months after the fact – twitched and Sam took it for the warning sign it was, pulling himself off the floor. It was late now, which meant that Gene was definitely "out" and would not get home until early morning. Sam carried the box and the fur into the bedroom, putting both on the side chair, before getting ready to turn in. The box would be fair warning to Gene that the topic was open for discussion, without really forcing the issue, which was Sam's way of forcing the issue and Gene knew it. As far as Sam was concerned, that was the nature of a long-term relationship: very few surprises. He settled into their bed with his pajama bottoms and a headache, hoping against hope that when Gene got home he would miraculously be quiet so as not to wake him.
He woke up later that night with the moonlight filtering through the thin blinds. It bothered him because he thought he had pulled the drapes closed a few night ago, when the moon was starting to get bright. That thought filtered drowsily down to secondary status when he realized that Gene was hovering over him, pulling back the sheets. He was down to his vest, and Sam spared a moment of surprise that Gene had made it that far without waking him up, but thoughts scattered when Gene brought his other arm up and over, draping the fur stole over his torso, fur down. The silky glide of the fur was cold at first, but smooth and rich, and Sam blinked in surprise. He opened his mouth to speak but Gene moved one knee onto the bed, leaned over and took Sam's face in his hands as he kissed him. It was one of Gene's thoughtful, pre-planned kisses, the kind given only in the dead of night when he thought the world was asleep, as if kissing in the dark was some form of protection. Sam closed his eyes, although he knew Gene's would be open and watchful, enjoying the slow slide of Gene's tongue as it gently breached open his mouth. He had to catch his breath when Gene finally pulled back.
"I smelled the damn thing." Gene spoke in his usual bedroom voice, which was not much of a whisper but husky and low. Sam squirmed in arousal under the stole, wonder what Gene was up to. It was probably a good time to stop and discuss the whole fur thing, but something in Sam's gut was telling him to keep his mouth shut for anything other than Gene's tongue. He had learned a while back to trust those kinds of instincts. He narrowed his eyes to watch Gene in the moonlight, who smiled back in a slightly feral way.
Gene's hand settled on the stole, pulling it down so it slithered between Sam's legs. Even through his pajamas Sam could feel the slick fur, and the heat it generated, and bit back a groan. Gene let go of the stole and was manhandling him after that, pulling off the pajamas while stripping himself of his vest and pants. Sam let himself be settled back on the bed, his legs falling open as Gene laid the fur on him, draping part of it over his chest and tucking the bottom half around his cock and balls, as gently as diapering a baby. Sam frowned.
"You want to know, you nosy parker. Always got to dig and dig until you find out what's hidden, don't you?" Gene was rubbing his hand over the back of the stole so the fur rubbed on Sam's electrified skin. Sam shook his head, uncertain of answers.
"This?"
"No. Get your head out of your prick." Gene sat down and slid his hand down the length of the stole, and Sam moaned at the feel of the fur prickling and tickling his cock. Gene chuckled, but his hand stilled.
"Only way to get me to bottom, is like you are now."
Sam had one moment to process that before Gene was on top of him, his whole body pressing the fur against him, rubbing and rutting on him from chest to calves. His hardened cock pressed up against Sam's own, through the fur, and Sam moaned again. He opened his eyes and saw Gene braced over him, steady on his elbows as he moved, intense and focused. Somewhere in Sam's sleep and sex addled brain, he realized that Gene was trying to teach him something.
Gene dipped his head down to kiss him again, pushing their chests together. Sam's hips bucked and he knew he was getting pre-cum on the damn fur but he did not care. Gene pressed a thigh more tightly against him, shifting and moving Sam's balls so that they were in constant contact with the fur.
"Fuck, Gene…"
"Shhh…"
Sam wrapped his legs around Gene's longer legs, and grabbed at Gene's biceps. "Oh God, this…this is…"
"Not even the half of it, love. Not for me." Gene was actually whispering, his voice broken and scratchy, and Sam stared at him in dawning realization of just how turned on Gene was. Even by moonlight it was easy to see his pupils were blown and Sam could feel Gene's heart hammering through his chest.
"Do you…do you want to switch?" Sam managed to gasp out as Gene kept rocking on top of him, rubbing the fur between them onto Sam's skin.
"Not this time." Gene nearly choked the words and moved down, shoving a corner of the stole over with his chin in order to rub his cheek on it. If anything his heart rate increased and Sam had a momentary panic attack, wondering if he was finally actually going to be the death of Gene Hunt.
"Oh Lord, fuck me, Sam…" Gene suddenly froze, his hands clawing at Sam's shoulders. Sam braced himself, tightening the hold his legs, while Gene panted. "Fuck, fuck, fuck. Not yet." Gene hauled himself up onto his knees and grabbed his cock in a death grip, and Sam stuttered, realizing how close Gene was to coming just from rubbing his face on the fur.
"Christ, this is a serious kink for you."
"Watch who you call kinky, Dorothy." Gene snarled, closing his eyes and breathing deeply through his nose. "Lube."
Sam reached over and grabbed the bottle out of the night stand and passed it off. The fur was getting hot and sticky with his sweat, and the attraction was losing its allure for Sam, but Gene obviously wanted to see this through. Sam pulled in a deep breath and spread his legs, tilting his hips up.
"Like a whore paid in advance." Gene chuckled and moved the fur up and out of the way carefully. He opened Sam up quickly and efficiently – Gene found no romance in the process, and was not shy about it – and then lubed up his cock. Sam automatically lifted his legs but Gene grabbed them to wrap around his hips. Sam relaxed, realizing that Gene had a method to his madness, and just watched as Gene wiped the lube off his hand with a corner of the sheets and began re-arranging the fur on Sam's chest, flapping it a couple of times to cool it off. "This way, see?" Gene tucked it around Sam's cock, corners fitted into the crease of Sam's thighs, then settled the rest cattycorner over Sam's chest. Sam nodded but Gene was not waiting for him to agree. He crouched low, his knees spread wider under Sam's thighs than Sam even knew they could go, then moved up over him slowly and lightly. The bare hint of contact between them rustled the fur and Sam understood then why Gene was doing it this way – the fluttery feel of the fur as it brushed his skin was mesmerizing. He barely noticed when Gene's cock finally touched his skin and pushed inside, gasping when the pain of penetration caught up with his sensory overload.
"Gene…Gene!" Sam begged.
Gene nodded but kept going, pushing in steady while maintaining the barely-there contact between them. His muscles were shaking and Sam assumed it was not just from the effort of holding himself up. They both stopped for breath when Gene was fully seated inside of him, foreheads touching. Gene finally kissed him then, giving him what he had been begging for in a deep, carnal kiss that went on and on while Gene kept shifting restlessly above him, causing the fur to rub. Sam was panting and gasping and writhing and he did not care what Gene did next, as long as it involved some form of serious fucking.
Gene seemed to get the hint and rose up on his hands, his hips thrusting in a steady, even tempo, his cock sliding in and out of Sam. The fur slithered over Sam's body and he reached down, grabbing himself, wrapping his dick in fur and sweat and pre-cum. He tugged until he was on the brink, fucking into the fur and his fist in time to Gene's thrusts. His nerves were on fire and he was groaning Gene's name over and over.
"Do it, come on, come for me." Gene demanded, picking up speed. Sam pulled in a short, gasping bark when he crested, his legs pulling Gene tightly to him. Gene watched silently as Sam came, his eyes dark and his body covered in sweat as he kept pounding into Sam's body.
Sam mouthed "oh" as he drifted in his orgasm, his skin electrified and tingling. He smiled, and Gene gave him a return smile as he lowered onto his elbows, his thrusts going from purposeful to determined. Sam pulled at the stole and brought up the edge of it to Gene's face, rubbing it over his skin.
Gene's whole body shuddered and Gene groaned as he slammed forward. Sam nearly dropped the stole in shock but after a quick fumble and readjustment of his legs went back to petting Gene's face and neck with the fur. Gene was gasping, throwing his whole body down on Sam while shudders and chills wracked him, and Sam was reduced to freezing every muscle he had to withstand the onslaught, his hand holding the stole up in the air like a scratching post for Gene rub his face into, which he did just like a cat, his body and mind so far gone that he clearly had little to no control over what he was doing. His voice broke and he came quietly, dropping onto Sam like a stone. Sam held him as he shook apart, smiling until he realized that the sounds coming from Gene were more like sobs. He tried pushing Gene up, but the bigger man clamped down on him, burying his head in Sam's neck. If Sam's skin felt damp there, he was determined it was from their sweat.
When they broke apart Gene rolled over onto his back on the bed silently. Sam sucked in air – Gene was no lightweight – and kicked out his legs to get blood back into them. They lay there and Sam for the life of him could not figure out what to say. Gene saved him by grabbing the soiled stole. He held the fur to his face, then tossed it aside and it slithered to the ground.
"Gene…" Sam rolled up onto his elbow, looking down on Gene who continued staring at the ceiling.
"Smells like you now," Gene said in his 'the matter is closed' voice. He closed his eyes and breathed in through his nose, and Sam knew sleep was just moments away.
Remembering Gene's confession from earlier, Sam smiled and put a hand on Gene's chest. Gene had only bottomed for him once before, an act of penance that he never let Sam forget. Gene's reticence made sense now, his fetish far beyond a simple sensory experience and representing more than just sex. This was something Sam was going take, but it would be less punishment and more of a gift for them both.
Sam leaned over and put his lips on top of Gene's, just shy of a kiss. "Don't think I'll be happy until it smells like you."
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