Fic: Life On Mars, Sam/Gene, soft R - Denial is a Kind of Lucidity

[mooging]

Had a lovely weekend with missfoxie and now my head hurts, the lighting in my room has gone all to hell and Life On Mars is leaving me tomorrow.

So, I wrote vague porn with lots of staring at Gene. I hope no-one minds.

Title: Denial is a Kind of Lucidity
Rating: R, but not WOAH PORN. Just...a little bit of porn.
Fandom: Life On Mars
Pairing: Sam/Gene
Disclaimer: These characters are not mine, OR THEY WOULDN'T BE LEAVING ME TOMORROW OH GOD.
Summary: There are ways of being insane and there are ways of not thinking about it.
A/N: The beginning is a little not great, in my opinion, but I quite like this by the end. Absolutely no spoilers for any episode, I am unspoiled for tomorrow and I wish to stay that way.

Sam is quite probably insane.

He knows this.

Even if this is all a coma-induced dream, even if this is where his mind takes him to distance himself from the pain of healing, even if he doesn't have any control over what or why or how this is, he's still probably insane. Thinking about it doesn't help.

But the detail, the level of insanity, that's the kicker.

Streets. Buildings. Endless reams of people and names and backgrounds, and why, why is he making this up?

Is he?

It can't be real.

It can't be real, because in reality, Sam has an iPod, Sam has a mobile phone and Sam has a girlfriend.

She has dark hair and dark eyes and laughs like she's been caught off guard; she's slim, she's pretty, she's quick-witted, she's subtle, she's kind, she's caring, she's female.

Gene - Gene is the person Sam thinks about whenever he thinks about Maya, and this is a new kind of insanity.

Alone in a dull, faded flat on a small, dull bed, Sam has his blankets up to his chest (he has some false sense of modesty, even here, even in this solitude), sweat dripping down his neck because it's summer and it's hot, and one hand on his cock, under his boxer shorts, the elastic at the waist scratching his wrist.

He should be thinking about Maya. He should be thinking about Annie. He's actually thinking about Gene, about that barking laugh, the stride to his walk, the way he can take Sam completely unawares when nothing else can, not anymore.

Gene uses volume as power, physical contact as underlying meaning and has a blatant disregard for personal space: maybe that's about keeping the upper-hand, thinks Sam, twisting in his sheets, or maybe that's just to keep people on edge.

Gene is intimidating, commanding, abrupt, harsh; Gene wears godawful shoes, drives like a maniac, swaggers like a cowboy on crack, leans in too close, pushes too far. Gene uses violence for everything from anger to emotion, to thanks, to expressions of everything and anything, breath hot on Sam's neck, hands on Sam's chest, leg between Sam's and the violence gets lost, sometimes, in the intimacy of it all.

Sam moans, in bed, alone, with his hand on his cock and his back spasming. He pumps his hips and thinks of bloodied knuckles, leather driving gloves, seething fury inches from his face and he comes, clenching a fist around the sheet beneath him and pretending it's a shirt collar he's gripping, and that this is a fight.

It leaves him breathless, boneless, weak, unable, for several moments, to move or to clean himself up.

He has to change all the bedclothes: they're stained with sweat and Sam is half-ashamed to think about what else.

Insanity, he thinks, is imagining the smell of your own sex sweat on your not-real bedsheets in your made-up flat.

Maybe insanity is a lot like denial.

Maybe insanity is the most lucid he can be.

Then again, he decides, pulling a sheet taut over a grubby mattress corner, maybe a fantasy doesn't mean anything and fighting is just that,

Maybe it is.

Maybe he is just insane.

*

Look, I have a suitable icon now! Took me long enough.