Chapter Text
Mid-January, 1981
It was dark when they finally arrived at the new flat. From beneath his woollen hat Sam peered through the windshield to gaze up at the tall brick buildings surrounding them. Bathed in orange light from the streetlamps, they were quite plain and largely windowless: perhaps merely back storerooms for the businesses facing onto the next road along. Lining the street were several garage doors, all of which were closed.
“Right,” said Gene, opening the door and getting out. He retrieved the crutch from the back seat, muttering profanities under his breath. Having yet to replace the Cortina, he had borrowed Chris’s Austin Mini Clubman to collect Sam from the hospital, and it was both cramped and lacking in any effective heating.
The journey had been long but thankfully uneventful. The roads were icy, but Sam hadn’t had the energy to panic about it, let alone protest Gene’s choice of speed. He’d dozed for some of the way, occasionally waking to Gene swearing at something or munching away at some peanuts while they were sat in traffic.
He was unbearably stiff as he unbuckled his seat belt. When Gene opened the door for him he slowly began to emerge from the car, limbs and torso aching as he tried not to cringe from the frigid wind. Pain flared up in his legs and feet. He had several minor injuries and sprains he’d been unaware of before starting to walk again, and now they all seemed to be in protest.
“All right?” Gene asked him, offering his arm for Sam to lean on and helping to haul him up.
“…Yep,” rasped Sam, trying his best not to wince. Sand crunched under the soles of his boots as he shifted his weight.
Eyeing him critically, Gene said, “Pick your feet up, then.”, helping Sam shuffle forwards before handing him the stick, and then leaning past him to slam the car door. The sound reverberated off the brickwork around them, and the place felt lonelier all of a sudden.
With some effort Sam began hobbling along, leaning intermittently on the crutch and against Gene’s warm bulk as they moved. While the road ended where they were, he could see a passage between the buildings just up ahead and to the left, which Gene guided them towards. Squinting, he thought he could see the outline of a sandwich board standing just proud of the other end of the path, and the red glow from a neon sign. Above them, he glimpsed light from some windows here and there, but caught no movement from within. Already panting from exertion, he nevertheless shivered from the cold.
“Here,” muttered Gene, gesturing to a small recessed entry way further along and pushing against Sam’s back just a little harder.
Sam just about managed the step up to the door, which Gene unlocked with a small key from a selection of four that looked as though they had been newly cut. It opened onto a small lobby with stairs at one side, and a narrow lift at the end of the hall.
Without word Gene ferried Sam towards the lift. Sam realised that he hadn’t even considered the logistics of getting himself upstairs, being used to his ground floor flat back in Manchester, and having had some strange assumption that he would be arriving at a similar setup.
The lift doors slid apart, and they shambled inside the little plain box. Gene pressed for the third and uppermost floor available, and then stood back to hold Sam in a firm grip as the lift rumbled into life.
Sam felt extremely weird, and not just because of the rising sensation. His body twinged in unrelated places from time to time. He was distantly reminded of his first day back in 1973, when Annie had first escorted him to his god-awful old bedsit. It was so disorienting being herded about, with no idea of what his new home was going to be like.
The lift soon stopped, opening onto a narrow landing, which the staircase also met. Shuffling, Sam could smell paint as Gene unlocked the door in front of them, revealing a small coatroom.
Switching on the lights, Gene regarded the space with the little scowl that his face tended to rest in. “Here,” he grunted again, turning to Sam and starting to unbutton his coat for him. He made quick work of it, as Sam had only his unbroken left arm actually inside its sleeve, with the other held in the sling, and the right side of the coat merely draped over that shoulder. Gene hung the coat on a peg to the side, and then laid a hand on Sam’s back again.
“Come on,” he said. “I’ll turn the heating up.”
Sam was grateful to hear it. While he was already out of breath from the walking, he was not warm.
The next door led onto a hallway, freshly painted white, with a shiny new radiator fitted at one side. Gene led Sam along and to the right, into a modest-sized living room.
Still panting lightly, Sam was disoriented to find the plush, tan sofa from his Manchester flat in there. It was the first purchase he’d made after moving out of the hated bedsit in 1974, and its familiarity was almost overwhelming. Beside it was an armchair that he did not recognise, but its cushy olive upholstery looked as if it had been well-used. It and the sofa were both pointed at a television set, with a coffee table—also Sam’s—between them.
Gene helped him over to the sofa, taking the crutch as Sam sat down and laying it next to him across the seat. It was an odd sensation as Sam let his body settle back into the sofa’s cushions. He let his fingers skirt over the crisscross texture of the fabric, and thought that the cushions seemed firmer than he remembered them being before.
While Gene marched off through a door to what seemed to be the kitchen, Sam looked around to find a few more of his own possessions: some of the books haphazardly stuffed into two large shelving units, the rug beneath the coffee table, and the record player resting on an old sideboard that was undoubtedly Gene’s.
There were also a few open cardboard boxes around, which apparently contained mostly more books and some records and cassettes. The windows, which looked out across the street to the building opposite had no curtains, but there was a long pair framing a windowed door that seemed to lead onto a small terrace.
Sam was quietly stunned. He hadn’t arrived in 1973 with much in the way of personal belongings, and had been living what he liked to think of as a fairly contained existence since his decision to return. But Gene would have had to shift two households’ worth of furniture and other items, and Sam hadn’t been there to help. He realised that on some level he’d doubted Gene’s declaration that he would take care of everything, and he now felt guilty for it.
He watched as Gene returned to switch on a lamp and draw the curtains across the door to the terrace, feeling hopelessly inadequate.
“Right, what d’you want?” said Gene, sniffing and turning to regard Sam rather too casually to be natural.
Sam just glanced around, shame filling him.
“Come on,” prompted Gene impatiently. He still seemed to have plenty of energy to spare. “Cuppa? Change of clothes?”
Wanting desperately to stem the uncomfortable atmosphere, Sam offered a wan smile. “I’d give anything for a shower.”
Gene shook his head, gesturing meaningfully to Sam’s arm sling. “No can do.”
Sam nodded. “Yeah.”
“Give you a sponge bath, though.”
“Oh, you don’t have to—”
Sam hadn’t been seriously asking for the shower, but Gene was already advancing: stooping to remove Sam’s hat and toss it onto the coffee table behind him.
“We’ll do it now. You look as if you’re about to drop dead.” Gene observed him shrewdly, as if he was primed for signs that Sam was, indeed, about to collapse at any moment. “You hungry?”
Sam thought for a moment, trying to remember when he’d had breakfast. “I could eat.”
Gene straightened up and went back through to the kitchen, affording Sam of a glimpse of white countertops and wooden cupboards. From within there was a click, and then a low rumbling sounded. Over the dry hiss of what he assumed to be a kettle boiling he could hear Gene moving about, and then a tap running.
A short while later Gene returned with a tray supporting a bowl of lightly steaming water, which he set down on the coffee table. He’d shed his coat and driving gloves, revealing a rather tatty, but very well-made knitted cream jumper over a pair of trousers not dissimilar to what he wore to work.
Sam stared, almost mesmerised by the rare sight of Gene in casual clothes.
“Right, kit off,” said Gene, and then approached again.
Sam bent forwards slightly, and together they extricated him from the scarf around his neck, and then the sling. His ribs twinged painfully again, followed by an unpleasant throbbing in his forearm as it was left hovering for a moment. Sam tried to resist letting the discomfort show on his face, and quickly grabbed a cushion next to him, placing it over his knee to finally rest his bound arm upon it for a moment. Next, he worked his uninjured arm out from the dressing gown first, and then Gene helped him wriggle free from the rest of it, leaving it pooled around Sam’s hips on the sofa.
Gene gripped the lapel of Sam’s pyjama shirt, holding it open and leaning in to frown down inside it, inspecting Sam’s bare torso. “Scrawny,” he remarked. “You burned off what little there was of you in your beauty sleep.”
“Er, thanks?” said Sam, pointedly clasping the shirt to his chest again.
Moving his hand, Gene squeezed Sam’s good shoulder gently. “We’ll get you fattened up.”
Chuckling, Sam gingerly settled back again. “It honestly feels like I weigh a tonne.”
Gene glowered at that. “Well, I can tell you now you don’t. Need to get you on some meat. Real man’s diet.”
“Anything’s better than hospital food.”
“You don’t need to remind me. Shirt now.” Gene began unfastening the buttons on Sam’s pyjama top.
Sam inhaled shakily, his left hand joining with Gene’s efforts in an attempt to feel less awkward over anything else. Once the shirt was open they repeated the motions of removing the dressing gown: Gene gripping the left sleeve so that Sam could withdraw his good arm from it, before together they carefully eased the right sleeve—which had been unbuttoned at the cuffs and rolled up—over and finally off the cast.
As Gene pulled the shirt away Sam glanced down to see a number of still-healing wounds all over his body, along with some stubborn bruising in places. His nipples were tiny and hard from the cold. He felt exposed, and stupidly inept once more.
Gene reached into the bowl and withdrew a soaked red flannel. He wrung it out, before reaching to dab it at Sam’s hairline.
“Oh—! Thanks.” Sam flinched, surprised at the gesture and the pleasant heat of the flannel. His flesh broke out into goosepimples at the sudden contrast to the cold atmosphere. Abruptly he was completely aware of Gene’s proximity, and wanted to press against him just as much as he wanted to curl away and hide himself.
“Who’s been trimming your locks, then?” asked Gene, running his fingers through Sam’s cropped hair. “Nurse Ginger-tits?”
Sam froze, the enjoyment of the sensation ruined partially by the rudeness towards Nurse Johnson, and partially because he’d forgotten this particular subject might come up. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Gene pulled back to look at him, and then the hand now washing behind Sam’s ears went still. His eyes narrowed. “…Oh.”
Peering at him warily, Sam was finally able to say, “I think she wanted to help, you know? Before I left.”
Grunting, Gene resumed rubbing the flannel down over Sam’s back. “S’pose she shaved you and all?” He did not seem annoyed, but Sam noticed the way he was now concentrating intently on what he was doing, avoiding his eye.
Sam nodded, remembering Annie’s soft chiding as he’d fidgeted in the hospital bed. “Yeah.”
Gene shrugged. “Have to let the birds make a fuss, else they’ll be a right pain.” He retracted his hand, dipping the flannel in the bowl and squeezing it again, before wiping it on a bar of soap next to the bowl. He held it out to Sam. “There.” He backed away, grabbing the back of the armchair and angling it to face more towards the sofa and taking a seat. “Do your pits.”
Content not to poke at the issue, Sam took the flannel and began the task of cleaning the areas beneath his broken arm: rather awkward as he couldn’t lift it far. The soap was a fragrant one that smelled distantly familiar and comforting, and made him oddly sad.
Not wanting to follow that train of thought too long, he finally cleared his throat and said, “You’ve been busy here.”
Gene grunted, in the process of rolling up his sleeves, revealing his strong, pale forearms. “Furniture movers were a bloody joke. Did most of the hauling about meself in the end, of course. At least the place was done up before I bought it. He was obviously related to you, mind. Blinding white everywhere. Boring sod.”
Sam gave him a look, the corners of his mouth curling. “Oh? And what were you hoping for?”
“Well, I dunno.” Gene gestured around them irritably. “Something like a proper home. Wallpaper… bit o’ character.” He sniffed again and looked away.
Grinning, Sam suppressed a shiver as he bent his left elbow at an uncomfortable angle to wash beneath that arm on same side. As the water formed cooling droplets over his skin, he was soon unable to conceal the tremors wracking his body.
Gene’s razor-sharp pupils swivelled back towards him. “Right, that’s enough of that,” he said. He leaned in, effortlessly snatching the flannel from Sam’s grip and then standing to walk out into the hallway. “Where’d I put those towels?”
Sam would have preferred to rinse more of the soap off first, but he was nevertheless grateful for having relieved the stale sensation from his body. He sat there quivering, wiping at the few water trails he could reach, and trying not to think about the sad, soggy picture he no doubt made.
Gene shortly returned with two bathroom towels, the larger of which he opened out and wrapped around Sam’s shoulders like a blanket, before taking the smaller one to Sam’s damp hairline.
Startled at the sudden view of a fluffy, dark red mass, Sam blinked and squinted as he was thoroughly dried. While Gene was definitely taking care with his ministrations, he was not being wholly gentle. The pressure in his hands alone as he massaged the towel behind Sam’s neck was instantly sobering: a reminder of his unrelenting strength, and a testament to just how weak Sam had grown in just a few, short weeks. And it brought forth something else, being in Gene’s power like this. Becoming so abruptly aware that that was where he was, under this almost rough treatment, Sam could feel a distant stirring in the pit of his belly. Quite suddenly, as if returning from a state of almost nonexistence, his dick twitched against his thigh.
Sam didn’t know whether or not to be grateful that Gene couldn’t see it, and that he was clearly unaware of the miraculous change because he handed Sam the towel and said, “Finish up. I’ll get your clothes.”
He left for the hallway again, and Sam did as he was told, eager to relieve the wet chill under his arms.
When Gene reappeared he had a neat pile of blue, green and white striped fabric in his hands. “All yours want washing,” he said, separating the material into two pieces that, when unfolded, were revealed to be a large pair of pyjamas. “These’ll have to do for now. Keep you from freezing your knackers off, at least.”
They were not dramatically different in height, but Gene’s wider frame and unexpectedly long limbs required a couple of sizes above what Sam wore. However, that made it all the easier to manoeuvre Sam’s bad arm into the right-hand side openings of the pyjama shirt, and to quickly get the garment on him properly.
“Right,” grunted Gene, clearing his throat as he finished buttoning the shirt up. “Keks.”
He helped Sam get the sling back on first, before removing Sam’s boots and then helping him stand.
Gene pulled the pyjama bottoms down around Sam’s legs—Sam gripping the arm of the sofa to remain standing—and then sat him down again to pull them off.
Sam couldn’t look Gene in the eye. In all the years of working together he’d always matched him in ferocity, even if he hadn’t always matched him in force. He’d never backed down from a fight, and Gene had always liked that. Sam knew he did.
His cock was unresponsive now, and thankfully concealed beneath the hem of Gene’s pyjama top. Gene still didn’t make any lewd or sarcastic comments, but Sam wondered if it would have made him feel better or worse if he had. At least he might have fired back at him, assuming his brain had the energy to come up with something. The idea of Gene now seeing him as pitiful and unable to take his challenge was intolerable.
It was even worse as Gene slid the fresh pyjama pants over Sam’s feet, and then helped haul him up again. Sam felt utterly pathetic, and thought he had to seem like it: swaying about on the spot and still quivering from the cold as the man he called Guv dressed him like he would a helpless child. He had been powerless before, more times than he cared to remember, but never within his own body like this. He recalled virtually nothing of any physical rehabilitation in 2007—another reason why he was certain it hadn’t been real—but this….
This was all incredibly tangible and present: the tedious, exhausting effort it took to even sit up straight, let alone remain on his feet. The deep concentration on Gene’s face as he pulled the trousers back up Sam’s legs.
Sam shuffled his feet apart slightly, doing his best to make it as easy as possible, although it was shocking how little balance he had. He needed to work on it, he told himself: a renewed determination to regain his strength rising within him.
Gene secured the drawstring around Sam’s middle. “There you go,” he said, and then, after looking him up and down, rolled his eyes. “Skinny git.”
“Th-thanks,” stammered Sam, excitement threatening again as Gene momentarily tucked his fingers into the waistband to fold it over a couple of times so the trousers didn’t sit quite so low. The legs of the pyjama bottoms still pooled around his feet, however.
Grabbing the dressing gown from the sofa, Gene wrapped it carefully around Sam’s shoulders.
Their eyes met.
Sam’s breath caught in his throat. His heart beat rapidly. Gene’s hands warmed him as they smoothed the towelling over his shoulders and then held him there. He scanned the fine lines around Gene’s striking green eyes, watching as he was studied closely return.
The moment was broken when Gene cleared his throat. “Go on, get your arm in,” he ordered shortly.
Unable to speak, Sam did as he was told, threading his left arm through the sleeve of the robe.
Gene carefully folded the right side over the sling, and tied the dressing gown loosely at the waist, before helping Sam sit yet again. “I’ll bring your tea,” he said without looking at him, and turned, moving around the table to the television, which he stooped to switch on before returning to grab the tray up and take it back into the kitchen.
As the television crackled to life, Sam wasn’t sure how to feel.