1. All Cocked Up

Oh yeah, Gene wanted to hit her. He wanted to hit her hard, put her in her place, remind her of the social order. But she stood there with her short Audry Hepburn haircut and her Katherine Hepburn pantsuit yelling about her desk and shoving her damn warrant badge in everyone's face and who in the HELL thought transferring DI Samantha Tyler in from Hyde was a fucking good idea? Those pussy-whipped wankers, promoting a woman to that position then shoving her off on a decent, hard working CID team like his. Hell, shoving her off on HIM. Bloody hell, she was not exactly pretty but she had eyes like steel traps and a low, horsey voice that sounded like she was a serious smoker. At least Gene could relate to that.

But he could not hit a woman, not in these circumstances at least. Not like she was his wife, for christ sakes. And, she was strong, and would try to claw his eyes out. Although her stubby fingers with those chewed-down nails would not scratch much. He'd seen drag queens look more like a girl than this one did, and didn't that figure? Only way a woman was going to cut it was if she had bigger balls than the men she worked with -- witness, Sergeant Dobbs (whom Gene suspected had a treasure trove containing all the balls she had cut off of various plods through the years). So it made sense, like those Israeli girl soldiers with their pet automatic machine guns who looked like dust-covered tanks and fucked like horny sailors on shore leave. Although maybe that was just an Israeli thing, because the boys there were pretty and fucked like girls. Sometimes Gene really missed his years in National Service.

But at least then he could just fuck the girl soldiers, he did not have to work with them, or God forbid over them which was not something he needed to be thinking about with dear Miss Samantha, D bloody I.

He left her at her desk -- HER desk, like a woman belonged there, like a bird's arse was fit it sit in a CID chair -- while he tried vainly to call Hyde division and yell at someone. Anyone. By the fourth phone call, the desk sergeant was hanging up on him and Gene was on his third shot of whiskey, maybe, he did not really keep track when he was drinking straight out of the bottle. At which point he had to take a piss.

He stood at the urinal in his usual stance, trying to figure out how to get rid of Miss Samantha Tyler, and deciding that Litton's incessent complaining about being shorthanded was now a God send. Clearly, God did not want a female DI in Gene's department, and left a position open in RCS just for him to throw Tyler into. Perfect.Tyler and Litton could paint each other's toenails.

"OI! What the bloody hell are you doing!" Gene bounced forward and tried to tuck himself up before he even finished peeing. SHE walked in and marched up to the urinal next to him with a sneer.

"Why wouldn't I piss in here?" Samantha frowned at him and it was like watching a train wreck, it was so impossibly stupid that Gene could not in the name of any saint or sinner look up from her crotch. Because, she was a GIRL and how did she think this was going to work? So he just stared, and she grunted in annoyance at him and unzipped and whipped out her god-damn COCK.

Gene fell down on his ass and stared in open mouthed shock at the stream of piss that arched through the air from her -- his -- HER COCK.

"Take a picture, it will last longer." Tyler growled and packed up when he was done, then washed his hands and stopped to check that his dainty gold hoop earrings were straight.

"You're a bloody MAN!" Gene hauled himself up off the floor. He grabbed her -- his -- its shoulder and spun it around and at last, thank you God at last, hit the bent bastard.

"FUCK!" Sam bowed over, recovering from the gut punch. Gene let him, and finally the girl straightened up to yell at him. "Hell of course I'm a man! What the fuck is your problem?"

This was just not a conversation normal people have, but then, his new DI was clearly as far from normal as...crazy. Yes, crazy. That was the word Gene was looking for. "You dress like a damn girl!"

"That's what I do. I'm a cross dresser, a lifestyler, and queer rights aren't just for the bed room. If you've got a problem with that you can take it upstairs."

"I'll save you the trouble. Turn in your badge and walk out." Gene held out his hand.

Sam looked at him like he was the crazy one. "I've spent the last five years of my career fighting this, Hunt. I've got lawyers and GMP policy on my side."

"The fuck you say. Badge. Now."

"No. As long as my lifestyle choices do not affect my ability to do the job, then I keep my job. Brush up on your law, Hunt."

She was serious. Totally and completely serious, believing as truth that she...he could keep working here dressed like THAT.

"I would, under any other circumstance, order you to get your poncey arse home and change into proper clothes before coming back here, but the whole damn station has seen you tarted up like this and ain't no one going to forget it."

"I really can't figure out if that is a threat or a compliment." She tilted her head and squinted at him in defiance. Gene pulled back to throw another punch but keeled to the side as her fist took out his jaw. He stumbled into the wall, shook his head, and launched himself at the pervert with the deadly right hook. It was the most bizarre fight Gene ever fought, going blow to blow with a man who was a damn twisty devil and stronger than he looked, while still trying to make sure and not rip her earrings out by accident because every man knew that you did not do that to a bird. The lipstick was an early casualty, which bothered him, because a man simply should not have lipstick smeared all over his fist. His cock? Yes. Fist? No. And speaking of cocks...

"Done. Stay away from me." Gene lifted and tossed the tosser across the room. They both stopped and stared at each other, and the girl was a wreck but now, bathed in sweat with her suit jacket ripped open and her hands bloodied, it was obvious that this was a man. Except for the gentle wafting scent of Chanel no.19. Gene knew it well, and it was bothering him in all the wrong ways. Tyler's eyes suddenly narrowed, reading something that Gene did not want anyone to see. He leaned back against the wall and took out a cigarette, taking his time to light it.

"I did not work this hard, this long, to be thrown out by a neanderthal like you, Hunt." Tyler growled as he stood up, slipping a foot back into an errant pump.

"Go home. Clean up like a man. Run back here, fast as you please, work up a decent sweat so you smell like a man."

"Go to hell."

Gene stood up straight. "You're on my team, Tyler, whether I like or not. And I do not like it. But here y'are, and you're a scrapper, and we got to make do. So I'll tell 'em you were undercover, bustin' up some pervert's porno ring, and they'll believe it because I say so. But not if you prance your poofter arse back in here wearing pink slippers and a dress." He took a long drag of his cigarette, eyeing the almost-man up and down critically.

"Jesus...you're serious." Tyler shook his head, the earrings catching the light in one room they never should. He rubbed his checks, careful to avoid smudging his eye makeup -- could he be more of a girl? No he could not -- and then sighed. It was a lonely, miserable sound. "God, I don't even know what year this is anymore."

Gene walked up and grabbed him by his lapels, taking a heady draught of the Chanel before he spoke. "It's 1973. Almost dinnertime. I'm having hoops."

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