Title: Close Quarters Combat (Rules of Engagement 2/?)
Rating: R for language. General warning for fuzziness.
Disclaimer: These characters are fictional composites and are in no way linked to the actual men upon which the book and movie (which belong to Mark Bowden and Scott Free, respectively) are based. The only thing this is intended to infringe upon are the bounds of decency.
Author's notes: Well, this is NOT the chapter I planned on writing, but my Hoot and Sanderson muses mutinied, and uh, this is the result. Concrit is welcome, and please slash responsively.
Sanderson thinks that nothing could feel more perfect than the hot, and solid, totally overwhelming mass of Hoot lying limp on top of him.
“It’s going to be hell getting that out of the carpet, you know.”
He could feel every word vibrating against his spine. It took them a second to make the trip to his brain, but when they seeped through the haze of afterglow and the gloriously warm weight of Hoot pressed against his back, he groaned.
“Tell me we didn’t just fuck on the floor like a pair of horny teenagers. Save my pride right this damn second and tell me that didn’t just happen.” He felt Hoot’s chuckle roll in waves down his spine.
“Well, technically speaking we didn’t fuck, if that helps your pride.” Hoot’s hands slides possessively down his flank, his voice laden with a husky and hopeful inquisitiveness and Sanderson cannot help smiling, even as he buries his face into the crook of Hoot’s elbow.
“Well, I guess I’ll just have to distract you.” The arm under Sanderson’s head flexes, and he cranes his neck to look over his shoulder. Those glinting dark eyes are full of mischief and want, and he is transfixed by the whiteness of Hoot’s teeth against that lower lip. Something of the heat pooling in his lower body must have shown in his eyes, because Hoot nostrils flare and one long-fingered, deliciously callused hand slides up his neck, cups his chin and that mouth is on his own.
Sanderson kisses with his eyes open. Maybe it’s a hyperawareness borne of his training, or maybe it’s because he simply cannot bear to miss the way Hoot’s lashes lay against his skin. He loves Hoot’s face like this, the sudden absence of the lines and grooves around his eyes and mouth that are the hallmarks of their lives, where friends dance a constant two-step with the Reaper, and all the carefully unspoken good-byes have teeth.
Hoot skin tastes like gunpowder and desperation, but his mouth tastes like sunlight and maple syrup. His tongue is in Hoot’s mouth like he’s lost something important inside, and maybe he has. But everything he is belongs to Hoot, so he isn’t particularly fussed about finding it. It is the search that is important, and the search that makes Hoot grind into him along every inch of their bodies. His world narrows to tongues and teeth and the faint taste of cigarettes on Hoot’s lips, until the biological imperative to breathe lifts his head. Hoot’s eyes flick open lazily, the pupils dilated, as if Sanderson were an opiate. He’s as beautiful as a god.
“Mission accomplished.” Sanderson breathes. His gaze flicks past the lust-drugged dark-chocolate intensity of Hoot’s eyes to the trailer door and feels a surge of panic.
“Please tell me we at least locked the door.” Hoot grunts, as if trying to be insulted while still recovering from Sanderson’s shameless plundering of his mouth.
“I was horny, not dead. Of course I locked the damn door.” Sanderson drops his head back down on Hoot’s arm, smiling. Hoot is completely lax on top of him, breathing evening out and he is reminded that the man has not slept in a few days. He shifts, and Hoot voices a drowsy, inquisitive grumble.
“Come on, man. You can’t crash on the floor. Move your ass.” Hoot smiles and Sanderson feels it against the rise of his shoulder blade.
He feels Hoot stiffen, and then a furrowed brow coming to rest between his shoulder blades. He hates being the cause of those wrinkles returning, and it breaks something inside of him every time he has to shatter Hoot’s peace.
“I know, man. But we have to move. Mike could be back any time.”
He could feel Hoot’s lips shaping words against his skin. The ‘please’ nearly unhinges him. He rolls, and Hoot slides across his hip and into his chest as perfectly as if it were choreographed. He cups Hoot’s chin in his hand.
“I know.” He brushes his lips across Hoot’s, stroking the tense jaw with his thumb, and presses their foreheads together. “I know.”
Hoot nods and turns away sharply, coming to his feet in a breath-taking economy of motion, and reaching for his clothes. The sharp, staccato jerks of his hands as he buttons, zips, and smoothes cause a pang in Sanderson’s chest as he sits up and searches for something to wipe up the evidence of their decompression.
He has his back to Hoot, is zipping and buttoning the past hour out of the present and into his memory, when Hoot speaks.
“I’d like to, you know. Just once. ” The statement sounds painful, dragged out of Hoot’s chest with something barbed.
Hoot tilts his head, as if he hears something Sanderson cannot, and shoots him a tired grin He doesn’t want just once, but then Hoot knows that too.
“Wishes and horses, right?” He steps closer and trails his fingertips lightly across Sanderson’s cheekbone, down his nose and across his lips. Sanderson goes a little weak in the knees, but finds the breath to speak.
“Yeah, man. Wishes and horses.”
And then, with a quirk of those lips, Hoot is gone.
Sanderson scrubs his hands across his face, waits for approximately five minutes, and follows. Sleep will help, he knows. It always does. He steps into the cool dark of the hangar and makes his way to his bunk, careful not to wake the man in next one over.
The irony of it all almost makes him laugh as he relaxes into his pillow and closes his eyes.
He stays silent though, because Hoot is a light sleeper.