Title: Target of Opportunity (Rules of Engagement 5/5)
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: I kept trying to write hawt post-Mog Hoot/Sanderson schmexxing of the life-affirming variety...and the little chibi Eversmann in my head kept bouncing up and down going "What about MEEEE?!" See? This is when happens when you don't beat your characters regularly. So it turned into...something else. Please slash responsively.
That is how Hoot finds them, holding on to each other.Eversmann locked in a positive feedback loop of suffering as Sanderson tries to keep the entire system from imploding with softly whispered nonsense syllables of comfort.
Sanderson feels the weight of those eyes before the shape of Hoot materializes in his peripheral vision, and then an incredible lightness, because the world is still turning and Hoot is still here and whole and alive, a champagne-bubbly effervescence rising in his chest.
The weight of Eversmann’s head is suddenly gone from his shoulder.
He suddenly realizes that he wants it back, and sees the reflection of that want in Hoot’s eyes.
Later, when all is quiet, and the three of them are on their knees in Mike's trailer, the young sergeant’s fingernails scrape his shoulder blades, fingers fixed like he’s clawing his way out of somewhere small, dark, and locked away, those eyes bore into his, heavy with everything they’ve never said to each other, each afraid of becoming the broken thing vibrating into pieces between them with the force of his grief. Afraid that things spoken out loud have power, and that power may very well dash them both against the rocks of the lives they’ve chosen. So they don’t speak, so they won’t break, and the things left unsaid hover in the air between them like the quick, desperate whimpers Eversmann makes as Hoot fists his cock.
But Sanderson hears them anyway, deafening in the silence before Hoot’s pants and sighs, as he makes Eversmann moan and growl, beg and plead, all of it incoherent. Somehow he feels it through Eversmann, every quake and tremor a seismic indicator of just how intertwined the strands of their two lives have become. Much later, he will appreciate the irony that it took watching Hoot fuck someone else to get the point across. But for now the animal thing growling behind his ribcage in place of his heart recognizes the claim burning hot in Hoot’s eyes, even as he sinks his teeth into Eversmann’s skin, as Eversmann half-screams, half-sobs his orgasm into the hollow of Sanderson’s throat in two broken syllables, he knows that he belongs here, now, maybe always, with Hoot.
Love is love. Love is the desperation quaking in front of him as Eversmann cracks down the middle, it's the dark of Hoot's eyes as they search out his own across a crowded hangar, or the dusty back alley of some nameless city, it's Sanderson pacing the tarmac of a hundred airstrips in a dozen countries waiting for his return, the close press of skin, quick and surreptitious, before a mission into hell.
It's this, and it's that, and there and everything. There is no need to define the sky.
Sanderson lets himself free fall, pulling the trembling sergeant down to floor, soothing and quieting with gentle brushes of fingers and lips.
The burn as Hoot slides into him is excruciating, holy fuck
, incandescent with the knowledge of their shared mortality, and Sanderson presses his mouth to Eversmann's to keep from shouting. If Hoot's slow assault of Eversmann was a calculated and measured campaign, this was shock and awe, and the edges of Sanderson's vision burn blue, ultrahot, with the utterly pleasurable ruthlessness of it. One hand clamps down on Eversmann's hip, and those bruised eyes, Sanderson can almost feel the weight of them on his skin like something tangible, flutter shut with a groan. Eversmann drinks every groan and curse from his lips like penance, and the unpracticed not-Hoot hand curling around his cock is his undoing.
He is writhing around inside a body turned completely to stone, careening madly inside the walls of his own skin, as the world goes white and is reduced, like the slow motion of combat between taking fire and returning it,to Hoot's broken fuck
as he goes rigid behind him.
His last thought before his world goes nuclear is that he made it through the Mog to be killed by Hoot's cock and a clumsy hand job.
Then Hoot is slipping out of him with a hiss, and Sanderson focuses on remembering how to breathe.
His two dark-eyed men shift slowly, incrementally, like continents, gradually slipping into place next to the source of their comfort. Sanderson sighs, and then laughs softly to himself.
As lots in life go, he figures, his could definitely be worse.