sonora_coneja (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
sonora_coneja) wrote2010-10-29 09:05 pm
sonora_coneja) wrote2010-10-29 09:05 pm
Better than Warm Milk
Pairing: Hannibal/BA
Rating: R
Warnings: none
Summary: Fill for this prompt on the kink meme.
Because in the movie's opening, BA has clearly had a very long and stressful day -- busting up a garage to get his van back, meeting a smoking hot silverfox, busting up a corrupt general, almost dying in the helicopter that squashed his baby...or, how Hannibal effectively welcomed BA Baracus to the A-Team.
Hannibal helps BA unwind after a long day. Ahh, the things a colonel does for his men!
“Baracus?”
The knock at his door, and the accompanying voice, is so faint that the former corporal almost misses it. They’ve stuck him in the Fort Huachuca enlisted dorms, the really crappy one that’s half-empty for renovations. He’s tired, his nerves are still fried from that chopper flight, and the bed’s wrapped in plastic.
“Hey, it’s Face, uh, Lieutenant Peck.”
In the door, the crazy white guy from before, not the pilot, the other one, the guy who he’d helped save and who later saved his life. The man’s got a couple of prominent bandages taped to various patches of exposed skin.
“Hannibal sent me to get you. He’s got some good news.”
BA pokes his head out. “The guards are still there, fool.”
“Oh, them?” Peck says, waving vaguely at the two MPs. “They’re cool, right, man?” and he claps one of them on the shoulder. “Totally fine with this.”
“I still get that tequila, lieutenant,” one of them says.
“A case of Mexico’s finest, your room, tomorrow. Don’t spend it all in one place,” Peck laughs, and practically drags BA from the building.
Peck's got a jeep, and drops him off at the doorstep of a place in colonel housing. “You go on in."
Nobody answers the door, so BA figures he might as well just let himself in. The place is mostly dark, but there’s a single light on down the hall, so that’s where he goes.
It’s a bedroom. Okay, that’s a little weird. The bathroom door opens, and BA pushes down the brief bubble that rises up in his throat at the sight of Colonel Hannibal Smith, tactical genius, Ranger legend, sexy beyond belief, with nothing on but a towel around his waist. His hair’s damp. He looks surprised.
“What time is it?” he asks, and BA points to the clock and folds his arms over his chest. He reads it. “Oh, crap. Face wasn't supposed to pick you up for another half hour.”
“Shower?”
“Didn’t get a chance to do it after the chopper landed, had to go talk to a bunch of idiots about getting you and Murdock...”
“Murdock?” and BA has a sudden, irrational image of the insane pilot is jumping out of the shadows like a feral tomcat. “That fool still around?”
“I got you both reinstated,” Hannibal says, and extends a hand. “Congratulations, corporal. You made the unit.”
BA doesn’t know what to say, overwhelmed by the generosity of the man. It’s not often that anybody sticks their neck out for him. It’s one of the things he loved about being in the Army, being in a team, and now he’s back in. “No, I want to take a shower. The dorms were spitting brown water. Gross.”
“Yeah, go ahead,” Hannibal says, jerking a thumb back over his shoulder. “It’s a buddy’s house, so don’t worry about it.”
Colonels got nice houses, BA thinks as he turns the hot water on and strips down. He’s definitely tired from today, both physically and mentally. Lost his van he’d just spent so much time getting back, almost fell out of a chopper, met a couple of psychotic white boys he’s evidently working with now, and there was the whole getting-shot-by-Hannibal-fucking-Smith thing.
That hadn’t suck. It hurt, sure, but there was a honesty, a confidence, to the man as he talked about getting his friend back that BA had found quite appealing. Hannibal was the kind of officer you dreamed of working for. What was it going to be like?
“Hey, Bosco?” The door opens, and there’s Hannibal, still in his towel. “You’re going to need to keep that wound dry. Let me give you a hand.”
BA thinks that the boss means like with a garbage bag or something, but no, that’s not what he means at all, because he’s throwing the towel to the side and stepping into the shower with him. “Keep you arm up,” Hannibal tells him, and detaches the shower head. He grabs a washcloth, lathers it up and gets to work.
He’s not gentle but he’s not exactly rough either. BA doesn’t know what to do as the washcloth rubs lower and lower, brushing his cock that’s gotten so little attention lately. Feels great.
“Sir, I, uh...”
“You haven’t signed anything yet, Bosco,” Hannibal chuckles. “No issues right now.”
BA shakes out of the warm haze he’s falling into. “No, nobody tops me, sir.”
Hannibal’s still laughing, and the washcloth is running around and behind his balls now, first one, then the other, massaging gently. “I don’t either, BA. You’ve had a rough day, mostly my fault, you deserve a little release. Now shut up and enjoy it.”
It’s long and low and lazy, his right arm outside the curtain and grabbing for purchase against the wall as Hannibal jacks him off. It’s relaxing, that’s for sure. The man’s got a curiously good command of this for colonel, BA notices, and then it doesn’t matter, because he’s cumming into the spray and he thinks, with some embarrassment, that Hannibal must have walked him over to the big bed and tucked him in, because now all he sees are bleached-white sheets and Hannibal watching him, still naked, sitting on the edge of the bed.
The officer’s got that same look on his face as he did in the van when he noticed BA’s tattoo. It's all nice, but BA doesn't do nice. Nice has a tendency of tearing him down and then kicking him while he's on the ground.
“I ain't no fag,” he tells the colonel reflexively.
“Don’t ask, don’t tell, don’t care. I take care of my boys,” Hannibal says with a shrug, and pulls the covers up a little more.
It’s going to be nice to have a good commanding officer for a change, and that’s BA’s last conscious thought as he drifts off to sleep.
Rating: R
Warnings: none
Summary: Fill for this prompt on the kink meme.
Because in the movie's opening, BA has clearly had a very long and stressful day -- busting up a garage to get his van back, meeting a smoking hot silverfox, busting up a corrupt general, almost dying in the helicopter that squashed his baby...or, how Hannibal effectively welcomed BA Baracus to the A-Team.
Hannibal helps BA unwind after a long day. Ahh, the things a colonel does for his men!
“Baracus?”
The knock at his door, and the accompanying voice, is so faint that the former corporal almost misses it. They’ve stuck him in the Fort Huachuca enlisted dorms, the really crappy one that’s half-empty for renovations. He’s tired, his nerves are still fried from that chopper flight, and the bed’s wrapped in plastic.
“Hey, it’s Face, uh, Lieutenant Peck.”
In the door, the crazy white guy from before, not the pilot, the other one, the guy who he’d helped save and who later saved his life. The man’s got a couple of prominent bandages taped to various patches of exposed skin.
“Hannibal sent me to get you. He’s got some good news.”
BA pokes his head out. “The guards are still there, fool.”
“Oh, them?” Peck says, waving vaguely at the two MPs. “They’re cool, right, man?” and he claps one of them on the shoulder. “Totally fine with this.”
“I still get that tequila, lieutenant,” one of them says.
“A case of Mexico’s finest, your room, tomorrow. Don’t spend it all in one place,” Peck laughs, and practically drags BA from the building.
Peck's got a jeep, and drops him off at the doorstep of a place in colonel housing. “You go on in."
Nobody answers the door, so BA figures he might as well just let himself in. The place is mostly dark, but there’s a single light on down the hall, so that’s where he goes.
It’s a bedroom. Okay, that’s a little weird. The bathroom door opens, and BA pushes down the brief bubble that rises up in his throat at the sight of Colonel Hannibal Smith, tactical genius, Ranger legend, sexy beyond belief, with nothing on but a towel around his waist. His hair’s damp. He looks surprised.
“What time is it?” he asks, and BA points to the clock and folds his arms over his chest. He reads it. “Oh, crap. Face wasn't supposed to pick you up for another half hour.”
“Shower?”
“Didn’t get a chance to do it after the chopper landed, had to go talk to a bunch of idiots about getting you and Murdock...”
“Murdock?” and BA has a sudden, irrational image of the insane pilot is jumping out of the shadows like a feral tomcat. “That fool still around?”
“I got you both reinstated,” Hannibal says, and extends a hand. “Congratulations, corporal. You made the unit.”
BA doesn’t know what to say, overwhelmed by the generosity of the man. It’s not often that anybody sticks their neck out for him. It’s one of the things he loved about being in the Army, being in a team, and now he’s back in. “No, I want to take a shower. The dorms were spitting brown water. Gross.”
“Yeah, go ahead,” Hannibal says, jerking a thumb back over his shoulder. “It’s a buddy’s house, so don’t worry about it.”
Colonels got nice houses, BA thinks as he turns the hot water on and strips down. He’s definitely tired from today, both physically and mentally. Lost his van he’d just spent so much time getting back, almost fell out of a chopper, met a couple of psychotic white boys he’s evidently working with now, and there was the whole getting-shot-by-Hannibal-fucking-Smith thing.
That hadn’t suck. It hurt, sure, but there was a honesty, a confidence, to the man as he talked about getting his friend back that BA had found quite appealing. Hannibal was the kind of officer you dreamed of working for. What was it going to be like?
“Hey, Bosco?” The door opens, and there’s Hannibal, still in his towel. “You’re going to need to keep that wound dry. Let me give you a hand.”
BA thinks that the boss means like with a garbage bag or something, but no, that’s not what he means at all, because he’s throwing the towel to the side and stepping into the shower with him. “Keep you arm up,” Hannibal tells him, and detaches the shower head. He grabs a washcloth, lathers it up and gets to work.
He’s not gentle but he’s not exactly rough either. BA doesn’t know what to do as the washcloth rubs lower and lower, brushing his cock that’s gotten so little attention lately. Feels great.
“Sir, I, uh...”
“You haven’t signed anything yet, Bosco,” Hannibal chuckles. “No issues right now.”
BA shakes out of the warm haze he’s falling into. “No, nobody tops me, sir.”
Hannibal’s still laughing, and the washcloth is running around and behind his balls now, first one, then the other, massaging gently. “I don’t either, BA. You’ve had a rough day, mostly my fault, you deserve a little release. Now shut up and enjoy it.”
It’s long and low and lazy, his right arm outside the curtain and grabbing for purchase against the wall as Hannibal jacks him off. It’s relaxing, that’s for sure. The man’s got a curiously good command of this for colonel, BA notices, and then it doesn’t matter, because he’s cumming into the spray and he thinks, with some embarrassment, that Hannibal must have walked him over to the big bed and tucked him in, because now all he sees are bleached-white sheets and Hannibal watching him, still naked, sitting on the edge of the bed.
The officer’s got that same look on his face as he did in the van when he noticed BA’s tattoo. It's all nice, but BA doesn't do nice. Nice has a tendency of tearing him down and then kicking him while he's on the ground.
“I ain't no fag,” he tells the colonel reflexively.
“Don’t ask, don’t tell, don’t care. I take care of my boys,” Hannibal says with a shrug, and pulls the covers up a little more.
It’s going to be nice to have a good commanding officer for a change, and that’s BA’s last conscious thought as he drifts off to sleep.