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sonora_conejaPairing: Face/Murdock
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: none
Summary: A fill for this prompt on the kink meme.
So, I have just been re-reading the amazing Not Dying Today. There is a part in that where Face is trying to keep Murdock calm. He tells Murdock to imagine that they aren't being threatened and forced to perform. He tells Murdock to imagine that they are in a hotel room, that they've had a little too much to drink, that any background noise is just the tv, and that've wanted to be together for ages and now they are.
I love that description so much that I am promting the scenario for someone to write. :D
Face scams him and Murdock a General Officer suite on a trip to Germany. Alcohol, television, sex. That’s just about it!
The second they hit the hotel room, card beeping, door cracking wide, all Murdock’s exhaustion from the day’s flight here to Ramstein Air Base, the long, hard months of dust and sweat and blood in Afghanistan before that, seems to vanish.
“Ooh, AFN, how I have missed thee!” the captain says, eager as a five year old, and bounds in ahead of Face. He tosses his backpack onto the floor by the door, grabbing for the remote, ending up in a tumble of limbs on the huge, comfortable-looking couch. The sound of some nighttime talk show fills the room, broadcast over here on the crappy, seven-channel Armed Forces Network.
Face pauses, right at the entrance to the gigantic suite, bag still in hand, listening to the television, feeling empty.
What he wouldn’t give for a gay bar in Berlin right now.
But nope. They aren’t technically on leave, so he can’t technically leave the base.
They’re here, on some kind of pass or another, because Hannibal’s got some kind of briefing, strategy meeting, board... some damn thing Face is too tired remember and doesn’t care about anyway. A week. They get a week, and then it’s back to the sandbox.
And they’re stuck in fucking base lodging.
Nothing to be done about that, Hannibal had said. Which is all well and good for Hannibal. That fucking eagle on his shoulder qualifies him for the good section of the lodge anyway. He’s got his own room, a floor below, explicitly stating that I am not going to share my room with a pair of middle school boys that giggle over dick jokes on Nickelodeon. BA’s staying with a couple of buddies who live over in base housing, which really kicks ass - for two hundred bucks a month, they get American cable.
And dammit if Templeton Peck was going to spend the week in the typical room junior officers get. Tiny shower, the smell of mildew in the walls, fucking AFN, and one queen-sized bed he would have had to share with Murdock.
Which actually would have been okay. Except...it wouldn’t be.
Murdock, the team’s pilot, Face’s best friend, held captive by the moving pictures on the flatscreen in the General Officer’s suite that’s this night’s conquest for the con man. It’s enough to make the younger man weep.
So he’d kissed ass and flirted and lied - conned, Peck, jesus, conned - his way into one of the GO suites.
Because sleeping with Murdock...
It’s a shame, Face thinks now, with not a little bit of the old wistfulness. The man’s got a 158 IQ, if you believe the military tested that accurately, a crazy streak in him a mile long. But he’s got focus. Always has. And right now, that focus belongs to last night’s episode of Conan O’Brian.
Face wonders, sometimes, at night, when the latest girl’s gone and the sheets smell sickly-sweet, or when the door's closing behind the cute bottom he found a few hours before and everything's dark and heavy in his nostrils, what that would be like. Being looked at like that, every angle viewed at once, the whole absorbed in a second. To have Murdock look at him and see him, really see him, for everything he is that nobody else knows, for everything he isn’t that the world seems to insist are true.
What I wouldn’t do, the lieutenant thinks bitterly to himself, tasting the futility of that though, anew, all over again. What I wouldn’t give...
But in the year or so they’ve known each other, in the two years since Tuco, since Mexico, Murdock’s never given any sign. Of being interested in him. Of being interested in men. Of being interested in...anyone, anything, really.
What does he like? Face wonders. Women? Men? He’s never seen the pilot with a woman. Never seen him with a man. Never seen him with a magazine or a video or a photograph or slamming the computer screen shut when Hannibal walks in the room, like he and BA do.
Maybe he's got some really weird kink, like he needs to have somebody tie him to a stove and pelt him with rotten tomatoes, in order to get it up. Maybe his sex drive got burnt out in between rounds of electro-shock and vast, vast amounts of psychiatric drugs. Or maybe their pilot’s one of those, whatthefuckaretheycalled... asexuals.
And the thought of that, any of that, makes Face a little sad.
All that excitement, all that passion, all the compassion his buddy has, held inside, never shared, never expressed in the most intimate, most beautiful of ways...
But he has to love something, right?
Whatever it is, for the almost three years that Face has known Murdock, for all the other stuff he knows about his buddy - his mother died in a car crash when he was nine, his first horse was named Blinkers, he won the high school division of the East Texas State Science Fair in middle school, got a full ride to Texas A&M University in tenth grade, nearly washed out of flight school for throwing up, Raphael is his favorite Ninja Turtle ... - he doesn't really know anything that matters at all.
It’s so pathetic Face wants to kick himself.
So sad, he wants to cry.
“Whatcha lookin’ at, Faceman?” Murdock asks, glancing up from the couch, knees tucked under him now, the little-used flightsuit pulled around him in all sorts of ways Face can’t think about right now. He’s unlacing his non-regulation boots, letting them fall to the immaculately vacuumed carpet, the gray dust of their past three ops settling into the hile pile slowly, hanging there around the pilot’s feet. He’s stripping his socks off by the toes. Thick locks of dark hair are falling in his face, the line of his flight helmet from the C-17 ride here clearly evident in that thick mop. He hasn’t shaved in nearly fifty hours, and he’s skinnier than he should be, convinced as he is that the meat at the chow hall back at their FOB is dog, and therefore, disallowed. His skin’s a bit grayer than it should be, exhaustion showing, the blue light from the TV turning him all the wrong shades...
But he’s gorgeous.
Gorgeous as he always is.
On the TV, Conan’s been replaced by a smiling actress in a Navy uniform, delivering her commercial-break shpiel about the necessity of reporting sexual assaults in a timely fashion. Fucking AFN, Face thinks, and realizes his mouth is completely dry.
“Nothing, buddy,” he says, light and easy as if nothing’s wrong, covering up that hole inside him, the one that’s been growing since...hell, maybe since the day Murdock lit his arm on fire. “I’m going to take a shower. I stink...”
Murdock cocks his head, in that jerky way of his, like he skips all the positions in between where he is and where he’s going. His lips are pressed in a thin line, giving nothing away, inscrutable. But he nods, and smiles a little. “Gotta get back in your beauty routine. Betcha there’s plenty of cute gals on this base just beggin’ for a little taste of American action hero,” he drawls in those smooth Texas tones that flow like bourbon, and burn like it too, going down.
Face hoists his bag from where it’s fallen on the floor, at some point in their abortive little conversation, and slams the bathroom door behind him.
+++++
By the time Face has scrubbed and shaved and enjoyed the feel of hot water that doesn’t smell like chlorine sanitation tablets and calmed a growing hard-on and brushed his teeth and plucked a few stray hairs for the hell of it and avoided Murdock as much as he can, Face finally emerges back out into the main body of the suite in a t-shirt and cut-off ABU pants, fucking relieved that he’s already missed the part where Murdock got naked.
The pilot’s sitting there now, flipping through channels, Hawaiian shirt pulled on over nothing but a pair of boxers that were green at the beginning of their deployment, but have since turned a permanent shade of gray. His feet are tucked up into some kind of half-lotus on the couch cushions. He’s got at least six bottles of Jagermeister from the mini-fridge, and a carton of pineapple juice he had to have gone down to the front desk for, in front of him on the suite’s coffee-table.
“Heya, buddy,” he says, and pulls a pair of glass lowball tumblers out of nowhere. “Wanna break General Order Number One?”
Face smiles, despite himself. Damn rules. No drinking and no fucking on deployments. “We break it all the fucking time,” he asks, and sits down, as close as he can get without touching. “That’s how much I love you guys. When have I ever let the team go without beer?”
“Phht. You con it off the Germans.”
“Yeah, you ever try to talk a German out of beer?” he asks, and grins, reaching over to crack those little airline bottles of booze. “Getting in to their magic beer stockpile probably the hardest thing I do over there.”
Murdock smiles. It’s dazzling. It makes Face feel a little light-headed, so he has to keep talking, keep noise in the space between them, so his brain doesn’t insert something unwelcome like HM, baby, come to bed...
“We should go get some real German beer tomorrow night,” he says hurriedly. “Think BA and Hannibal would want to come?”
“Need a girl, Face?”
It’s soft, quiet, almost sad, and it rips at the conman in a way that all of Hannibal’s gruff lectures about how whoring around like this is bad for your career, kid have never, ever done. Rips, because that’s how they see him. How Murdock sees him.
“Naw,” and the lieutenant winces, just a little, running a hand into his shower-damp hair. “We’re good right here tonight, buddy.
The pilot cracks the carton of juice, nodding, perking up once again. “You ever had this, Faceman? Murdock’s drunk-on-spring-break special?”
“I think I’ve had a couple of those,” Face chuckles, despite himself, as equal amounts of Jager and juice are dished out. Fucking Jager. Yeah, that’s got to be a college thing. “Not this one, though.” And then something hits him. “There’s not, like, anti-freeze in it again, is there?”
Murdock just smiles wider, and jiggles the glass to stir, handing it over.
Face takes it...gingerly.
It should be disgusting, but somehow it works, and pretty soon, they’ve gone through the Jager and the equally small stash of Gray Goose from the mini-fridge, and Conan’s turned it over to Jimmy Fallon, and Face thinks he might be getting drunk. There’s that pleasant tingle in his hands, that warm flow out into his limbs, leaving his head just a bit tingly. It feels good, and he giggles a bit as Murdock knocks over the carton of juice.
“We killed it!” his best friend laughs, and stands, that Hawaiian shirt falling open, unbuttoned, the tanned lines of his chest fully exposed. “You wan’ another?”
“We got anything that doesn’t need a mixer?” Face asks, grabbing for the carton and the thin line of bright yellow juice it’s leaking out. He’s staring at it, so he doesn’t have to stare at Murdock, who’s now bent over the mini-fridge, butt wiggling just a bit, toes tapping along to the talk show band music spilling out of the TV. “Like, anything?”
“There’s scotch!” Murdock yells.
Face shudders. “That shit Hannibal drinks?”
“Good point.” A pause. “Beer?”
“Tell me it’s not Coors,” he groans.
Pause. “Hieneken! With the US barcodes!”
“Fuck... are you kidding me?”
A sweating green glass bottle is pressed into his hand, and Face looks up into a pair of sea-blue eyes, smiling down at him from one of those odd angles only Murdock’s capable of pulling off.
“Nope, they definitely imported the imported beer it from the states,” the captain says and offers him a bottle opener. “You good?”
Face takes the opener, smiling back to cover the sudden rush of need, fueled by the alcohol in his system. Fuck. Fuck. If he could only reach up and run his fingers into that soft, dark hair, pull their mouths together, pull their bodies together, kiss his best friend the way he deserves to be kissed...
“You good, Faceman?”
When Murdock asks it again, Face realizes that their hands are touching. And not just touching. No. Their hands are doing that thing where the pads of their fingers are moving against each other’s skins, tickling fine hairs, tracing the edges of thin scabs from that mission a week ago where they had a window blown out on them, nothing but heat...
“Face?”
The lieutenant knows what’s going to happen here. He has to let go, he has to let go before he says something really fucking stupid. Something like...and he looks up again, surprised that Murdock even knows his actual name, right as a long-fingered hand slips into his hair.
“Murdock?” he asks, confused. What are they doing here?
The pilot’s nervous. He’s shifting, foot to foot, holding still, biting his lip, his shirt still open, his nipples hardening into little peaks, and he shakes his head.
His hand comes away.
And Face feels something in him snap.
Before he can stop himself, the lieutenant’s off the couch, on his feet, bottle tossed away, a little unsteady as the blood rushes around in his head, but he’s got his hands around Murdock’s wrist and Murdock’s waist and somehow they’re just wrapping into each other, wrapping into a hesitant, oh-so-hesitant, kiss.
Murdock’s closed lips are soft against his own, softer than he’d expected, and he tastes like pineapple and vodka and the rubber of that headset he wore this afternoon, on the C-17 he piloted in here, and something fainter, cool, high, distant. Like the blue at the top of the sky. Face moans, lifting a hand to brush Murdock’s jaw, wanting him to open, wanting to dive in after that, wanting to know that, wanting to know everything about his friend...
But the pilot twists, so Face’s lips are on the stubble of his cheek now, and he pulls back, that fear threatening to choke him.
Murdock lays limp, uncertain hands on his shoulders, like he’s positioning to push away, flee, if he needs to. And there’s no way that can happen now. It’ll shatter them both. But Face can’t hold on, can’t make Murdock feel like he’s being captured, bound, caged, or he will lose him. No questions asked. He’s suddenly terrified.
Murdock’s eyes flash, and he seems to shrink, pelvis drawing back. Wary. “You...Faceman, you aren’t...we can’t...”
The beginning of it, Face thinks, and his heart is racing in his ears. Fuck. No, no, not now, please god, not this... and then the unthinkable happens.
He starts babbling.
“I can, Murdock. Please, buddy, don’t...I’m...I really like you, and...”
“Like, Face?” Murdock’s voice really is cutting right through him, and then the pilot titters a nervous, high laugh, made all the more horrible for the little tinge of liquor Face can hear in it. “Oh, Facey, I like my sneakers, but I ain’t gonna start kissin’ ‘em...”
“I’ve wanted this for a long time,” Face whispers, laying his forehead on his best friend’s shoulder. “I’ve wanted you for a long time, HM...”
Nothing.
Silence.
Just the sound of laughter on the TV.
And then a hand runs up into his hair, cradling his skull, holding him still. His arm’s still around Murdock’s waist, and the conman realizes that they’re very, very close. Flush together, really.
“It’s James,” the pilot replies, so quiet Face almost misses it, and he looks away. “I...I want...this, Face...”
Relief floods through the lieutenant, amplified a bit, smoothed a bit, by the alcohol in his blood, and he squeezes Murdock close, kissing his neck. “It’s Templeton,” he replies, just as gently, and kisses that spot again,
“Templeton? You’re shittin’ me,” Murdock giggles back, still stroking his hair.
And despite himself, Face laughs back, pulling off Murdock’s shoulder, wanting to see those blue-green eyes sparkle. “Guess those nuns had a sense of humor, huh?”
“Bet you were a cute little boy,” Murdock - James - says. And yeah, his eyes are bright. “Real cute little boy.”
“I was pretty bad,” Face tells him, pulling him back a bit, away from the coffee table and all those nasty corners. “I got spanked a lot.”
Murdock giggles, still nervous, and sways his hips a bit. “I bet you were naughty.”
“Some things never change,” Face replies softly.
Those hips sway again, and the lieutenant thinks they might be dancing or something. He can’t hear the TV any more.
“Is that what you want with me, Fa...Templeton? Bein’ naughty?”
That Templeton, drawn out in that smooth accent, unlike anything he’s ever heard before...and Face almost misses the undercurrent of uncertainty. “Look, J-James, I don’t, I...I don’t want some fuck and cuddle with you. Don’t think...”
“I don’t,” and Murdock touches his cheek, kissing him lightly, turning around him and yeah. They’re definitely dancing. “But I’m not here to be your comfort blankie or anythin’ like that, while you go off, screwing every damn thing in sight when you don’t need me ta...”
“Oh, baby,” Face groans, cupping Murdock’s face in his hands, noticing the faintest smudge of wetness in those lashes, trying to chase it away with his thumb as they move around each other, backing up now, heading back towards the open doors to the suite’s oversized bedroom. The king-sized bed Face can see over Murdock’s shoulder. “James, buddy, no, no, nothing like that.”
“You’re so needy, Temp,” the captain whispers. “I don’t know if you’ll...”
“I need you,” he replies desperately, knowing the rest of it, knowing it leads nowhere good, wondering if this is why they haven’t done this yet. His bullshit. All his bullshit.... and the con man kisses one closed eye, then the other, pulling Murdock close and wrapping his arms around that lean, spare frame as he sits back on the hotel bed. “I just need you.”
Murdock braces over him, shaggy hair falling in his face, just watching him, just holding there for a moment, and then smiles that amazing smile once again. “You’re beautiful, Templeton,” he whispers softly, and crashes down on top of him.
The kiss is rough, for all the way Murdock’s grinding down into him, for the force with which he flings a leg up over his friend’s hip, pulling their growing erections together. He can hear himself, feel himself moaning, or maybe that’s Murdock, but who fucking cares? It’s all heat and between them, no space, and Face feels like somehow, even clothed like this, , like he’s melting in to the man above him.
“That what you wanted, darlin’?” Murdock drawls happily, uncertainty tinging his words. “That...that what you saw us doin’?”
“Mmm...” the lieutenant says and folds his hands up under his head, locking his other leg up around Murdock’s waist, holding him in, trying to reassure him that this is good, that this is perfect. Fuck. Look at the man. The pilot’s long hair is falling down around his face and his cheeks are a little flushed, his lips a little kiss-swollen already, green eyes hiding behind those long lashes. A vision, a beautiful vision... “I thought we might be a little more, like...”
That Hawaiian shirt is gone in a flash, and Face pushes up, laying a hand across that pale, taught skin, feeling a tremble run through that lean body. “L-like that?” Murdock asks, and his fingers are at the edge of Face’s soft cotton tee. “Or...”
The pilot trails off and their eyes lock. And Face sees it, sees the fear, the hesitation, the desire, the need for...the plea for submission there...and the lieutenant groans at that. He shifts the tone immediately, kneeling up over Murdock’s thighs, running that hand around to his back and the other up into his hair, holding him close as they kiss again, gentle this time, but deeper. Their mouths barely touch, coming apart with every little move. But yet it’s deeper than before, and he pushes his tongue in, pushes for everything, meeting nothing but the soft sigh of a grateful welcome.
“Sorry, baby,” Face murmurs, moving up to kiss his nose, moving down to kiss his cheek, his neck, moving back as he strips his own shirt off and there’s nothing but the feel of his friend’s furred, hard chest against his own. “I just want you to feel good.”
“This feels good,” Murdock says, and giggles a little, nervous giggle.
“It feels very good,” the lieutenant nods back, and cups his friend’s face in both hands, feeling hard, hard flesh beneath the seam of his shorts, moving them around so he can be the one to push back, stay on top, this time. “I want everything to feel good tonight. Tell me if you stop feeling good.”
Murdock wriggles against the duvet, smiling that shy, honest little smile of his, and kisses Face on the tip of his nose. “You feel good, prettyboy.”
“So do you, crazy,” Face breaths.
They smile at each other; BA's grudgingly affectionate nicknames have never sounded so good.
And their mouths meet again.
Face has never kissed anybody like this. Never had a kiss like this before. Murdock’s hands are tangling with his own, spreading wide across the cool expanse of the bed. Murdock’s body is arching and pulsing up against his, muscle straining, cock throbbing, the Ranger tattoo on his bicep in clear view now. He’s strong right now, so strong, stronger than he’s ever felt before, even when they spar, but he’s not using any of it. No, not that, not right now. Maybe later. But not tonight.
Tonight, there’s no struggle. No uncertainty.
“I want you,” he whispers, dipping fingers, stretching out the edge of Murdock’s grayed boxers, feeling the rise of his ass. “Tell me you want me too, James...”
Murdock nuzzles his nose into Face’s neck and clings to him like a child. “I want you, Temp. God, I want you...”
The boxers come off. His own shorts are unbuttoned, and drape down off his hips. Murdock’s in his lap again, cock dark with need, smearing pearly white fluid across his abs as their tongues memorize the taste of one another.
It’s almost like flying, Face thinks dimly, rutting up, holding his friend tight to him, trapping that cock between them. Kisses turn into gasps, gasps turn into cries, and Murdock slams close to him and pants his way through it, everything stopped now but the hot pulses of semen gushing in between them.
“I want you, Temp,” he says again, eyes soft, hands soft, cheek soft against the lieutenant’s shoulder, breathing together as he comes back down from the precipice of his own release. “Please, darlin', I want you...”
“Anything,” Face whispers back, and scoops up a handful of that slick, cooling seed coating their bellies. “Anything...”
Murdock plays with the scattering of hair of across Face’s belly, as Face presses slicked fingers across his waiting hole, pressing in and up with his index finger, sliding one knuckle inside.
It gets him a soft, eager little moan.
So he pushes up further.
Murdock’s relaxed from his orgasm, opening to him with little more than easy, languid circles of Face’s fingers. One, two. That tight ring of muscle stretches, and his friend sighs into his neck, biting lightly, lips teasing.
“Not another,” he says. “I like it tight.”
And fuck if Face doesn’t almost come. Right there.
He can feel his need in his teeth, the long-brewing desire to be buried in the pilot’s body, for those little interior muscles to grasp and grab at his cock, pulling him deeper still, but Face manages to say...
“I don’t want to hurt you, buddy. Never want to hurt you.”
His hair is grabbed with both hands, and Murdock shifts in his lap, making a little noise that could be a growl or a whine. “Don’...don’t worry ‘bout it, Temp. You won’t hurt me. I trust you...”
He does, doesn’t he? Face feels another pang of arousal course through him. Murdock trusts him. And it occurs to him, he’s seen this look before, as if he’s being watched from a great, great distance, as if he can see the pilot’s eyes as he stares through a telescope a mile away, too far to reach, too far to do this.
He shoves both fingers in, spreading wide and jerking out again, and crashes his mouth to Murdock’s, tasting that insane cocktail from earlier, everything that shouldn’t work that his friend makes effortlessly successful. Things like this, like Murdock’s hands, calloused from Apache controls and M-9 grip, braced against his shoulders. Murdock’s thighs, firing against his, lifting, letting his own needy cock spring up to rest, tip to hole, exactly where it wants to be. Murdock’s eyes, filling his world with that calming sea-green as he’s encased.
Root to tip.
In one endless fall.
Murdock shudders, and it’s all Face can do to keep from doing the same. It’s hot and a bit tight and not entirely slick, but any friction is actually fucking perfect right now, because he has that feeling again, like they’re tearing apart and coming together, the cracks between them sealing shut, until there’s no telling where Murdock ends and he begins... but that’s probably just the booze, right?
First times never feel this good.
“Ohh,” the pilot laughs, and lifts slightly, falling back down, head falling back, hands tightening. “Ohh, nelly...sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth of sunswept clouds...”
It sounds like an old poem or something, and Face smiles, kisses his new lover again. They’re doing this, they’re really doing this, that hint of alchohol in his system with its weird interpretation of events be damned. “You too, baby?” he asks, starting an easy, thrusting roll that’s all he can handle right now.
“Take me up there,” Murdock whispers, nodding. “Take me up there, Face.”
“Only if I get to go with you...”
“O’ course, darlin’,” and their foreheads press together. “That’s the whole point of the exercise, ain’t it?”
Face pulses up and Murdock pushes down, the two of them meshing together, complimenting, working together. But it’s too much to maintain, to much to hold, tired as he is, so he urges Murdock’s legs up around him and lays him back and leans on his elbows, keeping that same rhythm they’ve just found together. It’s good, it’s so good.
He’s telling Murdock that, whispering those words he’s always wanted to whisper, over the dim sounds of AFN giving a lecture about the joys of recycling. Things like baby and you feel so good, baby, so good and oh god, oh fuck, James, I never knew...
And it’s all good, nothing to feel like an idiot about at all, cause Murdock’s babbling back. In German, Russian, Chinese, which has never sounded so goddamn romantic in his life, more of that poem sneaking in, things about the sky and flying and holding in the stillness at the top of the world.
Because that’s where they are. And Face can see it, together with Murdock, he can see it, a vast space about them, above everything else, just their muffled moans and the slap of flesh and he’s lost in how fucking good it feels...
Murdock bites his ear lobe and whispers something that sounds like I love you, which can’t be right. But fuck it - those words that can’t be words at all send them crashing down together, Face spilling into Murdock, Murdock spilling against his belly again, the world going white and silent as a cloud bank.
And that’s it.
It takes them an eternity to separate, and when he slips out, when he watches a thin thread of his own seed trickling down the delicate, hairless skin of the inside of Murdock’s thigh, mixing with Murdock’s own, when he bends and licks and tastes and feels overwhelmed, all over again, Face feels like he’s lost something. Like a band-aid’s been ripped off. Like he’s four again, watching that car pull away from St John the Redeemer...
“I’m here,” Murdock says, passing a pillow case across Face’s bare belly, peeling those shorts fully away. His movements are a little shaky. His energy’s spent. “Don’t worry, Face, I’m here...”
Relief washes through him, then irritation at the old fears getting through, the fears Murdock’s never, ever fed, but sex always does, and the lieutenant covers it up by pulling down the covers and bundling them both into the big bed.
“You don’t gotta hide from me, Temp,” Murdock says softly, eyes luminous, fixed on him as they make themselves comfortable around each other.
“I’m not, James. It's...I...”
“We’re friends, right? We’re...still friends?”
“You’re my best friend,” Face yawns, hoping he accented that best like it deserves. Like Murdock deserves.
“We...we can still talk, right? Not, like, this was just cause I fed you a bunch of nutso drinks?”
“Talk is good. The drinks were good. The...we were good,” lieutenant sighs, snuggling in to Murdock’s shoulder, wanting to fist-punch in victory as that arm lifts up over him, as a nose presses to the hollow of his neck. As they fucking cuddle into each other. He knew it. He knew his crazy, beautiful pilot was a cuddler. “We should only ever do things that feel good.”
“So we gonna do this again, then?” his best friend mumbles, sleepy.
“Yeah, man,” and he kisses the top of that shaggy head. “We should do this every chance we get.”
“Good sex?”
“Naw,” and he runs his toes up a boneless shin. “Good talk. Good booze. Good friend.”
“I...do...you know, Faceman,” Murdock whispers.
“Yeah. I know, buddy. Me...me too.”
And the only other sound is the fucking TV in the other room.
+++++
Hannibal catches up to his boys the next morning at the chow hall, after a fucking amazing night’s sleep in a real bed, a king-sized bed, one that’s long enough for his long frame. And yeah, he’s a bit late, and yeah, maybe that’s because he was flipping through the channels for some decent background noise and just happened to find Oprah and maybe it was one of those tear-jerking episodes where they go and rebuild somebody’s house...but of course he was just trying to avoid the fucking AFN commercials on the sports channels.
That’s all.
But fortunately the chow hall gets American cable, so Fox News is blaring out of a dozen different TVs, Glenn Beck messing around with a blackboard and a bunch of magnitized photographs of Democrats, as he takes his tray of eggs and sausage and coffee out to the dining area. Where those two are practically cuddling in a four person booth.
It’s not exactly safe for them to be doing that. Not a thousand miles from their posting, where everybody’s learned the value of just ignoring the pair of them.
Hannibal grabs his coffee and lets his tray slam to the table top, both of them jumping a bit as the hard plastic contacts the sealed wood. They look at each other, and then look at him.
Face sheepish.
Murdock beaming.
Oh, the colonel thinks. Oh, shit.
It was going to happen sooner or later.
But still.
Shit.
He’s known Face since the kid was just that, a kid, fresh out of Ranger School, all blonde good looks and smooth words, everything clean and linear on the surface, so nobody could see what was going on underneath. So nobody could see the damage, those fault lines that run clean through him, straight down to his heart. And hell if he hadn’t tried, hadn’t tried to get Face to open, to trust, to believe him when he said he wanted to help. If he hadn’t wished, from time to time, there could be something more between them.
But Hannibal knows his lieutenant’s always seen him as a father, always needed him as a father, and there are some things no boy should ever have to tell his father. So, no matter what he did, there’s always a bit of a distance between them. Things they couldn’t share.
And then they found Murdock. Or rather, then Hannibal had found Murdock deep in one of Russ’ filing cabinets, and Face had found Murdock a month or so later, lighting his arm on fire.
Somehow, it had all just worked. Murdock and Face had just...fallen into each other. Like all the fissures in Murdock had lined up in perfect opposite to all the fractures in Face, everything good from one man filling the missing space in the other. It was kind of amazing, watching Face after that. Watching him let somebody in, without question. Watching Murdock after that, seeing the man turn from an over-drugged mental patient into a brilliant pilot who occasionally sang Wagner in the middle of mission briefs.
So he’s been expecting this for a while. Ever since he figured out they weren’t, which honestly, had taken him a few months. Not yet, the colonel had told himself, and kept a wary eye on the two of them since.
Because while he didn’t begrudge either of his junior officers that - with each other at least - it was going to be his problem. His to protect. To keep safe. For his boys.
Here it is.
At last.
And the colonel’s happy for them.
He is.
But still. He can have a little fun with them first, right? If they’re going to put concealing this little...issue...onto his already overflowing plate of responsibilities, yeah?
“Gentlemen,” he says, clearing his throat a bit for that paternal touch that always gets Face jumping. “I trust you enjoyed your evening in your scammed General Officer Suite?”
“It was great,” his lieutenant smiles, collecting himself for what would be, with anybody else, a long bullshit session.
“We didn’t even hav’ta share beds!” his captain adds, eyes rolling up to the nearest TV rather than meet his gaze.
The colonel eyes them both for a moment more, and slips into the booth, sipping at his coffee. It’s a bit bitter. They’re starting to squirm, right?
“Well,” he replies mildly, “that’s good. I know you two tend to share beds frequently...”
Murdock chokes. Face makes a noise that might be a giggle or a strangled groan.
“...and maybe that’s something I should remedy in the future. When we get in to one of these hotel situations. Maybe, Face, you could bunk with me...” and the lieutenant’s sort of biting his lip, missing the cube of pineapple on his fork entirely “...and Murdock, you could room with BA...” and the captain’s eyes are blown wide with fear. “Or, hell, I can give up the suite and all three of you could share. Or,” and he stabs an entire sausage patty with gusto, punctuating his words violently, “the three of us could share. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
They look at each other.
Hannibal goes back to his coffee, feigning disinterest.
“So, boys, whaddaya say? Maybe we could all share my suite tonight? You give back that one you aren’t supposed to have, lieutenant and just pick a room in mine.”
Murdock shakes his head fast, hair falling in his eyes. “Uhh, sir...”
Oh, they really are squirming now. How wonderful. “We could grab one of those cartoon movies you like, what is it, Murdock, Fifel Goes West, and get a board game from the front desk and have us some real family bonding time...”
“Boss...” Face blurts out and Murdock slaps him. Under the table, but still, the colonel can hear it.
“What, kid?” he asks serenely, shaking a bit of salt into his coffee to cut the acid. “Don’t like my plan?”
The two of them look at each other with a little helplessness, a whole lot of need, and he chuckles again.
“I wouldn’t care if you two wanted to fuck afterwards, as long as you keep it the hell down and don't do it on anything I’m going to sit on later.”
Crickets, from the other side of the table.
Hannibal sips at his coffee, leans back in the booth, and waits for it.
Five. Ten. Fifteen seconds.
Above them, Glenn Beck has changed out for a real American commercial for a real American pharmaceutical company. Something about restless leg syndrome. Are they just making diseases up now?
Twenty. Twenty-three seconds.
“You know, boys, this doesn’t mean I don’t love you any more, or anything like that...”
And then his boys both start babbling at once, stumbling over each other with apologies and explanations and sentences they finish for each other, trying to keep it quiet, getting loud and hushing again, not making any sense at all, and then Face switches to French in an attempt to be subtle, and Murdock makes a comment in German about how sexy he sounds, and one of the local national employees here in the chow hall, wiping down a vacated table right next to theirs, starts giggling uncontrollably.
It’s pretty great. Face is bright red and Murdock’s nervous and Hannibal can’t stop chuckling at the little display.
He wishes he could light up a cigar right now. Just for dramatic emphasis.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: none
Summary: A fill for this prompt on the kink meme.
So, I have just been re-reading the amazing Not Dying Today. There is a part in that where Face is trying to keep Murdock calm. He tells Murdock to imagine that they aren't being threatened and forced to perform. He tells Murdock to imagine that they are in a hotel room, that they've had a little too much to drink, that any background noise is just the tv, and that've wanted to be together for ages and now they are.
I love that description so much that I am promting the scenario for someone to write. :D
Face scams him and Murdock a General Officer suite on a trip to Germany. Alcohol, television, sex. That’s just about it!
The second they hit the hotel room, card beeping, door cracking wide, all Murdock’s exhaustion from the day’s flight here to Ramstein Air Base, the long, hard months of dust and sweat and blood in Afghanistan before that, seems to vanish.
“Ooh, AFN, how I have missed thee!” the captain says, eager as a five year old, and bounds in ahead of Face. He tosses his backpack onto the floor by the door, grabbing for the remote, ending up in a tumble of limbs on the huge, comfortable-looking couch. The sound of some nighttime talk show fills the room, broadcast over here on the crappy, seven-channel Armed Forces Network.
Face pauses, right at the entrance to the gigantic suite, bag still in hand, listening to the television, feeling empty.
What he wouldn’t give for a gay bar in Berlin right now.
But nope. They aren’t technically on leave, so he can’t technically leave the base.
They’re here, on some kind of pass or another, because Hannibal’s got some kind of briefing, strategy meeting, board... some damn thing Face is too tired remember and doesn’t care about anyway. A week. They get a week, and then it’s back to the sandbox.
And they’re stuck in fucking base lodging.
Nothing to be done about that, Hannibal had said. Which is all well and good for Hannibal. That fucking eagle on his shoulder qualifies him for the good section of the lodge anyway. He’s got his own room, a floor below, explicitly stating that I am not going to share my room with a pair of middle school boys that giggle over dick jokes on Nickelodeon. BA’s staying with a couple of buddies who live over in base housing, which really kicks ass - for two hundred bucks a month, they get American cable.
And dammit if Templeton Peck was going to spend the week in the typical room junior officers get. Tiny shower, the smell of mildew in the walls, fucking AFN, and one queen-sized bed he would have had to share with Murdock.
Which actually would have been okay. Except...it wouldn’t be.
Murdock, the team’s pilot, Face’s best friend, held captive by the moving pictures on the flatscreen in the General Officer’s suite that’s this night’s conquest for the con man. It’s enough to make the younger man weep.
So he’d kissed ass and flirted and lied - conned, Peck, jesus, conned - his way into one of the GO suites.
Because sleeping with Murdock...
It’s a shame, Face thinks now, with not a little bit of the old wistfulness. The man’s got a 158 IQ, if you believe the military tested that accurately, a crazy streak in him a mile long. But he’s got focus. Always has. And right now, that focus belongs to last night’s episode of Conan O’Brian.
Face wonders, sometimes, at night, when the latest girl’s gone and the sheets smell sickly-sweet, or when the door's closing behind the cute bottom he found a few hours before and everything's dark and heavy in his nostrils, what that would be like. Being looked at like that, every angle viewed at once, the whole absorbed in a second. To have Murdock look at him and see him, really see him, for everything he is that nobody else knows, for everything he isn’t that the world seems to insist are true.
What I wouldn’t do, the lieutenant thinks bitterly to himself, tasting the futility of that though, anew, all over again. What I wouldn’t give...
But in the year or so they’ve known each other, in the two years since Tuco, since Mexico, Murdock’s never given any sign. Of being interested in him. Of being interested in men. Of being interested in...anyone, anything, really.
What does he like? Face wonders. Women? Men? He’s never seen the pilot with a woman. Never seen him with a man. Never seen him with a magazine or a video or a photograph or slamming the computer screen shut when Hannibal walks in the room, like he and BA do.
Maybe he's got some really weird kink, like he needs to have somebody tie him to a stove and pelt him with rotten tomatoes, in order to get it up. Maybe his sex drive got burnt out in between rounds of electro-shock and vast, vast amounts of psychiatric drugs. Or maybe their pilot’s one of those, whatthefuckaretheycalled... asexuals.
And the thought of that, any of that, makes Face a little sad.
All that excitement, all that passion, all the compassion his buddy has, held inside, never shared, never expressed in the most intimate, most beautiful of ways...
But he has to love something, right?
Whatever it is, for the almost three years that Face has known Murdock, for all the other stuff he knows about his buddy - his mother died in a car crash when he was nine, his first horse was named Blinkers, he won the high school division of the East Texas State Science Fair in middle school, got a full ride to Texas A&M University in tenth grade, nearly washed out of flight school for throwing up, Raphael is his favorite Ninja Turtle ... - he doesn't really know anything that matters at all.
It’s so pathetic Face wants to kick himself.
So sad, he wants to cry.
“Whatcha lookin’ at, Faceman?” Murdock asks, glancing up from the couch, knees tucked under him now, the little-used flightsuit pulled around him in all sorts of ways Face can’t think about right now. He’s unlacing his non-regulation boots, letting them fall to the immaculately vacuumed carpet, the gray dust of their past three ops settling into the hile pile slowly, hanging there around the pilot’s feet. He’s stripping his socks off by the toes. Thick locks of dark hair are falling in his face, the line of his flight helmet from the C-17 ride here clearly evident in that thick mop. He hasn’t shaved in nearly fifty hours, and he’s skinnier than he should be, convinced as he is that the meat at the chow hall back at their FOB is dog, and therefore, disallowed. His skin’s a bit grayer than it should be, exhaustion showing, the blue light from the TV turning him all the wrong shades...
But he’s gorgeous.
Gorgeous as he always is.
On the TV, Conan’s been replaced by a smiling actress in a Navy uniform, delivering her commercial-break shpiel about the necessity of reporting sexual assaults in a timely fashion. Fucking AFN, Face thinks, and realizes his mouth is completely dry.
“Nothing, buddy,” he says, light and easy as if nothing’s wrong, covering up that hole inside him, the one that’s been growing since...hell, maybe since the day Murdock lit his arm on fire. “I’m going to take a shower. I stink...”
Murdock cocks his head, in that jerky way of his, like he skips all the positions in between where he is and where he’s going. His lips are pressed in a thin line, giving nothing away, inscrutable. But he nods, and smiles a little. “Gotta get back in your beauty routine. Betcha there’s plenty of cute gals on this base just beggin’ for a little taste of American action hero,” he drawls in those smooth Texas tones that flow like bourbon, and burn like it too, going down.
Face hoists his bag from where it’s fallen on the floor, at some point in their abortive little conversation, and slams the bathroom door behind him.
+++++
By the time Face has scrubbed and shaved and enjoyed the feel of hot water that doesn’t smell like chlorine sanitation tablets and calmed a growing hard-on and brushed his teeth and plucked a few stray hairs for the hell of it and avoided Murdock as much as he can, Face finally emerges back out into the main body of the suite in a t-shirt and cut-off ABU pants, fucking relieved that he’s already missed the part where Murdock got naked.
The pilot’s sitting there now, flipping through channels, Hawaiian shirt pulled on over nothing but a pair of boxers that were green at the beginning of their deployment, but have since turned a permanent shade of gray. His feet are tucked up into some kind of half-lotus on the couch cushions. He’s got at least six bottles of Jagermeister from the mini-fridge, and a carton of pineapple juice he had to have gone down to the front desk for, in front of him on the suite’s coffee-table.
“Heya, buddy,” he says, and pulls a pair of glass lowball tumblers out of nowhere. “Wanna break General Order Number One?”
Face smiles, despite himself. Damn rules. No drinking and no fucking on deployments. “We break it all the fucking time,” he asks, and sits down, as close as he can get without touching. “That’s how much I love you guys. When have I ever let the team go without beer?”
“Phht. You con it off the Germans.”
“Yeah, you ever try to talk a German out of beer?” he asks, and grins, reaching over to crack those little airline bottles of booze. “Getting in to their magic beer stockpile probably the hardest thing I do over there.”
Murdock smiles. It’s dazzling. It makes Face feel a little light-headed, so he has to keep talking, keep noise in the space between them, so his brain doesn’t insert something unwelcome like HM, baby, come to bed...
“We should go get some real German beer tomorrow night,” he says hurriedly. “Think BA and Hannibal would want to come?”
“Need a girl, Face?”
It’s soft, quiet, almost sad, and it rips at the conman in a way that all of Hannibal’s gruff lectures about how whoring around like this is bad for your career, kid have never, ever done. Rips, because that’s how they see him. How Murdock sees him.
“Naw,” and the lieutenant winces, just a little, running a hand into his shower-damp hair. “We’re good right here tonight, buddy.
The pilot cracks the carton of juice, nodding, perking up once again. “You ever had this, Faceman? Murdock’s drunk-on-spring-break special?”
“I think I’ve had a couple of those,” Face chuckles, despite himself, as equal amounts of Jager and juice are dished out. Fucking Jager. Yeah, that’s got to be a college thing. “Not this one, though.” And then something hits him. “There’s not, like, anti-freeze in it again, is there?”
Murdock just smiles wider, and jiggles the glass to stir, handing it over.
Face takes it...gingerly.
It should be disgusting, but somehow it works, and pretty soon, they’ve gone through the Jager and the equally small stash of Gray Goose from the mini-fridge, and Conan’s turned it over to Jimmy Fallon, and Face thinks he might be getting drunk. There’s that pleasant tingle in his hands, that warm flow out into his limbs, leaving his head just a bit tingly. It feels good, and he giggles a bit as Murdock knocks over the carton of juice.
“We killed it!” his best friend laughs, and stands, that Hawaiian shirt falling open, unbuttoned, the tanned lines of his chest fully exposed. “You wan’ another?”
“We got anything that doesn’t need a mixer?” Face asks, grabbing for the carton and the thin line of bright yellow juice it’s leaking out. He’s staring at it, so he doesn’t have to stare at Murdock, who’s now bent over the mini-fridge, butt wiggling just a bit, toes tapping along to the talk show band music spilling out of the TV. “Like, anything?”
“There’s scotch!” Murdock yells.
Face shudders. “That shit Hannibal drinks?”
“Good point.” A pause. “Beer?”
“Tell me it’s not Coors,” he groans.
Pause. “Hieneken! With the US barcodes!”
“Fuck... are you kidding me?”
A sweating green glass bottle is pressed into his hand, and Face looks up into a pair of sea-blue eyes, smiling down at him from one of those odd angles only Murdock’s capable of pulling off.
“Nope, they definitely imported the imported beer it from the states,” the captain says and offers him a bottle opener. “You good?”
Face takes the opener, smiling back to cover the sudden rush of need, fueled by the alcohol in his system. Fuck. Fuck. If he could only reach up and run his fingers into that soft, dark hair, pull their mouths together, pull their bodies together, kiss his best friend the way he deserves to be kissed...
“You good, Faceman?”
When Murdock asks it again, Face realizes that their hands are touching. And not just touching. No. Their hands are doing that thing where the pads of their fingers are moving against each other’s skins, tickling fine hairs, tracing the edges of thin scabs from that mission a week ago where they had a window blown out on them, nothing but heat...
“Face?”
The lieutenant knows what’s going to happen here. He has to let go, he has to let go before he says something really fucking stupid. Something like...and he looks up again, surprised that Murdock even knows his actual name, right as a long-fingered hand slips into his hair.
“Murdock?” he asks, confused. What are they doing here?
The pilot’s nervous. He’s shifting, foot to foot, holding still, biting his lip, his shirt still open, his nipples hardening into little peaks, and he shakes his head.
His hand comes away.
And Face feels something in him snap.
Before he can stop himself, the lieutenant’s off the couch, on his feet, bottle tossed away, a little unsteady as the blood rushes around in his head, but he’s got his hands around Murdock’s wrist and Murdock’s waist and somehow they’re just wrapping into each other, wrapping into a hesitant, oh-so-hesitant, kiss.
Murdock’s closed lips are soft against his own, softer than he’d expected, and he tastes like pineapple and vodka and the rubber of that headset he wore this afternoon, on the C-17 he piloted in here, and something fainter, cool, high, distant. Like the blue at the top of the sky. Face moans, lifting a hand to brush Murdock’s jaw, wanting him to open, wanting to dive in after that, wanting to know that, wanting to know everything about his friend...
But the pilot twists, so Face’s lips are on the stubble of his cheek now, and he pulls back, that fear threatening to choke him.
Murdock lays limp, uncertain hands on his shoulders, like he’s positioning to push away, flee, if he needs to. And there’s no way that can happen now. It’ll shatter them both. But Face can’t hold on, can’t make Murdock feel like he’s being captured, bound, caged, or he will lose him. No questions asked. He’s suddenly terrified.
Murdock’s eyes flash, and he seems to shrink, pelvis drawing back. Wary. “You...Faceman, you aren’t...we can’t...”
The beginning of it, Face thinks, and his heart is racing in his ears. Fuck. No, no, not now, please god, not this... and then the unthinkable happens.
He starts babbling.
“I can, Murdock. Please, buddy, don’t...I’m...I really like you, and...”
“Like, Face?” Murdock’s voice really is cutting right through him, and then the pilot titters a nervous, high laugh, made all the more horrible for the little tinge of liquor Face can hear in it. “Oh, Facey, I like my sneakers, but I ain’t gonna start kissin’ ‘em...”
“I’ve wanted this for a long time,” Face whispers, laying his forehead on his best friend’s shoulder. “I’ve wanted you for a long time, HM...”
Nothing.
Silence.
Just the sound of laughter on the TV.
And then a hand runs up into his hair, cradling his skull, holding him still. His arm’s still around Murdock’s waist, and the conman realizes that they’re very, very close. Flush together, really.
“It’s James,” the pilot replies, so quiet Face almost misses it, and he looks away. “I...I want...this, Face...”
Relief floods through the lieutenant, amplified a bit, smoothed a bit, by the alcohol in his blood, and he squeezes Murdock close, kissing his neck. “It’s Templeton,” he replies, just as gently, and kisses that spot again,
“Templeton? You’re shittin’ me,” Murdock giggles back, still stroking his hair.
And despite himself, Face laughs back, pulling off Murdock’s shoulder, wanting to see those blue-green eyes sparkle. “Guess those nuns had a sense of humor, huh?”
“Bet you were a cute little boy,” Murdock - James - says. And yeah, his eyes are bright. “Real cute little boy.”
“I was pretty bad,” Face tells him, pulling him back a bit, away from the coffee table and all those nasty corners. “I got spanked a lot.”
Murdock giggles, still nervous, and sways his hips a bit. “I bet you were naughty.”
“Some things never change,” Face replies softly.
Those hips sway again, and the lieutenant thinks they might be dancing or something. He can’t hear the TV any more.
“Is that what you want with me, Fa...Templeton? Bein’ naughty?”
That Templeton, drawn out in that smooth accent, unlike anything he’s ever heard before...and Face almost misses the undercurrent of uncertainty. “Look, J-James, I don’t, I...I don’t want some fuck and cuddle with you. Don’t think...”
“I don’t,” and Murdock touches his cheek, kissing him lightly, turning around him and yeah. They’re definitely dancing. “But I’m not here to be your comfort blankie or anythin’ like that, while you go off, screwing every damn thing in sight when you don’t need me ta...”
“Oh, baby,” Face groans, cupping Murdock’s face in his hands, noticing the faintest smudge of wetness in those lashes, trying to chase it away with his thumb as they move around each other, backing up now, heading back towards the open doors to the suite’s oversized bedroom. The king-sized bed Face can see over Murdock’s shoulder. “James, buddy, no, no, nothing like that.”
“You’re so needy, Temp,” the captain whispers. “I don’t know if you’ll...”
“I need you,” he replies desperately, knowing the rest of it, knowing it leads nowhere good, wondering if this is why they haven’t done this yet. His bullshit. All his bullshit.... and the con man kisses one closed eye, then the other, pulling Murdock close and wrapping his arms around that lean, spare frame as he sits back on the hotel bed. “I just need you.”
Murdock braces over him, shaggy hair falling in his face, just watching him, just holding there for a moment, and then smiles that amazing smile once again. “You’re beautiful, Templeton,” he whispers softly, and crashes down on top of him.
The kiss is rough, for all the way Murdock’s grinding down into him, for the force with which he flings a leg up over his friend’s hip, pulling their growing erections together. He can hear himself, feel himself moaning, or maybe that’s Murdock, but who fucking cares? It’s all heat and between them, no space, and Face feels like somehow, even clothed like this, , like he’s melting in to the man above him.
“That what you wanted, darlin’?” Murdock drawls happily, uncertainty tinging his words. “That...that what you saw us doin’?”
“Mmm...” the lieutenant says and folds his hands up under his head, locking his other leg up around Murdock’s waist, holding him in, trying to reassure him that this is good, that this is perfect. Fuck. Look at the man. The pilot’s long hair is falling down around his face and his cheeks are a little flushed, his lips a little kiss-swollen already, green eyes hiding behind those long lashes. A vision, a beautiful vision... “I thought we might be a little more, like...”
That Hawaiian shirt is gone in a flash, and Face pushes up, laying a hand across that pale, taught skin, feeling a tremble run through that lean body. “L-like that?” Murdock asks, and his fingers are at the edge of Face’s soft cotton tee. “Or...”
The pilot trails off and their eyes lock. And Face sees it, sees the fear, the hesitation, the desire, the need for...the plea for submission there...and the lieutenant groans at that. He shifts the tone immediately, kneeling up over Murdock’s thighs, running that hand around to his back and the other up into his hair, holding him close as they kiss again, gentle this time, but deeper. Their mouths barely touch, coming apart with every little move. But yet it’s deeper than before, and he pushes his tongue in, pushes for everything, meeting nothing but the soft sigh of a grateful welcome.
“Sorry, baby,” Face murmurs, moving up to kiss his nose, moving down to kiss his cheek, his neck, moving back as he strips his own shirt off and there’s nothing but the feel of his friend’s furred, hard chest against his own. “I just want you to feel good.”
“This feels good,” Murdock says, and giggles a little, nervous giggle.
“It feels very good,” the lieutenant nods back, and cups his friend’s face in both hands, feeling hard, hard flesh beneath the seam of his shorts, moving them around so he can be the one to push back, stay on top, this time. “I want everything to feel good tonight. Tell me if you stop feeling good.”
Murdock wriggles against the duvet, smiling that shy, honest little smile of his, and kisses Face on the tip of his nose. “You feel good, prettyboy.”
“So do you, crazy,” Face breaths.
They smile at each other; BA's grudgingly affectionate nicknames have never sounded so good.
And their mouths meet again.
Face has never kissed anybody like this. Never had a kiss like this before. Murdock’s hands are tangling with his own, spreading wide across the cool expanse of the bed. Murdock’s body is arching and pulsing up against his, muscle straining, cock throbbing, the Ranger tattoo on his bicep in clear view now. He’s strong right now, so strong, stronger than he’s ever felt before, even when they spar, but he’s not using any of it. No, not that, not right now. Maybe later. But not tonight.
Tonight, there’s no struggle. No uncertainty.
“I want you,” he whispers, dipping fingers, stretching out the edge of Murdock’s grayed boxers, feeling the rise of his ass. “Tell me you want me too, James...”
Murdock nuzzles his nose into Face’s neck and clings to him like a child. “I want you, Temp. God, I want you...”
The boxers come off. His own shorts are unbuttoned, and drape down off his hips. Murdock’s in his lap again, cock dark with need, smearing pearly white fluid across his abs as their tongues memorize the taste of one another.
It’s almost like flying, Face thinks dimly, rutting up, holding his friend tight to him, trapping that cock between them. Kisses turn into gasps, gasps turn into cries, and Murdock slams close to him and pants his way through it, everything stopped now but the hot pulses of semen gushing in between them.
“I want you, Temp,” he says again, eyes soft, hands soft, cheek soft against the lieutenant’s shoulder, breathing together as he comes back down from the precipice of his own release. “Please, darlin', I want you...”
“Anything,” Face whispers back, and scoops up a handful of that slick, cooling seed coating their bellies. “Anything...”
Murdock plays with the scattering of hair of across Face’s belly, as Face presses slicked fingers across his waiting hole, pressing in and up with his index finger, sliding one knuckle inside.
It gets him a soft, eager little moan.
So he pushes up further.
Murdock’s relaxed from his orgasm, opening to him with little more than easy, languid circles of Face’s fingers. One, two. That tight ring of muscle stretches, and his friend sighs into his neck, biting lightly, lips teasing.
“Not another,” he says. “I like it tight.”
And fuck if Face doesn’t almost come. Right there.
He can feel his need in his teeth, the long-brewing desire to be buried in the pilot’s body, for those little interior muscles to grasp and grab at his cock, pulling him deeper still, but Face manages to say...
“I don’t want to hurt you, buddy. Never want to hurt you.”
His hair is grabbed with both hands, and Murdock shifts in his lap, making a little noise that could be a growl or a whine. “Don’...don’t worry ‘bout it, Temp. You won’t hurt me. I trust you...”
He does, doesn’t he? Face feels another pang of arousal course through him. Murdock trusts him. And it occurs to him, he’s seen this look before, as if he’s being watched from a great, great distance, as if he can see the pilot’s eyes as he stares through a telescope a mile away, too far to reach, too far to do this.
He shoves both fingers in, spreading wide and jerking out again, and crashes his mouth to Murdock’s, tasting that insane cocktail from earlier, everything that shouldn’t work that his friend makes effortlessly successful. Things like this, like Murdock’s hands, calloused from Apache controls and M-9 grip, braced against his shoulders. Murdock’s thighs, firing against his, lifting, letting his own needy cock spring up to rest, tip to hole, exactly where it wants to be. Murdock’s eyes, filling his world with that calming sea-green as he’s encased.
Root to tip.
In one endless fall.
Murdock shudders, and it’s all Face can do to keep from doing the same. It’s hot and a bit tight and not entirely slick, but any friction is actually fucking perfect right now, because he has that feeling again, like they’re tearing apart and coming together, the cracks between them sealing shut, until there’s no telling where Murdock ends and he begins... but that’s probably just the booze, right?
First times never feel this good.
“Ohh,” the pilot laughs, and lifts slightly, falling back down, head falling back, hands tightening. “Ohh, nelly...sunward I’ve climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth of sunswept clouds...”
It sounds like an old poem or something, and Face smiles, kisses his new lover again. They’re doing this, they’re really doing this, that hint of alchohol in his system with its weird interpretation of events be damned. “You too, baby?” he asks, starting an easy, thrusting roll that’s all he can handle right now.
“Take me up there,” Murdock whispers, nodding. “Take me up there, Face.”
“Only if I get to go with you...”
“O’ course, darlin’,” and their foreheads press together. “That’s the whole point of the exercise, ain’t it?”
Face pulses up and Murdock pushes down, the two of them meshing together, complimenting, working together. But it’s too much to maintain, to much to hold, tired as he is, so he urges Murdock’s legs up around him and lays him back and leans on his elbows, keeping that same rhythm they’ve just found together. It’s good, it’s so good.
He’s telling Murdock that, whispering those words he’s always wanted to whisper, over the dim sounds of AFN giving a lecture about the joys of recycling. Things like baby and you feel so good, baby, so good and oh god, oh fuck, James, I never knew...
And it’s all good, nothing to feel like an idiot about at all, cause Murdock’s babbling back. In German, Russian, Chinese, which has never sounded so goddamn romantic in his life, more of that poem sneaking in, things about the sky and flying and holding in the stillness at the top of the world.
Because that’s where they are. And Face can see it, together with Murdock, he can see it, a vast space about them, above everything else, just their muffled moans and the slap of flesh and he’s lost in how fucking good it feels...
Murdock bites his ear lobe and whispers something that sounds like I love you, which can’t be right. But fuck it - those words that can’t be words at all send them crashing down together, Face spilling into Murdock, Murdock spilling against his belly again, the world going white and silent as a cloud bank.
And that’s it.
It takes them an eternity to separate, and when he slips out, when he watches a thin thread of his own seed trickling down the delicate, hairless skin of the inside of Murdock’s thigh, mixing with Murdock’s own, when he bends and licks and tastes and feels overwhelmed, all over again, Face feels like he’s lost something. Like a band-aid’s been ripped off. Like he’s four again, watching that car pull away from St John the Redeemer...
“I’m here,” Murdock says, passing a pillow case across Face’s bare belly, peeling those shorts fully away. His movements are a little shaky. His energy’s spent. “Don’t worry, Face, I’m here...”
Relief washes through him, then irritation at the old fears getting through, the fears Murdock’s never, ever fed, but sex always does, and the lieutenant covers it up by pulling down the covers and bundling them both into the big bed.
“You don’t gotta hide from me, Temp,” Murdock says softly, eyes luminous, fixed on him as they make themselves comfortable around each other.
“I’m not, James. It's...I...”
“We’re friends, right? We’re...still friends?”
“You’re my best friend,” Face yawns, hoping he accented that best like it deserves. Like Murdock deserves.
“We...we can still talk, right? Not, like, this was just cause I fed you a bunch of nutso drinks?”
“Talk is good. The drinks were good. The...we were good,” lieutenant sighs, snuggling in to Murdock’s shoulder, wanting to fist-punch in victory as that arm lifts up over him, as a nose presses to the hollow of his neck. As they fucking cuddle into each other. He knew it. He knew his crazy, beautiful pilot was a cuddler. “We should only ever do things that feel good.”
“So we gonna do this again, then?” his best friend mumbles, sleepy.
“Yeah, man,” and he kisses the top of that shaggy head. “We should do this every chance we get.”
“Good sex?”
“Naw,” and he runs his toes up a boneless shin. “Good talk. Good booze. Good friend.”
“I...do...you know, Faceman,” Murdock whispers.
“Yeah. I know, buddy. Me...me too.”
And the only other sound is the fucking TV in the other room.
+++++
Hannibal catches up to his boys the next morning at the chow hall, after a fucking amazing night’s sleep in a real bed, a king-sized bed, one that’s long enough for his long frame. And yeah, he’s a bit late, and yeah, maybe that’s because he was flipping through the channels for some decent background noise and just happened to find Oprah and maybe it was one of those tear-jerking episodes where they go and rebuild somebody’s house...but of course he was just trying to avoid the fucking AFN commercials on the sports channels.
That’s all.
But fortunately the chow hall gets American cable, so Fox News is blaring out of a dozen different TVs, Glenn Beck messing around with a blackboard and a bunch of magnitized photographs of Democrats, as he takes his tray of eggs and sausage and coffee out to the dining area. Where those two are practically cuddling in a four person booth.
It’s not exactly safe for them to be doing that. Not a thousand miles from their posting, where everybody’s learned the value of just ignoring the pair of them.
Hannibal grabs his coffee and lets his tray slam to the table top, both of them jumping a bit as the hard plastic contacts the sealed wood. They look at each other, and then look at him.
Face sheepish.
Murdock beaming.
Oh, the colonel thinks. Oh, shit.
It was going to happen sooner or later.
But still.
Shit.
He’s known Face since the kid was just that, a kid, fresh out of Ranger School, all blonde good looks and smooth words, everything clean and linear on the surface, so nobody could see what was going on underneath. So nobody could see the damage, those fault lines that run clean through him, straight down to his heart. And hell if he hadn’t tried, hadn’t tried to get Face to open, to trust, to believe him when he said he wanted to help. If he hadn’t wished, from time to time, there could be something more between them.
But Hannibal knows his lieutenant’s always seen him as a father, always needed him as a father, and there are some things no boy should ever have to tell his father. So, no matter what he did, there’s always a bit of a distance between them. Things they couldn’t share.
And then they found Murdock. Or rather, then Hannibal had found Murdock deep in one of Russ’ filing cabinets, and Face had found Murdock a month or so later, lighting his arm on fire.
Somehow, it had all just worked. Murdock and Face had just...fallen into each other. Like all the fissures in Murdock had lined up in perfect opposite to all the fractures in Face, everything good from one man filling the missing space in the other. It was kind of amazing, watching Face after that. Watching him let somebody in, without question. Watching Murdock after that, seeing the man turn from an over-drugged mental patient into a brilliant pilot who occasionally sang Wagner in the middle of mission briefs.
So he’s been expecting this for a while. Ever since he figured out they weren’t, which honestly, had taken him a few months. Not yet, the colonel had told himself, and kept a wary eye on the two of them since.
Because while he didn’t begrudge either of his junior officers that - with each other at least - it was going to be his problem. His to protect. To keep safe. For his boys.
Here it is.
At last.
And the colonel’s happy for them.
He is.
But still. He can have a little fun with them first, right? If they’re going to put concealing this little...issue...onto his already overflowing plate of responsibilities, yeah?
“Gentlemen,” he says, clearing his throat a bit for that paternal touch that always gets Face jumping. “I trust you enjoyed your evening in your scammed General Officer Suite?”
“It was great,” his lieutenant smiles, collecting himself for what would be, with anybody else, a long bullshit session.
“We didn’t even hav’ta share beds!” his captain adds, eyes rolling up to the nearest TV rather than meet his gaze.
The colonel eyes them both for a moment more, and slips into the booth, sipping at his coffee. It’s a bit bitter. They’re starting to squirm, right?
“Well,” he replies mildly, “that’s good. I know you two tend to share beds frequently...”
Murdock chokes. Face makes a noise that might be a giggle or a strangled groan.
“...and maybe that’s something I should remedy in the future. When we get in to one of these hotel situations. Maybe, Face, you could bunk with me...” and the lieutenant’s sort of biting his lip, missing the cube of pineapple on his fork entirely “...and Murdock, you could room with BA...” and the captain’s eyes are blown wide with fear. “Or, hell, I can give up the suite and all three of you could share. Or,” and he stabs an entire sausage patty with gusto, punctuating his words violently, “the three of us could share. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
They look at each other.
Hannibal goes back to his coffee, feigning disinterest.
“So, boys, whaddaya say? Maybe we could all share my suite tonight? You give back that one you aren’t supposed to have, lieutenant and just pick a room in mine.”
Murdock shakes his head fast, hair falling in his eyes. “Uhh, sir...”
Oh, they really are squirming now. How wonderful. “We could grab one of those cartoon movies you like, what is it, Murdock, Fifel Goes West, and get a board game from the front desk and have us some real family bonding time...”
“Boss...” Face blurts out and Murdock slaps him. Under the table, but still, the colonel can hear it.
“What, kid?” he asks serenely, shaking a bit of salt into his coffee to cut the acid. “Don’t like my plan?”
The two of them look at each other with a little helplessness, a whole lot of need, and he chuckles again.
“I wouldn’t care if you two wanted to fuck afterwards, as long as you keep it the hell down and don't do it on anything I’m going to sit on later.”
Crickets, from the other side of the table.
Hannibal sips at his coffee, leans back in the booth, and waits for it.
Five. Ten. Fifteen seconds.
Above them, Glenn Beck has changed out for a real American commercial for a real American pharmaceutical company. Something about restless leg syndrome. Are they just making diseases up now?
Twenty. Twenty-three seconds.
“You know, boys, this doesn’t mean I don’t love you any more, or anything like that...”
And then his boys both start babbling at once, stumbling over each other with apologies and explanations and sentences they finish for each other, trying to keep it quiet, getting loud and hushing again, not making any sense at all, and then Face switches to French in an attempt to be subtle, and Murdock makes a comment in German about how sexy he sounds, and one of the local national employees here in the chow hall, wiping down a vacated table right next to theirs, starts giggling uncontrollably.
It’s pretty great. Face is bright red and Murdock’s nervous and Hannibal can’t stop chuckling at the little display.
He wishes he could light up a cigar right now. Just for dramatic emphasis.
