![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} devilc wroteon August 3rd, 2009 at 02:44 pm |
The Hurt Locker: Day 17
Title: Day 17
Fandom: The Hurt Locker
Pairing: James/Sanborn
Rating: Adult
Author's Note: Hey, the NYT said that this was a slashy movie. Who am I to argue?
Legalese: The Hurt Locker is copyright its respective owners. This is a labor of Love, not Lucre for the purposes of exploring themes.
"Give her your sperm." The words tumble around inside of Sanborn's head like a load of fatigues on the heavy-duty cycle.
But it's not just that, 'cause there are other words added to the mix, tumbling around like a handful of rocks thrown in with the cammies to break them in, banging and clunking: "I knew you were a wild ride, Sanborn" and "Give it to me. Give it to me, motherfucker!" and above all, Don't ask. Don't tell.
Three of those four phrases are courtesy of his NCO, Staff Sergeant William James.
The first was said one drunken night, blowing off steam after they didn't get blown to hell.
One of them he's said both then and now.
The last is right now, hissed in James's cigarette and whiskey rasp as his fingers dig in to Sanborn's shoulders in the sweltering near dark as he grinds down hard on Sanborn's dick, cot frame and mattress springs squeaking slightly in time to the pounding rhythm they set as Sanborn bucks like he means to throw James off, their combined breaths haff-haff-haffing like they're sprinting away from an IED about to blow, and the words tumble and clank through Sanborn's mind in time to the rhythm of bucking and breathing.
It's almost like he's not doing this.
In that part of his mind, detached and commenting, churning away on that spin cycle of words while the other parts of him do, it's almost like James didn't show up, in boxers and a wifebeater, half a bottle of Johnny Walker in one hand, the box of things that "almost killed him" in the other, and start talking away about the construction that went into each of those bombs. It's almost like Sanborn didn't match him slug for slug and start sharing stories about the snipers and triggermen that didn't get away.
It could be anything stuck in his head, really: cadence, MRE instructions, overheard snatches of conversation, the refrain from a song.
Except even the choice of words shows how even that part of his brain can't totally ignore the fact that he's got his hands clenched on James's hips hard enough to bruise, and even those words tumbling through that part of his brain don't do much to distract from the fact that Sanborn's loving every sweet sweaty second of fucking James's hot, tight little ass, and he can feel it building in his pelvis, riding in static crackles up through his spine, feel himself surging that little bit harder as he watches James grab himself and start to milk.
Sanborn shoots blindingly hard, three times, just as the last of James's load dribbles on to his chest.
James sags, panting heavily, coughing slightly, and Sanborn feels like he's just run a mile, too.
And like that, the buzzer in his head's sounded, the laundry's done, open the door, let the words come tumbling out.
Give her your sperm -- There's no kiss, no words, sweet or otherwise to conclude this exchange of bodily fluids, just James groaning as he climbs off. Sanborn watches as James wipes his leaking ass with a towel -- that's what he gets for insisting on a bareback -- and shakily gets back into his boxers and shirt before picking up his box of mementos and slipping out the door. James leaves the bottle behind, but it's only got a swallow's worth anyway.
I knew you were a wild ride. Give it to me, motherfucker! -- If James has a little hitch in his step tomorrow, Sanborn's not going to say a word or even give him the eye. Let somebody else bring it up. (Although Sanborn wouldn't put it past James to say, mind you, with a complete poker face: "Sanborn gave me the high hard one last night" and wait for the nervous laughter.)
Don't ask. Don't tell. -- Unlike Eldridge, Sanborn has nothing he wants to tell Colonel Cambridge. And it's not like he can go up to one of his fellow sniper-spotters and tell a tale that begins: "My Staff Sergeant jumped my bones the other night. You ever have that happen to you? Great way to blow off steam, my man." As for James? Sanborn chuckles so hard the bed shakes. This is what happened because they can't talk to each other.
DADT is no problem. 'Cause this? This shit's gettin' packed away like last winter's clothes in a corner of Sanborn's mind along with all the other stuff he doesn't need right now. It's getting boxed up and stacked next to all the other stuff labeled Unless you were there at the time? You don't even know the right question to ask: the dead animals bobbing along with the other sewage in the canals; flies crawling on the bandages wrapped over stumps where limbs used to be; goats roaming the streets eating the trash; the slightly shocked look on what was left of Thompson's face once the bloody shield over it got pushed back ....
Sanborn blows a long breath out and slowly drags it back in.
There.
Day 17.
It's done. It's over.
Tomorrow is Day 16.
And if they're both lucky, they won't have anything else they need to not talk about before it gets through.
---
Continues in The Hard Word.
Fandom: The Hurt Locker
Pairing: James/Sanborn
Rating: Adult
Author's Note: Hey, the NYT said that this was a slashy movie. Who am I to argue?
Legalese: The Hurt Locker is copyright its respective owners. This is a labor of Love, not Lucre for the purposes of exploring themes.
"Give her your sperm." The words tumble around inside of Sanborn's head like a load of fatigues on the heavy-duty cycle.
But it's not just that, 'cause there are other words added to the mix, tumbling around like a handful of rocks thrown in with the cammies to break them in, banging and clunking: "I knew you were a wild ride, Sanborn" and "Give it to me. Give it to me, motherfucker!" and above all, Don't ask. Don't tell.
Three of those four phrases are courtesy of his NCO, Staff Sergeant William James.
The first was said one drunken night, blowing off steam after they didn't get blown to hell.
One of them he's said both then and now.
The last is right now, hissed in James's cigarette and whiskey rasp as his fingers dig in to Sanborn's shoulders in the sweltering near dark as he grinds down hard on Sanborn's dick, cot frame and mattress springs squeaking slightly in time to the pounding rhythm they set as Sanborn bucks like he means to throw James off, their combined breaths haff-haff-haffing like they're sprinting away from an IED about to blow, and the words tumble and clank through Sanborn's mind in time to the rhythm of bucking and breathing.
It's almost like he's not doing this.
In that part of his mind, detached and commenting, churning away on that spin cycle of words while the other parts of him do, it's almost like James didn't show up, in boxers and a wifebeater, half a bottle of Johnny Walker in one hand, the box of things that "almost killed him" in the other, and start talking away about the construction that went into each of those bombs. It's almost like Sanborn didn't match him slug for slug and start sharing stories about the snipers and triggermen that didn't get away.
It could be anything stuck in his head, really: cadence, MRE instructions, overheard snatches of conversation, the refrain from a song.
Except even the choice of words shows how even that part of his brain can't totally ignore the fact that he's got his hands clenched on James's hips hard enough to bruise, and even those words tumbling through that part of his brain don't do much to distract from the fact that Sanborn's loving every sweet sweaty second of fucking James's hot, tight little ass, and he can feel it building in his pelvis, riding in static crackles up through his spine, feel himself surging that little bit harder as he watches James grab himself and start to milk.
Sanborn shoots blindingly hard, three times, just as the last of James's load dribbles on to his chest.
James sags, panting heavily, coughing slightly, and Sanborn feels like he's just run a mile, too.
And like that, the buzzer in his head's sounded, the laundry's done, open the door, let the words come tumbling out.
Give her your sperm -- There's no kiss, no words, sweet or otherwise to conclude this exchange of bodily fluids, just James groaning as he climbs off. Sanborn watches as James wipes his leaking ass with a towel -- that's what he gets for insisting on a bareback -- and shakily gets back into his boxers and shirt before picking up his box of mementos and slipping out the door. James leaves the bottle behind, but it's only got a swallow's worth anyway.
I knew you were a wild ride. Give it to me, motherfucker! -- If James has a little hitch in his step tomorrow, Sanborn's not going to say a word or even give him the eye. Let somebody else bring it up. (Although Sanborn wouldn't put it past James to say, mind you, with a complete poker face: "Sanborn gave me the high hard one last night" and wait for the nervous laughter.)
Don't ask. Don't tell. -- Unlike Eldridge, Sanborn has nothing he wants to tell Colonel Cambridge. And it's not like he can go up to one of his fellow sniper-spotters and tell a tale that begins: "My Staff Sergeant jumped my bones the other night. You ever have that happen to you? Great way to blow off steam, my man." As for James? Sanborn chuckles so hard the bed shakes. This is what happened because they can't talk to each other.
DADT is no problem. 'Cause this? This shit's gettin' packed away like last winter's clothes in a corner of Sanborn's mind along with all the other stuff he doesn't need right now. It's getting boxed up and stacked next to all the other stuff labeled Unless you were there at the time? You don't even know the right question to ask: the dead animals bobbing along with the other sewage in the canals; flies crawling on the bandages wrapped over stumps where limbs used to be; goats roaming the streets eating the trash; the slightly shocked look on what was left of Thompson's face once the bloody shield over it got pushed back ....
Sanborn blows a long breath out and slowly drags it back in.
There.
Day 17.
It's done. It's over.
Tomorrow is Day 16.
And if they're both lucky, they won't have anything else they need to not talk about before it gets through.
---
Continues in The Hard Word.
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