![[info]](http://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} devilc wroteon August 12th, 2009 at 10:13 am |
Hurt Locker -- The Hard Word
Title: The Hard Word
Pairing: James/Sanborn
Rating: Adult
Author's note: After James' mistake nearly gets Eldridge killed, James and Sanborn defuse the tension between them the only way they know how. A sequel to Day 17.
Legalese: The Hurt Locker is copyright its respective owners. This is a labor of speculation, not a labor of lucre.
As soon as they got poor Eldridge back to base, Sanborn so mad he couldn't say a word to James, so mad he couldn't look at the motherfucker without wanting to choke him, so mad he couldn't begin to fill out paperwork without describing his NCO as a "motherfucking peckerwood who needs to go back to his trailer park", he stowed his gear and stripped off his bloodstained and now ruined BDUs, throwing them in a dumpster as he headed for the showers.
He found James sitting in one of the stalls, letting the water pour down on him. James glanced up when Sanborn came in, the morose expression on his face reminding Sanborn of a tired dog, then just as quickly his head went back down. The water almost overtopped the edge of the stall. It had just the faintest hint of pink now, but a few splashes and a streak showed that it had once been a darker, redder, color. Silently Sanborn reached over and turned the faucet off.
James didn't move.
As he stepped into the stall next to James, pulled the curtain shut, and let the (blessed) hot water pound into him, Sanborn realized that James's shower had been cold, which is to say, lukewarm, and while Sanborn suspected James might have been trying to punish himself, it occurred to him then that in not going back to his quarters but instead climbing straight into the shower before the blood completely dried, James had inadvertently saved his BDUs.
Damn him.
By the time Sanborn got done with his shower -- not that he took more than seven minutes -- James was gone, leaving only a trail of wet footprints in his wake.
James didn't come to him that night.
---
To his credit, when their CO grilled them the next day about what happened, James took full responsibility for his actions. Not that the Lieutenant or their First Sergeant would go too hard on him. He'd impressed the hell out of Colonel Reed in defusing that car bomb, and everybody at division was impressed with how James had handled that firefight with the insurgents about a week ago.
(In James's report about that incident he had had nothing but praise for Sanborn and Eldridge, the kind of stuff that would help Sanborn make Staff Sergeant. It amazed Sanborn how in some places, James got it, really got it, but he completely failed in others.)
Sanborn simply stuck to the facts of the matter. They had almost caught a bomb maker a few days back. It was not entirely unreasonable to think the triggerman behind this massive explosion might be close by. Sanborn had advised against leaving the area of the blast. Yessir, Staff Sergeant James was a maverick, but he was also incredibly good at what he did.
Dismissed.
James didn't come to him that night.
---
The next day the docs pronounced Eldridge stable enough for a medivac, and, just before the doors closed on the helicopter, Eldridge -- apple cheeked, all-American, white bread Eldridge -- bitched James out. Yeah, James's quick thinking and sure shooting had saved Eldridge's life, but they had no business being in those alleyways to begin with.
Yes, Eldridge was glad to be alive. He was glad to be going home. He wasn't so glad about months of PT or a leg that would bother him for the rest of his life.
James came to him that night.
---
No whiskey. No box of wires and switches and other things that had almost killed him.
Just a knock at the door and James in a Tshirt and cammy bottoms, hands in pockets. He didn't look sheepish though. Oh no, he had his game face on.
Sanborn stood back and let him enter, shutting and locking the door before grabbing James by the back of his shirt collar and belt, hustling him to the desk and shoving him face down on it.
James did nothing, said nothing, as Sanborn sent his trousers down to his ankles, just bent his knees a bit so he could spread his legs wider.
"I'm using a condom this time." Sanborn's tone brooked no argument. It wasn't like he was at much risk of catching AIDS from James. It's that if they were going to do this? James would do it his way or not at all.
"Whatever. Just --" James waved him on.
The fact that it was a prelubed condom helped, but it still took a lot of spit, and shoving, and swearing for Sanborn to get sheathed to the hilt. Once in he pumped away like a piston in an engine, slamming all his frustration and anger into James, fucking him instead of choking the shit out of him -- not that the thought of that had lost all its appeal. Sanborn meant to go steady, to grind this out, to make James feel every inch of his anger, but once in, he found himself quickly revving to redline and coming. If there was such thing as a joyless orgasm, this was it. Relief without pleasure, but blessed relief all the same. Sanborn sagged, panting, as James clenched tight around him, not letting him pull out as he fisted himself for several more moments before coming with a soft, breathy sound not quite sigh, but not yet groan.
"Thanks, I needed that," James said when he had finished shiver twitching and unclenched enough to finally let Sanborn pull out easily.
Sanborn had several choice things he had wanted to say when James knocked on his door, but now? He'd be butched if he could remember a one of them. It felt like a reset button had been pushed. Good to go. Zeroed out. "Yeah, I guess I needed that, too," Sanborn muttered as he carefully pulled the condom off his softening cock, bundled it in Kleenex and pitched it in the basket before tucking himself in and zipping up. "You made a mess on my desk. Clean it up."
James hitched up his pants and looked at him for a moment before fishing a dirty T-shirt out of the laundry and swiping at his come.
As he flopped on his bed, Sanborn said, "You ever see that movie A Few Good Men?"
"Yeah?" James wadded up the shirt and pitched it back into the laundry.
"I'm thinking about that line about getting a blowjob from a superior officer." Because if this shit stopped tomorrow, I would hardly say that the best in life had passed me by.
James shook his head. "Nah, never happen. Well, not unless it was an emergency to keep you from fragging me on the spot, 'cause, really, what's in it for me?"
Sanborn gave him a long and level stare. "I'd say not getting fragged."
James tucked his shirt in, laughed, and said, "Ticking again already, I see."
"You're not worried." A statement of fact.
"Nah. I know how you're wired. You wanted me dead, you'd've done it two weeks ago." He shrugged and looked around at Sanborn's quarters. "I don't know how you stand having plywood over the windows. Makes me feel all closed in. Like a man in a box."
Sanborn thought about explaining about the shrapnel yet again, but something completely different burbled up inside, and he found himself throwing his head back and laughing so he wouldn't cry. James joined him about half way though, an almost identical hyena-like note of hysteria in his tone. "This," Sanborn gasped when when it ran its course and he finally got enough breath back enough to speak, "THIS is how we roll?!"
James shrugged again. "Hey, be glad this isn't day 347 or something of our rotation. Because if the Hadjis didn't get us, this certainly would."
They both laughed again until the tears ran from their eyes.
Iraq: Heat. Flies. Stench. Filth. Insurgents. IEDs.
An NCO Sanborn had fucked twice that month so as not to frag him.
Less than a week to go at this point. Days. Hours even, if that's how you preferred to keep count. The knowledge provided Sanborn immense comfort.
Less than a week to go ofHeat. Flies. Stench. Filth. Insurgents. IEDs. Staff Sergeant William James and his brilliance and batshittery.
What else could possibly go wrong?
Sanborn clamped down on that shit. This was Iraq. Things went wrong all the time, and they wouldn't stop going wrong until the plane touched down on US soil. Fate didn't care if it was day 365 to go, or day 52, or day 1.
And yet, that niggling little voice kept whispering, c'mon, you're almost done, less than a week, what else could possibly go wrong? Over and over in his mind, like a siren song. One he longed to give into.
Self, you don't even want to know the answer to that was all he could say back.
Because, answering that question? Just laying out the ways things could go wrong because ofIEDs, Insurgents, stray rounds, friendly fire, clueless hadjis, equipment James?
Just that could take all night.
(And even the next day.)
Pairing: James/Sanborn
Rating: Adult
Author's note: After James' mistake nearly gets Eldridge killed, James and Sanborn defuse the tension between them the only way they know how. A sequel to Day 17.
Legalese: The Hurt Locker is copyright its respective owners. This is a labor of speculation, not a labor of lucre.
As soon as they got poor Eldridge back to base, Sanborn so mad he couldn't say a word to James, so mad he couldn't look at the motherfucker without wanting to choke him, so mad he couldn't begin to fill out paperwork without describing his NCO as a "motherfucking peckerwood who needs to go back to his trailer park", he stowed his gear and stripped off his bloodstained and now ruined BDUs, throwing them in a dumpster as he headed for the showers.
He found James sitting in one of the stalls, letting the water pour down on him. James glanced up when Sanborn came in, the morose expression on his face reminding Sanborn of a tired dog, then just as quickly his head went back down. The water almost overtopped the edge of the stall. It had just the faintest hint of pink now, but a few splashes and a streak showed that it had once been a darker, redder, color. Silently Sanborn reached over and turned the faucet off.
James didn't move.
As he stepped into the stall next to James, pulled the curtain shut, and let the (blessed) hot water pound into him, Sanborn realized that James's shower had been cold, which is to say, lukewarm, and while Sanborn suspected James might have been trying to punish himself, it occurred to him then that in not going back to his quarters but instead climbing straight into the shower before the blood completely dried, James had inadvertently saved his BDUs.
Damn him.
By the time Sanborn got done with his shower -- not that he took more than seven minutes -- James was gone, leaving only a trail of wet footprints in his wake.
James didn't come to him that night.
---
To his credit, when their CO grilled them the next day about what happened, James took full responsibility for his actions. Not that the Lieutenant or their First Sergeant would go too hard on him. He'd impressed the hell out of Colonel Reed in defusing that car bomb, and everybody at division was impressed with how James had handled that firefight with the insurgents about a week ago.
(In James's report about that incident he had had nothing but praise for Sanborn and Eldridge, the kind of stuff that would help Sanborn make Staff Sergeant. It amazed Sanborn how in some places, James got it, really got it, but he completely failed in others.)
Sanborn simply stuck to the facts of the matter. They had almost caught a bomb maker a few days back. It was not entirely unreasonable to think the triggerman behind this massive explosion might be close by. Sanborn had advised against leaving the area of the blast. Yessir, Staff Sergeant James was a maverick, but he was also incredibly good at what he did.
Dismissed.
James didn't come to him that night.
---
The next day the docs pronounced Eldridge stable enough for a medivac, and, just before the doors closed on the helicopter, Eldridge -- apple cheeked, all-American, white bread Eldridge -- bitched James out. Yeah, James's quick thinking and sure shooting had saved Eldridge's life, but they had no business being in those alleyways to begin with.
Yes, Eldridge was glad to be alive. He was glad to be going home. He wasn't so glad about months of PT or a leg that would bother him for the rest of his life.
James came to him that night.
---
No whiskey. No box of wires and switches and other things that had almost killed him.
Just a knock at the door and James in a Tshirt and cammy bottoms, hands in pockets. He didn't look sheepish though. Oh no, he had his game face on.
Sanborn stood back and let him enter, shutting and locking the door before grabbing James by the back of his shirt collar and belt, hustling him to the desk and shoving him face down on it.
James did nothing, said nothing, as Sanborn sent his trousers down to his ankles, just bent his knees a bit so he could spread his legs wider.
"I'm using a condom this time." Sanborn's tone brooked no argument. It wasn't like he was at much risk of catching AIDS from James. It's that if they were going to do this? James would do it his way or not at all.
"Whatever. Just --" James waved him on.
The fact that it was a prelubed condom helped, but it still took a lot of spit, and shoving, and swearing for Sanborn to get sheathed to the hilt. Once in he pumped away like a piston in an engine, slamming all his frustration and anger into James, fucking him instead of choking the shit out of him -- not that the thought of that had lost all its appeal. Sanborn meant to go steady, to grind this out, to make James feel every inch of his anger, but once in, he found himself quickly revving to redline and coming. If there was such thing as a joyless orgasm, this was it. Relief without pleasure, but blessed relief all the same. Sanborn sagged, panting, as James clenched tight around him, not letting him pull out as he fisted himself for several more moments before coming with a soft, breathy sound not quite sigh, but not yet groan.
"Thanks, I needed that," James said when he had finished shiver twitching and unclenched enough to finally let Sanborn pull out easily.
Sanborn had several choice things he had wanted to say when James knocked on his door, but now? He'd be butched if he could remember a one of them. It felt like a reset button had been pushed. Good to go. Zeroed out. "Yeah, I guess I needed that, too," Sanborn muttered as he carefully pulled the condom off his softening cock, bundled it in Kleenex and pitched it in the basket before tucking himself in and zipping up. "You made a mess on my desk. Clean it up."
James hitched up his pants and looked at him for a moment before fishing a dirty T-shirt out of the laundry and swiping at his come.
As he flopped on his bed, Sanborn said, "You ever see that movie A Few Good Men?"
"Yeah?" James wadded up the shirt and pitched it back into the laundry.
"I'm thinking about that line about getting a blowjob from a superior officer." Because if this shit stopped tomorrow, I would hardly say that the best in life had passed me by.
James shook his head. "Nah, never happen. Well, not unless it was an emergency to keep you from fragging me on the spot, 'cause, really, what's in it for me?"
Sanborn gave him a long and level stare. "I'd say not getting fragged."
James tucked his shirt in, laughed, and said, "Ticking again already, I see."
"You're not worried." A statement of fact.
"Nah. I know how you're wired. You wanted me dead, you'd've done it two weeks ago." He shrugged and looked around at Sanborn's quarters. "I don't know how you stand having plywood over the windows. Makes me feel all closed in. Like a man in a box."
Sanborn thought about explaining about the shrapnel yet again, but something completely different burbled up inside, and he found himself throwing his head back and laughing so he wouldn't cry. James joined him about half way though, an almost identical hyena-like note of hysteria in his tone. "This," Sanborn gasped when when it ran its course and he finally got enough breath back enough to speak, "THIS is how we roll?!"
James shrugged again. "Hey, be glad this isn't day 347 or something of our rotation. Because if the Hadjis didn't get us, this certainly would."
They both laughed again until the tears ran from their eyes.
Iraq: Heat. Flies. Stench. Filth. Insurgents. IEDs.
An NCO Sanborn had fucked twice that month so as not to frag him.
Less than a week to go at this point. Days. Hours even, if that's how you preferred to keep count. The knowledge provided Sanborn immense comfort.
Less than a week to go of
What else could possibly go wrong?
Sanborn clamped down on that shit. This was Iraq. Things went wrong all the time, and they wouldn't stop going wrong until the plane touched down on US soil. Fate didn't care if it was day 365 to go, or day 52, or day 1.
And yet, that niggling little voice kept whispering, c'mon, you're almost done, less than a week, what else could possibly go wrong? Over and over in his mind, like a siren song. One he longed to give into.
Self, you don't even want to know the answer to that was all he could say back.
Because, answering that question? Just laying out the ways things could go wrong because of
Just that could take all night.
(And even the next day.)
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