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Title: According to Plan 3
Author: heartofslash
Fandom/Pairing: BHD, Hoot/Sanderson
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Hoot and Sanderson are composites and have nothing to do with any real life men. Any resemblance to copywrited works of art, or two particularly hot manly actors, is superficial in nature, and should be used only as a visual aid.
Summary: Hoot is scared. Sanderson wants to help.
According to Plan 3
Sanderson had no idea how to act around Hoot. If he tried to talk about it Hoot might get upset. He hadn’t seen Hoot scared before, but he’d seen him upset enough times to know it was something to be scrupulously avoided.
The door burst open; Elvis stood with Scrabble board tucked under one arm, bag of letter tiles dangling from the other. Sanderson shook his head sharply, and Elvis took a step back. Right onto Durant’s left foot. Durant was going to yell, but Sanderson caught his eye in time.
The Scrabble game would be played elsewhere tonight. Durant retreated immediately. Elvis lingered.
“Hoot, man, you look beat. You want my trailer for the night? I can bunk with Mike.”
Hoot didn’t respond.
Elvis gave Sanderson a pleading look.
“Yeah,” Sanderson said. “That’s a good idea.”
Who would have guessed? Elvis and Mike wanted an excuse for some alone time.
Might not do Hoot any harm to be alone either.
The door clicked shut after Elvis, muting the sounds of the hangar.
“You gonna write your report?”
Hoot picked up the pencil and started to write. It always amazed Sanderson how fast Hoot’s printing was. Not only fast, but neat too. Clean, clear letters, evenly spaced. When Sanderson wrote things out by hand, there were vast discrepancies from one word to the next in size and legibility. No two ‘a’s ever looked alike. As his speed increased, accuracy decreased. The tails of his ‘p’s and ‘q’s would spin wildly out of control.
Hoot was a human typewriter. His signature, though, was indecipherable. Sanderson wasn’t sure if that was because Hoot’s cursive was messy or because Hoot really didn’t like his name.
He didn’t mind being called “Sergeant Gibson”, or just “Sergeant,” or simply “Gibson”, but if you wanted to stay on the good side of Hoot you did NOT call him Norman, and you especially did not call him “Norm”.
Hoot passed a sheet across the table and began writing on a second. Sanderson read the paper, keeping his face impassive. Hoot’s meeting with his contact had been interrupted by a militia, and the informant had barely had time to hide Hoot in the trunk of a bombed out car. Several hours later, a woman had let him out of the trunk. That was why he was late for the meet.
Sanderson pushed a bottle of water across the table. “Re-hydrate,” he ordered.
Hoot cracked open the bottle and downed the contents without a pause. Then he went back to printing. Over the course of finishing his report, he sharpened the pencil three times, with a knife from a sheath under his pantleg that was probably never intended for such a mundane task.
Sanderson looked, carefully, surreptitiously, for bruises, blood, any signs of injury. Hoot had to be injured somewhere it didn’t show. He wouldn’t be acting so un-Hoot-like if he weren’t injured somehow. It wasn’t likely to be in the report.
He was surprised Hoot was shoving the pages over for him to read. Normally he only saw parts of Hoot’s reports - maybe a map or description of terrain or bio of a target - later, at planning sessions. Sometimes the report as a whole would only be read by General Garrison.
What was Hoot to Garrison? Just another Delta Op? Couldn’t be. Garrison had to see that Hoot was more than the others, more than the sum of his parts. ‘Super Soldier’, one of the guys had joked - Griz. Now, Griz was something pretty special himself. But even he looked at Hoot in amazement sometimes.
Hoot put down the pencil and picked up the burger. “It’s cold,” he observed.
“I can get you another one.”
Hoot looked at Sanderson with narrowed eyes. “Why would you do that?”
Sanderson shrugged. Why would he do that?
“Babysitter,” Hoot accused.
Sanderson felt the grin break across his face.
Hoot ate the burger and the tomatoes, but the potato salad had been out in the heat too long. He drank another bottle of water and sat back in his chair, looking at Sanderson.
Sanderson finished reading the report. He couldn’t see anything in it that would have scared Hoot, other than the several hours spent locked in the trunk of a car while the courtyard was filled with heavily armed enemies who would love to kill him. And all for nothing, because by the time Hoot got out of the trunk, the informant was dead. Shot himself in the head playing Russian Roulette.
“I’m a mess,” Hoot announced.
Well, yeah, over two days out, he probably needed a shower.
“Inside,” Hoot clarified.
Probably shouldn’t have eaten the cold burger.
“I’m going to get cleaned up. Can you find me some cigarettes? I’m out.”
A few minutes later, McKnight gave Sanderson a funny look. “Since when do you need smokes?”
“Since Hoot ran out.”
McKnight shook his head. “Getting his fucking smokes for him. Man, are you whipped.”
Sanderson tried not to take that personally. “He’s fried.”
“I heard it was bad.”
There are no secrets in barracks.
“Must have been to shake up that guy,” McKnight said as he handed over half a pack.
They weren’t his brand, but they seemed to satisfy Hoot, who sat on the step outside Elvis’ trailer and smoked three in a row without talking. He was facing a wall of sandbags, so the heater wouldn’t draw the attention of anyone on the other side of the fence hoping to lob a mortar on an American soldier. He’d scraped most of the stubble off his face and there was a nick on his jaw, just above where the tendon always stood out when he was really tense.
The tendon was standing out.
Sanderson leaned against the side of the trailer. “What did you leave out?”
Hoot looked up at him. Fuck. He was still scared. Shit.
“The informant didn’t shoot himself in a game. The militia questioned him about his involvement with US agents. They accused him of treason. Then they shot him in the head, a couple of feet away from the car. When the lady let me out of the trunk, she told me they were spreading a rumor he’d shot himself playing Russian Roulette. She said if news got out he’d been shot by the militia, everyone who was anywhere near the courtyard at the time would be killed too.”
Sanderson whistled. Damn. If he’d been helpless, locked in a trunk while the enemy was assassinating his informant a few feet away, he’d be scared too. He took a deep breath and analyzed the situation some more. “But what if - ?”
“Thought of that,” Hoot said. “That’s the actual reason I missed the rendezvous - had to get out and see if that really was the word on the street, in case they’d told her so she would incriminate herself.”
Sanderson might not have thought of that until he got back to base. Hoot, as always, had been thorough. Clever. Tactical.
“And you’re not going to tell Garrison?”
“Hell, no. She was the informant’s wife. She’s got three little kids. If I told…” Hoot stubbed out his cigarette on the ground. “She didn’t have to let me out of that trunk. She could have left me there.”
“Look, man, you’re shook up. I can understand that. Why don’t you get some sleep. The trailer will be quiet. You can be alone.”
Hoot sighed. “I don’t need to be alone. I don’t want to be alone. I’m not shook up. Not about that.” He got up and opened the trailer door. He went in, leaving it open behind him, so Sanderson followed.
It was dark and cool inside. And quiet. So quiet compared to the usual riot in the hangar. Hoot sat on the cot with his elbows on his knees. Sanderson got a couple of cold sodas from the fridge.
Hoot drank the soda and crushed the can. “Am I crazy?”
“What?”
“Am I crazy?” Hoot said slowly and clearly, almost losing his accent in the process.
“No crazier than the rest of us,” Sanderson said. It was the standard reply.
Hoot got up and started pacing the trailer. There wasn’t much space, not for a guy of Hoot’s size, and when he lurched to change direction the whole trailer rocked a bit. Sanderson hoped no one had seen him go into the trailer with Hoot. There was no telling what guys might think.
“This shit I do… forty-eight hours undercover… no ID, almost unarmed, out of contact for hours at a time… the situations I put myself in… remember in Laos, that time with the thing in the tree and the explosion?”
Sanderson nodded. He remembered.
“And in Columbia, when that jeep went over that cliff?”
Sanderson made a noise of agreement. That one had been pretty crazy.
“And today, in the courtyard, in the trunk… what kind of insane shit was that? What kind of a person reacts the way I did?”
“We all do crazy shit. That’s what we’re paid to do. Doesn’t make you crazy.”
“But I wasn’t scared.”
“Because you’re a professional.”
“But I’m never scared. It’s like I’m some kind of machine. Some kind of automaton.” Hoot was pacing and waving his arms now, which had Sanderson pressing up against the very back of the trailer to avoid the wide, expressive arcs. “I should be scared. I should have been shitting my pants when they shot my contact, but I wasn’t; I was feeling above my head for weaknesses in the metal so I could bust my way out when evening prayer time came. I didn’t even think about the twenty semi-automatics in the courtyard.”
“You were being tactical.”
“I was being crazy.” Hoot stopped pacing and stood directly in front of Sanderson. “Fight or flight. That’s what all people do, how all people respond. It’s basic human instinct, Jefferson.”
Sanderson flinched a bit when Hoot said his full name. Hoot almost never used his full name.
“Except me.”
They had it trained out of them, the instinctual responses. They were taught to think first, act later, hardly ever react. Deltas did not fight until they’d determined the best way to fight, and they didn’t run unless it was the best or only option. Everyone got a little numb every now and then. It was the only way to survive, but if Hoot really wasn’t feeling any fear… that would be scary.
Hoot was huge, filling the narrow space between cupboards and stove, head almost grazing the light fixture, huge hands on Sanderson’s shoulders.
“I can’t feel.”
“Sure you can. You just ignore the bad shit, and it’s almost all bad shit here so it seems worse than it is, but you’re not crazy. You’re…”
What? Sanderson could almost hear Hoot asking. Or maybe he had asked it out loud. It was hard to tell with Hoot sometimes.
“I think I might be dead.”
Sanderson put his right hand on Hoot’s chest. Gently. “I can feel your heart beating,” Sanderson said. “I can hear you breathing.” He leaned forward, an inch, maybe two. “I can feel your breath. It’s warm.”
Hoot’s breathing got louder. And warmer.
“I can see your pulse, in your throat,” Sanderson said. He was practically whispering now. He’d been this close to Hoot lots of times before, but never when they were alone, unarmed, in private and talking about personal shit. Never in a sexual way. Not that Sanderson was aware of. “I can see that tendon there, the one that sticks out when you’re upset.”
“How do you know that?” Hoot’s voice was quiet and gruff, the same voice you used in a hide when you had no choice but to communicate verbally and you didn’t want anyone else to hear except the person you were directing the words at.
“Seen it enough,” Sanderson said, using the same voice, leaning even closer, enjoying the clean sweat scent and heat radiating from Hoot, dissipating into the conditioned air. “Whenever you think something might happen that you don’t want to happen. When you’re not sure about something.”
Hoot leaned closer. His mouth brushed by Sanderson’s ear. “Am I not sure about something?”
Sanderson thought for a second. What the fuck was going on? He had not, repeat: not! been thinking about Hoot that way, not since the beach, not since he’d seen Hoot looking at him like that, not since he realized consciously that he had been thinking about Hoot that way and made the decision to not think about Hoot that way.
The tendon relaxed. That was what happened when Hoot was no longer worried; either he’d decided that what he didn’t want to happen wasn’t going to happen, or he’d decided he wanted it to happen after all.
“I think you’re the one who isn’t sure,” Hoot teased.
Sanderson got the same feeling he’d had all those years ago when he landed on the airstrip in Grenada. He didn’t have his bearings, he couldn’t tell exactly where the fire was coming from, and he was on his own. But there was no Malloy in sight.
And the tension wasn’t battle tension, this time. This time it was something else entirely.
“Reach into my right thigh pocket,” Hoot said.
Was that a joke?
“Go on.”
Sanderson dropped his left hand down. He had to lean into Hoot, a warm mass of solid muscle. He lifted the open flap with his middle finger and reached in with his index finger and thumb. He had no fucking clue what was in there. Could be the report. Could be a condom. Could be a live grenade. Nothing would surprise him.
His fingers closed on a smooth, metal flask.
“Been saving it,” Hoot explained.
Sanderson lifted up the flask. He wanted to unscrew the cap and take a long pull, but that would require taking his hand off Hoot’s chest, and he liked the feel of Hoot’s heart, strong and steady but perceptibly faster than it had been when Sanderson’s hand first made contact.
Hoot took his hands off Sanderson’s shoulders and opened the flask. He drank, and then handed the flask back to Sanderson, making a point of not disturbing the hand on his chest, which was starting to moisten with sweat. The hand, that is. And the chest.
Sanderson drank of the very good single malt. “Good,” he said.
Hoot took another drink, then held the opening to Sanderson’s lips. “You know,” he said as he fed Sanderson the scotch, “the fight/flight response is just one human constant. The other is that we’re supposed to reduce everything we think about to two things.”
Sanderson swallowed and licked his lips. “Sex and death.”
Hoot nodded solemnly as he screwed the flask shut. “Already done death today.”
Sanderson pressed his palm harder against Hoot’s chest and felt Hoot’s heart pound. Sexual excitement could do that to you, same as fear, make your heart pound like that. All the biofeedback practice in the world couldn’t have stopped Sanderson’s heart from pounding at that moment. Was Hoot still scared, or… no idea what would happen next. How did one go about such things? He’d fucked guys he didn’t know all that well, but this was his colleague, a fellow op, and his best fucking friend. Should they talk about it? Pretend it was no big deal? Would they… kiss?
Oh, fuck, yeah, they would kiss. Hoot’s mouth slammed into his and he was being kissed, and kissing back, and the taste of the Glenfiddich was like icing on the fucking cake.
Hoot pushed his t-shirt up, and Sanderson copied him. He got his hands all over Hoot’s back - which he’d done before to help work out kinked muscles but he’d never had the chance to really explore - and down around Hoot’s waist, which was so trim it was inhuman and damn, did that feel good under his hands - and he slid his hands up to feel pecs, where he felt Hoot’s heart more clearly, and he felt a nipple go hard between his pinching fingers, and he heard Hoot growl.
Hoot was going at his neck now, which suited Sanderson just fine. It had always been a weak spot for him. Hoot’s arms wrapped around him, and Sanderson was glad he wasn’t claustrophobic. They were pressed together from head to toe, which also suited Sanderson just fine, because being cock to cock with Hoot was better than being cock to cock with anyone he’d ever been with.
Sanderson slid his hands down and grabbed Hoot’s ass. Solid fucking muscle, it was, and Sanderson wanted it naked and in his hands and pressed up against his crotch. Maybe that was being a bit presumptuous, but he’d never bottomed and he didn’t want to start now. He hoped that wouldn’t be a problem. He didn’t want to get into a fight over it.
It appeared it would not be a problem. Hoot reached between them and dropped his own pants first, taking a second to shove his ass back into Sanderson’s hands again before he yanked Sanderson’s down. And then they were really cock to cock and Hoot was kissing him again, stroking Sanderson’s cock and his cock with both hands, rolling his hips forward and back, and every flex of his glutes made Sanderson want to fuck him more.
Sanderson still wasn’t sure how to proceed. This sort of thing wasn’t in the field manual. He hated not knowing. He knew what he wanted, and he thought he knew what Hoot wanted, but he wasn’t prepared. No condom, no lube, no idea how to approach the subject.
Hoot, tactical as always, solved the problem. He turned and got on the floor, hands and knees, since there was no way the two of them could fit on a cot, and Sanderson was on his knees in an instant, kneeling behind Hoot, and Hoot was rocking back, rubbing his ass on Sanderson’s hard dick and moaning, fucking moaning, but not loud. The sound wouldn’t carry outside the trailer. It was pitched for Sanderson alone.
Sanderson had an almost uncontrollable urge to change that, but still had enough functioning brain cells to realize what a bad idea it would be to have everyone hear Hoot screaming his lungs out while Sanderson fucked him. Hoot could be really, really loud when he needed to be. He could shout over the sound of a pitched battle without undo strain. The mere thought of how loud he would be capable of shouting mid-orgasm was enough to make Sanderson’s cock leak all over Hoot’s upturned ass, and enough to make Sanderson promise himself that some day, if they ever got out of this hell, he would take Hoot some place Hoot could really let go. In the meantime, he would settle for the urgent, raspy whispers.
“Left thigh pocket,” Hoot directed him, and Sanderson had to fumble a bit with the crumpled pants. He found the pocket, just above Hoot’s knee, the desert camo pulled tight from the way Hoot’s thighs were straining as far apart as they could. Sanderson’s forearm was pressed against Hoot’s thigh while he fished out a condom and a bottle of lube, and Sanderson couldn’t help noticing that Hoot’s thigh was as hard as his own forearm, but the forearm had a little more curve to it, because Hoot’s legs weren’t all that big, proportionately, compared to his arms, but man, he had a great ass and Sanderson was going to fuck it, and that made it even better.
Lube? Where the fuck had Hoot found lube in the middle of the desert?
“Swiped it from Durant’s trailer,” Hoot panted, without Sanderson even having to ask the question out loud.
Wow. Was Elvis ever going to be irate about that.
And, okay, so this wasn’t as spontaneous as Sanderson initially thought, but he was beyond caring about shit like that.
Hoot reached behind himself and grabbed Sanderson’s dick. “Dress it.”
Sanderson ripped open the package and rolled the condom down his cock. He was trying to figure out what kind of prep was expected when he noticed Hoot’s fingers smearing lube around his ass. And in his ass.
“Fuck,” he groaned. What a sight. He could come just watching Hoot finger fuck his own hole.
He might have, but Hoot was finished, after what seemed like nowhere near enough preparation, and was guiding Sanderson’s cock to him. Barely any preliminaries at all. “Hoot, um, I’m, ah… fuck!” Sanderson has honestly wanted to warn Hoot that he wasn’t small. He wasn’t medium. Hell, Sanderson wouldn’t even be considered merely large. But Hoot had grabbed him, right? He had to know. You don’t just impale yourself on something without looking to see what it is first, right?
Sanderson couldn’t tell. All the feelings were jumbled into one, burning, aching need. But it appeared everything was okay, because when Hoot rammed himself back, skewering himself, Hoot didn’t yell or flinch or anything; he lowered his chest to the floor and opened up.
“Hard. I want to really feel it.”
No arguments from Sanderson on that front. He fucked as hard as he could. He fucked so hard his head spun. He fucked until he couldn’t fuck anymore, and then Hoot fucked himself onto Sanderson’s cock. Hoot’s hand was working his own cock, hard and fast, his left hand, Sanderson noticed. Not the one he wrote with. His right hand was on the floor, fingers spread, and when Hoot fucked back he was doing a one-handed push-up that made his shoulder bulge obscenely. Not as obscenely as the way his ass was crammed full of Sanderson’s dick, of course, but it was still intense.
How could they have worked together all this time and Sanderson never noticed Hoot was ambidextrous? That was his last coherent thought before he came.
Hoot shoved back and grunted, louder but not loud enough for anyone between the trailer and the guard post to hear. “Fuck,” he said under his breath, and his ass started squeezing Sanderson’s cock. Sanderson didn’t think he could come again, so he had to be satisfied with a pained groan and the feeling that he might not survive the experience.
He did, of course. He always did. They always survived everything, Hoot and Sanderson. They were a team.
They fell forward, twisting so they were wedged side-by-side between the cabinets.
Sanderson forced his head up and looked down at Hoot, sweating and panting and looking like Hoot again, but with his t-shirt shoved up around his armpits and his pants down at his knees and his flat stomach and his left hand smeared thick and white. “Since when were you ambidextrous?” Sanderson blurted out.
“I’m not,” Hoot drawled, “but I bat left-handed, too.”
That was just weird, Sanderson thought. But at least he wasn’t confused about how to act around Hoot after they’d done this. He knew he would act exactly the same as he’d always acted.
Until he could get Hoot far enough away to make him scream, of course.
Sanderson felt down past Hoot’s sweaty thigh and extracted the flask.
“You better now?”
Hoot took the scotch and drank. ““Shit, man, I think you killed me,” he said, laughing quietly. “But at least I fucking felt it.”
It was good to hear Hoot laugh.
End
The sexual adventures of Hoot and Sanderson are continued in Howl.
Back to: Soldier Porn
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