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Recon (Sanderson/Steele)
Things got quieter at night. Rangers in their part of the hanger, Deltas in theirs, and not a pilot in sight.
Steele paced the boundary, hands clasped, lips set in a scowl. There was nothing to smile about. The situation was untenable. Two units with nothing in common, and no clear chain of command. Someday they would be on the five yard line without a game plan.
Gibson lay on his cot, barely dressed and badly shaved. Disrespectful, undisciplined. A disgrace.
Gordon and Shugart. Couple of unruly cowboys. Sure they were quiet now, hovering over their chessboard, deep in silent communication. But he couldn’t trust them to follow procedure. Regulation meant nothing to them, unless it referred to their skivvies.
Steele watched Sanderson clean and oil his firearm, with fast meticulous movements. Well-trained, agile fingers.
Sanderson. Always the peacemaker. Always making excuses for the others. Always with a ready smile, extending himself to make things better for the next guy.
What would it be like to be on the receiving end of that compassion? What would it take before Sanderson looked at Steele with sympathetic eyes, and offered to make him feel better?
Didn’t matter. Wasn’t ever going to happen.
End
Diversion (Sanderson/Steele)
The hand on his shoulder was strong and capable, and was enough to pull him away from the rows of stretchers, the leaking bodies, and the dispassionate, white-garbed medics. To tug him through the maze of plastic sheeting and crumbling halls, to a place under the stands, where the noise and light and even the smell was muted.
The words in his ears were wise, a balm to his wounded soul, and enough to clear his mind.
“You did everything you could with the men under your command.”
(It was true. He could not have done any more with those boys; they didn’t have the experience to do that much more than sit tight and survive. Those that did survive.)
The eyes that met his were full of sadness and compassion, and enough fire to get his attention. They wanted him to understand with his whole body, his whole soul.
The body pressed against him, pressing him against the wall, was tough, seasoned, enough to make him weak.
And the mouth. The mouth on his was hot and full of passion. It was exhilarating. And it was almost enough to make him forget the battle.
But not for long enough.
End
For Persephone
He’s not a violent man. He doesn’t like to kill. He doesn’t even like to scare people. It’s his job, see?
He does it because he’s trained to do it, and he’s paid to do it, and he’s good at it, but it doesn’t make him a bad person. Doesn’t make him a hero, either. It makes him someone who does what he’s told to do, and does it well, because the world needs people like him, or there would be nothing to stop the really bad people.
That’s what he tells himself every time he pulls the fucking trigger.
For Piperbelle
“I love your ass.”
Sanderson sits up so fast he bangs his forehead on the desk lamp.
“This isn’t the place,” Sanderson hisses.
“Why not?”
“We’re surrounded by Deltas. Rangers.”
“I’m not saying I have to do anything about it. I’m merely making an observation.”
“Oh.”
“I’m not saying I want to grab it, or lick all over the curves of it, or slide my cock inside it.”
Sanderson lowers his voice even more. “But I want you to grab it. Lick it. Fuck it.”
Hoot’s smile teases mercilessly. “Jefferson, really, this isn’t the place for that sort of thing…”
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