Chapter Text
The first time Salim held Jason’s hand, it was weird.
It was right after the pit, when fucking CENTCOM abducted Salim right out of his bed in the dead of night. That morning, when Jason groggily awakened to face another day of interrogation, poking, and prodding, he heard a voice he never thought he would hear again in his life.
“I will not say another word until you let me talk to my son!” Salim’s desperation and rage echoed down the hallway.
Jason’s heart leapt into his throat, dread spreading hot through his belly.
He thought Salim got out. He did not save this man’s life over and over and over again, risking his own, so that he could be stuck in another fucking temple of doom, away from his son.
Jason ripped his arm away from the Hazmat’s grip and ran towards Salim’s voice.
It was a tussle, to say the least, with the Hazmats chasing after him while he barked, using his best lieutenant voice, “What do you think you’re doing?” Salim had stared slack-jawed before smirking and joining the screaming match.
In the end, after a few hours of heated back and forth (and a lot of Jason refusing to cooperate), Salim was able to call his son, tell him he was safe, and that he would be back home inshallah with good news. The melodious Arabic was music to Jason’s ears. Jason stood next to him, smiling at the relief etched in Salim’s face.
CENTCOM was setting up some type of deal with the Department of Homeland Security and the Department of State. Jason and Salim knew fuck all what that meant, but they landed a promise of relocation to the U.S. or the U.K. for both Zain and Salim. Not too shabby, all things considered.
Salim snapped the burner phone shut, turning towards Jason, an inordinate amount of warmth in his gaze. “It seems you have saved the day yet again, my friend.”
Jason laughed, hiding his bashfulness at the praise, joking, “That’s the good ol’ American way, brother.”
Salim rolled his eyes companionably, knowing as well as Jason that the ‘good ol’ American way’ had a lot more to do with disappearing people and less to do with family reunification. But, instead of retorting, he pulled Jason into a bone-crushing hug. Jason hugged back, smacking his hands against Salim’s back a few times, hoping Salim could feel just how much he cared. He wanted Salim to know he had a brother for life; that with everything that Salim almost gave up to save Jason of all people, he would never have to question his loyalties. So after squeezing a few seconds longer, they pulled apart, with Jason grabbing Salim’s shoulder, shaking it firmly. Smiles cracked open both their faces as they fondly, gratefully, gazed at each other.
“Hey, hate to break the moment, but we’re being called for blood tests.” Nick had an amused glimmer in his eyes as he leaned casually on the tent opening.
Salim and Jason broke eye contact, Salim smiling at Nick before saying, “Long time no see, my friend.”
“I thought we got rid of you finally,” Nick playfully responded, clapping a hand on Salim’s shoulder as he walked past the exit, Jason following closely behind.
“Yeah, well,” Jason drawled, caricaturing his usual Southern accent, “CENTCOM had other ideas.”
Nick snorted as he led Jason and Salim down the white plastic hallway. “Seems they have a lot of bright ideas,” Nick mumbled. The others hummed in acknowledgment.
And then it happened.
Salim, who had been walking beside Jason, grabbed Jason’s hand and locked their fingers together. Jason nearly tripped, which made Salim hold his hand tighter. The calluses on Salim’s hand scratched against his own; his palm was warm and thick, slightly larger than Jason’s. They were pretty much the same height, so their hands swung comfortably between their bodies.
Jason short-circuited.
His body moved on autopilot while his brain hit error message after error message.
When they reached the makeshift blood-testing lab, Salim released Jason’s hand to take a seat at his station. He smiled gently at Jason who, like a proper Marine, continued to move without thinking. After robotically marching to his station, he stiffly sat back into the cheap plastic seat. He could barely register how his hand felt empty before the Hazmats entered, Rachel and Eric in tow. Rachel, no longer covered in blood and alien goo, comfortably donned sweatpants and a black t-shirt.
Huh. Jason almost forgot she wasn’t naturally a swamp monster.
Eric and Rachel both noticed Salim with a flash of recognition in their eyes, followed by confusion. Salim tilted his head amicably at them with a small smile.
Jason didn’t realize he was staring until a Hazmat roughly tied a tourniquet around his bicep. Reflexively, Jason barked, “Watch it!” while the Hazmat ignored him, swiping an alcohol wipe over his vein before shoving a needle through his flesh. Jason hissed as blood flowed into the thin tube.
The next few hours were filled with testing, poking, interrogations, blind taste tests (for fuck’s sake), and more interrogations. The five of them had been separated at one point. Jason found his eyes wandering to Salim’s tent across the hallway from his. Salim’s face, when not obfuscated by a Hazmat or the tent, radiated discomfort and exasperation. Since he was technically a day behind them all, the operatives inundated him with questions. Bastards, Jason thought, nostrils flaring from a rush of fierce protectiveness.
Then he remembered the comforting warmth of Salim’s fingers threading through his and his heart stuttered for a whole different reason.
What the actual fuck?
*****
The next few days passed much the same. When they weren’t science experiments, they were figuring out how to pass the time. The Hazmats had finally given them a timeframe of about a month, which sucked but hey, boot camp was longer and more excruciating than a couple of needles and rotten tasting goo. They even let them sleep in bedrooms with actual mattresses, isolated from the rest of Camp Slayer in a sterile white tent.
The thought of ‘Are they slowly killing us’ made itself right at home in the back of Jason’s brain. He tried to pay it no heed; CENTCOM seemed determined to keep them in there, even if it meant promising an Iraqi Lieutenant legal permanent residency. So, he shook those thoughts away, though he saw his paranoia reflected in the tightly wound shoulders and shifting eyes of his companions.
But either way, there was another, more pressing problem at the moment.
Jason had just woken up, stumbling out of his bed, ready to piss and brush his teeth. Another unintended benefit of being holed up in an isolation chamber—no real missions meant no 0300 wake-up calls. Jason felt like a 20-something year old again waking up at 2 p.m. on a Saturday to a whole day of menial chores and weed. Except it was 9 a.m. on a Wednesday instead.
(The Marines really did change the meaning of “early” for Jason).
The moment he opened the door to his room, Salim had exited his room as well, his too-tight T-shirt stretching across his shoulders. When CENTCOM abducted him, Salim had been barefoot and wearing a soft white tunic and a pair of white pants. Probably sleep clothes, if Jason had to guess. But during their dead-of-the-night abduction, the bastards didn’t grab any of Salim’s belongings, including clothes. Instead, they gave him a flimsy pair of sandals and a couple of generic T-Shirts printed with a gaudy ‘US Marines’ logo across the back.
Offhandedly, Jason noticed that Salim was broader than he expected, muscled arms thicker than his, and he attributed the flash of heat in his chest to jealousy. As a previously scrawny-and-lanky twenty-seven-year-old, now a more “lean muscle” type at thirty, biceps and pectorals like Salim’s only existed in his dreams. (Obviously ‘cause he wanted to be more built. No other reason whatsoever.)
“Mornin’ Salim,” Jason yawned out, words painted with a sleepy Southern drawl. Salim turned to him, eyes bright and alert, like he’d already been awake for a couple of hours. Jason wondered if Salim was religious as he seemed back in the pit. Maybe he actually woke up for those predawn calls to prayer he heard on patrols sometimes. Or maybe he was just a morning person.
“Sabah Al-khayr, Jason,” Salim greeted, a smile softening his features, taking a few steps towards Jason until their faces were mere inches apart. His breath was hot (and sort of minty) against Jason’s mouth. Jason’s eyes widened and he instinctively took a step back, which made Salim only take a step forward, raising his arms to circle his hands around Jason’s elbows. Before Jason had a moment to think, Salim closed the distance between their faces and kissed Jason’s right cheek, then his left.
Jason choked, heart stuttering again.
Just as quick, Salim pulled away. A bright smile graced his lips. Jason's throat clicked a few times. Salim grabbed his hand, easy and casual.
Jason was surely about to combust.
No one human could handle this level of shock. Not one. Jason has been around fucking bombs that fazed him less than this.
“I’m assuming you’re heading to the bathroom to manage that morning breath?” Salim chided, a cheeky smile on his face. Jason completely forgot about the toothpaste and toothbrush clutched in his other hand. Salim turned away, tugging Jason along the hallway while interlacing their fingers.
It took two seconds for Jason’s auditory processing to reboot, at which point his shock quickly morphed to indignation. “Hey, the fuck!” he exclaimed, brows knitting together in an angry scowl. It’s not like he asked for Salim to come within two inches of his mouth. Fucking hell, his breath is plenty fresh when he’s ready to be up close and persona--
Salim laughed, interrupting his racing angry thoughts. Usually, Salim’s voice had a deep, pleasant cadence, relaying an even, soothing maturity. It made the high-pitched cackle that came out of that man’s mouth all the more jarring. It reminded Jason that this man also had a bit of chaos and mischief in him too. Jason wondered if that’s why he survived the pit as well as he did.
“How do you Americans say it...” Salim mirthfully continued. “Cat got your tongue?”
Jason realized that he hadn’t spoken despite registering Salim’s laugh. The warmth in his hand burnt like a brand. His cheeks tingled with electricity. Overwhelmed, he barely remembered to breathe, let alone participate in sarcastic banter. Back in the pit, he had the vague memory of Salim mentioning that he would ‘hold his hand, but not cuddle him’ since he had to draw a line somewhere , but Jason thought he was joking and they weren’t even in a life or death situation (least he hopes not) and he never even mentioned kissing and he kept replaying the feeling of Salim’s lips on his cheeks, which were way softer than he imagined, not that he imagined that, no sir, no sirree, he was a good lapsed-Christian boy who did not love the heat emanating from Salim’s hands, did not spend an entire night imagining how those hands would feel firmly gripping the skin around his hips, didn’t stay up all night staring at his own palm and fingers, stretching them out in the darkness and trying, trying to remember the sensation of physical touch and affection and safety and—
Suddenly, Salim released his hand and Jason had the unnerving sensation of being untethered. An unfamiliar tightness squeezed at his chest and he had to stop himself from clutching at his shirt. He looked up (when did he look down?), seeing all that sparkling mirth in Salim’s face replaced by a brow knit in concern.
They were alone in the bathroom. Jason hadn’t even noticed they had walked that far. Salim opened his mouth, probably to ask if Jason was okay, and Jason was unequivocally not okay, so like a good Marine, Jason began robotically laughing.
“Hardy har har, Iraqi got some jokes this morn’, just you wait.” Jason almost violently cringed but controlled himself. Jason knew it was a weak response and Salim wasn’t dumb. He would smell the deflection from miles away. Salim’s face shifted from concern to confusion, then back to concern. Those lips (Jason could still feel them on his cheeks) parted, but he seemed unsure of his next words. Before he had the chance to speak, Jason turned to walk to the urinals, calling out, “You gonna stand there and listen to me piss? How romantic.”
While Jason stood at the urinal, dick out, ready to pee, as casual as any day, he held his breath in anticipation. His heart thumped loudly against his chest. The silence rang sharply in his ears.
A painfully familiar yet alien heat crept up Jason’s face.
Fuck.
Jason always hated the way his skin flushed bright, bright red. When the kids in school noticed how easily Jason Kolchek blushed, they treated his humiliation like some shitty competition. It was relentless—they made fun of his voice, his hair, his clothes, stole his shoes, tripped him in the hallways, and even pantsed him in the cafeteria. And whenever he wanted to retaliate, to sock one of those kids in the mouth, he couldn’t—the worst thing that came with the bright red flush were the involuntary tears. So, he became the sissy who ran home to mommy anytime a kid made him shine as bright as a freshly polished fire hydrant.
(The memories of his mom’s sweet tea, hugs, and angry phone calls to the principal eased the sting a bit. So did the after-work hugs from his dad, and the baseball card collection he let Jason peruse when he came home after a particularly hard day at school. Jason didn’t really care for baseball, but the joy and pride on his dad’s face were more than enough for Jason).
(He could never pinpoint exactly when the hugs had turned to exasperated sighs and eye rolls; when he forced his blushes and tears deep, deep, deep inside him, numbed by weed and video games, and then by military valor, caustic rage, and authoritarian commands. When Jason felt the heat of shame or embarrassment, he forced it down until all anyone knew of him was his dry humor and self-destructive loyalty. He’s a Marine. The Marines proved to him that he can be everything he wanted to be, and more.)
As Jason stood at the urinal, waiting for the pin to drop, for Salim to speak, he couldn’t force the blush down. He knew his face was painfully red and begged sweet Lord Mary Jesus please God don’t let Salim see him–
The sputtering of the showerhead punctured the silence in the bathroom.
Oh.
Salim was going to shower. Which meant no questions or confrontation.
Almost immediately, Jason’s heart rate slowed, his shoulders relaxed, and his breathing eased. It was like he had ripped his way out of enemy territory, back into safety. But, this was Salim, and as far as he was concerned, Salim was as far from an enemy as anyone could get. He wasn’t kidding when he said Salim was worth five Marines. He trusted that man with his life.
(If anyone told Jason from a year ago that he’d trust a member of the Iraqi Ground Forces more than his own fellow Marines, he’d have laughed and followed up with a firm punch to the mouth. Of course, it took demon alien vampires in an underground Sumerian temple to break Jason’s “bias”, but that’s neither here nor there).
Jason shook his head, finishing up at the urinal. (He hoped Salim hadn’t noticed how long he stood there, not peeing.) Sighing, he made his way to the sink. A square mirror hung on the wall above it. And thank the Lord, Jason was free of any and all redness.
Only for it to come back tenfold, no, twentyfold. Hell. Suffice to say, Jason thinks the fifteen years of repressed blushing came out all at once because oh my god he didn’t mean to look but it just happened and–
Jason was doomed.