Chapter Text
Guam is unrelentingly hot and humid, nothing like the dry heat he’s used to from childhood or from his other endlessly sandy postings. There is always a base level of discomfort on any deployment. But Guam is impossible, nothing is dry, ever. Material moulders. Book pages swell. Guns jam unaccountability and metal rusts. One of the few activities that gets them into the shade, at least if not out of the interminable wet heat is weapons maintenance. So, when not on rotation, or embracing the suck and working out while the sweat literally pours from them, he and Rob spend a lot of time working their way through the armoury of ever under-maintained rifles and hand guns that the humidity makes a danger waiting to happen. It’s grunt work really, but he likes to keep his head and hands busy. As a plus, the high ups are always approving of any efforts to ‘maintain the standard.’ Rob is equally diligent in applying himself to keeping his mouth busy, constantly spewing random shit and gossip he’s heard around base. The ceaseless verbal barrage is good company, for the most part and it saves Sullivan from having to fill the silence. He likes Robbert Maitra and his company, even when Rob blurts out the occasional searingly vehement homophobic comment that reminds Sullivan that no one here, even his ‘buddy’ Rob, would have his six if they knew what he was. So, he field strips, cleans and recalibrates rifles in his down time. Hands constantly carrying the slightly cloying citrus tang of CPL oil as he waits to get rotated back out into the field, or training exercises where no one has any time or headspace to backchat about faggots discrediting the Marine Corps.
Rob is one of the many, many, fucking many, reasons that meeting Aaron off base in a hotel room is a fucking stupid idea. A stupid idea that he keeps making whenever Aaron and he have rarely coinciding leave available. But holy shit, how is he supposed to not want Aaron? He is a fellow Marine, an officer, and he’s built like a brick shit house. The kind of muscle mass and bodily gravitas that Sullivan can only dream of. Even eight years of consistent food and Marine physical conditioning hasn’t changed his bodies tendency towards lean packed muscle mass rather than bulk. Not like Aaron, who, officer or no, is visibly powerful and muscular in a way he knows he’ll never be. But it’s not just how physically different they are, It’s the revelation of kissing not being a blood sport, or touching not equating to a desperate spit slicked hand job in an alley way. Instead, with Aaron somehow, it can be thoughtful and slow, and they both know one another’s first names. He’s mind blown by so many aspects of this thing between them, and thoughts of Aaron’s skin, tawny beneath his own pale hands, fill his head. So, he’s not even listening as his fingers deftly strip down yet another M16, but as he situates the firing pin within the newly cleaned and lubricated bolt carrier assembly, Rob’s voice takes on a tone that is different from the more general banter that typically doesn’t require Sullivan’s feedback. It queues him back in, and as he looks up, he meets Rob’s dark eyes on his. “Oh yea, what’s that?” He responds with trepidation to Rob’s persistent eye contact. He’s trying not to panic, to keep his body moving and relaxed as he works the oil slick bolt assembly back into and out of the lock position to make it seem obvious that he’s still working, that he’s not a deer caught frozen in the headlights awaiting an oncoming vehicle, even as Rob continues to speak in the low, quiet tone that is so unlike his normal consistent patter of words.
He arrives back in their shared room while Rob is still back in the shower block. In the few moments of privacy he has to think and exist unfiltered he braces his wet back against the door and clenches his hands into his still damp hair. What the fuck is he going to do? He needs to act, now. They know, or someone sure as hell knows something. He needs a plan of action, now. His fingers pull tighter and his throat burns to scream, or worse yet, to cry out and sob. He knows he can’t look hysterical when Rob gets back in here, he sure as fuck can’t have red eyes or look like he’s been crying over his gay lover. Jesus, maybe Rob already thinks he’s a queer. Fuck, he needs to get out of this room. He pulls on his running gear, desperate to be out putting in some miles on one of the snake infested trails before Rob returns. He needs to buy himself a moment to think, and the burn of running helps circumvent the burn in his eyes and throat at Rob’s warning about “the faggot officer who he works out with” having been “found out.” Little does Rob know Sullivan has been having sex with Major Aaron Wilkinson for months now. The same man who he has etched into his skin the way he’s etched into his heart. But now it’s fucked. Somebody knows and they are fucked.
He reaches the cerulean water of the Philippine Sea and stares out at it, sweat slicked and heart still running a mile a minute. The vast blue of the ocean calms him, soothing something in him in a way that is only ever eroded by being around people, by general existence. It all grates at him, and reprieve is the exception rather than the rule. He scans the area and slips himself into an out of sight spot. Sitting down on the white sand of this hellish paradise, he fights his mind back from the blind panic that burns its way through him at Rob’s cautionary words. His pulse demands its need to get away from this. He needs to run, to get far away from Rob’s veiled, almost accusation, that he knows he’s not imagining. A part of him yearns to just walk into the ocean and never come back. But he’s a Marine-not a pussy, he reminds himself, even as he feels himself drowning in the terror of being discovered. He rationalises with himself, if he wants to keep being a Marine, he needs to get away from the scene of the crime. Away from Rob. Away from Aaron. Away, anywhere, is the only choice he has. He balls a fist to his mouth and bites down. Lets the sharp pain of it join the pain of his muscles, the pain in his heart, and caught in between his furrowed brows. He breathes around the usually soothing sharp chemical orange scent of gun oil still clinging to his hand as the misery and pain of Rob's words and what they mean batter against him, it feels relentless, and somehow futile too, like the endless blue roar of the waves rolling in and crashing against the shore. He hates this, hates himself for letting this happen. He can’t fuck this up. He is a Marine, that is all he knows how to be. Fuck Guam. He needs to get out of here.
Fucking South Carolina, everything is still soaked in sweat in minutes, but at least here the shit inside his room is dry and mostly humidity free, comparatively anyway. At least here nobody knows. He won’t let his guard down again, won’t jeopardise his place within the Corps again. Recruit Cope can’t be the reason he fucks up his life again, even if the kid is too fucking stupid to get the message that he doesn’t belong here. That Sullivan clocked him the second they were in the same room together. There are no faggots allowed in the Unites States Marine Corps, and he needed to go the hell back to where he came from. His too large eyes set over a pretty shaped cupids bow, his stupid fucking expressions, and his expansive smiles for his fellow recruits do not belong here. But Cope sticks it out, despite Sullivan’s wishes and literal verbal instruction. The fact that Cope just keeps on being Cope while performing adequately enough to make the grade is as infuriating as it is admirable. It makes Sullivan feel conflicted when all he wants to feel is rage. There isn’t room in him or his life for anything else. Duty and rage. That is all he needs now.
Cameron 40 feet in the air above him, unbalanced and in danger of falling, cracks an edge into his shield of duty and rage. The surprised shock of it gentles his hands and words against his better judgment, as he hovers closely and takes the weight of Cope’s leg into his palm, fingers curling protectively up around his too thin calf muscles as he lifts. Cameron is balanced on one foot, leaning into his arms as they hold tightly to the muddy board. He meets Sullivan's eyes as he promises he has him, that he’ll be okay. Cameron swallows at his reassurances, and the motion of his throat working steals Sullivan’s gaze from the trusting blue eyes watching his own, to the expanse of warm skin he wants to feel the heat of for himself. His hand holds Cameron’s leg still for that fraction of a moment, while Sullivan watches Cameron swallow, and then take a steadying breath, before he carefully realigns the boy back onto his own two feet. Sullivan doesn't think much of duty or rage as they move as one, cautiously retracing their path down the obstacle, but like sharks in the ocean his thoughts circle again as he reaches the ground and the awaiting sea of eyes from his platoon of shitbirds. So, once their feet are on the ground again, he snarls his familiar mantra about faggots in the Marine Corps into Cope’s personal space. Rob would be proud. Cope doesn’t even have the dignity to take it like a champ. Instead, he levels watery ocean eyes on the horizon and lets Sullivan’s words crash into him, swaying slightly at the force of the impact. Sullivan feels no satisfaction. He lets himself feel nothing more about the day other than a strange, tight vexation at Cameron’s lack of fortune. Kid needs to not go to war with luck like his.
He has again run into Cope’s lack of fortune, and so, he has him scrambling into a dumpster full of garbage in recompense for how the gayest recruit on his watch can’t even cover his own tracks and has no capacity to construct himself a shield of duty and rage, no matter how many ways Sullivan deploys his own, showing him how it’s done. At least this time, Cope doesn’t sway, doesn’t give under Sullivan’s demands and harsh words. That’s something. Not rage, but maybe it’s duty, or loyalty more likely, that strengthens his spine as he screams his right to be here, to take his place, into the darkness at Sullivan’s behest. Sullivan leaves him there in the darkness to clean up his mess. Walking away again from the watery sounding “Thank you,” and even fainter “sir” that falls from Cameron’s lips, only to die back to silence in the night air as his words meet Sullivan’s resolutely turned back. Kid will need to learn to be smarter than this in his deception if he wants to remain undiscovered in the Corps. Loyalty may have made Cameron do the dumb thing that he is currently being punished for, but that loyalty won’t be rewarded or returned if he gets caught red handed with some guy's hands down his pants or tongue down his throat. The idea of it makes Sullivan nearly blind with rage, and he desperately wants to about turn, to haul the recruit from the garbage pile, and to sully his own skin with the filth and waste coating Cameron Cope. But he is not going to fuck up his second chance not even for the quiet sound of “Sir” as Cameron quietly calls after him.
Tear gas training is an obvious day for a shit show, and Sullivan is completely unmoved by one of the recruits freaking out before the pellets are even dropped, releasing the acrid, burnt pepper fumes into the unwitting and unprepared group. He’s had to breathe and fire his weapon through worse conditions than they will face today, and so he isn’t gentle or kind or encouraging. They can stand in the suck and live to tell the tale; otherwise, how else will they know they can? What he does not expect of this day is the baffling defiance of Cameron Cope, as he stands too close and too insubordinate in Sullivan’s personal space. This is the only time Cameron has been the one to breach that personal space barrier, and it has Sullivan’s hands automatically rising to pull off his own mask to meet Cameron where he is. A simultaneous urge to reach out and touch his snot and tear stained face scalds at his fingers, even as they rise from his side, reaching, but just as Cameron endures the very air burning his airways and eyes, Sullivan fights against the tidal wave of inexplicable connection that Cope keeps inciting within him. He masters it enough to not break protocol and strip his mask off, as he huskily draws breath to command Cameron out and back into an environment that isn’t trying to choke and immobilise him. Cameron, at last, stumbles past him, closer still in that brief moment before he breaks back out into the sunlight afternoon, choking and hacking from the harsh, burning aftereffects of being dry powder gassed with the rest of his platoon.
The week takes an unexpected detour when a refrigerated truck rolls just outside the east gate. The recruits are an excellent source of menial labour as they ferry the undamaged, high value supplies from the mess of ice and spoiled goods to be held in the commissaries cold storage. They are rewarded by the grateful driver with the boxes and boxes of semi melting popsicles that are beyond the chillers capacity to store, were they even still resaleable at this point anyway. The three platoons involved in assisting are given an afternoons reprieve from training for their quick and effective assistance, but McKinnon isn’t letting his platoon within the threshold of the barracks with their filthy, food-covered uniforms, so Sullivan leaves them to their sticky-sweet bounty as they huddle in the shade of the building, with really more ice block slurry than is probably safe for human consumption. So, as he steps out from the duty office sometime later to check on them, he does not expect to bodily run into Recruit Cope as they both round a corner towards one another. Cameron bounces off Sullivan and is teetering on his heels to catch his weight before Sullivan has a fist in his blouse and is yanking him back to rights again.
“Sir, thank you sir, and sorry sir.” Cameron says breathily and quickly once his feet are under him again.
Sullivan unscrews his fist from Cameron’s clothing and eyes the recruit questioningly. Cameron says nothing, so Sullivan eventually snaps, “Well, out with it, Cope. Why are you in here against the senior drill instructor's orders?”
Cameron takes a breath to explain, and Sullivan realises he is too close when Cameron’s breath is a sweet orange wash, and Sullivan realises at second glance that his lips are stained a slight orange too. He has already let go of Cameron so there is no good reason to be this close. He forces his feet to take a step back.
Cameron states, “This recruit typically has scribe duties from this hour when not on exercises, and he wasn’t sure if he was needed by the drill instructor. This recruit also brought the drill instructor a popsicle, if he would like one, Sir.”
Sullivan presses his heels into the linoleum to hold his position. He looks to the white package, carefully held by the stick in Cameron’s fingers. “What flavour?” As if he can’t guess from the candy sweet citrus smell of the recruit in front of him.
“Sir, orange, sir. We were given boxes and boxes of orange.”
“Good, my favourite. Leave the popsicle and go. You are not required for duty at the moment and don’t let McKinnon or anyone else catch you disobeying orders being in here.”
Cameron poorly fights a tiny, pleased smile at Sullivan’s acceptance, and raises his hand with the popsicle as he says, “Aye, Sir.” Sullivan ignores his smile and has enough mastery to keep his own expression neutral, even as their fingers graze as he takes the stick from Cameron’s hand. Cameron’s skin is cool and not sticky, as he had expected, so he had apparently washed up somewhere before arriving for scribe duty, but wherever he’d washed off he’d forgotten his still orange stained mouth. It leaves Sullivan under no illusion as to exactly what that mouth would taste like right now. Those lips would be sticky, but so sweet too.
Cameron relinquishes the popsicle and just as he turns to go Sullivan surprises himself by saying a quiet “Thank you for the popsicle, Cope.” Cameron says nothing but flashes a smile that touches his eyes, and then nods once before continuing his turn and walking away. Sullivan watches him as he goes, before returning to the duty hut to attempt to eat the melting treat while trying not to get himself, and everything else around him, sticky too.
The recruits are racked up and staying out on the range for the next week. It’s a welcome change, and the temperature is somewhat lower thanks to all the surrounding trees. The recruits are put through the required hours of wrote practice stripping the M16 and rebuilding it. They are so painfully inept given that he and Rob, and any Marine, can do this activity from nothing but muscle memory. But eventually they make it onto the range and the next three days are a strange and heady experience as he works with Cameron to improve his abysmal performance. By day two he’s consistently hitting the target, and it’s easy to be gratified by the improvement. Day three he hits his first bullseye, and Sullivan offers him up a quiet little “kill.” Cameron meets it with a quick but still too bright smile. By the afternoon of day three something sure as fuck happened because Cameron has a split lip and Ray has the beginnings of a shiner, that thankfully doesn’t appear to be impacting on his target shooting. But the two of them have been thick as thieves from day one so it is a genuinely shocking development. Sullivan wonders if he should intervene but decides to bide his time. Every evening is spent with the recruits practicing drills field stripping their weapons and cleaning them after a day of use, so he sends Cameron scurrying for more CPL oil and follows him out after a few moments. He leans on the side of the building and snatches Cameron around the corner as he jogs back with three more bottles of the all purpose cleaner and protectant. Cameron startles predictably and Sullivan catches one of the bottles as it tumbles downwards. “Quit it. It’s just me. What happened to your face, Cope?”
Cameron huffs out a breath of relief. Relaxing against the fist clutching tight in his blouse. “Nothing, Sir.”
Sullivan makes his unimpressed face and shoves the bottle back into Cameron’s hands. “Spit it out.” It’s dark out and he has no idea how clearly Cameron can see his I’m not fucking around expression but he knows he can hear it clearly enough.
“Uh, it’s noth..” Sullivan sighs and presses his forefinger into the swollen split in Cameron’s lip while the other hand tightens its fist in his clothing.
Cameron hisses and attempts to jerk away but is caught fast “Want to try again, Cope?” He asks letting up the pressure from his finger but not pulling it away entirely.
“Ray, and I had an argument. It’s not important.” He stills from his attempt to get away and Sullivan squints at his shadowed face, trying to read his expression.
“You had a fight or you were kissing him wrong. You don't get a split lip from an argument Cameron. So, what were you two fighting about?” Cameron gasps and again jerks against his hold so he pulls him a little closer instinctively while taking away the hand threatening against his lip.
Cameron splutters that “Ray isn’t like that, he’s not…”
This is taking too long and Sullivan is loosing his patience so he shakes Cameron once, “I know Ray isn’t like us. Now hurry up and tell me why he hit you!” He’s leaning forward and hissing his demand into Cameron’s face.
Cameron just blinks at him for a too long moment before whispering “He called me your special boy, so, I hit him and then we scuffled a bit and I kind of whacked my face on the side of the target lifter before Nash stepped in and broke us up. I’m sorry. I told him about the night at the dumpster. Not, not that anything happened but just that you caught me sneaking around and yelled at me.”
Sullivan is caught off guard. He wants to let go and shove Cameron away at the revelation that other recruits think of Cameron as ‘his special boy.’ Fuck, he’s so fucked.
He’s thinking aloud and so Cameron responds. “No! Ray knows… a... about me. He’s never cared. Still doesn’t. We just had an argument. He won’t say anything. And Nash didn’t hear anything, he just stepped in because we were fighting.” Cameron stops and shuts his mouth quickly as if he’s just become aware that there is not nearly enough 'Yes, Sir' coming out of his mouth. That this is a relatively normal conversation of the kind that he’s very very much not allowed to have with his drill instructor. Plus, Sullivan allows while watching Cameron's face begin to panic from his too close a vantage, there is the whole not gay like us thing that Sullivan himself is to blame for he realises.
He thinks his words through for a moment. “I’m sorry that I have put you in that position. Again. Just like last time. If you want to report me for..”
“No!” Cameron lowers his voice, tone still urgent “No, I don’t want that. You have done nothing wrong.”
Sullivan cuts back in, bitterness clear in his voice. “Of course I have done something wrong. Cameron it is illegal for… men… like us, to serve. How many times have I told you that!” His voice is tightening as he speaks and they are both way too close to one another as they fiercely whisper their convictions into the quiet night air.
“It’s a stupid rule.” Cameron snarls and it makes Sullivan genuinely smile to see Cameron actually angry about this and for perhaps the first time that he has seen over these weeks.
He lets go of Cameron’s clothing, belatedly realising he was still holding on. “Yes. It is. Now get inside and finish your drills. We are done here.” Cameron lingers and Sullivan twitches his head towards the barracks. “Go, that is an order, Cameron.” His voice is quiet and Cameron pauses slightly looking like he wants to say something but sighs and resignedly pulls away to go back inside. Because he’s a fucking idiot Sullivan reaches out a single hand and lets their fingers touch. Just for the barest moment as Cameron leaves but he feels Cameron press into that tiny contact even as he obeys Sullivan’s order.
The cool blue depth of Cameron’s eyes cross his mind as he tries to put himself anywhere but in this room, with that woman looking at his skin, accusatory, and smug at having her suspicions confirmed. Deciding his entire fucking future based of some awful shit on the papers she has contained in a folder before her, and on the black lettering over his heart. Fuck this, he should have drowned himself in Guam. It’d be less humiliating than the feeling of standing half naked in front of this woman, while Captain Fajardo has to listen to every detail of his supposed behaviour unbecoming. He cringes internally and lets his mind shelter into memories of deep blue eyes, and the syrupy-sweet tang of citrus, as he waits to be allowed to redress again. A part of him snarls ferally at being backed into this corner. Cameron is right it is a stupid fucking rule. He is a decorated recon Marine, and he is fucking worthy to serve as well as of the respect and love Aaron taught him was possible. But it seems that, just like he has been trying to tell Cope, they are destined to be ruined by the very Marine Corps they both serve. Gods, he wishes he’d done a better job of convincing Cameron to run. To get away from this institution before it becomes his whole world, the way it has for him. Now the list of people, and ways he has failed, grows ever longer. But unlike himself, and Aaron, maybe it’s not too late for Cameron. Before he too ends up buddying up to someone like Rob, who would think him a fucking degenerate if they were ever to find out the truth. A truth that has cost Sullivan the only home, occupation, and the only relationship he has ever known.
He can’t get back out to the range tonight, and after the drinking he’s indulged in to wash the nausea away, he doesn’t think he’d be capable of anything other than terrifying Cameron, even if he could drag him from his bunk this evening and beg him to quit before Crucible begins. To UNC. To fucking AWOL with Sullivan, if that’s all that’s left. But he’s out of options for tonight, so he just keeps drinking. Fajardo’s reassurances over the phone; before he decided maybe alcohol could be his saviour instead tonight, and in person earlier that day, play out in his head. But, they are dwarfed by the memory of that NCIS woman’s knowing gaze pressing against his ink stained skin. He’s been caught, if not red handed, certainly in too close proximity to the already convicted officer, whose tattoo is the mate to his. The days memory, and his current situation revolts and enrages Sullivan, and where circumstances won’t allow him to commit himself to the duty he owes his platoon of fuck up recruits and to Cameron, he allows rage to take the wheel instead. The outcome is bloody, and so, so much more cowardly than if he had just given himself over to the sea back in Guam. But like a scared fucking kid, he runs from the scene of the crime yet again. Unable to take his punishment like a man, like the Marine he has always allowed himself to feel pride at being.
So, the morning light, and the knowledge of what he’s done, both sear his nerve endings as he finally rejoins platoon 2232. They had already decamped to head out for Crucible brutality early in the morning, so he is playing catch up to get back to them, but by 09:34 he finally reaches them and confirms his arrival and availability with McKinnon, who seems to be expecting him and aware of his absence. Fajardo must have already been in touch. He’s relieved at the lack of questions just yet. But, given the state of his bloody knuckles last night, he knows it’s only a matter of time. He needs to lay hands on Cameron, before they are all released into the fetid swampland to make their way to the finish line. They will have 54 hours to sink or swim, but Sullivan has no expectation that he is going to be at the finish line, so he extracts himself the moment he can after receiving a briefing on their remaining responsibilities during Crucible. Its old hat for McKinnon and Howitt, and Sullivan ventures absolutely no questions and radiates a confidence that now feels like yet another lie. The briefing ends quickly. Once the recruits are officially on the course, in T-45 minutes, the instructors are to be hands off, but ready in case of emergencies. He has no time for subtlety, so he figures if he can find either Ray or Cameron the other won’t be far away. Getting them apart might be the problem, but if he can catch Cameron’s eye, he is sure he will follow.
It works sooner than expected and Cameron literally catches at his arm as he rounds a tent. He isn’t expecting the contact or the wash of relief that momentarily stuns him before he quietly hisses out. “Follow me, Cope. Now.” He pulls his arm free as Cameron still has his mouth open ready to speak, but Sullivan can hear his boots matching his pace away from the other recruits making last minute preparations and generally milling around. They don’t go far, out of eye and ear shot, but he doesn’t have time to get anywhere near close to far enough away to have this conversation safely, so they are going to have to hope for the best.
He tugs Cameron closer when they come to a stop beside a clump of bigger trees that provides them cover on two sides at least. The action isn’t particularly necessary, but it gives him an excuse to touch Cameron under somewhat acceptable pretences. Cameron doesn’t resist or respond, allowing his body to follow the direction of Sullivan’s hand as he puts the tree at Cameron’s back and steps in front of him. One silhouette to be seen, should anyone happen by. His shoulders itch a little at how bad this positioning is, but he’s fucked either way, so he just makes himself speak. Cameron pales and presses back against the tree. Twice he goes to raise his hands and touch him as he speaks, but each time Sullivan shakes his head and just continues on as Cameron’s hands lower. Finally, Cameron stares at his hands, clearly abjectly horrified at Sullivan’s final reveal of why there is no time left for either of them. He says nothing at all as Sullivan waits for him. Hoping to hear he will give this up. Will maybe consider allowing them to get caught intentionally together, if only to spare him having to find some other way to have to UNQ out during Crucible, where he may actually end up hurt inadvertently. It’s a shit plan, but a recruit being missing, let alone an instructor too, would eventually have to be noticed before too long.
Cameron finally draws breath to speak and manages an “I… can’t…” before the distinct crunch of boots coming this way makes discussion impossible. Sullivan takes it for a refusal, so he nods once, manages a small motion with his lips that he knows is not a smile, and turns to go and intercept the footsteps, in the hope it allows Cameron to make his return to his platoon. Cameron’s hand is a tight fist around his wrist as he yanks and pulls Sullivan back to him. Cameron hisses out a “Fine. Yes.” Before jamming their mouths together.
Sullivan doesn’t have time to do much other than lean down and open his mouth before placing a hand on Cameron’s waist to steady himself, before their theatrical moment of being caught together becomes a theatrical moment of Ray punching him squarely in the temple and shoving him off Cameron while yelling “What the fuck!” Sullivan could cry for how not the right person Ray is to be the one the find them instead he holds up his hands open palms outward to show he’s not inciting anything else as he staggers backwards. He shakes his head to try and clear it from the whirling pain that disorients him. Still coming no closer to either of the recruits as Ray stands protectively between himself and Cameron.
“Ray, Ray, Ray it’s fine!” Cameron is desperately stage whispering while trying to get Ray to turn his attention towards himself. Eventually Ray turns at Cameron’s hasty “Ray, I kissed him. I swear to gods this is not what it looks like.”
It gets Ray’s snapped attention and thankfully he also stage whispers “He had you pined to a fucking tree, Cam!”
Cameron sighs loudly “No, no he didn’t. But there is a lot to tell, and I will fill you in. But first. Are you the only one looking for us?”
Ray stutters out an exasperated “What? Yes? Who else is out here looking for you? What the fuck Cam, now is NOT the time to lose your V card! We have Crucible in like ten minutes!”
Sullivan has cleared his head and is about to speak up before Cameron cuts in over him. “Good, go back and pack my shit. I’m coming Ray. I swear it. I swear I’m coming but you need to go and get my pack. I’ll be there. On time.”
Ray looks furious and glares at both of them in turn before raising a single angry finger towards Sullivan while staring him down with every ounce of menace he contains before finally turning away and shoving Cameron gently. “Ten minutes, don’t be late.” It’s valiant really that finger of I’ll fuck you up if he isn’t back in one piece on time. Sullivan finds his heart clenches a little more tightly than it already was for the fact Cameron has a fellow Marine who has his back and isn’t even angry at finding them kissing. Is just angry and protective at the idea someone, Sullivan, might hurt Cameron. His eyes pull from Ray's back to Cameron’s face which is again so very close to his.
This time when Cameron reaches out tentatively Sullivan lets him, lowers his face to the hand that draws near to it. “I’m sorry…” “I’m glad..” they cut one another off and Sullivan leaves the silence for Cameron to continue, he needs to hear what he plants to do.
“I’m glad it was Ray. I wanted to say before. I can’t leave him. He is my best friend. I’m glad it was Ray because I have to do this, Sullivan. But I’m glad I got to kiss you too.”
Sullivan doesn’t have any words, just turns his face into Cameron’s palm and kisses him there gently before speaking again. “I don’t know what’s going to happen, but I won’t be here when you cross the finish line. I’m sorry.” He admits hoarsely, honestly. Cameron nods, obviously close to tears and too choked to speak. “Go. Go become the amazing Marine you will become. Good luck, Cameron. Look after yourself.” His voice rasps out words he doesn’t want to say, but wants Cameron to hear, so he makes his throat work. Forces them out. This does have Cameron in tears, all pretence gone, but Sullivan isn’t expecting that tear streaked mouth to reach up and glue itself to his own. He leans down further knowing Cameron must be on his tip toes so he wraps an arm around his back to help steady him as they kiss. It’s uncoordinated and messy but it’s sweet to. Kissing Cameron is sweet and addictive but he needs to stop this now because his previous calculation that someone will eventually come looking for them is still correct. He pulls back and uses the hands on Cameron’s back and hip to discourage him from following. “You have to go and claim your place now Cameron Cope. Go and own your future. Don’t be me. Don’t let it fuck you up like I did.” He’s serious as he speaks and it seems to help Cameron realign his own emotions.
He nods, hauls in a breath and then unexpectedly asks “At least tell me your name so I know who I had my first real kiss with?” He looks embarrassed a little but he is also expecting an answer.
So, Sullivan does. It’s the least he can give back in return. “Liam, it’s Liam Robert Sullivan.” He smiles a sad little smile at his own admission, at how little he has to offer and he then leans down to kiss Cameron again, tenderly, their mouths moving slowly together for a moment before he pushes slightly at him to separate them. “Now go, Cameron, please. And don’t turn back. You have to get your head in the game. Focus on that.”
“But..”
“Don’t, Cameron, I have to go do hard shit too. We both need our head in the game. You can do this, I’m proud of you. Now go and get your pack from Ray. Double time, Recruit Cope, don’t be late. Go.” With that he makes himself take his hands off of Cameron and the recruit minutely shuffles back, slowly, too slowly and Sullivan is just about to comment when a call comes over the radio at his hip that a recruit is missing. It stops both of them in their tracks but he the missing recruit is named as Jones so Sullivan calls in that he and a Recruit Cope are already searching for him but he has just dispatched Cope to return to take part in the Crucible. That he will be continuing on alone and will check in if he finds anything. He and Cameron lock eyes as he is speaking and just as he raises his hand to direct Cameron away they hear the sound of the injured recruit in question. Sullivan updates their situation over the radio and then helps Cameron to manhandle Jones back towards safely. It’s awkward now because they have company, semi lucid company but it’s still a problem. Sullivan carefully explains that he needs to attend to the other matter in a civilian way, not through the Marine channels. So, Cameron is going to have to take Jones to safety alone but that it won’t be for long now that they have alerted the searchers to their location. Cameron screws up his brow briefly but then nods and accepts Sullivan’s instruction just as he takes the radio. It’s a slow exchange as their fingers press together in silence before they both nod and with one last shared glance head off in different directions.
Sullivan is not expecting to ever hear the name Cameron Cope again but less still is he expecting a letter to reach him in the state penitentiary from said addressee. It has Cameron's ten digit DoD military ID Number underneath his sender details. The sight of it makes Sullivan grin like he hasn’t in months. He has spent weeks wondering about Cameron even during his sentencing after turning himself in at the closest police station. It’s been a shit show, and yet he’s had letters of support for his character turning up at his lawyer's office from many unexpected places, but never any word on Cameron. So, to see the ID number confirming he made it through and is now a Marine makes Sullivan so fucking relieved that he didn’t fuck up Cameron’s chance at whatever future he wanted.
Cameron’s letter is short. Just detailing his MOS and training and then asking him to write back please. Sullivan does. It’s hard. Stilted at first but they both have nothing but time left to serve so eventually their correspondence starts looking forward towards that point in time where both of them, gods willing, won’t have to go where they are told and do whatever is demanded. It does get easier, for both of them, four years is long enough for cope to opt to go reserve for his final four. Which means that though Cameron hasn’t visited, at Sullivan’s unwavering insistence, he is standing outside the Federal Correctional Institution in Williamsburg five and a half years after the last time he set eyes on Sullivan. It makes Sullivan nervous to see the grown man standing exactly where he said he would be wearing exactly the described outfit as he waits for him. He’d know Cameron’s eyes anywhere, but it makes him anxious that he might have changed as much as Cameron has, thought surely not for the better given all the ways Cameron has grown and bulked and matured beautifully into an actual man compared to the young man he knew as a recruit. He doesn’t let his footsteps slow, as by gods he’d do anything at all to never see that place again, but he is nervously unsure of what to expect as the smiling man beside the car asks if he can hug him please. Sullivan nods before he thinks about it, and Cameron wraps his arms around him. It’s the first time he has been touched with affection since the last time he touched Cameron and that is somehow terrifying, and somehow right feeling. He gives it a moment, allows himself to feel a conflicted array of emotions, and then tugs back minutely. Cameron lets him go, and quickly looks over at him to check in. He manages a smile and a nod of assurance. “Shall we go? I think I have been here long enough.”
Cameron’s smile is a little watery at that, but he nods decisively and heads to the driver's seat before pausing before getting in, “unless you wanted to?” He nods towards the now open door in question before getting in.
“No, Cam, it’s your car. You are doing more than enough for me by being here. It’s good to see a friendly face, better still that it’s yours. Thank you though. For this, for being here for me, and for the offer to drive.” He means it and he smiles at Cameron across the roof of the car before swinging the door open to get in. Cameron smiles back and blushes a warm glow that pinks his cheeks. It makes Sullivan feel relieved that clearly for however much he has aged over his years incarcerated he can obviously still make Cameron blush prettily which makes him feel a sense of relief and maybe pleased satisfaction. He swivels in the passenger seat and places the Manila folder with his prison documentation on the back seat carefully. He needs to keep jumping through their hoops if he wants to remain on the outside which is daunting. But Cameron being his port in the storm is more than he could ever ask for.
After the drive down to Savannah Cameron shows him in. It’s a small two bedroom flat at the back of a shop and he’s only been there for six months, so furniture is light on the ground but it’s clean and tidy and Cameron has odd little nicknacks around on windowsills and shelves and it’s extremely endearing after the severity of both military and prison accommodation. Sullivan smiles and tells him how much he likes the place. He runs two careful fingers over a small black ceramic cat figurine that is sitting on a somewhat haphazardly stacked bookshelf, some of the books are intriguingly bristling with colourful post it note ends. He longs to pick through and see what has caught Cameron’s eye other than the books they have already written to one another to discuss or recommend. But as much as the books are interesting and draw his eye he wants to connect with the much more complicated and vaguely intimidating presence of Cameron in the room. He takes a slow quiet breath before turning around and finding Cameron leaning against the refrigerator smiling at him. It is a stance that pulls his T-shirt tight across his chest and biceps and that highlights the still too narrow expanse of Cameron’s waist. Sullivan fights a little at how he now reads that physicality as both threatening, because existing around other men is a danger, and also sexy, because it’s Cameron, his lean wiry torso and pretty muscles that Sullivan is looking at. He watches Cameron back until the flush brightens Cameron’s cheeks again, so he coughs and looks down before asking, “So, where do you want me to sleep?” Cameron had said he had a bed for him, but he isn’t sure if that means a bed on the couch or, somewhere else.
Cameron stutters out a quick “Oh, yea sorry, this way. I had Alex as my flatmate until two weeks ago as you know but now that he is off in Europe indefinitely, he even left his desk and bed, but we can pick up other stuff you might need.” Sullivan follows Cameron into the room. It’s a long rectangular room with two small windows. It’s not much light wise but he certainly appreciates that they are there and openable at his pleasure. The room seems huge in comparison to what he is used to, and the idea of actual personal space is a luxury. It chokes him up a little and he stands still and breaths for a minute just to settle himself before turning his back on the room. He faces Cameron and it’s somehow genuinely shocking that he is in a room alone with Cameron. outside of prison walls. They have spent literal years writing to one another but now the man from the letters is here in front of him looking both spooked and bewitched and a little bit blushy and shy. Shit, he’s become such a beautiful man. Sullivan is suspicious that Cameron is not the only one blushing now, but he makes himself a little brave as he reaches out to touch Cameron’s hand lightly. He panics as he does because this contact, initiating any kind of contact is so so alien after his time in prison and the Marines where any physical contact is a danger, but Cameron quickly meets his hand and presses their fingers together, not holding hands but fingers slowly meeting, moving together. It makes his chest ease that Cameron obviously wants this contact from him. He hadn’t wanted to presume, to make Cameron uncomfortable. But the fingers exploring his and Cameron’s lash lowered gaze make his shoulders ease a bit lower and let his jaw relax from its tight clench.
“I can pay you whatever Alex was for rent, Cam. You don’t have to be out of pocket for having me. I was expecting, and grateful for a spot on your couch, or even your bedroom floor. This is much more than I imagined. And if you are still in contact with Alex. Tell him I’m grateful for his furniture. Please, Cam.” He’s earnest, wants Cameron to not regret taking him in.
Cameron blurts out “I love hearing you say my name.” He blinks in obvious surprise at his own words and his fingers still from their slow movements against Sullivan’s in shock of what he's said aloud.
It makes Sullivan snort in amusement. “Come here, Cam.” He tugs gently on Cameron’s hand and the Marine steps eagerly forward and into Sullivan’s arms, curling in against him even though Cameron is now barely any shorter than he is. Cameron tucks himself in under his chin like he belongs there as Sullivan’s arms settle over Cameron’s shoulders, holding, but not crushing, or caging him in. Something in this does feel like Cameron belongs here, and he lets himself lower his head to Cameron’s soft wavy brown locks and snuggle against him. He’s not felt coming home as a feeling since he was a child, and barely even then. But getting to hold this Marine, in a safe house that Cameron has found for them, far away from the meat grinder of the last few years of their lives, yea. This might be what that feels like.