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"Alright. Up." Chris smacked his hand on the table’s surface. The first aid box had already been cracked open, what supplies he needed sitting beside the empty space he made for Piers. The lieutenant sighed as he obeyed, limping as he came up to the table. It was a metal folding table, but it was sturdy enough to handle Piers. His muscles rejoiced the moment his weight was off his feet. Chris wordlessly took a knee and began to untie his boots for him.
The bows, despite how snugly they had ben tied, came loose for Chris with barely any effort. The knot almost seemed to fall apart at his touch. Chris looked huge hunched over Piers’ feet like that. It made Piers feel like a little kid looking down at the top of his head.
Chris got his fingers between the laces on his right boot. He tugged on either side firmly, loosening those first three rows of eyelets. Piers felt the pressure around his ankle ease and he curled his toes inside the boot. One of Chris' large palms held his knee with a firm, but not unkind, grip. The other gripped the backside of the boot, the heel, and pulled. The boot slipped off his heel, then his toes. Chris didn't let it drop to the floor once he was done with it. He set it down off to his side. The toes pointed towards him. He switched to the other boot without looking up at Piers. Those fingers dug down and under the sides of the upper. Loosened the laces. One aglet popped out of the top eyelet entirely.
"You could have asked me to take my boots off first." Chris didn't respond. He took Piers’ knee again, tugged his shoe loose. Piers’ skin tingled where his thumb had pressed into his knee. The boot joined its brother on the ground beside Chris. He pat the side of Piers’ leg now that he was done.
"Take your pants off."
"Mm." Despite it only being a hum, Chris still gave him a look. Piers smiled to himself as he undid the button and zipper. He worked them off his ass without standing up and once they were to his thighs, Chris took over. He was careful pulling them down his legs. He barely even touched Piers. He didn't graze the dirty bandages underneath. Chris folded the pants in half once they were off of Piers. He laid them over his shoulder rather than folding them or tossing them to the side.
There was a moment where he just stared down at the bandages around Piers' calves. The wrapping on his left side was stained through with blood. The gauze took on a rusty color, oxidized and soiled with dirt that got in through the tear in his pants. The top of Piers’ sock was bloody too. That bright red was better preserved on the white cotton.
"Looks worse than it is," Piers quietly spoke. Chris’ face was flat and unreadable. He didn't give any emotion away, even as Piers could feel them inside him like holding his hand just above a burning flame. Chris took the bandage shears from the table top. They made a soft noise as they came apart. He slid one end underneath of the gauze, careful not to knick Piers like he was using his field knife and not a tool specifically engineered so that he couldn't hurt piers. Two snips had the wrappings coming loose. They didn't fall to the floor. They were stuck to the wound.
"Deep breath." Piers drew air into his lungs as Chris took a corner of that gauze. He pulled it away and Piers grit his teeth. But he didn't let out a sound. He felt every fiber release from the open wound. "Good." The soiled bandage was left to sit on the ground. Chris hadn't put on his gloves yet. Piers flexed his foot as his captain began to cut off the other dressing. Felt the burn of the stretch and cracked the joints in his foot. Chris spoke without even looking up from what he was doing. "You're going to open it up again."
"It’s fine." The gash was as long as his hand, dragging its way up the side of his leg. He barely felt it at the time, focused on pulling himself through the shattered window frame and away from the horde. His heart had been racing too fast, adrenaline pumping too hard, for him to notice it tearing through his skin as he crawled through the basement window he busted open with the butt of his rifle. Andy was the one who noticed it, the blood pouring down Piers’ pant leg when they reunited in one of the dozen hallways filling the facility. Piers kept moving. He would put some distance between them and the zombies before he stopped to treat it. He knew what a real serious injury felt like. This was one that afforded him time. Andy had stayed close. He offered his shoulder to lean on.
"'It’s fine,'" Chris parroted as he scoffed. He put the shears down beside him so he would remember to disinfect them later. "Hand me the gloves." Piers gave him the blue nitrile gloves. Probably the biggest size for Chris' broad palms. He sat down on his bent leg as he tugged them on.
Chris had immediately noticed he was injured when they met again in the courtyard of the facility. The first question out of his mouth when Piers came up limping with Andy beside him was what happened. His eyes had darted up and down Piers, honed in on the blood stained around the rip in his pants. Piers explained his getaway crawl quickly. He was feeling it now, more-so with every step he took. Andy had helped him dress the wound once they got to a safe room they could tuck into. He had been a field medic once, before his life in the BSAA. Piers could tell by the way he wrapped him. Chris had put a hand on Piers’ shoulder once he was close enough, like Piers needed the help to stand. The knuckles of Chris' gloves were wet with viscera. Piers leaned into that grip, brief as that moment was. Chris updated them, and soon enough they were moving again to meet with the rest of the team. Piers was kept in the middle, just behind Chris. Always only an outstretched hand away.
"Gonna sting," Chris muttered as he saturated a cloth with alcohol. His voice wasn't the same as the courtyard. It wasn't booming, wasn't urgent. Even when Chris was only talking on the field, those traits remained. His tone left no room for hesitation. Here, there was softness. His voice was still deep, still a rumble in his chest, but it was patient. He wasn't giving commands. He was guiding Piers. Guiding him like he didn't have years of injuries under his belt. Like he hadn't dressed the wound himself with Andy.
If it were anyone else, Piers would have been insulted. He didn't have to be hand held through the process. He was a soldier. He could handle a little burn of disinfectant. He wasn't a little boy with skinned knees and tears in his eyes. He didn't need to be coddled. But with Chris, he couldn't summon that annoyance. He couldn't be angry when his captain treated him kindly. He didn't feel angry when Chris held his ankle to press the soaked cotton to his skin. He flinched against that hold, against the burn. He grit his teeth and winced, but he didn't feel angry. He felt oddly serene as Chris worked down the wound. Thorough when taking care of Piers. There was a warmth under Piers’ ribs, in his gut, looking down at the top of his captain's head.
"Doing good, Piers."
"Thanks, captain..."
Piers had broken his collarbone once as a kid. He had been on the playground of the school on base with a friend. It was the middle of summer, the sun beating down on the both of them and making the metal and plastic burning hot to the touch. It was stupid, Piers could see that now that he wasn't ten years old. Standing atop the monkey bars with nothing under you was asking for trouble. It was why he never brought the story up, embarrassed that he even did it. But he thought it was an impressive feat then. It was, until he slipped, hitting the bars first before the mulch. The tears were as immediate as his friend rushing to his side and yelling was.
Piers’ house was a few blocks from the school. He'd either walk himself there, or Josh, Piers suddenly remembered his name, would have to run all that way to tell his mother. His mother who was home alone yet again while Dad was deployed and would act like Piers was going to die the moment she saw him. Piers forced himself to sit up, held his arm to his chest and grimaced through the pain. Fat tears dripped off his jaw. The panic in Josh's voice was loud as Piers managed to get back on his feet.
“I'm going home,” he muttered, his bottom lip trembling. He didn't listen for any response as he turned right around and started walking. It was just a few blocks.
Dad always called Piers his "tough little man” back then. Piers was his little soldier. Piers was a trooper. Piers was a warrior. He apparently struggled when he was first born. That was why he was the only son, why the weight of their family rested squarely on his still round shoulders. His mother had went into labor early. Piers had to spend three weeks in the hospital to make sure he made it out alive. He was born fighting, his father would say. He was a fighter, just like his daddy. His father had to walk five miles through the desert with a hole in his chest. His father had been held prisoner for a month, victim to something he never talked about, not anywhere Piers could hear him. His father couldn't even be there for his happiest moment, to see his son rush his way into the world too soon. He was a soldier. He was only ever going to raise a soldier.
Piers grit his teeth and bore it. He walked through the desert with a hole in his chest. He was born fighting.
The house was silent when he stepped in. The TV was no longer running a medical drama. Water wasn't running in the kitchen or bathroom. His mother must have stepped out. Gone to see the neighbor or something while her boy played. He could handle himself, she would mutter under her breath. He sighed and sagged with relief before that caused another wave of fresh agony. He didn't want to see her. He didn't want to tell her.
Once he shut the door to the bathroom, he pulled off his shirt to see his shoulder. A giant, ugly bruise was painted over his left collarbone. It was already purpling at its center point. He flinched touching it, the skin tender. It looked like a black eye, but that was just another kind of bruise, wasn't it? It reminded him of the movies. Of big burly heroes captured and beaten black and blue. It was all makeup for them. Nobody actually got hurt on a stage, not like a soldier, but that was the closest Piers could come to seeing what life looked like for his father and his uncles, biological and not. That was his only glimpse in beyond what he overheard his father tell other adults in gruesome stories. Men tied up in chairs with fake split lips and black eyes, coughing up blood as they refused to give in to the villain beating them. They wouldn't talk. Because talking would get people killed. And they were a hero. Heroes saved people, protected them. Even if it meant they got hurt. Even if it meant they died. Because it was a sacrifice worth making.
Piers didn't look like those actors. He had to stand on a stool to be able to see that spreading mark on his shoulder in the mirror. He was skinny, no tone of muscle to his arms or chest. You could almost see his ribs if he stretched his arms up. His skin was soft and pale, shoulders dusted in freckles from the sun shining on him at the pool. His cheeks were still round. His grandmother would always pinch them when she saw him pouting. She'd coo about how cute he looked. The only thing he shared with those actors, with soldiers, with his father, was that giant blooming bruise on his collarbone.
His mother had been at the neighbor's house. She smiled at Piers on the living room floor as she passed him with Tupperware in her hand. Bowls that contained gifted leftovers. Her hand skated through Piers’ hair as she went to the kitchen.
“Too hot outside, bug?” He agreed, because that was easier than telling the truth. He wanted to sit with his arms around his knees, but it hurt too much. So he simply slouched as he watched the TV. Even then, his shoulder throbbed. She asked if he was hungry and he said I guess. The only thing his body was focused on was that pain. His fingers trembled at each pulse of feeling. “Can you grab the stuff from the fridge, then? I'll make us sandwiches.” Piers didn't think about moving. He was already on his feet before he realized it. He grit his teeth bending down into the fridge, desperately trying to fit everything in one hand even when he knew he couldn't. He just had to keep that arm as close to his chest as he could.
He didn't hide it from her for long. He didn't know how to lie to his mother, especially when he was already in pain. He couldn't even lift his arm without shaking and having tears bead up on his lashes. She yelled at him the whole ride to the hospital. Do you know what could have happened if you just stayed like that? Walked around with a broken bone? It would be way worse than what you're going through right now, Piers. Piers just kept his head down, letting the potholes in the road shake his skull against the window. He thought about actors tied to chairs with their bodies covered in makeup. It’s my job to protect you, Piers. I can’t do that if you don't tell me these things.
“I didn't want you to freak out.” That explanation did not do him any favors. It only made her more upset. You broke a bone, Piers Robert Nivans!
“Still with me, Lieutenant?” Piers nodded. His cuts were wet and burning with alcohol. Chris had cleaned both of them, even the dried trails of blood that had stained his skin further down his leg. He grabbed his gauze pads and tape from the place beside Piers. Piers felt the brief press of his captain’s chest against the front of his leg.
“I'm with you, captain.”
“Tired?” Chris pulled the medical tape and broke off shorter pieces from the unbroken length. Easier to work with when you were wearing gloves. He stuck the short pieces to his own forearm for the time being. Piers rolled his shoulders. He didn't realize how slumped he had been sitting atop of the table. Just like he was in front of the TV.
“Just thinking. I'm fine.” Chris glanced up at him through his lashes. A clear look of doubt. But his eyes dropped as quick as they rose.
“We're almost done.”
“You’re fine, Chris.” And he meant that much. The quiet of the tent after the chaos of the field, the gentle surety of Chris’ hands, they were soothing. It felt like Piers was standing on a solid foundation after a week at sea. He felt lax under Chris’ touch. He felt warm. “This is nice.”
The slight smile he gave made Piers’ heart throb in his chest.
“Yeah?” He placed down a gauze pad on the gash, fixing it with one of his tape pieces. He had taken off the leather gloves he wore on the field long ago. There was no longer blood and gore splattered over his forearms and his chest. He had cleaned up before he started giving Piers’ first aid. He would have done the same for anyone, if he could afford the time to, but Piers still felt honored. Chris was being considerate. He hummed.
“Medics usually aren't this nice when they patch you up.” Chris blew an amused breath.
“Guess it’s good I’m not a medic.”
“You didn’t have to do this.” Chris was the one who told him to come to the tent so he could patch him up. Piers was fully prepared to change the bandages alone. But Chris asked to do it, and Piers didn't have any interest in arguing. He was tired, Chris was right.
“I know,” was all Chris said. The worst of the wound was covered with pads. He was ready for a final wrap around all of it. Piers raised his socked foot. He placed it on Chris’ hip. Just wanting to touch him. Chris didn't address it. He only focused on covering up the other gash.
“I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” Chris voice was almost a whisper, almost inaudible. But Piers had heard him. Piers eased himself into sitting up straight, reaching out so that his hand could brush over Chris’ head. His captain closed his eyes as his hair was pushed back the wrong direction. Piers watched his shoulders slump. His mother ruffling his hair as she passed him on her way to the kitchen.
“Thank you.” Chris brought his forehead forward. He rested it on Piers’ knee. Piers was struck by the image of a man in prayer. A man kissing the ground of the temple most holy. A boy with his head on his mother's lap. He ran his hand through Chris’ hair without voicing his thoughts. Chris was a strange man when it came to being observed. That was part of the surprise when he said he would treat Piers’ wounds. He offered that intimacy where anyone in the camp would hear him. It was uncharacteristically bold. But then, it was also perfectly in character. Chris took care of his boys.
Piers drew a breath at lips to the skin of his knee. Chapped, thin lips. Chris’ hands curled around his ankles. Not restraining him, only holding onto him. Piers felt goosebumps raise when his fingers brushed upwards against the hair on his ankles. He stopped petting Chris, but his hand stayed in his short hair. Chris moved to place a kiss on the other knee. Just as gentle as the first.
“My mom used to do that,” Piers muttered, “when I was a kid…” He wasn't sure why he said it. He had to chalk it up to that memory. He didn’t think about his parents when he was with the man he slept with. But the tender care Chris showed him… it made Piers feel vulnerable.
Chris raised Piers’ legs up, placing a kiss in the center of his shin. Piers felt the scrape of the stubble of his beard. Before he did the same with the other leg, he muttered against Piers’ skin,
“You did good, Piers.” A chill ran its way through Piers. Chris’ quiet rumble, the touch of his lips, the lack of privacy they had. Even though they were alone in the night, anyone could come into the tent. This was far more intimate than first aid. Chris let his kisses travel down the length of his shin. This was more like worship.
“Chris…” Piers whispered.
“I'm proud of you.” Chris curled gloved fingers around the top of Piers’ sock and pulled down. He kissed the indent the ankle band had left there from hours on his feet. Piers gripped the table. The warm heat of fondness changed, molded into a spark of arousal. Piers cleared his throat.
Chris was never quiet about his appreciation for Piers. He never hesitated to tell Piers when he had done well, that he was impressed by his skills. It was easy for him to tell Piers that he was valuable. Important. But it wasn't this intimate. Never when Piers hadn't done something great immediately before. The closest to this, this intimacy, was the muttered swear after they had had sex. The mumbled you were amazing before Chris dropped a kiss on his lips. But even that was different to this. Piers was not a saint to be venerated. Chris did not need to wash his feet.
“Captain.” Chris eased Piers’ leg back down into its relaxed position like he was setting a jewel into its case. Once his hands were free, he curled his fingers under the edge of his glove. He pulled it down his hand so it came off inside out. His hand had been sweating underneath. Piers could see the moisture catch the light. He balled the glove in his other fist and pulled that off as well. Even now, he was following protocol. The only thing that separated him from any medic was the way he mouthed at Piers’ legs. The way his hands slowly slid up Piers’ calves. The muscles of Piers’ thighs twitched. Chris’ gaze was focused, yet serene. He looked like he was right where he wanted to be. He slipped Piers’ socks from his feet, leaving him bare from the waist down except for his boxers and his bandages.
Piers stumbled around a groan as Chris squeezed one of his feet with both hands. A massage. Chris was rubbing his feet with the expression of a man who was half asleep. Piers’ hips shifted on the table.
“Chris…” He didn't want it to stop because he was uncomfortable. He frankly didn't want it to stop at all; but he felt so off balance. He didn't know what to do with such intense focus entirely on him. He sighed as Chris rubbed up towards his ankle with both thumbs. It felt… good.
“Can I touch you?” Chris didn't look up as he asked. Piers’ knuckles cracked when Chris gently forced his toes to curl. Piers’ first instinct was to tell a joke. To quip that Chris already was, in fact, touching him. But any attempt just died out in his throat. He swallowed around their memory.
“Yeah…” Chris lifted his foot up again. He kissed the top of it, just as reverent as everywhere else. There was no hesitation to it, even when they had to be disgusting. They were just as worthy of love as the rest of him to Chris. His nose rubbed against Piers’ ankle. Piers knew Chris liked the smell of his sweat. He had no qualms pressing up against Piers fresh out of drills in the blazing summer sun. Piers shouldn't have expected being dirty to deter Chris from showing even this part of him love. He drew a breath at the hot tongue that rolled over the top of his foot. It wasn't merely a taste, but it wasn't gratuitous either. It was like he was licking water that was running down his hand. It almost tickled.
Chris had been on his knees before. He had sat on the floor with his toes curled under him in front of Piers before. Chris had sucked his cock before. And, like all things, Chris put all of himself into the work. It was always clear how much he cherished Piers. How much he wanted him. Anything he did for Piers was some kind of wordless love letter. Promises made with words that didn't exist. Even when it was rough, when it was eager or messy or haphazard. When they only had ten minutes to work off steam that had been building and building pressure between them and was about to explode, there was still that promise.
But even that was different to now. What he was doing now was different from when his stubble rubbed Piers’ thighs raw and his refusal to pull away made Piers afraid he was going to asphyxiate himself.
Piers’ leg twitched at the tongue passing over the underside of his toes. He expected it to tickle, to make him laugh. He never understood how anyone could do something like this and not devolve into laughter. But now he did. It did tickle, yes, but not in that kind of way. He didn't want to twist away and laugh. He wanted to squeeze his thighs together and squirm. It was warm and wet and Piers’ mind couldn't get over the hurdle that this was his foot in Chris’ mouth. The warm squirming thing in Piers’ gut grew.
“Good,” Chris muttered again, the arch of Piers’ foot against his face. Good boy, Piers wanted him to say. He felt like a dog. His tail would be thumping down on the table under him if he had one. Happily flagging just how much he wanted to be good for Chris. He leaned forward to try and catch a glance at Chris’ lap. He wanted to see if Chris felt something too. He saw the stark white gauze on his legs, still fresh and clean. He saw the ring around his ankles where his socks had kept all the dirt and gore from getting in. He saw the heap of bloody used bandages and gauze to Chris’ side. Proof that Piers had been walking on those injuries for hours. Like a tough little man. Like Chris’ little soldier.
Piers pressed his other foot to Chris’ cock. He felt the defined shape of it under his toes, even through Chris’ clothes. Chris let out a loud breath, a huff like some beast of burden. He pulled Piers’ toes from his mouth as he pushed the foot on his cock away.
“Stop.”
“Chris.” Chris shook his head and squeezed Piers’ ankle gently. He rubbed his thumb in circles.
“Don't do anything. Just let me touch you.”
“I am.” He was being very patient. This was the most he had touched Chris since he had a hand in his hair. But Chris shook his head. He set both feet in his lap. He stared down at them pressed against his thighs. It would be easy to slide them both up and press them against his captain's cock. Maybe Chris would even rut against them as he looked up at Piers. The pain in his cuts would be worth that expression. But Chris shook his head.
“This is about you, Piers.” He reached up, pulled Piers forward on the table by the underside of his thighs. Piers reflexively gripped onto the table. His thighs had to spread to accommodate Chris between them. A wave of heat went through him at the idea of Chris’ mouth on his cock. That was what his body expected when Chris was on his knees. Like he had been trained to expect it.
“So I can’t touch you at all?”
“It's not a command, Piers.” Chris squeezed the meat of Piers’ thighs like he was appraising him. Like Piers was a piece of fruit he was ensuring was ripe enough to sink his teeth into. He tasted Piers’ skin in an open mouthed kiss above his knee. Piers’ thighs twitched around his head. “I’m asking you to let me do this.” Piers gasped at Chris’ bite. He didn't nibble at the fruit, taste how sweet it was before he committed. He opened his mouth wide and bit down. Almost down to his very back molars. There was the sharp pinch of his bite before his tongue passed over the skin and there was the obscene sound of him sucking. He was leaving a bruise. He was biting down to the pit and sucking the flesh from the stone. Piers’ hips rocked against nothing.
Let Chris do this. Let him rain affection on Piers while the lieutenant did nothing but accept. A strange battle tore inside of Piers’ chest. He wanted to refuse and to argue. He should not receive so much and give nothing in return. He was not the only one who was good, who had done well. Chris deserved as much praise as him, if not even more of a reward. Piers did not ask for this, and yet he felt selfish trying to accept it. He was made to serve his captain. He was strong, he was good, because he needed to be for Chris. To be rewarded for it implied it was anything other than the rule.
But all in the same breath, he wanted to accept. He wanted Chris to keep planting bruises of adoration on his thighs, to keep touching him, to keep telling him how good he was. It was like the version of himself he put behind the rifle was standing in direct opposition to the version of himself that stood atop the monkey bars. What Piers had to be versus what he was.
Maybe their relationship had started to warp how he viewed himself. All of Chris’ concern over the years between them, all the little teases where the team called Piers his kid. Maybe it was making him start to act more like a kid. He was a little boy biting his bottom lip to hide tears because Dad had handled far worse, and he wanted to be just like Dad. He was aching to be told he did good, that he was someone's strong little man again.
“Can you put my leg on your shoulder?” Chris released him with a pop, likely audible even outside the tent. He slid Piers’ pants off of his shoulder. Set them down atop Piers’ boots. He raised Piers’ leg up so that his knee rested on his shoulder, his calf supported by Chris’ strong back. His thigh would just hide Chris’ face from anyone who may walk in. Piers slowly sighed staring down at Chris. “Okay.”
“Okay?” The way he looked up at Piers as he rested his head on his thigh could have killed him. Piers was reduced to nodding as he lost his words looking at him.
“Touch me.” Saying the words made him want to turn tail and run. It felt like he was giving Chris a command. He was spitting in the face of the social hierarchy.
But it was a captain’s job to take care his men. He couldn't do that if Piers didn't let him.
“Good.” The word was merely a rumble in Chris’ chest. It almost matched the sound that left him when Piers finally touched him after a day of mounting tension between them. Pure relief. Kisses were scattered over Piers’ thigh, a hand skating up and down over the other with reverence. Polishing the censer before service so that it shined like God’s light. Worship, reverence, prayer. Piers shut his eyes to control himself. To allow himself to be worshiped. His boxers started to feel wet.
“You're beautiful.” Chris pushed up Piers’ shirt to expose his stomach. All built muscle that twitched with every wave of feeling that sparked down his nerves towards his cock. Beautiful always took him back. He never knew what to do when it slipped from Chris’ lips as he stared at Piers with soft eyes. The eyes he was giving Piers now from his place on the ground. It felt too contradictory. Just like the pinches to his soft round cheeks. The coos of how cute he was surrounding him in his grandmother's nursing home. He didn’t feel cute then, and he didn’t feel beautiful now. Beauty was delicate. Beauty was gentle. But, Chris had said once, that thunderstorms were also beautiful. Plunging rocky cliffs where one slip could spell death were beautiful. The way Piers loaded a magazine into his rifle with blood splattered across his face was beautiful. Beauty wasn't only something soft and smooth and flawless. Piers vaguely remembered that there was some Japanese term for it. Things that were beautiful because they were broken or flawed.
Piers held up his shirt, showing himself to Chris. From just below his collarbone all the way to the waist of his boxers. Chris took him in, admired every detail. Piers was a dog rolling over to expose its soft underbelly, trusting Chris to cherish the privilege. Chris slowly rose up onto his knees, leaned forward so that he pressed his lips to Piers’ navel.
“Thank you.” The bite there was small. A nibble. Piers barely had any meat to him that wasn't muscle. Chris had chuckled before and told him his metabolism would slow down one day when he wasn't looking. Piers’ mother had said the same thing when she complained about how she could never seem to feed her boy enough. You’re growing like a weed. Piers pushed his hips forward into Chris when his tongue barely dipped underneath the elastic of his underwear. Please let Chris strip him the rest of the way. Let him put his mouth where Piers wanted it most. He groaned at dull nails scratching his sides. Not enough to hurt. Only enough to feel it, to make his skin gain pink stripes for a scant moment. “So good.” His thumbs passed over Piers’ abs. Tight from Piers desperately trying to not just hump up against his captain. Flexed from trying to be good. Those hands slid up his front. They grabbed onto his pectorals, squeezed them. It wasn’t the handful Piers would have if he did the same thing to Chris, but Chris was content. An amount that could barely even be squeezed together to create a semblance of cleavage. Piers had thought about suggesting tit fucking before, even if it would realistically only be Chris grinding against his sternum. He would settle for him being closer in any way at all in that moment. “You're doing perfect, Piers.” Chris pinched his nipple between two knuckles and Piers bit his lip to kill a whimper.
“Chris.”
“Shh.” He dragged out the sound in a quiet hiss. Like Piers was just a baby he was putting to bed. He wished Chris would pick him up and carry him to the cot. Lay him back to eat him alive. Chris leaned in even further, his chest now pressed against Piers’ hips. He let go of one pectoral so that he could bite down onto it. Piers couldn't physically stop himself from bucking up against Chris with their bodies pressed together. Through his boxers and Chris’ shirt, he rubbed himself against Chris’ hard chest. He'd thought about grinding against Chris’ chest himself. Pressing the muscles together and wetting the hair that covered his chest with cum. It would probably only take him a minute to do so now if Chris pulled off his own shirt. He was almost at the perfect level now. Piers lost his train of thought when Chris sucked on his nipple.
His mind went back to standing on that bathroom stool to look at himself in the mirror. He didn't have a giant bruise across his entire collarbone, but he had one on his thigh. It felt like he had one on his chest now, right around his nipple. He wasn't defined by his bones being visible despite eating well. Now, he was covered in lean muscle that was built by years of labor and work. Not the kind of muscle built for shows, for cameras. The scars on his body weren't pretty things carefully placed by a makeup team. They were the result of bullets, knives, teeth, and shrapnel cutting him open. And glass, he added when he remembered his bandaged legs. Piers didn't look like a kid, and he didn't look like an action movie hero. All of his blood and bruises were real. All his suffering hadn’t been carefully scripted and played out. His suffering didn’t shape him into his father like he had dreamed of back then. His suffering didn't reaffirm his belief in the army's good. Piers suffered, but he wasn't his father in the end.
Part of that was because Chris found him. Chris chose him. Piers got to be a hero because Chris saw one in him. Because he himself was a hero. At some point, Piers had stopped wanting to be his father and wanted to be like Chris. What would that boy with the broken collarbone think of that?
Piers blearily opened his eyes to stare up at Chris. He didn’t remember closing them, nor Chris rising to his feet. He stood between Piers’ legs, the edge of the table pressed into his hips. Piers squeezed him between his naked thighs. Chris’ stare kept his gaze pinned and his chest tight.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Piers’ lips parted. Chris’ voice was soft and raw. Entirely sincere. He leaned into Piers, barely even an inch away from kissing him. But he didn't.
“You’ve got me.” Chris’ hands came up. they held Piers’ head, cradled it. Chris closed his eyes. Pier’s could feel his breath on his face.
“Stay with me.”
“Always.” It didn't matter what he meant. Piers would linger in the tent for the night or he’d walk with Chris for the rest of his life. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Chris finally kissed him. Deeply, like he was drinking Piers down. His heart raced in his chest. He curled his fingers around Chris’ shoulders, pressed his thumbs into his clavicles. Strong and unbroken. Not a bruise in sight. Chris brushed his fingers into Piers’ hair, leaned him back with the desperate, unconscious need to be closer, closer. Piers moaned into his mouth, against his tongue. He would happily suffocate like that. He’d stay with Chris, always. Bleeding out in a war zone, being nursed back to health in the middle of the night; through the worst moments of his life and the best. He’d stay. Chris moved one hand to Piers’ thigh. He squeezed it in a crushing grip at first, pulling another sound out of Piers, before he let go to slide it up. Move it over Piers’ skin and against the fine hair on his thighs, through the leg-hole of his boxers. Piers’ hands flew to Chris’ neck so that he could tug him impossibly closer as that hand finally curled around his cock. Piers almost sobbed into Chris’ mouth in relief. Chris kept his palm still, only rubbed with the flat of his thumb. The kiss turned into breathing into one another’s mouths. Piers barely opened his eyes to look at his captain. Chris was looking at him like all the fame and glory and money in the world wouldn’t amount to half of what Piers was to him. Piers’ fisted and pulled at the collar of Chris’ shirt.
“Chris.”
“I love you.” It fell from Chris’ lips easily. Like he had said it a million times before. And maybe he had. Maybe he had been saying it with his touch, with his concern, with his praise, for months. For a year. Maybe that was why Piers wasn’t startled hearing it. Maybe that was why it was so easy to say it back.
“I love you.” It seemed to still hit Chris. His lips parted in a soundless gasp and his body stilled. He was the captain, it was his job to love his man. Just as it was his job to protect him. But Piers had the choice to love him in return. To return the feeling. A father’s only role was to love his son, but the son didn’t have to love the father. It said how good Chris was that he had earned Piers’ love. “I love you, captain. Chris.”
Chris kissed him again. His mouth moved before Piers could even return it. It traveled to his neck. He kissed there like he intended to leave a mark. Piers writhed at the touch of teeth and the hand stroking his cock. The motions were short, trapped in the confines of what little clothes he had left. It felt like Piers was going to go insane. Chris moved down, hiked Piers’ shirt again so that he could kiss the skin there too. So he could suck a bruise right above the one he already laid on his breast. Piers ripped his shirt off. He needed to feel Chris all over him, and that was just another obstacle in his way. He swore at Chris’ teeth digging into his other side. Like a feral animal.
“Touch- let me touch you.” Piers didn’t even have the thought to mock him this time. He just nodded while thrusting into Chris’ hand.
“Please. Fuck, Chris.” Chris dropped onto his knees with his full weight without hesitation. Piers almost felt the impact in his own kneecaps. He didn’t even pull Piers’ boxers below his thighs before he had his mouth on his cock. Piers fisted at his shirt. He almost choked at the gasp that tore through his throat. Chris wrapped his arms around Piers’ body, his rough palm pressed against the small of his back. He bobbed his head urgently. Piers could hear him gag and feel the spit pooling because of it. “Fucking.. shit.”
Piers’ mind felt like it was going soft in his skull, ready to melt out of his ears. He watched Chris in a daze with his eyes barely even open. Chris’ arms around him made him feel like he was being cradled. The hand not pressed flat to his back was pressing its thumb to the jut of his hip bone. Despite how Chris was working his mouth and throat, Piers still felt cherished. He wrapped a hand around Chris’ wrist just to have something to hold. It wasn't dissimilar to having Chris’ head on his lap. Resting it on Piers’ thighs like he was Chris’ mother. Piers moaned. Chris loved him, not just as his boy but as his man as well. He could cradle Piers in his arms as well as he could rest his head on his shoulder. As much as Piers was his boy, Chris was Piers’ boy. Piers was just as responsible for protecting him. That was why he had shattered the window. Beyond the hoard, he heard Chris’ voice in his earpiece. He needed backup in the courtyard that lay in the center of the complex. The fastest way was through. Piers took a risk to protect him. It was his job to protect him too. Protector and protected, father and son, roles endlessly turning and shifting between them. Piers didn’t need to be just one thing to be good for Chris. He had to be more than just his little soldier.
Chris tugged Piers’ hips forward, sending him laying down atop the table. His palms shot across its surface at the tongue along his crack. He heard supplies from the first aid tumble onto the floor, either hit by Piers or shaken down by the movement of the table itself. Chris dug his tongue into Piers, making him slap a hand over his mouth to keep himself from shouting. He dug his heels into Chris’ back as he arched. The tears on his legs burned at the strain of him curling his toes. Chris had warned him he was going to split them back open doing that. Piers couldn't even think about the fresh blood on the white gauze. He focused on the hands spreading him open and the mouth against him. Chris’ nose pressed into his taint with how deep he was trying to go. Piers curled his other hand around his cock. His feet scrambled over Chris’ back as he writhed. Chris only pulled back for a second. Only enough to tell him,
“You’re perfect.” And then his mouth was against him again. His tongue was so deep that Piers could feel his teeth against him. Piers’ eyes rolled in his skull.
He worked his fist quickly as he rode Chris’ tongue. The table trembled under him. If he was in his right mind, he might have worried it was going to collapse. But the only thing his mind was fixed on was the high that was so close his feet cramped from his legs tensing in preparation. He moaned behind the hand over his mouth as Chris worked a finger in alongside his tongue. Reaching deeper than his mouth ever could. Piers was so spit soaked that the slide was easy. Chris curled his finger as he pulled his mouth away. He let it slide up towards Piers’ cock. Piers pulled his hand away from it and looked down at his captain as best he could. Chris spoke with his lips against it. Piers’ cock jumped.
“Let it go, Piers.” Piers dropped his head back down onto the table. He shut his eyes as he focused on that wave cresting. Chris stirred inside of him as he swallowed his cock back down. It didn't take more encouragement than that. Piers clutched onto the edge of the table above his head as the rest of his body arched up away from it. He cried out for Chris, louder than he should have let himself be, as he came in Chris’ mouth. Chris slowed his movements to a stop as Piers trembled with the aftershocks that followed. He could almost cry in gratitude. It felt like a light breeze might have killed him at that moment.
The quiet of the night outside the tent was loud in Piers’ ears as he caught his breath. He'd been so focused on Chris that he didn't listen for the sound of the crickets and songbirds just beyond their camp. The pounding of the blood in his veins served as the drum beat to the night song. He drew a breath as Chris slipped his finger out before pulling his mouth off of him as well. Piers’ body was still trembling as he watched his captain stand. Chris wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His face was wet and red with blush. His chest was heaving just like Piers’. He stared down at Piers with a dazed expression, almost looking drunk. He swayed subtly on his feet. Piers let go of the edge of the table.
“Good?” His voice felt thick and worn. Chris swallowed.
“Good.” Piers’ skin burned where he could feel Chris’ gaze. It took effort for him to pull his eyes away from Piers. He managed to look down at the supplies they had unintentionally thrown to the ground. His hand settled on Piers’ knee. “Let me clean you up.”
“You don't want me to help you or anything?” He watched Chris as he bent down to pick up the bottle of alcohol and cotton pads and rolls of wrapping. He had to still be hard. Piers felt Chris’ hands on him the entire time, and it was impossible to believe he had came untouched. Chris didn't answer. He saturated one of the cotton pads he picked up.
“Cold,” he warned before he brought it to Piers’ skin. Clearing away the spit he had left that had dried on Piers’ skin. It wasn't a shower, but that wasn't really an option. The cold wet fabric felt good on Piers’ burning skin anyway. He sighed at Chris’ careful touch. But he couldn't relax. Not properly. Not with the small, thoughtful frown on Chris’ face.
“You’re sure you're good?” Piers ran his fingers over Chris’ hand on his thigh. Chris’ eyes went between Piers‘ own and what he was doing. He set down the soiled cotton pad to carefully fix Piers‘ boxers. He kept the elastic stretched so he wouldn't drag it against Piers’ cock as he pulled them up. Lifting and moving Piers looked effortless for him. Heat came eased back into Piers’ cheeks. It was like he was a doll.
“You called me daddy.” Chris didn't meet his eyes when he said it. His tone was still soft, not like he was insulted or disgusted. But Piers felt his stomach drop.
“What?”
Chris glanced up briefly, seeing if Piers was genuinely asking him that. He grabbed the tube of balm that had managed to stay on the table despite everything. He rubbed a dollop of it between his fingers. Still red in the face.
“When you came. You said my name, then you said daddy.”
Piers sat up and pulled back before Chris could touch his fingers to the love bite he gave Piers. His heart had stopped pounding, but it easily picked back up at the words. He didn't remember saying it. He was certain he never would. But Chris wouldn't lie to him.
“I'm so sorry.”
“Piers…” Piers had let his thoughts slip too far beyond his grasp. The age gap between them was something they silently agreed to never address when they were alone. The power disparity between them. Even something as simple as the fact that Piers was smaller than Chris. It was easy to make it into something perverse. To fetishize. Piers had never wanted to do that to Chris. To the man that struggled to allow himself to feel more than platonic respect for Piers. He already had enough guilt on his back, he didn't need Piers to twist it into something for his own pleasure and constantly remind him of it. And to compare him to Piers’ father, that was almost a greater insult in itself. Chris was not Piers’ father, and no part of him wanted Chris to be him.
But maybe that wasn't true after all. Maybe that's why Piers’ mind had wandered where it had. Because he wanted Chris to be his father. He wanted that unconditional love he never got. He wanted to be born for more than a war zone.
“I didn't mean it. I don't know why I said it.” He didn't look at Chris. He felt more exposed than he had when he was completely naked underneath of Chris. He thought of that walk home as a kid and his throat tightened up. “I was just thinking- and then I wasn't. It must have slipped out.” Piers held his breath, hoping it would stop what he could feel coming. He wanted to rip off his skin. “I'm sorry.”
“Piers.” Chris held up his hands. He went to cradle Piers’ face, but he stopped himself short. He didn't know if touch was the last thing Piers wanted. Piers clenched his fists so hard he felt his nails cutting into his palm. It was too late. His lashes were already wet. “Can you look at me?” Piers shook his head, biting the insides of his cheeks. His vision wobbled with tears. He called Chris dad, and now he was crying. He was crying in front of his daddy because he was humiliated and didn't want to tell the truth. Piers felt five years old. The softness in Chris’ voice only made him angrier. Chris was too good.
“Look at me, baby.” Piers’ breath stuttered at the name. Chris had never called him that. His eyes dragged to Chris’ face at a glacial pace, terrified of what he’d see through his tears. “Good,” Chris muttered when he finally did. Piers stomach ached. A hot tear rolled over his cheek before Chris finally took his face in his hands. “I’m not upset, Piers.”
“I didn't mean to.” Piers bit his lip when he felt it quiver. It was something he hated. Nothing made him feel more childish than that. It made him feel like a toddler crying over not getting the toy he wanted in the store. Being dragged off by his mother as she sharply shushed him. It was pathetic.
“I believe you.” Because Chris always believed him. They trusted each other without question. “Take a deep breath, baby.” That pet name again in Chris’ rumbling, deep voice. Piers tensed, even as he obeyed his command and filled his lungs with air. His whole body felt cold. All the heat from arousal and humiliation had taken leave and left him hollow. Chris nodded as Piers exhaled. “Good.” Piers closed his eyes as Chris leaned in. He placed a kiss on his bare shoulder. Of course Chris wasn’t angry. Of course he would meet Piers’ humiliation with softness. He wouldn't give him that silently disapproving look Piers knew so well from his childhood. The one he got after his dad came home after the collarbone incident, after he came out, after he said he was leaving the army for the BSAA. Chris wouldn't look at him like that.
“Nobody wants to see their son cry like that.”
Piers’ heart halted in his chest. He stopped pulling in air in the middle of a breath. Chris muttered it against his skin without an ounce of mockery. Piers touched Chris’ sides with only the tips of his fingers.
“Chris-” His captain moved. He kissed Piers’ neck just underneath his jaw. Piers’ skin broke out into goosebumps.
“Not when he didn't do anything wrong.” Piers looked down Chris’ body despite him being so close. He was still hard. Piers could still trace the shape with nothing but his eyes. Despite what Piers had said.
“What are you doing?” The question came out as a whisper. Piers’ mind didn't want to believe what he thought Chris was saying. Chris ran his hands over Piers’ arms until he was holding both of his hands. His thumbs rubbed circles on the tops of them. Chris kissed the base of his neck. Right on his collarbone.
“Do you still want to help me, Piers?” Piers swallowed dryly. He couldn't take his eyes away from the front of Chris’ pants. He nodded. “Thank you.”
Chris guided Piers’ hands down to the fly of his pants. He kept his hold on Piers’ wrists even when Piers thought it was clear what he was asking for.
“Undo my pants and pull it out.” Piers would be haunted for the rest of his life by the thought that Chris was using the same voice he did in training. The only difference at all was how quietly he spoke now. It sounded like he was correcting Piers’ hold on a gun. Piers fumbled to open Chris’ pants, hands sweating. Chris grunted when Piers got a hand around his cock to expose it to the cool air of the tent. “Thank you.” Chris kissed his temple. Piers prepared for him to pull away. He expected Chris to fuck him. At least make him get on his knees so that he could use his mouth.
Chris held Piers’ hand. He made his lieutenant circle his cock with it.
“Hold it like this.” Piers followed Chris’ instruction. Instruction he didn't need because he knew this song and dance. He had held Chris’ cock before. He had even had the both of them in his hand at once before, squeezed together as he stroked up and down and they panted into each other's mouths. Chris let out a shaking breath as he guided Piers’ hand up and then back down. “Just like that. Got it?”
Piers thought of the first time he got to go to the range. He was six. He didn't even have the strength in his hands to hold his father's pistol up for more than a minute. It was too big, too heavy with its full magazine. But his father had kneeled down behind him. He supported Piers’ hands with his own. They aimed for the paper target together.
“You're gonna see better out of one eye than the other. Look down the sights with the good one.” Piers stuck out his tongue as he shut his left eye. “The sights are those points that stick out at the top. You want to aim them just above your target, Piers.”
“Am I doing it?” His father nodded. He had his arms around Piers like he was hugging him. He was warm and solid against his back.
“You're doing good, bug.” He slid Piers’ finger down to the trigger for him. Piers felt a strain in his muscles trying to reach it while holding the gun properly. “When you're ready, you pull down on this. It’s gonna jerk hard when you do, okay?”
“Recoil.” Piers remembered the word from the movies. He adjusted his stance, trying to preemptively compensate for something he never felt before. His father nodded.
“That's it. Good boy, Piers.” Piers stuck out the tip of his tongue again as he focused. His hands were trembling, but his father stabilized him. He jerked back when he finally pulled the trigger, pushed into his father's chest. They lowered the pistol together. Piers squinted to try and see if he had blown a hole in the target paper.
Chris wasn't leaning away from Piers’ mistake. He was playing into it. He guided Piers like he was just a little boy on his first day at the range. He didn't take his hand off of Piers’. Piers swallowed dryly around an anxiety in his chest. Don’t let it be too far. He turned his head to speak against Chris’ lips.
“Am I doing it right, daddy?” Chris’ cock jumped in their joint hands, and that gave it all away.
“You're doing good, Piers.” Chris’ brows were furrowed and turned up. He almost looked like he was in pain. Piers tried to control his breathing and keep his pace slow. Chris had started out gentle. He didn't want to scare his boy off.
“Can I go faster, daddy?” The word still sat awkwardly in Piers’ mouth. It was like he had only just learnt how to say it. He was still getting used to the shape of it. Chris’ mouth dropped open in a silent moan. It open and shut a few times before he managed to find his words. He guided their joint hands to his tip and pushed Piers’ thumb along carefully.
“Not yet.” Piers couldn't help a smile that slowly started to bloom. Chris cock twitched in his hand again.
“Are you close, captain?” That was easy. That title came as simply as breathing. It was an ounce of normalcy being folded into whatever strange fantasy they were playing out. Chris nodded softly.
“Yeah…”
“You like this?” The question was answering itself, but Piers felt an aching need for Chris to admit it. To reassure some small part of him that he wasn't disgusting. Chris made a small noise. Something like an aborted whine.
“You're being mouthy.” It was probably meant to come out sharper than it did. The kind of stern warning a father would give his misbehaving brat. But Chris almost sounded like he was the brat whining. He leaned in closer to Piers, rocked his hips up into their joint hands. He was breathing loud and heavy through his nose. “Be a good boy.” Lightening bolted down Piers’ spine. The words went to his cock, even with how soon it had been since he came. Chris had spent all that time telling Piers how good he was, worshiping him. Piers wouldn't throw that all away now, would he?
“I'm good, captain.” He had to be good. Chris had to still think he was his perfect little soldier boy. Chris kissed him indulgently, like he was the first cigarette after hours on a tough job. He stopped moving their joint hands, thrusting into them instead.
“So good,” Chris reassured against Piers’ mouth.
“Can I try it by myself?” Piers, at six years old, asking if he could try to shoot on his own despite the way his thin arms were trembling and how sore his shoulders were. Looking back to see if his dad would smile at the question, at his eagerness. Chris was never focused on his own pleasure. More often than not, he denied it entirely. He put his focus on others, and anything he gained was an unforeseen benefit. He wouldn't make Piers do what he liked the most. He wouldn't guide his hand right where Piers knew he liked it most. Piers had to do it for him. Chris pressed their foreheads together. “Please?”
“Easy, baby.” Chris took his hand away from Piers’ own. Giving him full permission. “Please.” He was just Piers’ old man, he couldn't handle much more. Piers let himself stroke up the full length again. He spread the wetness that had gathered on his fingers. Piers’ other hand slid up Chris’ side, underneath his shirt. He followed the hard lines of his muscles all the way up.
“You took such good care of me. I want to help you too.” Piers squeezed his cock and Chris nearly collapsed. He white-knuckled the edge of the table. His head hung, forehead to Piers’ shoulder.
“You're such a good boy.” Piers could feel that metaphorical tail wagging again. Chris’ exhausted voice made his heart sing in his chest.
“Because you trained me.” Chris liked to praise Piers’ innate good as much as his skills. But so much of that good wouldn't be there if it weren't for Chris himself. Piers was born for war, but all that fight in him meant nothing if he didn't have a fight to win. If he didn't have a command to follow. Chris was his command and his north star. “It’s all because of you, daddy.” Chris, like all fathers, shaped his boy into the man he was. Piers almost giggled at Chris cock jumping in his palm again. Chris was the furthest thing from repulsed. Piers brought the hand under his shirt to his breast. He kneaded with his fingers as the other hand focused on the head of his cock. Chris moaned into his neck.
“Piers…” Piers turned his head to speak directly against the shell of Chris’ ear.
“Come for me. Be good for me too.”
“Baby.” He twisted Chris’ nipple between his fingers.
“You can lick it off my hand after. Don’t you want to keep cleaning me up?” Like this, Chris would probably cum onto Piers’ bare chest. Some of it might drip off of Piers’ hand and onto his boxers. He was half hard now. Pushing the absolute limits of how fast he could get hard again after an orgasm. Chris nodded. He loved taking care of his baby. It was his purpose.
“I do.” Piers smiled.
“Then you gotta come for me, Chris.” Piers kissed his ear. “Let it go.”
It only took a few more passes of Piers’ hand, a grope of Chris’ chest. He had been wound so tight already. Chris groaned as he dirtied Piers’ palm. Some of it did land on Piers’ navel, warm against his skin. Chris sagged against him, almost dead weight on top of him. Piers took his hand from his chest, bringing it around to rub his back. Up and down with the soft sound of moving fabric. Chris hugged him weakly. The thought crossed Piers’ mind to ask if he was tired. To tease him like a little boy who was up past his bedtime. Piers didn't say anything, just smiling as he rested his face in the crook of his neck. He breathed him in.
“I love you.” Piers’ heart puttered in his chest. Chris kissed his collar sweetly. His voice was thick with exhaustion.
“I love you too, captain.” Chris managed to drag his body back up so he could stand upright. He looked down at Piers’ stomach, at his soiled hand that had been hanging limp between them. Chris took Piers’ wrist again, turning his hand so his palm faced up. He kissed the life line in the center before he rolled his tongue over it. Piers sagged, simply watching him. It didn’t feel that different from his feet, he realized now that he had a point of comparison.
“Thank you.” It should have sent another spark of arousal down his spine, watching Chris lick between his fingers to clean every trace of himself from his lieutenant. But Piers just felt warm. Soft. Like he'd been left to sit in the sun.
“For what?” Chris kissed his knuckles when he was done.
“Going along with everything.” Piers raised a leg as an example. “Patching me up. Taking care of me. You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to.” Chris swiped his fingers through the mess on Piers’ stomach. Just a few droplets, really. Piers swallowed.
“Still.” Chris tilted Piers’ chin up so that they met eyes. There was such a deep sincerity there.
“I love taking care of you, Piers.”
Piers felt his throat tighten again. He couldn't think for a moment. Chris’ words blew all the thought from his mind. He wasn’t obligated to care for Piers. He didn’t just want to take care of Piers. He loved to do it. Piers wasn’t a job to him, he was a choice. Piers bit his lip so it wouldn’t tremble. Chris smiled at him, brows turning up like he was looking at something adorable.
“What's that face?” He pulled Piers’ lip out from between his teeth with the thumb on his chin. Piers scowled at him, even as his heart ached with agonizing fondness. Chris had said it in a coo.
“Don’t talk to me like I’m five.” Chris had every right to laugh at that, and he did.
“But “‘daddy’” is fine?”
“You can't make fun of me for it when you liked it too.” Chris averted his eyes. He fixed his pants to keep his hands busy and eyes on something else. It was so easy to read when he felt shy.
“Fair enough.”
“How long have you been hiding that?” Piers watched Chris pick up the rest of what had fallen, gathering it back into the metal first aid kit. You could see where his shirt was wet with sweat.
“It never crossed my mind before.” Piers stared down at his own knees.
“It really was an accident.” It wasn’t some fantasy that Piers had secretly been harboring. It wasn’t something he had imagined doing before. Chris grabbed the roll of gauze that he had failed to use before they both got distracted. He unfurled a length of it.
“It can just be this one time if you want it to be, Piers.”
“It wasn’t … bad.” Chris took a knee again to wind the roll of fabric around his leg. “You seemed to like it.”
“A little.” Piers breathed out a laugh. A little. That didn't feel like it could describe rutting into Piers’ hand and moaning for him like he was killing Chris slowly.
“We’ll have to see.” Chris nodded, already moving to his other leg. The wrappings were snug. Still done impeccably when Chris was half asleep on his feet.
“Maybe when we get home,” Chris agreed. He finished wrapping the smaller wound quickly. He was already tying it off. He rubbed Piers’ feet again as he inspected his work. It felt so strange to hear, to say. When they got home. They were making plans that went past the battlefield. They were suddenly building lives beyond blood soaked, infested war zones. Piers had never planned ahead. Not in a way that went past his duty. He had always planned on serving. He planned on being a good soldier. But beyond that there was only a grey void. You didn't give yourself dreams as a soldier. You never knew what would happen to you. Piers’ father had told him the most selfish thing he had ever done was choose to have a son.
“It has to be your place.” Chris gathered each of Piers’ pant legs in his hands so he could easily get them on him. He guided them up Piers’ legs. “I don't want to think about if someone heard me.”
“Please don't put that image in my head.” Chris stood up, offering his hands palm up. “On your feet.” Piers took his hands as he slid his body off the table. His feet tingled after so long off of them. He chuckled as Chris pulled up his pants and started closing them for him.
“You don’t want guys to hear what a good daddy you are?” Chris gave him a look. Piers could see the pink on his cheeks.
“I’d rather eat my gun.” He reached back behind Piers to grab his shirt from the table. He looked it over briefly, probably checking for blood. He popped it over Piers’ head when it passed his check. “You can have a pair of my socks. I don't have any pants that would fit you.” It would be rather conspicuous if Piers went in to Chris’ tent in his own clothes and left it wearing his captain’s oversized ones. He would have to hold them up as he went through the grass. He hadn't worn his belt to Chris’ tent. Piers pushed his arms through the shirt holes and pulled it the rest of the way down his chest. He could feel that his pecs were bruised and his nipples were tender.
“I’m surprised no one interrupted.” More grateful than surprised. He was sure the guys knew what was going on. They were all grown men. But their relationship being gossip was different than it being a known fact.
“So am I.” Piers watched him roll his head, cracking his neck. “I was pushing my luck.” Piers smiled at him.
“Little bit, captain.” He reached up to kiss him. Sweeter, softer, than their other kisses. “Not that it didn't like it. You're getting brave.” Rather than shying away, Chris smirked right back at him.
“Don’t get any bright ideas, baby.” Chris emphasized the pet name as he leaned in just that bit closer to Piers. A pleasant zing ran through Piers. He vividly remembered how his recovery time had been impossibly short when he had Chris in hand.
“Or what? You'll punish me, daddy?” They both laughed as Chris gently shoved him away. Stupid. Sweet, but so stupid.
“Save it for when we're home, lieutenant.”
Save it for their place beyond the battlefield.