Chapter Text
He watches Nivans for a week before making his approach.
He watches as this kid – this gangly scrap of almost-nothing from basically-nowhere, Montana, gets a near-perfect score on the CFT. He watches as the kid outperforms his older teammates in running, in obstacle courses, and manages to come near the top of the pack in hand-to-hand combat. He’s not the biggest of the bunch – not by a long shot – and he’s very nearly the youngest. But he’s fast, and he’s smart, if the way he fights is any indication.
Chris was already sold, really – and then he sees the kid shoot.
He’s never really seen anything like it. This kid who looks just young enough to seem out of place with his teammates, belly-down in the dirt, the tassel on his shemagh drifting just slightly with the wind, hitting target after target, without fail, with deadly accuracy. This kid, he realises, is a sniper, through and through – one of the best the military’s probably ever seen.
He makes his decision then and there. He’s not expecting the strength in the kid’s grip when he pulls Piers Nivans to his feet – and he’s definitely not expecting the large, attractive hazel eyes, piercing through him like he’s nothing more than the last target.
But Piers smiles. He smiles and he shows up the very next day for B.S.A.A training, outclassed and outmatched in every way except for his spirit, and Chris thinks he can work with that.
~*~
He didn’t mean to kiss Piers.
He really didn’t. It’s been a rough mission and the rest of Alpha team have quietly slunk away when given the opportunity, and Chris can’t blame them. Some things can’t be unseen, and what happened to Jackson is one of those things.
And again, it’s Piers. The youngest of the pack, the smallest, and by far the bravest, who looks at him as if he’s crazy when Chris offers him a way out. “I’m not going anywhere, Captain,” he says, and the finality of his tone leaves Chris unable to question him. “I’m staying with you.”
A knot in his chest loosens. He’d been hoping – but it would be unfair to chain Piers to him when the kid has so much talent, so much potential. Not for the first time, Chris wonders if he’s sentenced Piers to a short, painful life. If he had any decency, he’d let go. For both their sakes.
Piers didn’t get checked out at the infirmary, and Chris gets it. He’s letting it hurt, a reminder that he survived, that others didn’t. He’s done the same and the easiest way to label it is to call it self-destructive – and so he takes Piers to his onsite quarters, knowing damn well that the kid won’t go to the infirmary unless he’s ordered, and even then, he’ll be resentful of it.
Piers limps after him, and even with an undoubtedly painful gash and the amount of blood he’s lost, he keeps up. Chris slows his pace just so he doesn’t have to, a consideration he doesn’t afford most people. It’s not that he’s coddling Piers, at all, it’s just – he deserves a break, that’s all. He’s worked damn hard, and now it’s time to rest.
Piers sits down on his couch, sheds his boots and BDUs with ruthless efficiency. He’s wearing standard issue black boxer briefs and he’s got obscenely gorgeous legs, and Chris has to force himself not to look. Piers is – lithe, and lean, and even a little more muscular than he was in the beginning.
Piers doesn’t flinch when Chris treats the wound, doesn’t make even a hiss of pain. The only indication he’s uncomfortable is his hands, fisting into the couch cushions.
“Don’t suppose I can talk you into going to the infirmary?” Chris asks softly.
“You can try, sir,” Piers replies, and he sounds exhausted, bone-thin and weary in the late hour.
Chris gentles his touch, takes his time cleaning and re-wrapping the wound. Piers shivers and his skin goosepimples and Chris kisses him, then and there – shocked by his own courage and even more shocked when Piers only clambers into his lap, tells him to shut up, and grinds down on his achingly hard cock.
Piers comes first, sags into his body and hangs on, panting, and the scent of his cologne and sweat hits Chris in a heady mix, until he grunts and comes too, messy and stroking himself. Piers’ short, blunt fingernails scratch lightly at the back of his neck as he hangs on, catching his breath.
Piers lives more than an hour away from B.S.A.A headquarters in shared barracks, and Chris knows he was assigned a new roommate recently. For all he works well in a team, Piers likes his own space, his own company – Chris feels for him. Plus, he’s looking noticeably thinner after a diet of meagre rations and a reluctance to eat upon returning. Chris vows to up his protein intake, effective tomorrow. For now – food.
If Piers feels any kind of way about being fed, he doesn’t say much. He also doesn’t say much when Chris finds him a blanket and pillow, only yawns softly, eyes half-lidded. He’s gorgeous. It isn’t the first time Chris has thought it, and it’ll be far from the last.
Just us now, Chris thinks, watching as Piers’ eyes begin to drift closed. Until the morning, when they’ll make new personnel selections – it’s him and Piers. Piers, who chose to stay with him, even when given a way out, who’s on his couch now after a decidedly weird afternoon and evening.
He breaks the news to Piers gently, as he retires to bed himself. “You were the only one who decided to stay,” he says, simply, and it’s the truth.
Piers nods, quiet, and Chris turns the light off. Piers – ever the sniper – finds his form, even in the darkness, watches him as he says, “Goodnight, Piers.”
“Goodnight, sir.”
~*~
Piers’ first real brush with death comes, of all places, in Afghanistan.
Chris isn’t there for it, because Piers, aside from himself, is the most experienced in their group. He’s left Piers with two other members of their squad – gets the radio call, man down, in need of medical attention. He feels it. It’s his ace.
It’s not Piers’ fault – not anyone’s fault, really, although Chris has trouble believing that as he makes it to their last location and finds Piers, supported by the other two, bleeding from a wound to his leg that wraps almost all the way from hip to inner thigh. His BDUs are soaked, and he’s already frighteningly white, if still conscious.
Chris knows more than enough about field medicine. He gets Piers on the ground with his feet elevated and pulls out gauze pads and bandages, almost everything he has in his own vest, begins triaging the wound. It’s deep and Piers is trembling, and he’s expecting the kid to scream when he starts applying pressure – but he doesn’t. He bites down so hard Chris is seriously worried for his teeth, but he doesn’t make a sound.
“Doing great, Ace,” Chris says. “You’re doing great, hang in there, you’re gonna be fine-”
He’s not so sure, even as he hauls Piers’ body over his shoulders in a fireman carry and takes off out of there. Every now and then, he has to boost Piers to adjust him, and when he does, Piers whimpers like a struck puppy.
“Gonna be fine, Ace,” he pants, seeing the med tents ahead. They’ve already radioed for a medevac, but it could be miles away. “Hang on. Stay with me.”
Piers grips into his vest with one weak hand, and it’s all the reply Chris needs. Piers is still with him. Dead people don’t cling.
The medical staff are waiting, and they’re swarmed the second he walks in, get him to put Piers on a bed and undo his ballistic vest, cut right through his undershirt – they’re expecting to have to shock him, Chris realises with a sick feeling in his gut.
They run blood and IVs and antibiotics right away – the wound is nasty, jagged and ripped and almost to the bone. It’s a miracle it didn’t hit anything more serious, even if it is gruesome. Chris puts a hand on Piers’ shoulder, thinking about holding him down as the doctors start emergency sutures – but Piers, this stupidly brave kid, hardly moves, even while the trembling ramps up. He’s in pain, and it’s not a secret, but he’s trying.
“You’re fine,” Chris says. “You’re fine.”
Piers passes out even with new blood in his body, probably from the pain or the exhaustion, and it takes Chris a full ten minutes to realise the kid’s blood is all over his vest, his shirt, his skin. It’s run down the back of his neck, staining his uniform. He’s seen worse, but this is what makes him shake. Piers probably stopped being just one of his men right around the time he climbed into Chris’s lap and kissed him with more passion and guts than anyone else ever has, but what a time to realise it, in the middle of a warzone.
Bravo team takes their place. Chris stays with Piers as infection sets in, despite the antibiotics. He needs surgery and wound debridement, but he’s not stable enough to be moved.
Still – Piers awakens after almost a day unconscious, thirsty and begging for water. Chris gets him some, helps him drink, answers every groggy question until Piers is out again. Two days later, they evacuate him to a real hospital, and Chris goes. He’s not abandoning the kid in some random foreign hospital.
He gets his orders while Piers is in surgery. He’s being shipped straight out to West Africa – the Kijuju Autonomous Zone, to be specific.
“My best man is in surgery,” he growls into the phone, when he’s informed. It’s the third hour and he’s been pacing outside, waiting for an update. “It can wait.”
“We’re sending a plane,” the voice on the other end says dispassionately. “Be ready.”
“I have to go,” Chris murmurs to Piers, when the kid finally comes around after surgery. His plane probably isn’t far away. “Something’s happening in West Africa.”
Piers blinks at him drowsily, lets Chris touch his face – he’d sworn Piers was gonna die in that shitty little med tent, and he didn’t, although he’s still hot, still burning with fever. He doubts Piers will remember any of this.
“Okay,” he says, sleepily, after a moment. He licks his lips, closes his eyes, then opens them again like he’s having to force it. “Go kick ass, Cap’n.”
Chris snorts, wishing against reason that he didn’t have to. “Will do, Ace.”
~*~
He’s shellshocked upon his return from West Africa.
The only thing that seems to alleviate the fog, a little, is the news that Piers has been transferred to the B.S.A.A’s hospital on home soil. He gets checked out, changes, and heads right there – it’s even in the same building.
They warn him that Piers is still on some pretty strong meds for the infection, but when Chris enters the room, Piers wakes from a doze like he’s been waiting – tries to sit up straight against the head of the bed, using his good leg and arms to get him there. “Captain?” he asks.
“At ease, Piers,” Chris says gently, and comes inside. Piers relaxes back into the pillow – his cheeks are pink from the persistent fever, and he’s got more than one IV running into him, but his eyes are bright and clear. He wonders which idiot thought Piers was groggy or confused, or whether Piers has played them in order to be left alone.
Still – his ace yawns as Chris takes a seat, left hand fidgeting with the corner of the blanket restlessly. His hair is sticking up every which way, and the hospital gown doesn’t do anything to make him look put together, but he’s very clearly with it.
“How’s the leg?” Chris asks.
“Infected.” Still fidgeting with the blanket. He’s seen Piers hold uncomfortable positions for upwards of an hour when needed as a sniper – the guy isn’t naturally bursting with energy. “Antibiotics are working. They didn’t tell you that?”
“They told me you were out of it,” Chris says, and he’s more than a little amused when Piers’ mouth twitches into a cheeky smile. “You’re playing with them.”
“They’re annoying.” Piers shrugs. “I guess I have been. Did you finish the mission?”
He thinks of Wesker. It was a hard won battle, and not without consequence – personal and otherwise. He’s not sure how he should feel. Wesker was a first for him, in more ways than one, and he’s been detangling that for years.
“Yeah,” he says. “I finished the mission.”
Piers yawns again. “Good,” he says. “Sorry.”
“Don’t say sorry. I shouldn’t keep you awake.”
“I’m not tired,” Piers grumbles.
“Okay,” Chris says, amused. He turns the TV in Piers’ room on, intent on catching up on some crappy daytime soaps – Piers stays awake for all of ten minutes, looking at him judgmentally, until his eyes begin to slip shut.
Even after he falls asleep, Chris stays. There are mission debriefings to get to and more than a few questions to be answered – but Piers feels comfortable, familiar, in a way that soothes him.
He stays for a long time.
~*~
It’s not a one-off.
They keep doing it, against Chris’s better wisdom. Piers gets taller and fills out – he never stops being lean, really, never stops being the lightest or fastest on Alpha, but he puts on some much-needed muscle mass. He looks more and more like a man as he approaches his twenty-third birthday, and some of that wide-eyed idealism has faded away, although not all of it. He can hardly call Piers a kid anymore – hardly should, given all the ways they’ve had sex since that first time – but some of it remains.
He’s proud to call Piers his second, begins to think about retirement, that maybe there is a way out of this life for him, that it rests with Piers. He’s not ready, not yet, but he will be. The men look to him, look up to him, and Chris trusts him implicitly.
They keep having sex. Piers is fiery in a way Chris has never been, and sometimes that leads them to it – Piers, still a good sixty-five pounds lighter than him, will set his jaw and step into his space to make a point, and Chris can never decide whether it’s fucking annoying or hot as hell. The latter usually wins.
But then there’s other times as well, where Piers is injured on the field and Chris has to see for himself that the kid is fine. Piers is not only cagey when he’s hurt, he’s good at hiding it, and so Chris makes it a personal task to check him for wounds.
Today, it’s just bruises. Piers rides him slow and filthy on the couch in Chris’s private quarters, and Chris takes his weight, tries not to touch any of the bruising along his left leg or shoulder as they do. When Piers does come, it’s messy and untouched, on Chris’s belly, and Chris comes inside. Piers doesn’t seem to mind it, and they don’t typically use condoms. They should, but Chris can’t stand how clinical it feels. He’d trust this man with his life, so to wear a condom? It feels – almost unnecessary. Claire would scold him for it, if she knew.
Piers hisses when he goes to move, and Chris tries not to grab at him instinctively. “Okay?” he checks.
“Yeah,” Piers sighs, but he sounds tired, voice a little thin from yelling for three days straight. “Just my leg.”
Chris helps, surprised by the admission, soaps Piers up in the shower and kisses the back of his neck. Piers always smells best here, some kind of natural scent mixing in with his aftershave.
“Get it looked at,” Chris says, and then, “do you want to-”
“Sleep on the couch?” Piers smiles faintly. “Mm. I think I’d crash if I drove.”
Chris gets him a pillow and blanket, conflicted, and watches as Piers curls onto his good side on the sofa to rest. He wants to ask the kid to sleep in a real bed, but – something about that feels new and scary, and Chris isn’t always brave where it counts.
He flicks the light out, but he stays in the doorway for a moment, watching the gentle rise and fall of Piers’ side in slumber. It takes him ten minutes before he can force himself to move off to bed.
Next time, he tells himself. Next time.
~*~
Alpha team is coming along nicely.
Chris walks along in front of them, sizing them all up. He passes Finn, who still looks at him like he’s a living legend, and then Alfonso, who stares straight ahead.
Piers is at the end of the line. When Chris gets to him, and stops, Piers tilts his chin up ever so slightly. Chris hides a grin. His second is getting bolder with him, and there’s something nice about that. There’s a certain level of familiarity he expects when he knows that Piers’ chest and inner thighs are covered in hickeys, and they’re finally there.
“We’re sparring today,” he says, finally. “Pair off with the closest person to you in weight. Nivans-”
Piers looks at him, and the light strikes his eyes, which go from a muted brown to a gorgeous shade of gold. Chris has always thought the kid has great eyes. Not just for shooting.
“You’re with me,” he finishes.
Piers almost smiles then, almost, and Chris steps away. It’s hard to make his lieutenant crack – even in his personal life, he’s careful and controlled. Hell, even having sex – the first time Chris heard him make a noise, he was almost startled.
They square off. Chris hasn’t met anyone who could put him on his ass yet, but Piers seems to have made it a personal mission – he’s getting good, scary good, at hand to hand combat, regularly seeks out people bigger than him in the gym to spar against.
“We have an audience,” Piers pants, after they’ve gone one round with no blows landed. In addition to being frighteningly competent at most things, Piers is lithe, flexible, and fast – Chris sacrifices speed for power.
Chris looks around. Sure enough, the rest of Alpha and some of the others in the gym have stopped to watch. Chris smiles.
“Better give them a show, then,” he says.
Piers smirks back at him, and then it’s on – they trade blows and parry, Piers circles him, Chris circles right back. Piers makes a right hook that surprises Chris so much he very nearly gets hit by it – Piers is left-handed – and he’s forced to grab the kid’s arm, pull him, sweeps a leg under Piers’ knees.
The kid hits the mat with a thud and a gasp as all the air leaves his lungs, and Chris keeps the right arm in the air, pulled back, his knee at Piers’ ribcage. He feels Piers strain against him – and he uses his bottom leg to kick back, destabilizing Chris, forcing him over. Piers comes for him again – so fast, Chris thinks – and Chris flings him over his shoulder, ends up with his legs wrapped around Piers from behind, his arms controlling the kid’s head and shoulders.
Piers groans, shifts – but he’s in no position to really grapple, he’s panting, and he’s outweighed by a not insignificant amount. Sweat runs down his temples – he strains, trying to get free, and Chris feels the flex of every single muscle beneath him.
Piers taps his wrist, and Chris lets him go immediately – Piers lets out a breath and goes lax on the mat. There’s a scatter of clapping and murmuring about it being a good match.
“Let that be a lesson,” Chris says. “I outweigh Nivans by almost seventy pounds, and he still nearly won that fight. You have to want it the most. Alright – back to your training.”
They peel off, and Chris turns back to Piers, who’s groaning and massaging his neck – he’s sitting up, and there’s sweat running down his neck, into his t-shirt.
“You alright?” Chris asks, reaching down.
Piers takes his hand, allows Chris to get him to his feet. “Never better,” he groans. “Jesus, Chris, I thought we were playing.”
“I was,” Chris says, and then realises that Piers has just called him by his first name – in the middle of practice, a slip up he’s never made before. Evidently, Piers realises as well, because he turns red from his neck to the tips of his ears, straightens up.
“Captain,” he corrects himself, looking for all the world like he would like the ground to swallow him whole.
“At ease… Piers,” Chris says, grinning.
Piers huffs and turns away from him. Chris can’t wipe the grin off his face for the rest of the day – lets Alpha go home early, because it’s Friday, something that makes them whoop happily.
Which is why he’s surprised to see Piers in the mess hall, well after he’s sure the others have probably gone out.
He pauses, because by this point he knows that Piers likes to be alone – if he’s sitting in the mess hall, unaccompanied, he’s probably wanting to be there. Although, Chris would’ve thought that his apartment, off-base, would’ve been better for that. Piers has private quarters here now, of course, being a lieutenant, but…
He approaches, loud enough that Piers can definitely hear him and give some sign of not wanting to be interrupted. He doesn’t – he simply looks up from what he’s doing, nods, and shuffles his legs under the table. Making room.
“You’re not out with the others,” Chris says. “I figured you would be. Friday night.”
“No, sir,” Piers replies. “I don’t drink, and I don’t find it fun to watch them haze Finn over and over again.”
“Anything I should know about?”
“If you include giving his number to the strippers, sure.” Piers’ right leg begins to bounce under the table. “I had other things on my mind,” he admits.
Chris raises an eyebrow. It’s rare for Piers to admit to things like that, let alone to anyone in the B.S.A.A, he’s sure. “Such as?” he asks, finally noticing the journal that’s open in front of Piers on the table. He knows the kid takes notes – he’s seen him do it on missions, even. He’s just never seen it here.
Piers hesitates – reaches out, sips his coffee. It’s nearly eight, and Chris is surprised to see him drinking it. “Do you think we’re… living a meaningful life, Captain?” he asks.
Chris thinks about it, more surprised by the question than he is that Piers was thinking it. The kid has a big brain. “How do you mean?”
“I mean…” Piers makes a face. His eyes look almost green in here. “We’ve dedicated our lives to eradicating bioterrorism,” he says. “Do you think that’s meaningful?”
“I think it depends on what you want,” Chris says. “If you want a white picket fence and two children and a wife, maybe not. If you’re not concerned about those things, and your goal is to make the world a better place for the people in it… then yeah. I think it’s a meaningful life.”
Piers nods – actually looks a little soothed by his words. The expression is so subtle Chris hadn’t even realised he seemed a bit off. “Is that what you want?”
“What’s that?”
“A white picket fence.” Piers sips his coffee, doodles on the corner of his page. “Two kids. A wife.”
Chris smiles. Piers can be remarkably transparent sometimes, for someone so difficult to read. “I think we both know that’s not in my future, Ace,” he says.
Piers glances up at him, nods, finishes his coffee off. His foot continues to beat out a nervous rhythm, and he falls totally silent, writes a little more in his journal. He doesn’t seem to mind Chris being there.
“What brought this on?” Chris asks gently. He’s not sure if he should be concerned or not – he did floor Piers in sparring, today, and the kid has seemed a bit wonky since.
More hesitation. God, but his second is acting oddly today.
“It’s my birthday,” Piers says finally.
Chris blinks. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I should have remembered.”
“It’s fine,” Piers mumbles. “Didn’t tell you to make you feel guilty or anything.”
“Okay,” Chris says. “Why did you tell me?” It’s always been like this, and he’s known it since the first week of training, that getting Piers to talk would be a combination of pulling teeth and gentle coaxing.
“Just got me thinking,” Piers says. “About whether or not I’m… doing good things with my life. Meaningful things.”
“You’re a little young for a midlife crisis, kid,” Chris says, but he’s not mocking about it. “Let me guess – twenty-five?”
“Twenty three, sir,” Piers says. “But close. How’d you know?”
“Been there, done that.” Chris stands. “C’mon.”
“Where are we going?” Piers follows anyway.
“My quarters,” Chris says. “I can’t let you spend your twenty-third birthday in the mess hall, contemplating the finer points of life over shitty instant coffee.”
“I like instant coffee.” But he can hear Piers smiling.
“You would.”
They get back to Chris’s quarters – Piers ditches his jacket over the arm of the couch, and Chris starts dinner. He’s got steaks, and he’s not imagining the way Piers lights up at that, moves to stand with his hip leaning on the kitchen counter. He’s wearing a white t-shirt and jeans that hug his legs and ass in ways that make Chris think indecent thoughts.
When they sit down to eat, Chris pours a shot of whiskey for them both. Piers hesitates.
“You don’t have to,” Chris says. “But it goes well with the steak, and it’s not right for you to not have a single drink on your birthday.”
Piers smiles at him – a genuine smile, not a toothy grin or a smirk or anything else. He looks pleased to be here, knocks back the whiskey, nods approvingly when Chris pours him another.
It’s almost a date.
The thought strikes him and then flees – he pours them both a little more, and he’s been drinking his whole life with varying degrees of success, so he’s only pleasantly buzzed. After three rounds, Piers is clearly a little drunk, laughing loosely and rubbing his face in a way that lets Chris know his nose is probably tingling.
“I’m cutting you off,” he says, amused, as he takes their plates to the sink, along with their glasses. “Water from here out.”
“That’s mean,” Piers grins.
“You’ll thank me, trust me.”
They sit on the couch, and Chris turns a movie on – it goes for all of fifteen minutes before Piers slides closer to him, turns his head, kisses him soft and sloppy and hot.
“Thank you,” he says, his eyes a little hooded and heated in the darkness of the room.
“Jesus Christ,” Chris groans.
They stay on the couch. They’re out of their clothes in record time and Chris finds lube in his bathroom, comes back to find Piers stroking himself – his mouth goes dry and he’s on the couch in a second, between the kid’s legs, takes over from him and listening to the breathy, pleased groans Piers is making.
“Been a while,” Chris murmurs, leaning down to kiss him – Piers kisses back, desperate and hard, and Chris slides a finger in, all the way to the last knuckle. Piers’ cock jumps in his hand and Piers rolls down filthily, a curse on his lips.
“More,” he breathes. “Please.”
He goes back with two fingers, massages the kid’s prostate, marvels at the way he can stay spread-legged like this without any pain or stiffness. There’s something to be said for his lover being fourteen years younger than him, that’s for sure.
He curls his fingers. Piers groans and his spine arches – God, he’s beautiful, Chris thinks.
“I’m ready,” Piers says. “C’mon, Chris, I’m ready-”
“Okay, okay, easy,” Chris says, half-amused, half out of his mind. Touching himself is an exercise in restraint – he very nearly comes just from that, just from making sure there’s enough lube to make Piers comfortable – and then he moves close, grabs his cock, presses at Piers’ hole.
Piers makes a noise somewhere between a groan and a whimper as he presses – the head sinks in, and he rests his hands on the inside of Piers’ thighs, just to watch as his body stretches to accommodate Chris.
He pulls out, pushes back in. Piers makes a strangled noise, moves to wrap his legs around Chris’s hips. “Don’t,” he gasps. “Don’t tease me-”
So Chris sinks in, all the way, pressing open-mouthed kisses to Piers’ neck as he does – and Piers clenches around him, hangs onto him, rolls his hips up in what can only be taken as an invitation. He’s ready.
He wants to go fast, but – it’s the kid’s birthday. He should make it special – and so he slows his pace, thrusts in and out in a way that he knows drives Piers absolutely fucking nuts, because he’s not quite pleading but he’s not quite in control, either.
“Chris,” he groans, after a few minutes.
“Hmm?” Chris murmurs, delivering another slow, filthy thrust. Piers moans and shakes and forgets his words, for a minute – and Chris slows down even more. Just to let him remember.
Piers makes a frustrated noise. “I can’t,” he breathes. “I can’t, Chris-”
“You can’t come?” Chris takes Piers’ cock in hand – it’s thick and heavy and dribbling precome, and Piers almost keens at being touched. “Looks like you definitely could.”
“I need,” Piers says, and grunts when Chris tugs him, “I need – God, harder, please-”
Chris is at the end of his rope, too, taking in Piers’ gorgeous, sweat-slicked body, the way his hole is swallowing him up. Taking him is no small feat, and Piers has never once complained. The opposite, really.
“Okay,” he says – he pulls away a bit, takes Piers’ slender hips, holds him. “Jerk yourself off. I wanna watch you come.”
He picks up the pace. He holds Piers still as he starts fucking the guy in earnest – Piers moans and his head goes back, and he strokes himself in time with Chris’s thrusts, and just when he’s about to come, Chris stops – slows down, keeps hold of him so he can’t fuck himself on Chris’s cock.
“What,” Piers groans. “Why’d you-”
“I want this to last,” Chris says simply, and Piers strains against his hands. “Nope. What do you want, hmm?”
“I want you to fuck me harder,” Piers says, full of attitude, and Chris is about to remind him of something – and then Piers moans and shifts and his cock pulses and he says, “Please,” and Chris comes undone. He lets Piers’ hips go, moves forward, gets a better angle, and starts slamming home – Piers’ hands come up to his shoulders and his fingernails bite in, his hole clenching around Chris so hard he could see stars.
“Chris,” Piers cries – a warning, definitely a warning, and Chris pulls back just in time to hear, “Chris, I’m-”
Piers shoots, back arched, ropes of come painting his belly and chest, working himself through it as Chris continues to fuck into him. He’s so goddamn tight, so hot, and Chris – Jesus, he’s not young anymore-
“Fuck,” Piers moans, verging onto a sob. “Chris, Chris, please-”
He’s still coming, Jesus, Chris didn’t know he was this wound up – he’s never, ever been able to make his ace beg like this, never heard Piers say his name quite like that.
Piers has let his cock go, even though he’s still hard – Chris picks up his thrusts, strokes Piers in time, and if he wasn’t so insanely fucking turned on, he’d be worried about the genuine cry Piers lets off, the way he tenses and pitches forward-
Chris unloads, gasping, into Piers’ body, just as Piers’ own cock jerks and shoots another weak rope of come. He pumps into his ace while the guy wriggles and pants and moans beneath him, hangs on with his left hand and scratches him deep.
Finally, he stops, rests atop Piers’ body for a moment. Piers is panting like he’s run a marathon, and when Chris reaches down, feels his still-hard cock inside the kid’s body, he whimpers and shakes. Chris’s come is already leaking out of him.
“Happy birthday,” Chris breathes into his ear.
Piers turns his head, kisses him deep and long, only pulls away to breathe, “I wanna do that again… so many times.”
Chris grins – kisses him back, slow. Coming down. “That can be arranged,” he whispers.
~*~
The middle of nowhere is quite possibly the worst place Piers could’ve chosen to get sick.
The kid is fine when they ship out and pale within two days of arriving. Chris watches him carefully, but it doesn’t become apparent until the fourth day that something is seriously wrong – Piers is moving more slowly, and he’s eating his meals like he has to force himself. Every now and then, Chris catches him blinking like he’s trying to clear his vision.
He doesn’t get the chance to approach him about it, because Piers comes to him first, jaw set and eyes bright with fever, tells him stiffly that he thought Chris should know, given that he’s a liability. He coughs into his elbow – it sounds horribly wet, chesty, and Chris puts a hand on his back, not sure how much affection will be accepted. If anything, Piers is even pricklier when he’s not feeling the best.
He pulls a glove off, mostly to have skin to skin contact – the skin of Piers’ neck is hot when he touches it, clammy with sweat. The kid is burning with fever, and the mild worry Chris has felt throughout the deployment so far blooms into something more serious. This isn’t just a cold.
“I can continue the mission,” Piers says, and Chris knows better than to fight him on that with how his jaw is set and he’s got his chin tilted up. It’s a typical defiant Piers expression, one he’s familiar with after years of working side by side, and nothing he says is going to make it go anywhere.
He checks Piers has eaten, manages to talk him down a little. He tells the team – he’s proud for the way they all immediately offer to take Piers’ shifts on watch, the way they pull together. Even Finn, the rookie – Piers chose well.
He radios HQ, hoping for a way out. They can’t spare anyone for extraction, even as Chris knows the cold will make things worse. He has no way of affording Piers the rest he needs, and he feels helpless for it.
He has to do something, and he knows it from the way Piers deteriorates quickly – when Chris checks on him, he’s warmer than before, and he takes a solid few seconds to rouse at the hand on his shoulder. He goes into the village, speaks to an elderly woman through Google translate on his phone. He should’ve sent Finn, who’s far better with tech, but he feels personally responsible for Piers.
He comes back with pills. Piers has squirrelled himself away into the corner of his room, and Chris doesn’t dare try to move him. He does wake him, feeds him two pills, laughs a little when Piers has the energy to grouse about dying in “this shitfuck country” because of their quality.
He tries not to hover, reassures the team that Piers will be fine. HQ still can’t find anyone for extraction – they’re on their own, and it’s pretty much up to Chris to make sure that the wet, painful cough Piers has doesn’t turn into pneumonia. No pressure.
He sets a timer on his watch. Six hours later, he returns to the room – Piers is asleep against the wall, visibly shaking, doesn’t wake when Chris squats down in front of him, not even when he’s touched. Chris radios again.
“Lieutenant Nivans is worse,” he reports. “Advise on medical evacuation.”
There’s a long pause. “HQ to Alpha Leader,” the reply comes. “We’re sorry. There’s no one available. What’s his condition?”
Chris has to force himself to be professional as he touches Piers’ face – hot, clammy, cheeks flushed, breathing heavily. “Alpha to HQ,” he replies, voice clipped. “Fever is high, no signs of breaking.” He doesn’t know what else to say; he’s not a doctor.
He gives up, shakes two pills into his hand, finds a bottle of water. They have purifying tablets, but he’s not going to risk introducing anything else to the kid’s system right now. He takes Piers’ jaw – feels a thrill of dread at the total non-reaction he gets. “C’mon,” he cajoles gently, and tilts Piers’ head. “Open.”
He’s relieved when Piers does – puts the pills on his tongue, tips some water into his mouth. Piers swallows, and his eyes even open – he looks around blearily, settling on Chris’s face, frowns.
“I missed my watch?”
Chris clenches his free hand, runs his fingers over the back of Piers’ neck, feels the sweat there, the shivers racing through him. “We’ve got it covered, kid,” he promises.
Less than ten hours later, the fever begins to break. Chris puts an arm around his second, says he’d do it for any of them (a complete lie) and pulls him in close, trying to keep him warm. Piers falls into a fitful sleep, and when Chris checks, he feels cooler.
He moves Piers to the bed, covers him with a blanket, and leaves him to rest. Piers finds him on the balcony later, scary pale and still trembling minutely, but determined to rejoin the team. Chris is relieved, more than he cares to admit – it was dicey, and Piers is still coughing, but he’s otherwise fine.
They’ll be able to get home soon, anyway.
~*~
He’s getting too close, and in trying to withdraw, he makes a mistake.
He fucks Piers over the counter like he’s a stranger, and only realises two days later that Piers is more seriously injured than he’d thought – he barely makes it through the run with the troops, and he falls on the obstacle course, is helped up by Finn. When Chris confronts him, he’s snapping and furious, and Chris – suddenly realising that how he treated the kid was more than a little fucked up – doesn’t have it in him to reprimand him. He pulls Piers from training instead, which only exacerbates the issue, and then goes to the nurse.
“I’m not giving you his medical file.” She’s bored at best. “Patient confidentiality, even if you are his captain.”
“Should he have been training?” he asks.
She looks up, alarmed. “He went to training today?” she demands.
The reaction is all he needs. He rustles up some snacks and Piers’ favourite pizza, goes to his apartment. Clearly, Piers is still smarting, because he just about pulls his front door off its hinges when he opens it, and only looks angrier to see Chris there.
“Didn’t ride me hard enough already the last few days?” he snaps.
Chris takes a breath. Captain Redfield wants to lay down the law and discipline him – but he’s not Piers’ captain right now. “I deserved that,” he says. “Can I come in?”
Piers looks at him warily, like he’s nothing more than a J’avo insurgent, but his eyes dart to the pizza – and even if he is a soldier, the best Chris has ever known, he’s still a twenty-five-year-old, still a bottomless pit, and loves pizza more than most things. He steps aside to let Chris in.
Predictably, he’s livid that Chris went to the nurse. He’s even angrier when he points out where Chris had bent him over and fucked him hard and fast.
“I shouldn’t have done that,” Chris says, and he means it. He doesn’t regret the sex – he never does – but he regrets the way it made them both feel, Piers especially. “And I shouldn’t have left right away afterwards, either. I’m sorry.” The next part takes effort, because he’s genuinely worried that the answer will be yes. “Did I hurt you?” he asks quietly.
Piers’ face does something complicated, then – he was angry, but that fades away, his mouth and eyes softening. He looks unsure for a moment, an expression that Chris has never seen on his face, not even as a rookie – and then he sighs, runs a hand through his hair.
“No,” he mumbles, short.
He pulls Piers in for a hug, slow, so that Piers can pull away – and Chris is expecting it, but Piers doesn’t. If anything, he sinks into Chris’s weight, trusting the other man to hold him up, and Chris does, careful not to touch the bruising. He can feel that the fight is draining away quickly from the younger man – Piers doesn’t want to be angry. He rarely does. It’s something they’re working on together.
He presses his mouth to Piers’ temple, breathes in his scent for a moment. Piers lets him. “I’m sorry,” he says softly, and presses a kiss there. “How bad is it?”
Piers is pissing blood, by his own admission, but he lets Chris look at the bruises, lets the man coddle him and bring him ice packs and Tylenol and pizza. By the time they’ve settled in to play Grand Theft Auto, it’s clear that he doesn’t hold any resentment.
Chris won’t ever make this mistake again, that’s for sure.
~*~
He feels more than professional jealousy when Piers gets hit on in a bar.
Piers, to his credit, is clearly not interested, even wasted. He takes the kid home, and Christ, he’s a handful. He has to be frisked for his keys, tries to start a fight with a stick on the ground, turns on obnoxious pop music in the car. When they do get back, he staggers trying to watch the stars and walk at the same time.
Still. He’s pliant, agreeable – Chris divests him of his clothes, tempted to give in and kiss the inside of his thighs, and then puts him to bed. Piers yawns and talks about his father’s drinking problem, asks him to stay the night.
“Piers,” Chris says.
“S’late,” Piers protests, slurring more from exhaustion than anything else. “You gotta be tired.”
He is. “Fine,” he replies, “I’m sleeping on the couch, though.” Drunk casual sex with his fourteen-years-junior lieutenant can only lead to trouble.
Piers scowls, but doesn’t argue. He drifts off peacefully enough, and Chris catches a few hours on the couch – wakes up to make coffee and is surprised when Piers stumbles from the bedroom only ten minutes after he himself had woken, cheek covered in pillow creases and hair sticking up on end.
“Christ, kid-” And he laughs, even harder when Piers gets that indignant, cross look on his face. “Your hair-”
He doesn’t get to finish the sentence, because Piers flips him off and drinks straight from the tap like a thirsty animal and Chris has nothing but love for this kid. He pats his back – stands back – and Piers asks how they’re going to torture the team come Monday.
He could get used to this.
~*~
Piers fights an Ogroman, gets tossed to the ground, and somehow only dislocates his shoulder.
Chris puts it back for him, ignoring the crunch and Piers’ muffled cry of pain around the glove in his mouth. He’s hurting to help, but that doesn’t ease the guilt he feels as Piers sags into his hand. “Steady, Piers,” he soothes. “Steady. C’mon, you’re okay.”
Piers straightens, lets the glove go – Chris pulls it back on, even though it’s covered in drool. Just like having a puppy. “You fucking butcher,” Piers moans, and Chris is so, so relieved to hear his lieutenant full of attitude that he actually laughs, probably inappropriately.
He’s given a shot of pain relief by Finn, which keeps him more or less on his feet until they’re booking into a motel, where he starts to look a little pale and unsteady. Still, he insists on a shower – approaches Chris to help him get out of his vest. He even heaves a relieved sigh when the weight of it is taken off him, manages to straighten up properly – they get food. Chris gives him some steak.
Piers falls asleep on the bed – Chris falls asleep on his own, wakes up from a nightmare, Wesker falling into the volcano. He moves to the floor, hoping the cold will trick his body into sleep. He has another nightmare down there.
“Chris?” Piers’ voice mumbles, sleep-thick in the darkness. He waits – wonders if the kid is just sleep-talking, though he’s never known him to. Then – Piers’ head pops over the edge of the mattress. His hair is fluffed on one side, and he’s blinking drowsily. “Cap?” he asks groggily. “Chris?”
It strikes him that Piers might be in pain from his shoulder, looking for him for that reason. “Piers,” he says. “You need anything?”
Piers looks confused, says he doesn’t, then – “Why’re you on the floor?”
Chris doesn’t answer, and that’s how Piers ends up down there with him – he settles with a hiss of pain, more or less using Chris as a pillow, and tucks his face in close. They’ve never slept like this before, but Piers is a warm, solid line against his side.
“The floor’s so fucking uncomfortable,” he grumbles. “The fuck are we down here for?”
Chris almost smiles. It’s so very Piers, to end up on the ground with him, willingly, and then complain about it – but he needs to cut it off here. Piers is injured; anywhere other than the ground is better, and he says as much.
“Bite me,” Piers says, glaring at him.
Well. That settles that. Chris puts an arm around him, knowing this isn’t a fight he’ll win – when is it, where Piers is concerned – and says, “Are you really going to stay on the floor all night?”
The answer is yes, along with a pointed, “You took my ice pack,” as Piers burrows closer to him. Chris hasn’t slept next to anyone for a long time, and this – this is nice. And new. He says as much; Piers snorts unattractively into his shoulder.
“Don’t look at me, Captain,” he says crossly. “You chose the floor.” It’s a decision Piers clearly isn’t happy with, but he’s refused to move four times now, and Chris is only human. He gives Piers a soft squeeze, watching his face, his closed eyes, the thick black lashes against his cheeks.
“Sleep, kid,” he murmurs. “I’ll get you a new ice pack in the morning.”
~*~
Piers has nightmares.
Chris has never seen him have nightmares before, but he’s driving back and Piers starts to mumble, voice pitching up in distress, moves like he’s reaching for a gun.
“Piers,” Chris says, voice low and careful.
Piers jolts awake, blinks blearily, shifts his arm, albeit slowly. Chris is grateful they’re back, and is surprised that Piers says nothing of being in his apartment building until they’re at the fifth floor in the elevator – he lifts his head, looking very much like a deer in the headlights, especially with his big, hazel eyes cloudy with sleep. The nurses had given him something to ease the pain, and he’s clearly still a little under.
“Captain?” he asks – uncertain. Even alarmed. Chris rests a hand on his good shoulder, offers him a kind smile.
“Relax,” Chris says, and Piers does, blinking at him. “You hungry?”
The drugs given to him by the nurses must be amazing, because Piers sits on the couch when he’s guided to, eats his egg and bacon sandwich without a word of complaint, swallows some pain tablets with juice when they’re offered, and then allows himself to be brought to the bedroom. He’s never been so agreeable before.
He only balks when Chris sits him on the bed, then starts to undress him slowly. This is different than it has been, before, Piers sitting on his bed in a sling, pupils still sluggish from the pain meds. Chris is starting to think they had some sedative in them.
“I can-” Piers is struggling to get up, clearly intending on using the couch as he always has.
“No,” Chris says gently.
He settles in for a deep sleep, and he’s in one when Piers starts to yell – at first, incoherently, enough to wake him up, and Chris says, “Piers, c’mon, you’re alright-”
Piers can’t hear him. He thrashes, violently, lands a lucky kick to Chris’s shin, powerful enough to make him gasp with pain. “Shoot it!” he yells. “Chris, shoot it, fucking shoot it, it’s right there-”
Chris is mindful of his shoulder as he pins him, almost facedown, to the bed – Piers struggles, enormously strong for the fear coursing through him, and Chris resumes pleading with him. “Piers,” he calls helplessly. “Piers, wake up, kid, c’mon-”
The kid’s eyes open but he’s still struggling, breathing like a racehorse, and Chris snaps, “Soldier!” not expecting it to work – but it does, and Piers calms as suddenly as he’d flipped out, sags into the mattress.
“Chris?” he asks, voice oddly quiet after all the yelling.
Chris closes his eyes for a moment, relieved, and Piers struggles to sit up – says something about being sorry, sleeping on the couch. He does manage to sit upright – Chris slides close enough to grab him, wraps his arms around his shoulders, pulls him in close. It’s only then that he notices how hard Piers is trembling. Whatever he dreamed about, it scared the shit out of him.
“Don’t,” Chris pleads, after he’s sure Piers isn’t going to struggle or protest again. He squeezes, a little, desperate to alleviate the shaking he can still feel. “Stay here. Contact helps. It really does.”
Piers stays. Chris rests his forehead against the nape of his neck, feeling the cold sweat beaded there. Piers doesn’t say anything, hardly moves – he doesn’t stop shaking, and after a few minutes, Chris begins to worry that it’s something to do with his injury.
He leans back, just a bit, slides his hand up under Piers’ t-shirt, rubs his back in even, smooth motions. Kid is definitely still shaking. “Hey,” he says, softly, and Piers twitches a bit – the worry congeals in his stomach like off milk. “That bad, huh?” he murmurs.
He feels Piers swallow, again and again, thinks he might be sick – but he doesn’t move, stays where he is.
“Okay,” Chris says, keeping his voice low – he kisses Piers’ shoulder tentatively, and the shaking seems to ease up a bit. “That’s okay, Ace. You don’t have to talk. Whatever it was… you’re okay here.” He’s never seen Piers like this, not after being nearly killed in Afghanistan, not after their worst missions, not after losing people. Maybe it’s all come on at once, as these things tend to. He reminds himself to speak to the psychs about it, try to get Piers in for a voluntary session. Everyone cracks sometimes.
“You’re safe,” he adds, unsure of what else to say.
It seems to work, oddly, the simplest words he has to offer, because Piers finally relaxes – Chris braces his weight, lets the kid lean back into him. A hand even comes up to hold Chris’s wrist, and then he kisses it – the heel, the only soft part left.
I gotta tell him, Chris realises. It’s been five – nearly six – years, and they’re still fucking and pretending it isn’t happening in daylight hours. Piers deserves more than being his dirty secret.
In the morning, he promises himself, as he pulls them both over – they’re lying down and Piers rolls over to face him, tucks his face up near his chest, where he can’t possibly be breathing all that well. Their legs slot together neatly, and Piers says nothing. His left hand is tapping out a rhythm against Chris’s shoulder blade – he does that sometimes, a near unnoticeable tic that only happens when he’s nervous.
He vows to tell Piers in the morning, but when morning comes, Piers is still asleep and looks exhausted, black bags under his eyes and pale, and there’s a voicemail on Chris’s phone. He’s being deployed. Barely time to pack. They’re sending a car for him, it’s that urgent.
He’s a coward. Always has been where his personal life is concerned. He waits until he’s halfway to the B.S.A.A base to message Piers, telling him to stay as long as he wants. As he gets on the plane with the other members of Alpha, there’s a hole at his side that can’t be filled, and he imagines Piers – in his bed, hopefully still resting.
There’ll be time when he comes back.