He was used to it. Being alone was what being in command was all about. But it didn't mean he had to like it. "Well, I'll be damned if it isn't Captain Steele," said a richly amused voice beside him, and Steele looked up, surprised, into Sergeant Jeff Sanderson's flashing blue eyes. "Ain't found a way to kill you yet, I take it?" "Not yet," Steele replied, grinning from ear to ear as he slid from his stool to give Sanderson a hard, firm handshake that turned into a hard, firm hug when Sanderson stepped forward, pressing against him for a brief moment. They drew apart, both still smiling and took the measure of the other. Jeff fucking Sanderson, of all people... "Still bald," Sanderson remarked. "Still undisciplined," Steele replied, nodding pointedly at Sanderson's decidedly unmilitary haircut. "How you been, cowboy?" "Can't complain, can't complain." Sanderson gestured at the stool next to Steele's. "Buy ya a beer?" "Throw in a shot of Cuervo and you've got yourself a deal." It was dead crazy, man, given how badly they'd rubbed against each other last year in Somalia (and had it really only been a year? felt like a lifetime, felt like no time), but Steele had to admit he was glad to see a familiar face. Someone who'd been there. Someone who knew. "Merry Christmas," Sanderson said, and passed a brimming shot glass to Steele. He raised his own in salute, waited for Steele to do the same. "To surviving another year." "To surviving," Steele echoed and watched the flex of Sanderson's throat as he tossed back his shot in one smooth swallow. "What brings you to Ranger territory, anyway?" Steele asked when Sanderson handed him a fresh bottle of Bud. "You're a long way from Bragg." "Family in Phenix City, here for the holiday," Sanderson replied. "Thought I'd look for a few friendly faces while I was in the neighborhood." "Seen anyone else?" "You're it." "Lucky me." "Damn right," Sanderson laughed, and clinked their bottles together. "I don't buy just anyone Cuervo." Steele watched as Sanderson took a long sip of his beer and studied Steele from behind those cool blue eyes. Steele couldn't quite decipher the look, but he figured both of them were experts in secrets. "There's a booth back yonder if you feel like pulling up some wood," Steele finally said, when the silence got to be too much, turned from comfortable to crouching. Steele had no idea what they were both waiting for, but it never hurt to have a strategy. "Be more comfortable, at any rate." "Sounds good." Sanderson slid to his feet with a light grace that belied his rangy build. "Lead the way, Ranger." "All the way," Steele replied, and laughed because, really, the situation was so absurd. He didn't even like Sanderson had, in fact, cursed him (albeit silently, because he did have respect for the uniform and the men under him and for his place) from Mogadishu to Bonn to Columbus for his insubordinance and lack of respect for the chain of command. Just like a Delta, to think they were better than the rest of the boys in the field. But here he was, cozied against that same cursed Delta, in a booth in a bad dive bar on the loneliest holiday of the year, drinking shots and talking about everything and nothing, and it felt good. Like maybe they could have been friendly under different circumstances. The Mog had done more than steal young men's lives. But battle was good at stealing dreams, at twisting and reshaping until all that was left was the smell of gunpowder and an ache that never went away, no matter what you did or where you were. "So...really," Sanderson asked, during a lull in the conversation, and glanced at Steele from beneath impossibly long lashes. "How you been?" "What, since the Mog?" Steele picked up his new beer their sixth, not enough to be drunk, but enough so that the edges of the room were nicely fuzzed and gave the matter some thought. He knew what Sanderson was really asking. Knew just from the way that Sanderson was looking at him, looking through him, like he could see into him. It should have been uncomfortable. But it wasn't. "Yeah." "Don't try to think too much about it, really." Sanderson leaned in, close and intimate, hair falling into his eyes. Steele had an absurd urge to brush it back, just to feel the strands under his fingers, to feel contact with something that wasn't metal, something warm and alive. "You really think that lie'll work with me?" Steele smiled, and shook his head. "How about you?" "Took some leave after we buried Randy and Gary," Sanderson replied, and it sounded like each word was being torn from him with razor-sharp wires. Steele felt the familiar ache for the both of them. "Took awhile before the uniform made sense again." "Yeah," Steele replied, slow and soft. "Yeah." And because Sanderson had opened up, Steele knew it was only fair that he return the favor. "I've lost men before, but...I dunno. Ruiz...it took awhile." "I hear ya." Sanderson clinked their bottles together again, flickered a quick glance his way, impossibly blue and direct. And, in the close, breathless silence between them, Steele heard the question, assessed the risks and dismissed them just as easily. The only answer he was interested in was the one he saw reflected in the heat of Sanderson's eyes. "Got beer back at mine, if you're interested," he said, giving his own answer. Sanderson's eyes crinkled in amusement, open and warm for the first time. "I might be." *** They barely made it in the door. They crashed into the wall, violence and need crackling in each heated kiss, in the firm press of Sanderson's body against his, promising more. Steele wormed his hand in the miniscule space between them, unzipping Sanderson's jeans, hand firm on an eager cock, pressing tight, fisting hard and slick. His teeth closed over Sanderson's earlobe, warm, real, alive. "C'mon, cowboy, let's see how you ride." "Take more'n this to buck me." Sanderson was clawing at Steele's shirt, his shoulders, head thumping against the door, nose bumping Steele's as they clumsily came together for an uncoordinated kiss that tasted of malt and lime. "C'mon, do it." "Fuck..." Harder, faster, something he could control, something he could give. Gratitude and hatred and brotherhood all warred together, made coherent speech impossible, and he was reduced to the language of the field as his hand moved, lightning-quick, feeding off of Sanderson's moans like a benediction. This was the closest to God any of them would ever get. "That's it, that's it...Christ, Mike..." All twisted and fucked up, but it was real, this was real, just them, just Sanderson's voice, faltering encouragement, clawing need, Sanderson's cock, so warm and vibrant, this was all Steele would have, but he didn't need more. Their mouths met again, eager, wet, and Steele savored Sanderson's broken moans, his wordless plea as he stiffened, then shuddered in the protection of Steele's arms. When Sanderson opened his eyes and gave Steele a lazy smile, another question had already been asked and answered. "Yes," Sanderson said aloud, even though they both already knew. "Yes," Steele repeated, breathed, and lowered his lips to Sanderson's again. Tonight, for the first time since the Mog, since duty and death had robbed them of more than fellow soldiers, neither of them would be alone.
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