FIC: Disassembly
Disassembly
Fandom: The Eagle
Pairing: Esca/Marcus
Rating: NC17
The sinews flex in the back of Esca’s hand as he presses in the slide stop pin, and the slide stop comes away in his fingers. As he presses down the safety with his thumb to free the slide, the web between his thumb and forefinger blanches, showing up the slight hint of bruising from where the hammer bites on firing.
Marcus is, ostensibly at least, cleaning some persistent grime off the personal role radio he’s been carrying on ops for the last couple of days. In all honesty, he’s operating small-scale surveillance - well, that might be an overly appropriate way to put it. He’s watching.
Esca’s taking out the spring, and now the barrel. The gun, its magazine removed a minute or two ago, is now powerless, an empty shell stripped of its power and its danger. Esca’s hands are a different matter entirely. They move quickly, surely, slender nimble fingers with short, blunt nails teasing the gleaming components apart under the tent’s grim lighting.
Unable to stop his tongue flickering out over his lower lip, Marcus keeps his face lowered. Only his eyes give away how little attention he’s paying to the radio in his own hands.
The first clean is just a quick once-over with a cloth, a scrap torn from an old t-shirt. It looks gentle, but dirt comes away on the cloth even though Marcus has watched him clean this all too recently, so he must be rubbing hard.
The way he cradles the slide in his left hand as he runs the cloth over its inside makes Marcus swallow, his throat suddenly feeling dry. Esca’s palm must be warming the metal as the two work-worn surfaces find themselves touching again in familiar contact.
He has to avert his eyes for a moment. When he looks back, smelling solvent, Esca is pushing a thin cylindrical brush back and forth through the barrel, his grip on the brush handle and the barrel delicate and sure. The small sound the motion makes is loud within the canvas walls, despite the level of noise they’re both accustomed to on ops.
Once the slide assembly is cleaned and dried off, another bottle joins the solvent container on the bench. Esca sprays a little on the inside of the slide, and Marcus, who has watched him do this whole ritual too many times now, feels heavy anticipation in his stomach, and bites his tongue.
First, Esca strokes along the inside of the slide with one finger, smoothing out the lubricant he’s just sprayed on it, as if he only trusts his own skin to do the job properly. His touch lingers. Imagining that oiled finger elsewhere is too easy, and a glance at the look of fierce, almost loving concentration on Esca’s face doesn’t make it any more difficult.
The barrel is next. It takes only a couple of quick sprays before mechanical assistance is laid aside, and Esca’s fingertips encircle the cylinder. He strokes once, twice, quickly. Then slowly, and again, ending with a brief swirl around one end. Then it’s more lubricant and another brush, back and forth through the interior of the barrel.
Marcus is always sorry to see that Browning get reassembled, and he swears he can see the same feeling in Esca’s face. The barrel slots perfectly back into the slide, and the spring fits on to the receiver to be covered by the slide. All too soon, the intimate workings are dressed once more, and the click of the safety and the slide stop pin are like zips or buttons, sealing the end of the encounter.
---
“Miss Browning’s got nothing on you.”
Marcus spins, forgetting for a moment that the quartermaster wanted him to check something, so he’s supposed to be lurking in the back of the stores. He very much doubts that Esca has a similar excuse.
Late, he realises something’s been said to him. “...What?”
“God knows I love her,” Esca gestures casually in the direction of his belt, “but I bloody hope you don’t think metal and grease’s all I’m into.”
Marcus blinks like an idiot. It feels like the thing to do right now. “Um, Corporal, I’m not sure I follow.”
Esca rolls his eyes, but the look he then directs at Marcus is so similar to how he looked at his half-naked gun that it makes Marcus’ breath hitch. He takes a step closer, and hooks a finger into Marcus’ belt. “Well, Captain, maybe I should stick my hand in your pants and show you.”
“Maybe you should.” The words leave Marcus’ mouth before he’s really aware of them, but he’s not sorry. He really hopes Esca left the safety on, though.
Then his belt’s undone and Esca’s making good on his offer, and God he wishes he could see what Esca’s fingers are doing to him. But soon he’s too busy biting his own fist, trying not to make a noise, unable to think.
If the way Esca touches his gun is too good, too quick, then the way he touches Marcus is intolerably so. When one finger smoothes evenly back over his balls, Marcus nearly chokes trying to keep himself quiet, and that little swirl at the end of the next stroke is his undoing.
He battles to catch his breath, and Esca takes half a step back, carefully freeing his hand. Marcus is waiting, dimly mindful of the way Esca always gets the lubricant off his fingers with a quick spray of solvent and a wipe with a cloth.
Without looking away from his darkened eyes, Esca lifts his hand, come smeared across his palm, and licks it away. When it’s done, he refastens Marcus’ belt, and lets his hands linger. His voice is husky. “More responsive than a semi-automatic, too.”
Sequel, Hollow-point, is here (part 1 of 2)
Fandom: The Eagle
Pairing: Esca/Marcus
Rating: NC17
The sinews flex in the back of Esca’s hand as he presses in the slide stop pin, and the slide stop comes away in his fingers. As he presses down the safety with his thumb to free the slide, the web between his thumb and forefinger blanches, showing up the slight hint of bruising from where the hammer bites on firing.
Marcus is, ostensibly at least, cleaning some persistent grime off the personal role radio he’s been carrying on ops for the last couple of days. In all honesty, he’s operating small-scale surveillance - well, that might be an overly appropriate way to put it. He’s watching.
Esca’s taking out the spring, and now the barrel. The gun, its magazine removed a minute or two ago, is now powerless, an empty shell stripped of its power and its danger. Esca’s hands are a different matter entirely. They move quickly, surely, slender nimble fingers with short, blunt nails teasing the gleaming components apart under the tent’s grim lighting.
Unable to stop his tongue flickering out over his lower lip, Marcus keeps his face lowered. Only his eyes give away how little attention he’s paying to the radio in his own hands.
The first clean is just a quick once-over with a cloth, a scrap torn from an old t-shirt. It looks gentle, but dirt comes away on the cloth even though Marcus has watched him clean this all too recently, so he must be rubbing hard.
The way he cradles the slide in his left hand as he runs the cloth over its inside makes Marcus swallow, his throat suddenly feeling dry. Esca’s palm must be warming the metal as the two work-worn surfaces find themselves touching again in familiar contact.
He has to avert his eyes for a moment. When he looks back, smelling solvent, Esca is pushing a thin cylindrical brush back and forth through the barrel, his grip on the brush handle and the barrel delicate and sure. The small sound the motion makes is loud within the canvas walls, despite the level of noise they’re both accustomed to on ops.
Once the slide assembly is cleaned and dried off, another bottle joins the solvent container on the bench. Esca sprays a little on the inside of the slide, and Marcus, who has watched him do this whole ritual too many times now, feels heavy anticipation in his stomach, and bites his tongue.
First, Esca strokes along the inside of the slide with one finger, smoothing out the lubricant he’s just sprayed on it, as if he only trusts his own skin to do the job properly. His touch lingers. Imagining that oiled finger elsewhere is too easy, and a glance at the look of fierce, almost loving concentration on Esca’s face doesn’t make it any more difficult.
The barrel is next. It takes only a couple of quick sprays before mechanical assistance is laid aside, and Esca’s fingertips encircle the cylinder. He strokes once, twice, quickly. Then slowly, and again, ending with a brief swirl around one end. Then it’s more lubricant and another brush, back and forth through the interior of the barrel.
Marcus is always sorry to see that Browning get reassembled, and he swears he can see the same feeling in Esca’s face. The barrel slots perfectly back into the slide, and the spring fits on to the receiver to be covered by the slide. All too soon, the intimate workings are dressed once more, and the click of the safety and the slide stop pin are like zips or buttons, sealing the end of the encounter.
---
“Miss Browning’s got nothing on you.”
Marcus spins, forgetting for a moment that the quartermaster wanted him to check something, so he’s supposed to be lurking in the back of the stores. He very much doubts that Esca has a similar excuse.
Late, he realises something’s been said to him. “...What?”
“God knows I love her,” Esca gestures casually in the direction of his belt, “but I bloody hope you don’t think metal and grease’s all I’m into.”
Marcus blinks like an idiot. It feels like the thing to do right now. “Um, Corporal, I’m not sure I follow.”
Esca rolls his eyes, but the look he then directs at Marcus is so similar to how he looked at his half-naked gun that it makes Marcus’ breath hitch. He takes a step closer, and hooks a finger into Marcus’ belt. “Well, Captain, maybe I should stick my hand in your pants and show you.”
“Maybe you should.” The words leave Marcus’ mouth before he’s really aware of them, but he’s not sorry. He really hopes Esca left the safety on, though.
Then his belt’s undone and Esca’s making good on his offer, and God he wishes he could see what Esca’s fingers are doing to him. But soon he’s too busy biting his own fist, trying not to make a noise, unable to think.
If the way Esca touches his gun is too good, too quick, then the way he touches Marcus is intolerably so. When one finger smoothes evenly back over his balls, Marcus nearly chokes trying to keep himself quiet, and that little swirl at the end of the next stroke is his undoing.
He battles to catch his breath, and Esca takes half a step back, carefully freeing his hand. Marcus is waiting, dimly mindful of the way Esca always gets the lubricant off his fingers with a quick spray of solvent and a wipe with a cloth.
Without looking away from his darkened eyes, Esca lifts his hand, come smeared across his palm, and licks it away. When it’s done, he refastens Marcus’ belt, and lets his hands linger. His voice is husky. “More responsive than a semi-automatic, too.”
Sequel, Hollow-point, is here (part 1 of 2)