Fic: Honorable Discharge, Band of Brothers, Lipton/Speirs

[nakeno]

Title: Honorable Discharge
Author: Nakeno
Pairing: Lipton/Speirs
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: I own nothing and this certainly isn't meant to disrespect anyone.
Summary: Because he's not his captain. Not right now he isn't. He's just an officer. And Lipton is just a civilian.
A/N: So, myself and a very dear, very lovely friend of mine by the name Casey Lerie were watching Band of Brothers. As you do. And I mentioned that, in Haguenau, Lipton had been injured by a mortar shell. While he was a civilian. A civilian for a day, Feburary 15th. To which she replied: “And then Speirs plies him with liquor. 'Wanna be an Army wife?'” ... So. How do you not write that? This, Casey, is so very much for you. <3

I fiddled with the time-line a little so I could work the ending-- Lipton actually was a civilian when he was wounded.



He doesn't wake with a hangover. He'd been scared of that, it being his first taste of anything alcoholic, his first taste of being drunk.

Maybe it has something to do with already being sick. His fever was broken, his cough extremely less severe-- near nonexistent, in fact-- so maybe the relief from that was masking his other symptoms.

Whatever the case, he didn't feel hungover and thus assumes he isn't. And he's grateful. Lewis Nixon makes it seem rather easy, as if it's simply his own mild way of being. Welsh bitches and grumbles some, but in good humor. But he's seen men the morning after groaning, all tattered around the edges like sheafs of paper, and dragging themselves off to a bush to retch.

Lipton feels no urge to retch. There aren't any bushes about, anyway.

What there's plenty of in Haguenau is rubble. Rubble and tension. Tension so thick even Georgie Luz's voice seems oddly subdued mid-joke, and his attitude is fickle. He's been over-seeing the new rations as they come in, helping Vest divvy things up between the units.

They're miserably cheated with the finer things; the finer things mostly being chocolate and smokes. He gets one of each, anyway, thanks to Luz, who slips it into Lip's musette bag with a wink and a grin.

Smoking, Lipton has learned, is a newly born habit of his. He didn't think it would be when he started-- huddled with Luz in a foxhole outside Bastogne, staring at the still-smoking dud of a shell, sitting on the lip of dirt in front of their faces-- now he just can't seem to stop.

Of course, coughing up a lung with every puff has pretty much curbed the frequency with which he's bummed a cigarette from anyone.

Now, though, with the tension of the upcoming mid-night patrol hanging heavy in the air, Lipton's fingers itch for one. He's standing in the command post with a cup of coffee to warm his hands, but his eyes keep ticking to his gear there on the sitting sofa (where he'd spent the entirety of yesterday), where Luz had stashed those Lucky Strikes for him.

He's supposed to report to the aid station first thing. And he will. Directly. He's no longer shaking, his fever gone, and he feels far more alert and aware. His chest doesn't hurt, though it feels a little tight still. Nothing he can't handle.

He decides on one more swallow of coffee before he shuffles over to his things, digging out that pack of smokes and tucking it into his pocket. Luz catches him, grinning, but shaking an admonishing finger at him as well. Lip smiles back, shrugging sheepishly.

The morning air is damp and cool, but not nearly so much as it would have been had he not slept in. And slept in he had. Plied with liquor, drunk for the first time and still tasting apples, he'd slept deep and hard.

In a bed, even. Though, he still feels guilty about that. Considering it rightly belonged to his commanding officer. To Captain Speirs. With whom he'd been sharing a room.

He tries to remember the night before, but most of it escapes him. Lost in the murky depths of sickness and alcohol in his memory.

He remembers Luz. Luz who had nudged him awake after he'd fallen asleep with his coffee in his hands on the small sofa in the front room, pale and worn. George had helped him get up and gather his things, then had walked him into the back and down the hall to a small little room behind a white door.

Speirs had already been there, shucking out of his webbing suspenders, a cigarette dangling in his mouth.

Luz had made sure that blanket was around Lip's shoulders as he stood there, swaying and coughing into his hand, all but completely beyond miserable.

He remembers the two of them speaking, Luz and Speirs, but he doesn't remember the specifics, just the hush of their conferring voices. He just remembers Luz nodding and 'yessir'-ing and leaving the room double-time.

He also remembers noticing there was only one bed, and how he tried to haltingly explain that he would grab his sleeping gear in just a moment. As soon as he could see straight, though he'd made sure not to speak that part out loud.

“You're sick.” Is what he heard in response to that, though it sounded as if from underwater. His focus wasn't what it should have been, but he'd understood the concrete lining beneath that tone.

And the hand on his shoulder. Firm, but he'd been unable to feel the heat of it through the canvas of his fatigues. Probably because the warmth was negated by the burn of his own fever.

He couldn't have argued. He had been sick.

Still, it didn't justify a ranking officer not claiming the only bed in the room he happened to be sharing with a non-com.

However, sick or not, he knew better than to disobey an order that Captain Ronald Speirs had given.

Because, no illusions, it was, indeed, an order, that touch on his shoulder. It had remained settled there as he was shuffled to the bed, he remembers.

He'd been exhausted. Bone-deep, trembling, soul-ragged exhausted. And his captain had seemed to know it.

The bed had been small but not a hole in the earth or a hard pew in a candlelit church. And Lipton remembers falling into it with his boots on and all.

From there, things got even fuzzier-- the world registered as if through a piece of cracked, fragmented glass-- probably because he kept dozing off and then jerking himself awake again to cough and wheeze.

He remembers, briefly, Luz coming back and leaving again. Or had he? Now he wasn't so sure if he'd imagined it or not.

He remembers Speirs talking to him, his voice a low, pleasant rumble. Whatever his captain had to say, however, he cannot remember.

Somehow, though, his boots had gotten taken off and he'd gotten placed under the blankets rather than atop them. And, from somewhere, Speirs had produced a glass that Lipton had been under the impression contained water. If he'd known better, he wouldn't have been so greedy with his first swallow.

He'd sputtered and coughed magnificently from that first sear of alcohol. Speirs had swept the hair back from his brow with that cool hand and shushed him, informed him to take it slow.

He remembers that now. Quite clearly. He figures it's shame that makes him blush the way he does, so he shoves the thought away and digs out that pack of Lucky Strikes, plucking at the cellophane until it comes loose.

After he rips back the foil, he taps out a single cigarette into his hand and stows the rest into a pocket, pressing his one between his lips. Then he pauses, two seconds away from turning back inside to find Luz.

“Here.”

He turns to the owner of that voice, peeking out from under the edge of his helmet.

“Captain,” he says politely, nodding.

Speirs already has a cigarette in his mouth, it's pretty much his default state, but he's holding out his lighter for Lipton. He takes it gratefully, smiling around the paper-covered tobacco.

“You look a hell of a lot better,” Speirs is saying as Lipton fusses with the lighter, getting it to light on his third try.

He nods readily, puffing smoke into tight lungs as he passes the Zippo back. Speirs is regarding him with approval in those sharp-hard eyes. His captain is without his helmet, but the ink-dark hair is coiffed and neatly combed.

“Yes, sir. I feel a sight better, too. Fever broke. Feel like I can breathe.”

“Glad to hear it-- I'm assuming you've checked in with the aid station?”

Lipton ducks his head, pulling his cigarette from his mouth, spitting paper slightly from the corner of it.

“Do it,” Speirs says before he can come up with an excuse.

“I will, sir.”

“See that you do.” It sounds pleasantly casual, but Lipton isn't fooled. Nothing about Speirs is casual, including his posture.

Speirs turns away to the door, getting a step before he moves back into Lipton's line of sight, tapping him on the chest with a slender finger. “Oh, and see that you get to those showers before they're packed up. A clean uniform will do you good.”

“Yes, sir. I will, sir.”

He notices that Speirs has already availed himself of the showers, his uniform the olive green they're supposed to be rather than the black of a sweat, dirt, and blood. He also notices that the dark shadows beneath his captain's eyes are obviously not smudges of ash or mud. Tonight, he would make sure that Speirs took the bed, no matter what anyone said.

“Good,” Speirs mutters, turning away again.

“Captain?”

Speirs turns back yet again, reaching up and plucking that cigarette from the corner of his mouth, flicking it heedlessly over the railing of the steps.

“I was just wondering, sir, considering how I'm feeling now, and I know I'm not yet an officer, but--”

“No.” The captain's expression doesn't change, but that voice sounds stonier.

“Sir?”

“Absolutely not.” That tone is unyielding. “You can over-see that things are ready for covering fire-- set up the mortars, make sure the machine gunners are in position-- other than that, you are to be here, away from the river. That's an order. Understood?”

Lipton stares at his C.O. for a long moment, wetting his lips before he nods, “Yes, sir. Understood, sir.”

Was it so unthinkable that he could run that patrol himself? He felt a hundred times better than he had in days. He was smoking and not coughing, no longer feverish and he was clear-eyed, that had to count for something. Apparently, not in the captain's book. So much for wanting to make himself useful.

Speirs grips his shoulder. Squeezes the once in what Lipton assumes is a placating manner. Then leaves him, the door thudding shut a definite end to the conversation.

Lipton sighs, flicking ash from his cigarette, shoulders hunched against the little breeze that trails through the wet-ruined streets.

“Yes, sir,” he repeats softly to himself. “Understood, sir.”

First things being first, he was going to take himself to the aid station. After that, maybe the showers. If he made sure to touch all the bases, perhaps Captain Speirs would soften in his opinion.

Then again, perhaps not.

**

He knows he has fucked up as soon as he sees Luz's eyes widen, dropping the radio receiver as he stands.

“Christ, Lip...”

“I'm fine, George. Really.”

“Which is what you always say,” Luz retorts, sounding testy as he's shaking loose a handkerchief and fumbling with his canteen.

Lipton can feel the blood trickling down the side of his face, along his jaw and down his throat, thick and sticky. He can feel the blood, but the wound doesn't hurt yet. Neither does the one at the nape of his neck where he can feel a pressure that tells him something foreign has lodged itself there.

He shouldn't have been there, he knows that. He should have been here, where he was ordered to be, but he hadn't been. Instead, he'd been out on the line, making sure everything had been in place for when the patrol was set to come back over the river. He knew he'd lingered too long before leaving.

He'd been on his way back to the command post when the first sound of machine gun fire sounded off in the night. He'd been on his way back when he could see the tracers arcing through the darkness. He'd been on his way back when the mortars began to fall. Everywhere. As abundant as rain. Shooting up brilliant fountains of dirt, stone, and shrapnel. One fell too close for comfort.

Instinct had told him to get down, and he had, that screaming sound of falling artillery near deafening, but the proximity of the shell had left a searing burn just by his ear and in the back of his neck even so. He was plastered anew with dirt and debris and drying blood. The smell was cloying and thick, almost sweet and definitely metallic and it seemed to numb the tip of his tongue like he'd been sucking on a spoon for too long.

At least he'd been the only one in the streets at the time. No one was seriously injured. Not yet, anyway.

Luz bids him to sit and so he sits, shoulders slumping. There's still the onslaught of gunfire and artillery going on near the front line of the river, the thunderous sounds muffled and distant, but still audible through the walls of the C.P. His face scrunches when George dabs at the side of his face with a wet handkerchief that, in reality, is probably as dirty as he is. But he appreciates the gesture.

They're quiet for a moment together, alone, having long ago learned that a brush with death is usually best met with silence or a joke.

Finally, Luz sighs, “The captain was looking for you.”

“Great.” Really great. Beyond perfect, even.

“I didn't know you'd gone so I didn't know what to tell him. Sorry.”

“It's all right. Not your fault.”

“Right, because Speirs would have taken it for a tragic turn of events rather than a disobeyed order if you'd gotten your head taken off.”

Lipton sighs, wincing a bit. “He'll probably take my head off anyway.”

“Probably,” George agrees, almost cheerfully.

“It still wouldn't have been your fault.”

“You explain that to him, huh?”

Lipton smiles slightly, huffing out a breath when Luz pats him on the back, standing from where he'd crouched next to Lip's sitting position.

“You best get that bandaged up before--”

Before what happens happens. Lipton can tell in the way the door slams shut, in the way the captain moves in that tight, barely controlled way that he is, indeed, about to get his head taken off.

Someone, obviously, had learned of Lipton's over-stayed welcome at the edge of the river. Had been concerned enough by where his position might be when the artillery began to fall to come back to the command post in search of him.

Luz lingers at his side for a second, apparently willing to make a last stand with Carwood next to him. Lipton moves to his feet double-time, though, nudging the other almost imperceptibly to get back on that radio, as much as he appreciated the sentiment. Besides, he didn't need an audience for this.

Lip keeps his eyes straight forward, his arms stiff at his sides, his body at rigid military attention. Speirs paces in front of him, unable, it seems, to speak at first. And that can't be good.

“First Sergeant Lipton.” Cold, smooth anger.

“Sir,” he makes sure to say it sharply.

“Last I recall, I gave you an order.”

“Yes, sir. I remember, sir.”

That, it seems, was the wrong thing to say because he suddenly had the captain in his face, those keen eyes flashing and teeth bared and, for a second, Lipton thinks the other man is about to lay hands on him.

“You seem to have had trouble following it!”

“Yes, sir. I know, sir. I'm sorry, sir.”

“A lot of good your fucking sorry would have done me if you'd wound up dead.” The words are spit so harshly that Lipton flinches involuntarily, that lithe figure pacing before him in a contained, short pattern with the tight muscular control of a stalking wolf. He's still not sure that his commanding officer isn't about to grab him up. Or lay him out. Or both.

He's heard of Speirs' fits of anger. Has seen them first-hand. Has watched him dress-down incompetent soldiers mercilessly and, usually, with no regard to who was around. He knows what the captain's nickname is behind his back. It is the first time, however, he's seen this display of temper aimed at him.

Lipton keeps his eyes forward and waits it out.

It doesn't take long. The captain stops pacing and ducks his head, pinching at the bridge of his nose in that way Lip has seen him do on occasion, as if fighting off a tension headache. Speirs takes a heaving breath and turns to look at him again, that indifferent expression replacing that flare of anger once more.

Lipton remains perfectly still as his C.O. reaches out and lightly touches at the trail of darkened blood along Lip's jaw. He moves not even his eyes as Speirs studies his fingertips, rubbing them together after a moment of inspection, then wiping them off on his own pants' leg.

There's only one word for the way Speirs sounds when he speaks again: tired.

“Go get patched up.”

“Sir,” he responds, snapping off a salute.

Speirs' features tighten with displeasure, gesturing, “For Christ's sake, don't salute, just fucking go.” The captain's tone of voice is gravelly and coarse, as if he'd taken to smoking one too many cigarettes that day.

“Just fucking go.”

So Lipton goes.

**

The aid station hadn't been as busy as he'd feared it might be, so he'd been able to have Roe give him a look. Roe who, in his rounded vowels and Cajun consonants, had informed Lipton that he did, indeed, have a piece of mortar shell lodged in his nape. A small piece, but it was there nonetheless.

Which meant he had to wait for a surgeon to take a look at him.

Not that it changed his over-all treatment in the end, as he was told that it was best to leave it where it was, to let it heal over, considering the position near his spine.

The blood and dirt was cleaned. The cuts bandaged. He was told he was lucky. Yet again.

On his way back to the command post, he'd plucked free the tape-held gauze from his face, as it itched and irritated him. He left the one on the back of his neck alone, deciding that it was the worst of the two.

It doesn't hurt. Not really. It's a little sore around the edges, but other than that, what really hurts is his pride.

He can't stop thinking of the way Speirs had come down on him, vicious and hard. The biting words. Basically thrashing him like he was one of those bumbling, incompetent replacements. It brought shameful color to his face, even now, sitting on the bed in the small back room they were sharing.

He was getting a commission. He was becoming a lieutenant. He'd been merely trying to do his part and gotten in the way of a mortar. It could have happened to anyone.

But it hadn't happened to anyone. It had happened to him.

He's still lost in this sort of thought when a knock jerks his head towards the door. The captain.

Lipton sits up fully, about to rise to his feet, but Speirs is motioning for him to stay seated, shaking his head.

There's a long moment of silence before Speirs pushes off the threshold, pulling the door shut behind him. It's then that Lipton notices the dark bottle that his C.O. is holding.

Speirs levels him with a flat look before he speaks.

“How's it feel?”

Lipton automatically reaches up to the bandage at the back of his neck.

“It's okay, sir.”

Speirs stares at him for a moment, and Lipton assumes it's because he's trying to call him out on a lie. However, the captain merely moves to sit next to him, patting and squeezing Lip's shoulder as he does so.

The bed dips, their knees touch. Lipton thinks nothing of it, blinking as Speirs reaches that bottle out to him. He takes it only after a moment's hesitation. His look is questioning. He wonders if this is some weird act of peace-making between the two of them.

Speirs' full mouth pulls up at the corners a little and Lipton is reminded of how his C.O. looks in candlelight; hard edges all softened at the corners.

“I meant, how's it feel to be a civilian?”

Lipton blinks. Ducks his head a little closer, voice low. “Sir?”

Speirs reaches out and taps the bottom of the liquor bottle with a finger and Lipton proceeds to take a swallow, holding back a grimace. The bottle is passed back.

“You're officially a civilian, Lipton. Until tomorrow.”

Oh. Oh.

His commission. His commission has finally come in.

“I--...” He doesn't know what to say at first, blinking.

Speirs gives that softening half-smile again, showing a fine fan of lines at the corners of his eyes.

“Came through today,” his captain explains with a nod toward the floor. “You were discharged this morning. Tomorrow, you'll be a lieutenant.” Speirs takes a swallow from the bottle, the lip of it wet and glistening in the light as he passes it back, elbowing Lipton gently. “Congratulations.”

“Th-thank you, sir...” As if he doesn't quite believe it. He takes a swallow from the bottle, feeling that burn of alcohol down his throat, warming his stomach.

“Lipton?”

He turns his head, wetting his lips as he reaches the liquor out, feeling the brush of calloused, cooler fingertips over his own.

“Sir?”

“Civilians don't say 'sir.'”

“...Yes. I know. But I'm not a civilian.”

“You are tonight.”

Lipton takes a minute to process that.

“Huh. Well, it doesn't feel much different, to be honest, Ron.” He can't recall ever calling Speirs by his first name before. He doesn't recall Speirs ever smiling quite so warmly at him before, either.

Speirs looks away from him after a moment of eye contact goes on too long. Again, his captain seems softer somehow. More vulnerable. Candlelit.

The dark head ducks, studying the bottle of liquor he holds, a dirty fingertip passing across the opening once, twice-- before he takes a long swallow. Speirs coughs softly and Lipton smiles a little, accepting the bottle back when it's given.

Speirs settles back on the bed on both elbows, stretched out but still somehow stiff of spine, one foot rocking back and forth on the heel of a boot. Speirs rubs under his nose and Lipton takes another swallow of sweet-hot alcohol, which now is reaching thin tendrils of heat into his limbs. Lightening him all over. He likes the sensation.

Lipton is sitting forward, his arms on his knees, hunched over and enjoying the relaxed atmosphere between himself and his commanding officer. It's almost comfortable. It's almost friendly.

“Is this what the bottle is for?”

Speirs nods, sucking his teeth briefly. “Mm-hm. Celebrating.”

“I have cigarettes?”

“Well, cigars would be more appropriate, but by all means.”

Lipton can't keep the smile from his face as he digs through his pocket, pulling out the half smashed pack of Lucky Strikes that Luz had given him that morning.

Speirs sits up, bottle dangling between his knees, watching Lip tap out two from the pack. Speirs reaches into his own front pocket to produce a lighter as Lipton presses both cigarettes between his lips and puts his pack away.

The clink of metal is the only sound aside from their breathing.

It takes Speirs more than one try to produce a flame, cupping it with his free hand as Lipton leans in, inhaling to get the ends of the smokes to light.

His captain lets the flame dance and flicker for a moment after he's pulled back before finally shutting the metal with a snap.

Whatever the rumors, Lipton likes this man. Respects him. Thinks quite a bit of him, to be honest. He's a good leader. Hell of a soldier. That was half the reason why he'd felt so utterly stupid when Speirs had berated him, he felt as if he'd let the man down.

Lipton takes the extra cigarette from his mouth, passing it over to waiting fingers. Again, he notices the calloused, cooler fingertips of his captain's against his own. He notices something else, too. Something more intent than usual in those half-lidded eyes.

Speirs takes a drag from his gifted Lucky Strike without looking away from Lipton. He's being scrutinized and he can't help but wonder what, exactly it is, that Speirs is seeing, looking at him like that.

There's an underlying tension he can't name, but he thinks, wrongly, that it might have something to do with his captain's earlier outburst.

Lip reaches up and removes the cigarette from his mouth, puffing out smoke and smiling hesitantly. Speirs didn't smile back. Instead his captain takes a long swallow from the bottle and sets it aside without breaking eye contact.

He suddenly, inexplicably understands what that look is. And he can't look away. He's caught. Arrested. Held captive by those eyes.

Speirs wets his lips and leans in on him, head tilting.

Lipton breathes in sharp. A soft hiccup of sound from his surprise.

He's going to kiss him. He's sure of it.

He feels his skin flush warmly all over, having nothing to do with a few sips of liquor.

So he does what one does when they're about to be kissed; he closes his eyes, tilts his chin up, parts his lips in anticipation. Only, it doesn't come. He waits a few heartbeats, his brow furrowed. It's not until he opens his eyes again, meeting those green ones so close to his, that Speirs kisses him.

He'd been waiting for Lipton to look at him. Recognize who was about to taste him.

The thought makes him shiver. As does that first touch of wet tongue. Speirs licks lightly between his parted lips, but pushes no further, causing Lipton to squirm a little impatiently. He wanted it to happen. He wanted Speirs to kiss him, suddenly. He hadn't realized he'd wanted it before, but now he was nothing but aware of the fact. He'd wanted Speirs to kiss him as soon as he'd come in the room. Maybe even before that.

Speirs pulls away and Lipton's head moves forward an inch or two, trying to follow that mouth, not ready to yet break apart. He blushes at the look Speirs gives him because of it.

Lipton licks his lips, feeling the sudden urge to apologize as he watches his captain take a drag from his cigarette, eyes riveted to Lipton's mouth. Speirs gives a humorless stretch of lips, dropping his burning Lucky Strike to the floor and smashing it out with the toe of his boot.

Lipton barely has time to put his out before Speirs moves in, fluid and fast. Bird-of-prey. Dominating in nature. Lip's hands go to his captain's suspenders, clutching material and metal. The rough stubble around Speirs' mouth irritates, but Lipton barely notices. What he's noticing first and foremost is the feel of Speirs' tongue in his mouth, wet and supple and searching him out.

He breathes in thick through his nose, smelling alcohol, nicotine, dirt, and dried sweat. It all coalesces into something oddly arousing.

Or it could be the way Speirs is kissing him like he's bought and paid for that's causing that heat to flood through him, far more potent than those few tastes of liquor ever could be.

He likes the way his captain pets carefully over the bandage on his nape, smooths down his hair and lets those long fingers trace over an ear while all the time kissing him senseless. He tastes like alcohol and salt and cigarettes. And something else, too. Something dark and forbidden. Something male.

Lipton's never kissed a man before. He decides it's not nearly as unappealing as he might have once assumed. In fact, the constriction of his underwear is telling him that it's a lot more than just not unappealing.

He's never been this hard this fast over one kiss before. Of course, it's one hell of a kiss.

One hell of a kiss that leaves him breathless when Speirs pulls back a little, giving him time to catch much-needed air. His hands are still clenched around those suspender straps, his eyes still closed as he licks his lips, catching any lingering hint left behind.

“How's it suit you now? Being a civilian?” His captain's voice is rough and low, warming him pleasantly.

Lipton blinks his eyes open slowly. Speirs is watching him intently, those eyes brightened and curious and dilated. His captain's mouth is slightly reddened.

It suddenly becomes clear to him, why Speirs is allowing this. Doing this at all. Discharged. He is technically discharged from the Army at this moment in time. He's not owned by the military right here, right now. Not on paper, anyway. There's nothing they could do to him right now if he were to be caught with his captain's tongue in his mouth. Because he's not his captain. Not right now he isn't. He's just an officer. And Lipton is just a civilian.

His own voice is a little hoarse when he speaks, “I'm finding it a lot nicer than I thought it was going to be...”

“That so, huh?”

“Yes. A lot... a lot nicer.”

It must be the right answer, because Speirs kisses him again, hot and demanding. Lipton yields with embarrassing ease, giving a muffled whimper as he's once again flooded with heat and want. His toes curl inside his boots, his body sways toward his commanding officer's. He feels light all over and he knows he didn't drink enough to be drunk.

He wonders, then, if Speirs thought that maybe he had to be in order to get this from him. Tell him about his upcoming commission, drill home the idea that he was a civilian, get him drunk, kiss him stupid: it was a pretty good plan.

Lipton sucks lightly on that tongue, feeling Speirs' hands tighten on his shoulder and arm, hauling him that much closer. He pulls his head back, panting. Speirs looks a little baffled as Lipton breaks the seal of their lips, clarity coming when Lipton tries to twist toward him.

Arms go around him, then, strong and confident. Lipton's hands scramble around to fist material at the shoulderblades, holding on as Speirs eased him back against the bedding.

His captain pulls from him for a moment, standing, urging Lipton's legs up on the bed and coming back down to rest on a knee, the other sliding between Lipton's own. Speirs supports himself on his hands as he leans in, a soft growl released into Lipton's mouth when their lips meet again. It's a bewilderingly hot sound, causing him to shift and tug at the other. Wanting him closer.

He gets what he wants as Speirs rolls his hips down against Lipton's own. Oh, Christ-- he likes that. A lot. His thighs part instinctively wider, giving room. Speirs huffs against his mouth, bites into his bottom lip. Approving.

Lipton stretches and groans, tugging at his commanding officer eagerly. Wanting to feel the weight of him, the warmth of him, wanting him on him. Hell, maybe even in him. He can feel his face heat up spectacularly at the thought. Whatever message Lipton is sending, he makes damn sure it isn't 'stop.'

He can feel lips against his cheek and jaw, sliding down to his throat. Soft suction makes him gasp and writhe. He wants. Fuck, does he want. He's not even sure what all he wants, he just does.

Speirs, however, must have a better idea of what Lipton's desires are because he's feeling him up along the insides of his thighs, through his trousers. He's touching him, rubbing the hardness of him through his clothes, making him jerk and curse and whimper.

“Please,” Lipton hears himself saying, all breathless and tight.

It's nigh on embarrassing. But, embarrassing or not, it works because Speirs is hurriedly sitting back on his knees, peeling off his webbing suspenders, undoing his belt, his equipment clattering to the floor when he tosses it over the edge of the bed.

Next, the captain is using deft fingers to undo the front of Lipton's pants, and Lipton can't breathe. He does lift his hips, though, encouraging Speirs every step of the way. They're going at this too hard, too fast for it to last long, but Lipton doesn't mind. As long as he gets there, that's all he wants. As long as he gets there with Speirs.

He's never seen the captain looking quite so earnest before, his eyes dark-bright, his lips red and wet, his hair mussed and his stubbled face looking something other than pale. Arousal, Lipton decides, looks very good on Ron Speirs.

He can't imagine what he himself looks like, but whatever it is, Speirs seems to approve wholeheartedly if the way in which his mouth is claimed is anything to go by.

His fingers are in his captain's hair, his blunt nails digging in lightly at the nape and Speirs is tilting his head to the side some, allowing that kiss to deepen and linger. Half distracting Lipton as fingers slip down the front of his open trousers, pushing aside underwear and brushing bare skin.

Lip goes tense all over, gasping sharply, and Speirs freezes. Nuzzles him slightly. Laps across the already wet seam of his lips.

“Do you want me to stop?” How does he sound so calm as all that when Lipton's world is spinning?

He releases a breath he didn't realize he was holding. He tugs at the captain's over-jacket. He shakes his head readily, breathing labored.

And then Speirs' gloriously supple-fingered hand is around his cock, stroking him neatly. They're tangled together on top of the bed. They still have their boots on. Speirs' clothes aren't even loosened and he's jerking Lipton off like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Jerking him off and watching him. Speirs is staring at him with those half-lidded eyes, drinking in his every feature and Lip can feel himself blushing even darker under the unblinking gaze.

The captain's free hand is brushing his hair back from his brow, and he has flashes from the night before. Speirs petting at him, Speirs 'shh'ing quietly, telling him to take it slow-- much like he's doing now, for whole different reasons, and it's driving Lipton absolutely mad with need.

He jerks his hips up into Speirs' fist on the downstroke, finding a rhythm between their movements and letting it carry him.

He can't stop moving, can't stop his breath from hiccuping or his throat from releasing hot little sounds of pleasure, cut off whimpers and whines, aborted moans.

Captain Speirs touches at his face, threads his fingers through Lip's fine-textured hair, soothing him and muttering to him. Things like 'that's it' and 'come on' and 'there you go' and 'I got you.' Things that make Lip's eyes roll back into his head and his spine curve upward into the weight of the other's body, into the feel of that tight-sure hand.

“Oh, Christ,” Lip whines when he knows he can't take anymore.

Everything goes red-white behind his tightly closed eyes and his body shakes and shudders without his consent, both hands clutching at Speirs' shoulders. Needy and wanton and desperate, Lipton comes. Wet and hot. Gasping all the way.

Speirs kisses him possessively before he even has a chance to catch his breath.

He moans into it softly, breathing thick through his nose as his chin tips up for better access. After a minute or so, he can feel Speirs' hand slip out of his underwear.

It causes him to open his eyes, to take in what's going on with as much focus as he can. When he does, he bites his bottom lip and his already flushed face flushes more so. Speirs is studying his coated fingers, his expression neutral.

Lip swallows, shifting with embarrassment. The movement catches his captain's gaze. He feels the urge to apologize again, but doesn't get that far. Not with Speirs moving atop him like that, settling and adjusting, parting his thighs over one of Lipton's own and rocking downward-- Lip can feel him through their clothes, hot and hard.

He doesn't wait for a suggestion or order, he just does it. He reaches down and opens the front of those trousers and slips his hand inside.

His stomach tightens and warms anew from the small grunt of surprise his commanding officer gives. Speirs' eyelids get heavier, his wet lips parted, his brow knitting somewhat in concentration before that head dips forward and Lip can feel his captain breathing thickly against his throat.

Lipton tips his head up, letting that forehead settle into the nook of shoulder and neck, letting Speirs relax as Lip takes control of the situation. Takes control of him. With a single hand. A single hand and his commanding officer is all but his.

Uncertain of himself, he adjusts his grip on that silky-hard skin and begins to stroke. Slowly. Then with a little more confidence, especially after those hips roll forward into his grip, encouraging him. It's pleasantly warm and confined inside those clothes as he's working his fist, getting used to the angle.

And Speirs' breath catches when Lipton passes a thumb across the wetness at the head.

A hand clenches into his jacket at his side, the other is gripping the side of the mattress, that face still ducked against his throat. Lipton uses both hands himself; one around Speirs' cock and the other petting over that dark hair.

He wants to be soothing and capable. Like the captain had been when he was bringing him off. His captain. Captain Speirs. Had gotten him off. Him. And now he was returning the favor.

All because he was a civilian. Jesus, lucky civilian bastards. If he'd known civilian status came with this... He wonders what exactly went into being an Army wife. The idea made him grin, giddy with release and high on the fact that he's bringing his commanding officer off. With his hand.

Speirs shudders against him, quiet for the most part but not still, shifting and beginning to thrust faster. Lip can feel that breath speeding up against his neck and he has the sudden urge to kiss the other, ducking his head and nuzzling that face until it tips up. Until he can find Speirs' mouth with his own, slipping his tongue inside as he squeezed him.

And just like that, gripping each other, kissing warm and deep, he feels his captain start to spill over his fingers, shivering.

Oh, God, but he likes that. He really, really likes that. It's about the hottest thing he can imagine.

Speirs makes a quiet noise against Lip's red-swollen mouth, the only sound he makes aside from the rush of his breath as he comes.

Lip hums in return, kissing him repeatedly, stroking him through those last tremors of orgasm. He draws the moment out for as long as he can, knowing that the first thing his captain will do is get off him. He doesn't want that. Not yet.

It's unavoidable, though. Especially when Lip has to pull his hand out from those clothes in order to keep his wrist from cramping, following Speirs' earlier lead and wiping his fingers on an inconspicuous corner of the mattress.

There are dashes of pink at Speirs' cheeks and his hair is more mussed than it was before. Lipton smooths at it with an absent hand, earning a warm, satisfied look from his commanding officer.

Lip smiles timidly. He's not sure what any of this meant, if anything at all, but he'd do it all over again, of that much he's certain on.

“How's civilian life treating you, Lipton?” That voice is rough and a little rusty.

Lip smiles wider.

“Pretty fucking good, sir.”

It's the first time he's ever really heard the captain chuckle.

Speirs is efficient, as he always is, when he does up Lipton's pants. When he stands, it's somehow more graceful than Lip has ever given credit for it.

His captain puts his trousers to rights, smooths his hair, straightens his jacket, pulls on his belt of equipment and shrugs into his suspenders. One would never know it to look at him what he'd just been up to. Cool and calm. Only Lipton has seen him when he isn't, and the mere memory of it makes his face heat up.

Lipton is propped up on both elbows, watching that back as it heads for the door.

“Sir?”

Speirs turns to look back at him with no hesitation. Meets his eyes square-on.

“Tomorrow, sir...” He starts with a dip of his head. “You'll be there right, sir? At my commission?”

Speirs draws up his wrist, giving his watch a cursory look.

“Hell, Lipton,” his captain says without smiling. “You've been a second lieutenant for the past four hours now.”

Lipton sits staring at the door until his elbows begin to ache.