Chapter Text
It didn’t start with dreams. He thought maybe that would have been easier, if he’d been able to excuse everything as the result of the human subconscious, which was, after-all, notoriously unpredictable.
But it didn’t start with dreams.
It started with hands. One day he just…noticed them. The way they were held, where they were put. Holding things. He knew they were strong, and they looked it too. He hadn’t been thinking of it at the time, but he could remember. He could look back on their…scuffle and know that he knew that the man’s hands were strong.
Well, of course they were. Colonel Young was first and foremost a soldier. Strong hands connected to strong arms and strong shoulders. And knowing first hand how well they could grab and pin and strike, maybe it wasn’t so strange for the mind to wander and wonder how well they’d serve to…other purposes. If sometimes he’d be working at a console and the Colonel would enter the room and he’d sort of…feel his presence and imagine for a moment the sensation of those hands taking hold of him, guiding, groping. Would they be warm? Would they be calloused? Would they move with the same certainty, and would the hot breath on his skin feel the same as it had when…
Not so strange. To wonder.
He just wasn’t sure he should like it so much.
He was lying awake now. His eyes stared at the ceiling, unseeing. He was deftly aware of his skin, a familiar tight prickling skittering over him. Rush had never thought of himself as one of those men ruled by their libido. Long ago, he’d devoted himself to work, to passions of the mind. Not that he didn’t have urges, but sex was messy and people were complicated and the reward never quite managed to outweigh the risk.
Gloria had been different. Special. She had been his first and, though she was gone now, remained his only. He’d been content with that, falling back into old habits. Work. Work. Work. And when his body demanded attention, he gave it, quickly and as cleanly as possible.
Which he would be happy to do now if he could just get Colonel Young out of his head.
He’d never dwelled on fantasies, never found them integral to his life. Sometimes, when they’d had to spend nights apart, he’d imagined Gloria into his bed, and brought himself to release feeling her skin and breathing her scent. He always told her about it afterwards, whispering how much he’d missed her, and her lips would quirk in pleased amusement, kiss him deeply and then she’d lead him to bed and make all his dreams come true.
He’d tried it once since her death but it had left him sobbing into a pillow and he had not repeated the experiment. In any case, it was hardly necessary. He’d learned how to stumble through this particular physical response years ago. He didn’t need any assistance from anyone, real or imagined.
Especially not Colonel Young.
Letting out a restrained sigh, the fingers of his right hand rubbing against his thigh, he tried to vanquish him from his mind’s eye. But there he stayed, his face hovering above him, his uniform clad body fading into the darkness. Different features pulsed in and out of focus like a camera lens that couldn’t make up its mind. And Rush was under no illusion that this would dissipate if he just tried to ignore it and get on with things. He tried to conjure someone else, anyone else (save Gloria) but he didn’t have much practice and it just seemed awkward and disjointed. Finally, full of exasperated defeat, he flung himself onto his stomach with the intent ignoring the whole problem away and getting what sleep he could.
That was a mistake.
Now it was almost as though he could feel a presence. It loomed over him, warm and insistent. His breath caught in his throat and he squeezed his eyes tighter. There was nothing there. This was his own mind terrorizing him. But still…was that breath just behind his ear? A weight, light but solid, at the small of his back? He clenched his fists into his bed sheets, fearful of what his hands would do without supervision. But it didn’t seem to matter because that other hand, the phantom (Young’s) hand spread its fingers along his back and as it did he felt his body—held taught and rigid—relax. His breath let out, his brow softened, fingers loosened, toes uncurled, buttocks unclenched, and his legs fell open just slightly…
He sat up. No.
Minutes later he was at a console running numbers. There was always work to do, after all. He’d just have to do more of it until his little…problem got better.
It didn’t get better. It got worse.
He could barely be in the same room with the man without vulgar shapes and sensations skimming across his consciousness. And while he did everything to scratch them out as they occurred, like a needle yanked off a record, they just kept coming. It was ridiculous. Absurd. That he couldn’t stop it, that he was to be subjected to this…indignity, by his own rebellious brain no less, was unconscionable and he would not stand for it, he would not.
Unfortunately, he didn’t seem to have a choice. The moments he spent in proximity with that infuriating man were overshadowed in despicability only by the moments he spent alone. In the quiet, in the dark, that’s when his control was truly tested, held by the thinnest of threads. It was an itch, a damnable itch, that only grew as he refused to scratch it.
He wasn’t queer. Not that that mattered, it didn’t. Such semantics of convention weren’t his concern, certainly not here on the other side of universe. Maybe his body was simply craving a different type of sex, and yes, he’d never needed sex all that much in the past, but things change, people change. He just needed to adapt. It wouldn’t bother him, it wouldn’t, if it just wasn’t Young. Fine, a part of him has come to decide that good buggering sounds like a good idea, so what, but why him?
Maybe he’s what you need. Someone who won’t put up with you.
He snorted. Sometimes he thought he’d feel better about the whole thing if he could just understand why, but other times…other times he thought he would trade any possibility of understanding if the whole thing would just stop.
In any case, doing nothing wasn’t working. He was enough of a scientist to admit that. His plight was getting worse and he had no reason to believe it would get better. Not on it’s own. He needed to do something.
Anything.
He just needed to get Young out of his head. And if the itch was this persistent then maybe he should just…scratch. It. Get it out of his system. It wasn’t the most comfortable of prospects. But, well, it was. A prospect.
He grimaced. Still. He wasn’t nearly that desperate. Yet.
Four days later, he was that desperate.
He’d barely slept in two days. He’d been working non stop, which was fine, but even he could see he was on the edge of getting sloppy, and that he refused to do, not now, not for this.
As he stalked down the hallways he wondered if he’d regret this, but God knew he was past the point of caring.
He stopped outside the door to his destination. He just needed it to stop.
He knocked. Hard.
A moment later, the doors swished open. He looked up.
“I know it’s late.” He paused. “May I come in?”
Greer blinked back at him. Then, with a cocky grin, the moment was broken.
“Why not?” He said, and stepped aside.
He heard the door shut behind him as he scanned the room. Bed. Table. Chair. Small, like his. Not one of their ‘deluxe suites.’
“There something you wanted?”
He spun around.
“What?”
Greer leaned his back against the door, arms folded.
“That was pretty much my question.” Rush’s brow furrowed. Greer smirked. “You came to see me, remember?”
“Ah.” Rush took a breath, nodding. “Right.”
“So,” Greer said, leading. “What?”
Rush blinked.
Well.
“You have something a reputation,” he said abruptly.
Greer shrugged. “Sure.” Pause. “Care to be more specific?”
“Specifically,” he went on. “That you’ll fuck anything that lies down long enough.”
He could see the soldier’s eyes harden.
Good.
Greer glanced away in a little ‘who cares?’ motion. “Lying down’s not strictly necessary.” As he turned back to Rush he pushed off the door, pulling to his full height. “There something you want to say? Doctor?”
Rush’s heartbeat suddenly seemed rather loud.
“Just that,” he flicked his tongue against his teeth. “I was thinkin’ of having a lie down.”
Greer stared, then snorted. “You serious?” Rush just stared back. Greer face stilled. Then, very deliberately, he leaned in.
“I hate you.”
“I wasn’t aware likability was a requirement,” said Rush. “Certainly not more so than lying down—“
“I’m just saying,” Greer said brusquely, taking a step forward. “I’m not inclined to be nice to you.”
“That’s not a problem.”
A slight tilt of his head. “No?”
“No.”
There was a long pause. Then, his lip quirked, and Rush knew he had won.
“What the hell?” He walked past Rush to his duffel bag and rummaged around. He gestured toward the bed. “Go ahead, take your pants off.” Rush narrowed his eyes. Greer raised an eyebrow. “What, you expected romance?” He stood up, having found what he was searching for. Lube. A condom. Somehow, though unofficially, such things had managed to wriggle their way up the priority list and, with a little ingenuity, weren’t too hard to come by. “They’re gonna have to come off at some point.”
Rush’s gaze remained cold. “You first.”
Greer snorted, tossed his supplies on the bed, and undid his belt, then pushed his trousers down and stood, now in his underwear, with a flourish.
Rush sighed and began to undo his own. Once they both stood in their boxers, disentangled from shoes and socks, they looked at each other again. They’d both opted to keep their shirts on. Rush was fine with that.
It was here Greer showed his first sign of nervousness. He stood halfway between Rush and the bed, half turned toward both.
“So…” He began. “Do you wanna…?” When he went to move toward him, Rush simply pushed past him with a small sound of derision and crawled onto the bed. “O…kay, then.”
Rush grabbed a pillow and, lying down on his stomach, rested his chin against it. After a moment, he turned to look over his shoulder.
“Well?” He demanded. “Get on with it.” And he turned away again.
“…Right.”
A moment later, he felt the bed dip. There was an awkward pause, a small sigh, and then he could feel fingers at his hips pulling on the waistband of his underwear. He lifted up and let Greer pull them off without a fuss, though his throat clenched slightly as air hit his backside. Fear or excitement? It hardly mattered. This is what he’d decided to do and it was too late to turn back now.
He heard the sound of a lid and then there was only the slightest of hesitations before fingers probed at the crack of his arse. It was cool and wet and—
He brought his nose down to the pillow and breathed in, long and slow.
It felt good. Even this, just this, and he could feel the faintest stirrings lower down.
One fingertip rested at his anus a moment and then pressed—
He blinked. There was a buzzing in his ears. He’d been holding his breath.
Breathe. Breathe.
“Y’know, this’d be easier if you got up on your knees.”
Greer sounded disgruntled.
Fine.
Without a word he shifted back on his haunches. He kept his head down, slid his knees apart. Even arched his back a bit.
There. That should be nice and fuckable for him.
He fought the urge to duck his head further into the bedding or bring up his hands to hide his face.
“And could you try to relax? Jesus, you’re like a vice,” he grunted, pressing a finger in more insistently at this new angle. “When’s the last time you did this?”
“It’s…been a while,” Rush breathed out, trying to relax his taut muscles. “Before…before Icarus.” Never, actually, but he wasn’t about to tell him that.
“Yeah, well,” Greer snorted. “This may take a while. Shit, I need more lube already.”
Rush tilted his face to one side. “I thought you weren’t inclined to be nice to me.”
“I’m inclined to be nice to my dick. Plus, I’d prefer you not to bleed on my sheets. We do this at your place—” his index finger slid all the way in, “there we go—whole different story.”
There really wasn’t much to say to that. Rush’s eyes fluttered shut.
God, he couldn’t believe how good this was. There was something in him, moving, in and out, and instead of feeling wrong or grotesque it was just—
He could feel his cock start to twitch now, in time to this…invasion.
He wanted more.
Thankfully, he didn’t have to ask for it. Soon enough, the one finger pulled out only to return shortly with fresh lubrication and a second. A moment to find purchase, and they pressed in past the constricting muscle.
“Ah-ugh!”
Everything stopped.
“You alright?”
He gasped for a moment, breathless.
“Yes. Yes I’m fine.”
“Ok.” And with that, he went on.
Shite. Shite. There was real stretch now. It hurt.
It was wonderful. Brilliant. He buried his face in the pillow, let his open mouth pant against the fabric, wet and wanton and God he needed more.
Three fingers and he thought his heart might burst from his chest. Christ, could that happen? Not literally of course, but might he go into some kind of cardiac arrest? And if this was how he felt now, what would happen when…and yet all he could think was how it wasn’t enough. He needed more, so much more…
When they scissored open it was the sweetest ache he’d ever felt. He groaned deep in his throat and actually flexed his inner muscles against them. He didn’t care anymore. He just needed to enjoy this.
And then it was gone. It was all gone. His cock lay full and heavy between his thighs. His hands were fisted in the sheets.
He blinked. “So. Am I finally soft enough for you to fuck, or have you just tired out?”
“Oh don’t worry, I’m ready. Though not quite as rarin’ to go as you, apparently.”
He felt himself sneer, not that his bedfellow could see his face at the moment, and thought about verbalizing his distain, but not for very long, because soon there were hands on his buttocks and something long and hard lining up between the cheeks.
He inhaled through his nose.
There was a screeching, bending feeling, like the planks of a steel bridge gradually collapsing. It was slow and unrelenting and then with a final snap, Greer’s hips were up against him. Convulsively, Rush’s palm slammed into the wall in front of him. Because…because it was too much. He could feel it. It was…pulsing and warm and very, very real.
There was a cock inside him. He had another man’s prick in his arse.
And he liked it.
He really, really liked it because all he really wanted in this moment, this really very brief moment, though time had seemed to slow, was for that cock to get moving and really start fucking him.
His eyes were very wide now.
Well then. Guess we know where we stand then, eh?
As though in slow motion he felt it slide back out of him. He closed his eyes and, with a hand still braced against the wall and a snarl forming on his lips, when he felt it start in again, he pushed back.
They hit each other hard and they both grunted from the impact. But now that was the precedent, and neither could back down. So they did it again. And again. And again. It was hard and fast. Brutal, even.
Almost without realizing it, his other hand found its way between his legs, jerking off furiously. There was no elegance, no grace, not even efficiency really. When he came, it was completely sudden. He felt everything clamp down, pulling him taut before releasing in a burst of wild, expended energy. Afterwards, he felt drained and could only lie in a heap while Greer finished working in him. Finally, Rush felt the bulge of the condom as he came inside him.
He grimaced. Even that felt good.
Greer collapsed next to him, gasping. They didn’t speak, but after a few moments Rush rose, slowly, to retrieve his pants and trousers. He felt sticky, but there was nothing he could do about that at the moment. Silently he dressed, then stood awkwardly in the middle of the room.
He glanced over. Greer still lay on bed, panting and half naked.
“Yeh,” he started, coughed lightly, then started again. “So. Thanks.” He frowned. “I suppose.”
“Hey,” Greer replied. “No problem.” He waved a hand. “Anytime.”
Rush paused. “Right.”
He left. He reached his own quarters exhausted and collapsed into bed.
It wasn’t until he woke with his alarm that he realized he hadn’t thought of Colonel Young once since entering Greer’s quarters.
Well then. In a certain light, that could be considered…success.
He found himself knocking on Greer’s door again a few nights later.
“You said anytime.” He quirked a brow. “Didn’t you?”
Greer just smirked and stepped aside to let him in. They didn’t feel the need to talk much after that, for which Rush was much relieved.
They actually managed to fall into something resembling regularity. Every few days or so, Rush would go to Greer’s quarters and knock on the door. Greer would let him in. Rush would strip from the waist down (he no longer had any sort of shyness about it) and get on the bed—face down, arse up. They’d fuck. He’d get dressed. He’d leave, usually go back to his quarters for a few good hours of sleep. They didn’t talk much, they didn’t cuddle or even really touch each other more than necessary and, as far as he could tell, nothing seemed to change between them otherwise.
It was rough, careless sex, each party seeking his own pleasure and not thinking much of the other. It was their third night together before Greer hit his prostate for the first time. That had been an extraordinary, if somewhat frightening experience, to know what could happen at the press of a button, so to speak. After that he’d sometimes try to position himself to encourage that particular angle, though he couldn’t always be bothered and wasn’t always successful. He didn’t mind, overly. He could get off fine without it, and that was really the whole point to all this.
Well. Half the point. It also worked quite well in it’s other capacity.
It kept Young out of his head. For the most part.
Sometimes, when he was alone at night or during the day, he’d still sneak in, but now Rush had a place to go, something to do about it. He could just go to Greer and have him fuck it out of him. And since there was a solution, he no longer had to spend exhaustive time contemplating the problem.
All in all, he was content with the situation, and the sex. It was rough, careless, impersonal, self-serving, and it hurt.
It did hurt. Not…so badly really, but he’d get sore. Tender. There were bruises sometimes.
He liked that. Not the bruises especially, he didn’t particularly want a visual reminder, but…the hurt itself, the…
Pain.
It went straight to his cock.
He didn’t think it was so unusual. Sex made all sorts of things feel different. He remembered bites and pinches, flicked nipples and nails scratching, quite naturally going along with the pleasure of lovemaking. Perhaps there wasn’t so much overt pleasure now, in the…delicate sense of the word, and he certainly wouldn’t use ‘love’ to describe anything about it, but maybe that was the point. The pain, it wasn’t more, or worse, just…isolated. Which gave it an illusion of importance.
It was nothing to be concerned about. Really. Nothing.