The Long Haul -- A Day Like Today
Title: A Day Like Today
Author: heartofslash
Fandom: post BHD, The Long Haul
Pairings: Grimes/McKnight, Hoot/Sanderson
Rating: this part R for mature themes
Warnings: sub/Dom, relationship in crisis, substance use, poor communication, jealousy and ogling of the office manager.
Disclaimer: Has nothing to do with people, real or fictional, except for inspiration.
Follows Operation Under the Radar.
Summary: Several months after being seriously wounded by unexploded ordinance, McKnight is out of the hospital, trying to adjust to his new situation, and not entirely succeeding. Grimes is trying his best to do his duties at work and home, and not entirely succeeding. Kurt Schmid is upset about something, Hoot can't help himself, and Sanderson takes charge.
The whole of the Long Haul series to date is here.

A Day Like Today

Grimes slowed his bicycle to a stop. He watched the line of school children cross the street. The crossing guard wore an orange vest. The air was still warm, but clear, the way he imagine it was everywhere in the fall. Everything seemed perfectly normal. Funny how the world kept going on around him, no matter what. It was enough to make a person feel insignificant, even on a day like today.

He watched the kids trudge to school. He couldn't remember being a kid. He couldn’t even remember being a teenager.

He kicked his left pedal over and turned right at the intersection, to work.

Schmid was sitting in the waiting room, looking distraught. He had one leg bent up and his chin on his knee and he was chewing on the end of his pencil. The curls were getting really long, like a mop on his head, and his eyes tended to glint through them. Must have been driving Hoot crazy.

"You okay?" Grimes asked.

"Yeah… I just… nothing."

"Did you finish that job last night?" Schmid had stayed late. Grimes hoped that hadn't messed up his date with the brunette. Schmid really liked those dates. He was usually in a very good mood the next day.

Schmid twitched, not violently but noticeably. "Yeah," he said. "I… uh… not yet." Schmid got up and went to his workroom. Odd.

Grimes would have to figure out what that was about some other time. He had work to do. Nothing urgent, but he was already running a little late, and he wanted to finish his to-do list and keep very busy all day, to keep his mind from wandering. He tossed the mail on the desk and began to sort. Bills. Junk. Client correspondence. Amazing, in this high-tech age, how much business was still done through the post office.

Uh-oh. A letter from Mr. Midnight. Grimes pushed it to the edge of the desk. He could not tell if the smell was coming from the envelope or from his brain, which would always associate Mr. Midnight with the dank alley in which Mr. Midnight insisted on receiving his 'packages', which never, ever went through the post office. Rumor was that Mr. Midnight had once been a highly-respected officer specializing in recon. It just went to show that a successful career in the military did not necessarily translate into civilian success.

Grimes was not going to think about that, not today. He booted his computer and opened the accounts file. He could hear Schmid working on something in the back. The drill was harsh and erratic. Maybe the date had not gone well. Maybe he'd even missed it.

Grimes could not remember dating.

When he closed the accounting file, Sanderson was standing at the desk, looking critical.

"Is there a problem, Sarn't?" Grimes asked politely.

"I don't know, Mr. Grimes. Is there?"

Oh, geez. He did not need Sanderson being all cryptic. Not today. "Letter from Mr. Midnight," Grimes pointed at the soggy-looking envelope.

"I'll let Hoot handle that," Sanderson said.

"Wise idea, Sarn't."

Sanderson didn't move.

For a long time.

"So," he finally said, "today is the day."

How the hell had he known that? Never mind. Grimes had given up on figuring that out ages ago. It was best to assume from the get go that Sergeant Sanderson knew everything. Grimes didn't even want to know how he knew.

He'd probably had Schmid hack into McKnight's medical records or something.

"Yes, Sarn't."

"Any news?"

"Not yet, Sarn't."

"Not even a hint?"

Fuck! Grimes had experienced a lot of energy trying NOT to think about it, and he'd been doing okay, not great, but passably. "Your guess is as good as mine, Sarn't."

Sanderson made a face that, had Grimes been forced to interpret, indicated that he thought not. "Very well. Carry on."

Hoot came down the stairs wearing nothing but a pair of PT shorts. Grimes busied himself at the coffee machine, ignoring the miles of toned leg. The last thing he needed on a day like today was to be looking at a nearly-naked, nearly-perfect specimen of masculinity. Not that he was attracted to Hoot in any way, but he was already horny and a little desperate.

Nope, he wasn't attracted to Hoot, not any more than anyone else who was attracted to Hoot. Anyone who liked their men big and fit and manly, that is.

Grimes could not help noticing a bite mark on Hoot's shoulder.

Then Sanderson came back in and bent down to retrieve a file from the bottom drawer of the cabinet next to Grimes' desk, and sure enough, on the side of his neck… not a bite mark. More like a full-on hickey. Old school. Purple in the middle and red a the edges.

"Jesus," Grimes muttered to himself. "Everyone is getting some but me."

Sanderson straightened up. "What was that?"

"Nothing, Sarn't. Coffee will be ready in five."



"He's lost weight."

Hoot put down the catalog and leaned way back in his chair, craning his neck.

Grimes sat at his computer, fingers flying at an unnatural pace, back straight, mouth set in a grim line.

He had lost weight. Not a whole lot, but enough to notice. His cheeks were a little gaunt, and his collar bone was too prominent, visible thorough his t-shirt, which was casual wear for Grimes, but it was the nicest damn t-shirt Hoot had ever seen. If he'd looked at the label, he would have seen that it was made of a cotton/silk blend. Without seeing the label, he could still tell it was special, because of the way it draped over Grimes.

Jesus, Grimes had lost weight.

"Yeah, he has," Hoot agreed. "Ten, maybe twelve pounds."

"More like twenty. The stubble hides it. So do his clothes."

Not those clothes.

"He's working himself too hard, taking care of the Colonel," Hoot observed. "We should give him some time off."

"We can't," Sanderson said. "I tried. He wouldn't take it. I don't think he wants to be home all day with McKnight."

"Why do you suppose that would be?"

"What do you notice about Grimes?" Sanderson asked.

Hoot thought for a bit. He didn't mind thinking about Grimes at all, so he didn't mind the question, even though it was overly vague and possibly a trick of some kind. Trick questions deserve trick answers. Or the first thing that pops into your mind. "His pretty eyes?" Hoot guessed. "I still think they're more gray than green."

"I'm not talking about eye color, although they do look different. Tired. Don't you think?"

"He's got stress," Hoot said.

They were talking quietly, directing the sound only to each other, but Sanderson got up and closed the door. "Today's the day," he said.

"No shit." Hoot had forgotten.

"The Colonel has to decide if he's going to get the operation or not."

"And if he doesn't?" Hoot asked.

"The army will let him go. He can't hear well enough to work in the field."

"So, he'll get the operation and then he'll be able to hear again."

"Unless it fails, and then he'll be totally deaf."

"Yeah, well. What are the odds?"

"Fifty/fifty."

Hoot whistled. Hell of a choice. Not great odds and severe consequences all around. McKnight had never done anything in his adult life other than be in the army.

"So, he's got a lot of stress," Hoot said.

"He's jittery."

"Grimes has always been a little jittery." Hoot didn't mind; it was kinda cute.

"Hoot, I'm telling you, it's not right. We gotta do something."

Sanderson was such a mother hen sometimes. "Jeff, relax. He's fine."

"Didn't you hear what he just said? I can't believe you didn't hear what he just said."

Hoot had not heard. "I was yawning. You know I can't hear anything when I'm yawning." That was why he'd done so poorly in math class, until his senior year when he finally got math in the afternoon.

Sanderson got a deathly serious look on his face. "Well, it's fucking serious, Hoot; he's not getting laid."



Grimes collated the September expense sheets and checked his to-do list. Fuck! He forgot to call the supplier about the battery pack for the night optics. She wouldn’t be in her office again until the next morning. She always did sales calls in the afternoon. Shit. Where was his head?

He looked up to see Hoot hovering in the doorway looking really serious. Grimes thanked whatever god was responsible for Hoot at least being fully clothed, because when Hoot got really serious he got ten times more attractive, not that Grimes was attracted to him.

"Jeff and I would like to speak to you," Hoot said.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. He'd been fucking up for weeks, but they'd been relatively minor fuck-ups and he'd hoped no one would notice. He was sure he'd been covering up adequately, but maybe not. He didn't think it was anything to warrant dismissal. Perhaps a reprimand.

He followed Hoot to the inner office.

"Have a seat, Mr. Grimes."

Grimes eyed the couch. It didn't look too recently used, but direct contact with pheromones might be unwise. He sat in the nearest chair. The smallest chair. "Is there a problem?"

Sanderson came out from behind his desk and sat in the other chair. Hoot sat on the edge of the couch. So this was a formal meeting. Grimes sat up straighter.

"No problem," Sanderson said. "Not with us. What we want to talk about, Mr. Grimes… that is, John…"

Oh, fuck. They were going to fire him.

"I know I've been a little scattered, but I can pull it together," Grimes said quickly, trying not to plead. "I wasn't that late today, and I'll get caught up tomorrow, I promise. I've just been under a little stress, but I can get it together." Shit, he was pleading.

Sanderson just stared at him.

"You've got to give me another chance. I can get better," Grimes said.

Hoot snorted. "No, you can't."

"But I can!" Grimes said. "I'll get more organized. No more stupid errors. I promise. And I'll come in fifteen minutes early, every day. Just give me another chance. I need the job."



Hoot stared at Grimes. How could he possibly think they wanted to fire him? He was the best thing about D-Tech, after Sanderson. They'd never find anyone more competent. Or discreet. Or hot.

Hoot had left the army for D-Tech, and it wasn't that he hadn't wanted to leave the army, but leaving the army had meant giving up as many things as it had meant gaining. One of the things he'd gained by leaving was getting to come into work every day to a hot office manager. No way was he going to give that up without a fight.

Grimes was all flustered, and it only made him hotter. His face was pink and his eyes were a little wild and his hair seemed to get messy even though he wasn't touching it. Jesus, McKnight must have had a fuck of a lot of fun, getting Grimes flustered like that.

Hoot did the math.

Grimes had lost weight and did not appear to be sleeping well.

Today, McKnight had to decide whether to get the operation that might just as well leave him deaf, or live with crap hearing and resign his commission.

Grimes had somehow got it into his head that he was, of all things, incompetent and somehow unworthy of employment.

Son of a bitch – Sanderson was right!

Grimes was not getting laid.

How else to explain this bizarre behavior?

Even more bizarre – why was McKnight not fucking Grimes?



Grimes shifted anxiously in his chair. He looked at the clock. It was only one minute past the last time he'd looked at the clock. He was tired of waiting, especially since he didn't even know what he was waiting for. He'd been asked to wait, so he was waiting, but he didn't have to just sit here. He got up and went to the work room, where Schmid was assembling a motion detector that looked like a rural mailbox.

"Hey."

Schmid looked up. "Hey."

"How's it going?"

"Almost done."

"Looks good."

Schmid sighed.

"What's wrong?" Grimes asked.

Schmid flipped a stray curl off his face. "Nothing's wrong. Did I say something was wrong?"

Grimes tried to speak, but Schmid kept talking.

"There's nothing wrong with it. It's just not something I, personally, happen to be into. I make no judgments about anyone else's lifestyle. It's just not something I needed to see. Personally. Or, you know…" He looked up and let out a sharp, nervous laugh.

Hoot was hovering in the doorway again.

Schmid unplugged the soldering iron and huffed out the back door to stand by the foundations of the new garage, where he pretended to inspect the workmanship when, Grimes knew, he didn't know anything about concrete.

"What the…?" Grimes was not sure what had just happened.

"Schmid walked in on Sanderson and me last night after you went home," Hoot said from the hallway. "We were…" Hoot shrugged. "You know."

Ah. That explained the discombobulation. But it didn't make total sense, because while the sight of Hoot and Sanderson together, doing 'you know', might be shocking, especially to a straight guy, it should have been expected. Unless it wasn't. "You mean, he didn't know?" Grimes asked.

"I guess not."

"After all this time? He's been working here for months." Grimes' mind boggled.

Hoot shook his head in dismay. "I know. Straight guys can be so unmindful sometimes."

Grimes could not imagine spending five minutes in the D-Tech office without knowing exactly what went on behind closed doors. He didn't want to know, but for different reasons.

The situation was getting to be more than a little frustrating.

"Can we talk?" Hoot asked.

Grimes frowned. He didn't really want to talk anymore. Enough had been said already about him and McKnight and their sex life, or lack of a sex life.

It wasn't such a big deal, was it? McKnight was wounded and grouchy, and he had enough trouble sleeping without Grimes in the bed. Grimes had accidentally bumped into a few bruises and woken him that first night, and he didn't want it to happen ever again. He'd taken to carefully lying beside McKnight until McKnight fell asleep, and then he'd go downstairs and do any chores that needed to be done and then sleep in the spare room. It was impossible to sleep next to McKnight without wanting contact, so the spare room had seemed a logical solution. McKnight had seemed to agree when Grimes explained it. Hell, he hadn't even noticed for the first week or two, he was still on so many painkillers.

That in itself was unusual for McKnight. He normally hated painkillers. But Grimes figured he didn't want to feel anything, and Grimes didn't blame him one bit, because between the surgeries and the many little wounds and the skin graft, the pain had been enough to drive even McKnight to pills.

McKnight was off the pills now. He'd assured Grimes that he wasn't taking the pills anymore the first time Grimes had come home to see him drinking. Grimes thought he might be drinking too much, but McKnight said it was fine as long as he wasn't doing both at the same time. Trust McKnight to make sure he was engaging in risky behavior in a responsible fashion. He said a drink was as good as a painkiller, and more relaxing, although most of the wounds were healed and he was still drinking.

And he had yet to invite Grimes back into his bed.

McKnight shied away from all unnecessary contact. Grimes couldn't help touching him when he helped him with buttons and zippers and other clothing related things, but McKnight's hands, thought still scarred and stiff, were getting better, enough that he dealt with his own buttons now, and he clearly wanted independence. McKnight had definitely resented all the things Grimes had been having to do for him. As soon as he could manage a task on his own, Grimes was not asked to do it again.

No more cutting his food for him. No more dressing and undressing him. No more bathing him.

Grimes sighed.

He let Hoot lead him to the front room. "Have a coffee," Hoot suggested.

"I'm fine."

"How about a tea?"

"Are you going to say embarrassing things about my sex life again?" Grimes asked bluntly. How mortifying – Sanderson and Hoot noticing that things were… different.

"Not if you don't wanna talk about it. It's not like I want you to be embarrassed, you know. I just want what's best for you, and I don't think it's the best for you and the Colonel to not be… "

Grimes tried to give Hoot a look that would kill, but that was not his forte. Instead he could feel his eyes grow hot and strained.

"And Sanderson, he doesn't mean any harm. You know he likes to take care of people, and he's just…" Hoot's voice trailed off.

Right. Sanderson. All concerned and sensitive, talking to Grimes about how he shouldn't feel ashamed if things were less than ideal and then…

Grimes looked around the office; no Sanderson.

He looked out the window; no truck.

"Sergeant Gibson, I hate to interrupt, but where the fuck is Sergeant Sanderson?"



The door was not locked, so Sanderson let himself in. The house was still, quiet, and almost frighteningly clean. It looked and smelled as if Grimes had been dusting, polishing, waxing and scouring everything to within an inch of its life. Sanderson walked into the hall and peered into the silent living room.

McKnight sat on the couch. The TV was on with the sound off. Grimes had said that McKnight hated having to play the TV loud enough so it would be clear to him, so he often watched in silence. And he watched too often. While he drank. Not good.

Sanderson cleared his throat and said, as loudly as he could without outright yelling, "Good afternoon, Colonel."

McKnight looked up sharply.

Sanderson tried a smile.

McKnight didn't flinch.

"Can I come in?" Sanderson asked.

McKnight narrowed his eyes.

McKnight didn't look so bad. He didn't look so good, either. The scars on his face weren't all that noticeable, really. Except for one above his eye, but it wasn't ugly bad, it was just there. Sanderson had seen lots of scars like that on guys. No big deal. It wasn't necessarily something anyone would want, but it wasn't… okay, it wasn't something your average civilian would be okay with.

But McKnight wasn't a civilian. Yet.

McKnight's hands were still a little messed up, but he had the remote in one, and he had no trouble hitting the 'off' button. That wasn't exactly brain surgery, but his hand didn't shake when he lifted a bottle of beer to his mouth either.

Sanderson knew there was damage he couldn't see, but overall, nothing to freak out about. McKnight did look rougher than Sanderson had seen him since Somalia. His eyes were a bit red, and he was unshaven. And grumpy. Fucking grumpy.

"Where's John?" McKnight asked. His voice was gruff, but clear. He wasn't speaking too loud, like some guys do after losing most of their hearing, but then, he'd had a few months to practice.

"He's at the office." As long as Sanderson kept his volume up and faced McKnight when he spoke, he knew his words would be understood. He hoped he would get his meaning across just as clearly.

McKnight stared at Sanderson hard. Sanderson had never really noticed just how intimidating McKnight could be. Damn.

"Is John okay?"

"Oh, yeah. Sure," Sanderson said. "Well… no."

McKnight's grumpy expression turned malevolent.

"He's not injured," Sanderson said quickly, and loudly. Jesus, talk about poking a hornet's nest.

McKnight scowled. "So what are you doing here?"

Recon. Fact-finding, Sanderson thought to himself. And the first fact was that McKnight did indeed still care about Grimes. Very much. He was concerned, protective and, most likely, a little possessive. Good to know some things had not changed.

The second fact was that while McKnight still cared, he was doing a piss poor job of showing it, but Sanderson already knew that.

Facts found, it was time to strategize.

McKnight got up. His uniform hung a bit loosely on him. Sanderson had not been expecting that. From what he'd been able to drag out of Grimes, McKnight hadn't been doing much of anything aside from television watching, and drinking quite a bit. Beer during the day, bourbon at night. Sanderson would have expected a weight gain, but Grimes had also said he wasn't eating much. Booze and no food can cause you to waste away, calories be damned. McKnight didn't look like a couch potato, though. He'd been going to physiotherapy, Grimes said. Maybe he'd been spending some of that time in the weight room or on the treadmill. He looked hard, like he'd been doing hard labor. Almost as if he'd been punishing himself.

"You want a beer?" McKnight asked.

Sanderson looked at his watch – it was 2:47 pm. Why not? "Okay."

McKnight went and returned with two bottles of beer.

"The thing is, he's unhappy," Sanderson said.

"We're all unhappy," McKnight grumbled and sat down again.

"I'm concerned about him," Sanderson said.

"Why? Isn't he spending enough goddamn time at work?"

"He's spending more than enough time at work," Sanderson said.

"Exactly." McKnight sounded bitter.

Ah-ha. That was another clue. A little resentful. Maybe Sanderson could use that.

"Mr. Grimes isn't spending any more time at the office than he ever did," Sanderson said.
McKnight turned away from Sanderson, so Sanderson upped the volume. "It may seem like more because you're home instead of..."

"I know where I am," McKnight said. "I don't need you to tell me."

Sanderson tried reasoning. "You can't resent him working. He has to work."

"Especially now," McKnight said.

"You refused the operation," Sanderson deducted.

"Not yet. My appointment isn't until sixteen hundred."

"But you're going to."

"I don't know."

"You have to make a decision."

McKnight shoved off the couch. "Don't you tell me what to do. This is my life. You don't know anything about it."

Sanderson didn't. Not really. But he knew a little about Grimes. Enough about Grimes to know that McKnight was being a miserable, selfish jerk. "I may not know you all that well, but I know this is not just about you."

"You don't think I know that?" McKnight padded to the fireplace and back. "Fuck! I've been second-guessing myself for weeks. Do I stay in the army or leave? Do I risk the operation or not? What will happen if… what will I do if… what will John do if…" McKnight practically growled and slammed his beer down on a table, sending foam flying. "How will I live if I'm not who I am?" he asked, quiet now.

McKnight had never not been in the army.

"It doesn't matter what you decide, Colonel. He's not going to leave you either way."

"He already has."

"He has not!"

"You don't know anything about it. You don't know me, and you don't know him."

"And neither do you, evidently. This is eating him up. Colonel, I don't know, and honestly I do not care what your fucking problem is, but you have got to get over it and think about John for a change. Think about John."

And McKnight really did growl.



Had he heard right?

Had Sanderson just called Grimes John?

Goddamn this shit hearing.

Had Sanderson really just referred to Grimes as John? Who the hell did he think he was?

Fuck. No one called him that. NO ONE except McKnight.

And McKnight's sister. And Grimes' yoga class. Okay, people called him John all the time, but fucking Jeff Sanderson did NOT call him John, and goddamn Hoot Gibson sure as fuck did not call him John!

Where the fuck was Hoot?

"Where is he?"

"I told you. He's at the office."

"Not John. I mean Hoot. Where is Hoot?"

"He's at the office too."

McKnight did the math.

Grimes was unhappy, because of McKnight.

Sanderson had noticed. Maybe Grimes was in a bad mood. Maybe he looked like he hadn't been sleeping well, because he hadn't been, and McKnight knew that. He could hear Grimes at night, even though he couldn't really hear much, but every now and then he heard something from downstairs, and he could smell the cleaning products – the cleaning product smells that used to give him an erection but now they just made him feel inadequate. Maybe Sanderson had noticed that Grimes had lost some weight. McKnight had noticed it, in his face, and his waist, and even his ass wasn't quite as full as it used to be.

What the fuck had Jeff Sanderson been doing looking at Grimes' ass? And if Sanderson had been looking at it, what the fuck had Hoot Gibson been doing to it?

McKnight couldn’t afford to get distracted by that. He had to finish the math.

Sanderson knew today was the day.

Grimes had spoken to them, or they had spoken to Grimes, and someone had decided that Sanderson should come over had talk to McKnight.

Which meant Hoot was left at the office, alone with Grimes.

To keep him company?

To comfort him?

Grimes needed comforting because McKnight had not been giving him what he needed, and HootfuckingGibson was comforting him?

Hell, no!



Hoot was not going to pretend that he understood the whole thing between McKnight and Grimes. He got most of it. The easy parts. He got the part that involved Grimes saying sir, and McKnight going wild because Grimes said sir. That was the easiest part.

It particularly concerned him that Grimes had confessed he hadn't even been calling McKnight sir in the last little while, because McKnight hadn't been responding to it. He'd been calling him Danny, and that seemed to disturb Grimes a little more than maybe it should have. Hoot sort of got that.

He got the part about the sex, or at least the part about Grimes getting on his knees a lot, or at least he liked to try to imagine it, and he could understand McKnight being incredibly turned on by Grimes being on his knees. If Grimes were to ever go on his knees in front of Hoot, Hoot's dick would probably spontaneously explode.

He could understand McKnight wanting to fuck Grimes, too, because who wouldn't?

But he didn't understand it all. He didn't really understand Grimes wanting to get fucked by McKnight. He couldn’t tell Grimes that they just had to get through this crisis and everything would be great because McKnight was such a great guy, because McKnight was okay for an officer but he was really, really not Hoot's type, and Hoot couldn’t wrap his head around anyone wanting to be around him, especially when he was being such a dick.

Maybe he didn't know the story from both sides, but face it, McKnight was being a dick – self-pitying and selfish and negative and not even fucking Grimes, when it was so painfully obvious that Grimes desperately needed to get laid.

Damn, if Hoot were ever wounded, and if John Grimes were there to nurse him back to health, he'd turn every moment of every day into an excuse to have sex with him.

Unless…

"Uh, Mr. Grimes, did the Colonel suffer any… injuries we don't know about?"

"What do you mean?"

What a time for Grimes to play innocent.

"You know, in the, uh, groin area."

Grimes looked scandalized. "Why would you even suggest such a thing?"

Because the only reason Hoot could think of for McKnight not to have fucked Grimes after all this time home was that McKnight's dick had been blown clear off.

"Maybe there's some kind of problem with…"

Grimes looked stricken. "You mean, what if he can't get it up?"

"Yeah." Why hadn't Hoot been able to say that?

Grimes stared at the floor. "On his first night home, he was in the bath and I was washing him and…" Grime's face went a darker shade of pink. Almost red. "Yeah, he can get it up."

Hoot was going to say that was good, but then Grimes said, "And he can get off, too."

Hoot would have said details were not required, but he kind of wanted to know details.

Grimes looked very lickable. He had enough of a beard to make Hoot's tongue ache a little. And the way that t-shirt hugged his chest was nice too.

"And I know he jerks off sometimes."

Hoot was going to ask how Grimes knew that, but then he figured that was Grimes' business.

"Why doesn't he want me anymore?" Grimes asked.

Fucked if Hoot knew.

"What's wrong with me?" Grimes asked.

"Not a goddamn thing," Hoot said with all the sincerity he felt.

It was a good thing Sanderson had gone over to talk some sense into McKnight, because at that moment, all Hoot wanted to do was beat some sense into the stubborn bastard.

But he was a little upset with Grimes, too, because he was not, in fact, being perfect. He was being a bit of a fucking doormat about this.

Ever since the night he and Sanderson had gone over to their house for dinner, Hoot had been under the impression that Grimes and McKnight were in perfect sync. Maybe Hoot didn't understand the idea of being submissive to someone all the time, and he didn't understand wanting to be dominant over someone all the time, and while he certainly enjoyed just about everything he ever did with Sanderson, he could not see wanting just one person and only that one person, forever and ever. But things sure had seemed idyllic, when McKnight called Grimes over, and Grimes called him sir, and McKnight looked so fucking proud and pleased and happy. They were happy, damn it. Both of them.

So why would either of them settle for anything less than that?

And why wasn't Grimes doing anything about it? Fuck, all he'd have to do is slide on down to his knees and look up with those pretty grayblue eyes, and surely McKnight would snap out of whatever the hell was bugging him, and then everything would be okay again. But here Grimes was, upset after confessing, in a stilted way, that things were not okay, and he was worried they might never be okay again, which was just crazy. There wasn't anything wrong with Grimes that a good, hard fuck wouldn’t solve.

Hoot tried not to think about good hard fucking as he reached over and gave Grimes a cautious pat on the shoulder. "It's okay, you know. Everyone has bad patches, right?" Didn't they? Every relationship had its ups and downs. Sometimes, he and Sanderson didn't have sex for nearly… okay, maybe they were a bad example.

Grimes did this shuddery sigh that made Hoot want to comfort him even more, and leaned a little into Hoot's hand. Hoot's hand slid a little down Grimes' back. Grimes seemed to move closer and Hoot had to remind himself that Grimes was probably starved for contact. It didn't mean anything, not really.

"There's nothing wrong with you at all," Hoot assured him. He stopped himself from offering a good hard fuck, because even if he didn't entirely get the monogamy thing, Grimes did, and Hoot respected that. Really, he did. He respected the very clear, highly inviolable limits, even as he shifted over and let his arm drape over Grimes' shoulder, in a totally non-sexual, comforting manner. "Everything will be okay."

Grimes shook his head, and his fucking hair brushed Hoot's arm. Hoot hadn't felt hair that long… ever. Not from a man. He'd only started sleeping with men in a serious way after he joined the army, and even Delta ops didn't grow their hair that long. Or that soft.

"It'll be okay," Hoot said helplessly when Grimes ducked his head down so it was almost on Hoot's shoulder.

"At least it wasn't the last time," Grimes said. "Technically, I mean. Because I helped him in the bath, and there were a few times in bed after than, when he was getting ready to go to sleep, and I touched him because he needed it, and he had no problem responding."

What the fuck was Grimes talking about?

"So it wasn't the last time, it was just the last time we fucked.*"

"Excuse me?" Hoot asked, not quite able to believe it. Was he on the verge of hearing… details? He held his breath.

"If it was the last time, I mean, the last time ever… that would be awful. I wouldn't want it to be the very last memory he had of us together, you know?"

Hoot did not, in fact, know. But he desperately did want to know. Something bad must have happened the night before McKnight left for the training exercise. Something sexual. And if he played his cards right, if he just stayed quiet, he might find out what it was.

"I don't know why I put that uniform on," Grimes went on.

Hoot pictured Grimes in uniform. With that hair. Oh, god. Hoot didn't even like uniforms. Well, maybe he did, a little.

"And the lipstick. I mean, I know it makes him crazy, but that's not an excuse."

Hoot blinked. Grimes wearing lipstick?

"And the eyeliner was just to be slutty. I know that."

Yeah. Eyeliner was pretty slutty, wasn't it? Not that Hoot would ever consider wearing it… although he was not above trying to imagine it on Grimes, dark and smudged and slutty. Oh, my.

"I should have known he would want me to do it to him. It's all my fault. And then he got wounded, and now the last time we fucked was me fucking him, and that's not what I wanted him to remember me doing, because it's not right."

Hoot felt faint.

"I shouldn't have fucked him, not like that with him on his knees. Not so hard, like that."

Hoot didn't just feel faint. He was faint. He could almost picture Grimes in a uniform, with the uniform pulled down, and Grimes bare ass pumping as he fucked someone from behind. Very faint. Fingers of black tickled the edges of his vision and he fought the close to uncontrollable urge to sink to the floor and offer his ass to Grimes.

"I know he demanded it. He fucking ordered me to do it to him, and I liked it. Jesus, I liked fucking him. But it's still not right, no matter how great it felt to fuck him so hard from behind," Grimes concluded.

Hoot found that his mouth was hanging open. The idea of Grimes in uniform and make-up fucking McKnight from behind left him so speechless he thought maybe he'd give up talking for a while and resort to helpless grunts.

And then the door burst open and McKnight stormed in.



"Sir!" Grimes stood up, almost at attention.

Yeah, he'd lost weight. And he looked like he hadn't been sleeping enough. But even so, he looked good enough to fuck right then and there.

And Hoot had been sitting next to him on the couch, with his goddamn arm around him. Touching him. No, Grimes had not been touching back. To the untrained eye it looked like Grimes was upset and Hoot had been innocently comforting him.

But, goddamn it, McKnight was not untrained, and Hoot was not innocent. He had a hard on the size of fucking Texas showing through his jeans, and his mouth was hanging open, drooling like a dog in summertime.

McKnight's jaw set like stone. "Get the fuck out, Gibson. I need to talk to my boy."


Next: Part Two, in which things are sorted out in the only way possible.