Work Text:
The air inside the temporary BSAA safehouse smells of stale ozone, rusted pipes, and the metallic tang of dried blood. Outside, the endless, toxic rain of the bio-terror zone continues to beat a relentless rhythm against the reinforced roof, but inside, the silence is deafening.
Chris Redfield drops his tactical vest onto the scarred wooden table. The heavy ballistic nylon hits the surface with a dull, exhausted thud. Every muscle in his massive frame aches, a deep-seated throb born from seventy-two hours of nonstop deployment through collapsed tunnels and biological warzones. His jaw is set, his face shadowed by a thick layer of grit and several days of stubble. He is running entirely on fumes and pure adrenaline, his mind still cycling through the chaotic split-second decisions that kept them alive.
Across the cramped room, Piers Nivans stands by the boarded-up window, his shoulders tightly coiled like a spring that has been wound too far. He hasn't unbuckled his gear yet. His sniper rifle rests against the wall within arm's reach— a habit neither of them can shake. Piers's face is pale beneath the smudges of charcoal and dirt, his sharp eyes fixed blankly on the peeling wallpaper. The trauma of the last three days hangs between them, thick and unspoken; they had come entirely too close to losing each other in the mud and the chaos of the eastern sector.
Chris looks at him, the gaze heavy, weighted with the raw relief of just seeing the younger man breathing. He catches Piers's eye as the sniper finally turns his head. The look they share is intense, stripped of military protocol, vibrating with a dark, exhausted tension that has been building over months of shared close-calls.
Piers swallows hard, his throat clicking in the quiet room. The silence stretches, suffocating and charged, before Chris finally breaks the stare to reach for his cleaning kit, giving his partner the silent permission to finally stand down.
The metallic scrape of Chris's cleaning rod against the barrel of his sidearm fills the small room, a grounding, familiar sound that gives Piers a definitive cue to move.
Slowly, deliberately, Piers unbuckles his heavy combat harness. The nylon straps hiss as they loosen, and the drop-leg holster unclips with a sharp snap. He sets his gear down near Chris's with practised precision, but his movements are slightly uncoordinated, stiffened by a profound, bone-deep fatigue. Yet, beneath the exhaustion, his blood is still singing. The high-octane rush of combat hasn't fully drained from his system; instead, it has mutated into a restless, hyper-stimulated hum that makes his skin feel entirely too tight.
He grabs a clean, thin grey undershirt and a pair of loose sweatpants from his pack. His hands shake almost imperceptibly.
"Going to wash off the grime, Captain," Piers says, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. It’s the first time either of them has spoken in an hour.
Chris doesn’t look up from his workbench, merely offering a grunt of affirmation and a brief, tight nod. "Take your time, Piers. We're off the clock for the night."
Piers slips into the small, adjoining bathroom, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click. The space is tiny, lit by a single flickering fluorescent bulb that casts harsh shadows over the cracked linoleum. It is freezing cold, smelling faintly of damp concrete.
He turns the rusted handle of the shower dial all the way to the left. The pipes groan, rattling violently behind the wall before a violent torrent of scalding, steaming water bursts from the showerhead. Almost instantly, thick white fog begins to billow out, clouding the cracked vanity mirror and trapping the heat inside the small room.
As Piers strips off his sweat-stained, dirt-encrusted shirt, he catches a glimpse of himself in the fogging glass. His heart is hammering against his ribs. He is utterly exhausted, but his body is reacting to the sudden isolation, the heavy heat, and the overwhelming, repressed thoughts he's been burying for three days straight. In the field, it’s easy to focus on targets and survival. But here, in the dark, enclosed quiet, the image of Chris— massive, unyielding, throwing his own heavy body in front of an exploding B.O.W. plume just to shield Piers— floods his mind.
Piers leans his forehead against the cool, damp door frame, his breath hitching. A sudden, sharp ache twists deep in his lower belly, heavy and demanding, completely fuelled by the lingering adrenaline and a desperate, agonising craving for the man sitting just on the other side of the wood.
The heat in the tiny bathroom becomes absolute, a heavy, tropical blanket of steam that coats the walls and turns the air thick enough to swallow. Piers steps into the stall, the scalding water hitting his chest with a shock that makes him gasp. It stings against the fresh scrapes and bruises blooming across his ribs, but the pain is a relief, washing away the caked mud and the bitter smell of burning cordite.
He leans both palms flat against the wet tiles, bowing his head as the torrent drenches his hair, plastering the dark strands to his forehead. He tries to clear his mind, to execute a standard tactical rinse and get out, but the adrenaline still roaring through his veins refuses to quiet down. Instead, it pools low and heavy in his gut, a tight, throbbing ache that thickens with every breath.
Every time he closes his eyes, he sees Chris.
He sees Chris through the scope of his rifle— broad-shouldered, immovable, barking orders that Piers would follow blindly into hell. He remembers the terrifying, split-second roar of a mutated B.O.W. lunging from the debris, and the sheer, terrifying weight of Chris throwing his massive frame over Piers to shield him from the blast. He can still feel the memory of Chris's heavy hands gripping his vest, dragging him up, his deep voice vibrating right against Piers's ear: "I've got you. Stay with me, Piers."
A choked sound escapes Piers's throat. His hand, slick with water and cheap military soap, slides down his stomach, past his hip, and wraps around his throbbing length. He is already rock-hard, leaking a thick bead of pre-come that is instantly washed away by the spray.
He begins to stroke himself, his movements fast and desperate, driven by a profound, bone-deep need for release. He presses his forehead against the tile, his hips twitching forward into his own palm as the fantasy takes over. In his mind, it isn't his own hand— it's Chris's rough, calloused palm gripping him. It's Chris pinning him down, dominating his space, taking the edge off this survival high.
He is so completely consumed by the heat, the roar of the water, and the overwhelming rush of his own breathless panting that the rest of the world completely ceases to exist. He is running entirely on instinct and exhaustion.
Because of it, he never realises that in his haste to escape into the steam, his trembling fingers had missed the lock. The flimsy metal latch rests entirely outside the strike plate, leaving the door completely unlatched.
Outside, the minutes tick by with incredible slowness. The soothing scrape of Chris's cleaning rod has long since stopped. His sidearm sits reassembled, spotless and gleaming on the scarred wooden table, but Chris hasn't moved.
He sits on the edge of the creaking cot, his massive forearms resting on his knees, his eyes fixed on the heavy wooden door of the bathroom.
Twenty-five minutes. Piers has taken long enough for Chris to strip down to his under armour clothes and clean himself in the kitchen sink.
Chris frowns, a deep line carving itself into his brow. Piers is a five-minute tactical shower kind of guy— rinse, dry, back on watch. It's ingrained in him. In the brutal, unstable zones they frequent, lingering under running water is a luxury a sniper never allows himself.
Chris shifts his weight, the old springs of the cot groaning under his bulk. Concern, sharp and instinctive, replaces the dull ache of his exhaustion. His mind immediately starts calculating the worst-case scenarios. They'd been tossed around by a blast in the eastern sector. Did Piers have a delayed concussion? Did he internalise an injury? Was he bleeding out quietly on the floor, too proud or too stubborn to ask for help?
Chris stands up. His bare feet make no sound against the cold floorboards as he crosses the small safehouse. The air gets warmer the closer he gets to the bathroom, the smell of cheap soap leaking out from the cracks.
He stops at the door and knocks, his large knuckles rapping firmly against the wood. "Piers? You okay in there?"
No answer. Only the loud, relentless roar of the old pipes and the heavy drumming of the water hitting the plastic curtain.
Chris's chest tightens. The protective instinct that defines him— the absolute refusal to lose another partner— surges to the forefront, completely overriding his usual respect for boundaries. He knocks again, harder this time, his voice dropping into a stern, commanding bark. "Piers. Answer me."
Silence, save for the water.
Chris doesn't hesitate. He wraps his massive hand around the rusted brass knob and twists, fully expecting the lock to catch, fully prepared to throw his shoulder into the wood to break it down.
Instead, the knob spins effortlessly. The latch clicks out of the frame, and the door swings open into a wall of blinding white steam.
Chris steps over the threshold, his large frame instantly swallowed by the thick, tropical fog. The air is so dense with humidity that it clings to his skin like a second uniform, smelling heavily of hot zinc and the sharp scent of the safehouse soap.
He blinks against the moisture, his eyes tracking the source of the noise. The plastic shower curtain is pulled mostly closed, but the heavy steam has weighed it down, leaving a wide, prominent gap at the edge.
Chris freezes. The breath hitches sharply in his massive chest.
Through the opening, the silhouette of his sniper is completely exposed under the harsh, beating spray. Piers isn't collapsed. He isn't bleeding out.
Piers is pinned against the wet tiles, his back arched so hard his spine looks ready to snap. His head is thrown back, his throat bared to the ceiling as the water streams over his flushed skin. One of his hands is braced high against the wall for balance, his fingers clawing at the grout, while his other hand is wrapped tightly around his own length, stroking himself with a frenzied, desperate speed.
Chris stands completely paralysed, his mind short-circuiting as he watches the younger man heave for air. Piers's hips are rolling forward in a needy tilt, chasing his own palm with an agonising hunger. His chest is slick, his muscles corded and trembling under the strain of a three-day adrenaline crash that has clearly mutated into pure, unfiltered lust.
Then, above the roar of the rushing water, a sound cuts through the fog— a low, broken whimper that tears straight from the back of Piers's throat.
"Captain... Chris..."
The name is a ragged, breathless plea, wet and ruined, echoing off the cramped tile walls.
The protective, worried Captain vanishes in an instant. A sudden, violent jolt of possessive, proprietary heat slams into Chris's gut, turning his blood to liquid fire. His large hands curl into tight fists at his sides. The jaw-dropping shock burns away, replaced entirely by a dark, feral focus. He doesn't back out. He doesn't shut the door. Instead, his heavy gaze locks onto the slick, trembling form of his subordinate, his pupils dilating as he watches his sniper completely come apart at the mere thought of him.
The sudden shift in the bathroom's air pressure causes the plastic curtain to flap inward, the cool draft of the safehouse cutting through the heavy steam.
Piers's eyes snap open. Through the wet strands of hair plastered to his face and the blinding white fog, he sees the towering, broad-shouldered silhouette standing right in the open doorway.
He freezes instantly, his hand still clamped tight around his hard length. The frantic rhythm of his hips halts, his heart slamming against his ribs so violently it feels like a physical blow. For a fraction of a second, the discipline of a soldier takes over— he wants to hide, to cover himself, to scramble for a towel and bark out an apology for violating protocol. A dark, crimson flush burns all the way from his chest up to his ears, a look of absolute, mortified horror freezing his features.
"C-Captain—" Piers chokes out, his voice cracking, completely ruined by the steam and the sheer panic of being caught. He tries to pull back, his wet heel slipping slightly on the porcelain basin as he attempts to shield his exposed body from view.
But Chris doesn't move an inch backward.
Instead, he steps forward, his heavy bare feet crossing the wet linoleum. He reaches out with a large, calloused hand, grips the edge of the plastic curtain, and yanks it completely open. The metal rings shriek along the rod, exposing Piers to the harsh, flickering light of the bathroom.
Chris looms over the edge of the tub, his massive frame completely cutting off any path of escape. His jaw is locked tight, a dangerous, heavy intensity darkening his features as he looks down at his trembling sniper. The protective, disciplined commander is entirely gone; in his place is a dominant, fiercely possessive man who has just been given exactly what he didn't know he was starving for.
Piers presses his back flat against the freezing tiles, his chest heaving, his eyes wide and locked onto his superior. He is shivering now, a volatile mix of cold draft, boiling water, and raw, naked vulnerability.
Chris steps over the lip of the tub, invading Piers's space entirely without breaking eye contact. The water immediately begins to drench the front of his dark trousers, but he doesn't care. He leans in close, his massive shadow completely engulfing the younger man, trapping him against the wall. When he speaks, his voice has dropped an octave— a low, guttural growl that vibrates right through the humid air and straight into Piers's chest. "Whose name did you just say, Nivans?"
Piers whimpers, the sound trapped in the back of his throat as Chris closes the remaining distance. There is nowhere left for him to run. The heavy spray of the shower hits Chris squarely in the back, soaking through his trousers and plastering his dark hair to his skull, but the Captain doesn't even blink.
With a slow, deliberate movement, Chris reaches up and grips the hem of his own undershirt. He pulls it over his head in one smooth motion and tosses the drenched fabric onto the floor outside the tub. His massive, heavily muscled chest is completely bared, mapping a lifetime of battle scars, broad shoulders, and thick, imposing bulk that makes the tiny shower stall feel half its size.
Piers's breath catches, his eyes darting helplessly over the sheer expanse of his Captain's body. He is completely overwhelmed, trapped between the freezing tiles and a wall of pure, radiating heat.
"I asked you a question, soldier," Chris rumbles, stepping deeper into the spray until his bare chest is practically brushing against Piers's flushed, wet skin.
"Y-Yours, sir," Piers stammers, his military discipline fracturing under the intense weight of Chris's gaze. "Your name."
A dark, dangerous satisfaction flickers in Chris's eyes. "Good."
Before Piers can even process the word, Chris reaches down and traps Piers's right wrist in a vice-like grip. Piers expects to be pulled away, but instead, Chris forces Piers's own slick, soapy hand back down onto his throbbing length. Chris locks his massive, calloused fingers directly over Piers's hand, completely stealing control of the movement.
"You want to think about me while you do this?" Chris growls, his face inches from Piers's ear, his hot breath fanning against the wet skin of the sniper's neck. He begins to pump Piers's hand up and down, forcing a hard, brutal rhythm that makes Piers's knees instantly go weak. "Then look at me while you take it. Look at what you're doing to yourself."
"Chris— ah! Captain—" Piers gasps, his head tossing back against the tile as the heavy, forced friction threatens to send him over the edge instantly. The contrast of his own smooth skin against the rough, demanding weight of Chris's hand guiding him is too much.
"That's it, look at me," Chris commands, using his free hand to clamp firmly around Piers's jaw, forcing the younger man to meet his dark, unyielding stare. "Good boy. You've been holding this in the whole damn mission, haven't you? Let me see how needy you are."
Dirty, praising words pour from Chris's mouth, stripping away every ounce of Piers's remaining composure. Piers can only choke out breathless, ruined noises, his body trembling violently as his Captain completely takes over his pleasure, reducing the sharp, lethal BSAA sniper into a shivering,
The praise hits Piers like a physical shock, melting the last remnants of his military posture. He sinks against the wet tiles, his hips trembling unsteadily under the relentless, heavy friction of Chris's hand over his own. "Chris, please," Piers chokes out, his fingers clawing uselessly at the broad expanse of Chris's bare shoulders. "I can't— I'm gonna—"
"Not yet," Chris rumbles, his voice a commanding, low vibration against Piers's jaw.
Chris immediately cuts off the friction, leaving Piers suspended on a knife-edge of frustration. Before the younger man can even gasp out a protest, Chris grips Piers's left thigh, hoisting it up high and pinning it firmly against his own rugged hip. The position forces Piers wide open, completely exposed to the harsh spray of the water and the dark, predatory focus of his Captain.
"You're too tight, Piers. Still wound up from the field," Chris murmurs, his dark eyes locked onto Piers's face, demanding absolute, unblinking eye contact.
Chris reaches for the bar of safehouse soap resting in the wire rack. He works up a thick, slick lather between his massive hands, the hot water spinning the white foam down his forearms. Once he's sure his hands are properly clean, without a single word of warning, he presses two thick, slick fingers directly against Piers's tight, puckered opening.
Piers gasps, a sharp, choked cry echoing off the damp walls as Chris presses the fingers inward. The intrusion is heavy, blunt, and completely unyielding. Piers's fingers dig desperately into the thick muscle of Chris's upper arms, his head slamming back against the tile. "C-Captain—ah! It's—"
"I know," Chris interrupts gently, though there is nothing gentle about the way his fingers begin to curve and stretch inside him, mapping out the tight, burning interior. "Relax for me. Breathe through it."
Chris uses the relentless torrent of hot water to keep his fingers slick, driving his fingers deeper, adding a third until Piers is stretching around his knuckles. The prep is deliberate and agonisingly thorough. Chris doesn't rush; he wants Piers completely undone, completely pliable. Every blunt thrust of Chris’s fingers inside him sends a jolt of pure electrical heat straight to Piers's groin, causing his hard length to twitch and leak fresh pre-come against his own stomach.
"Stay right here with me, Piers." Chris barks softly when Piers's eyelids flutter shut.
Piers forces his eyes open, his vision swimming with tears of sheer overstimulation and heat. He looks into the face of the man he would die for, watching the way Chris's jaw clenches, the way his pupils are blown entirely black with a dark, feral need. Piers is a stuttering, ruined mess, completely stripped of his rank and his pride, utterly prepared for whatever his Captain is about to do to him.
Chris pulls his fingers out with a wet, heavy suction that makes Piers sob out loud, his body slumping forward against Chris's chest from pure friction-induced exhaustion. But Chris doesn't let him rest. He catches Piers by the waist with both hands, his thick fingers digging into the flesh of the younger man's hips with a bruising, unyielding grip.
"Look at me, Piers. Open those eyes," Chris growls, his voice thicker now, completely stripped of any remaining tactical restraint.
Piers forces his eyes open, his breath hitching as he looks down. Chris has already unbuttoned his soaked tactical trousers, pushing them down just far enough to free himself. He is massive— thick, heavy, and pulsing with a lethal intent that makes Piers's stomach do a violent, thrilled flip. The size difference between Chris's rugged, brick-shithouse frame and Piers's lean, athletic build has never felt more terrifyingly apparent than right now, trapped in a five-by-five wet tile box.
Chris hoists Piers's leg even higher, hooking the sniper's knee securely over his thick forearm. He aligns the broad, blunt head of his length directly against Piers's thoroughly wrecked opening. The contrast of the cool, wet air and the scorching, heavy heat of Chris pressing against him makes Piers shiver violently.
"Chris— wait, please, you're too—"
"Hold onto me," Chris interrupts, a dark, primal promise vibrating in his chest.
Chris doesn’t tease. He drives forward in one slow, heavy, relentless push.
Piers's mouth snaps open in a loud gasp. His head cracks back against the wet tile as Chris's sheer width forces him wide open, stretching his tight walls to their absolute, burning limit. The sensation is massive, completely consuming; it feels like Chris is filling him up entirely, taking over his lower half, anchoring his soul right to the safehouse floor.
"Ah! Ahhh! Chris— fuck, you're—" Piers chokes out, his fingers clawing desperately into the thick, bunched muscles of Chris's back, his nails leaving red marks in the wet skin. His vision whites out for a fraction of a second as his body tries to process the sheer, glorious fullness of being taken whole.
Chris freezes for a moment, burying his face in the crook of Piers's neck, his chest heaving as he holds himself deep inside the tight, pulsing heat of his sniper. He lets out a low, ragged groan, his grip on Piers's hips tightening until his knuckles turn white.
"Fuck, Piers... You're so fucking tight," Chris wheezes, his hot mouth pressing a messy, wet kiss against Piers's pulsing throat. "So damn perfect. Wrap your legs around me. Let me all the way in."
Any remaining shred of military composure Chris possesses completely burns away the moment he feels Piers's tight, wet walls clamp desperately around his length. The sheer, intoxicating heat of his sniper's interior drives him past the point of reason.
Chris loses it.
He grips Piers's hips with a brutal, crushing force, his thick fingers digging so deeply into the flesh they are guaranteed to leave dark, hand-shaped bruises by morning. With a low, feral growl, Chris pulls back until he's nearly clear of Piers's opening, before driving straight back in with a heavy, unyielding slam.
Slap.
The sound of their slick, soaked flesh colliding echoes loudly off the wet tiles, instantly swallowed by the roar of the shower. Piers screams, a high, completely ruined sound that breaks against the bathroom ceiling. His back arcs violently off the wall, his head tossing from side to side as Chris sets a relentless, punishing pace.
Chris rails him into the wall with zero restraint. It is rough, heavy, and intense— every thrust is deep and calculated to hit the sensitive spot inside Piers that sends a jolt of pure electrical heat straight to his toes. The rhythm is feral and fast, a desperate release of three days of death, mud, and bottled-up terror.
"Chris— ah! Chris, wait, please— it's too much— fuck!" Piers brays, his hands flying to Chris's chest, trying to push some distance between them, but he might as well be trying to move a brick wall. Chris is completely immovable, a towering mass of muscle and sweat driving into him without mercy.
"You like it rough, don't you?" Chris pants, his breath hot and ragged against Piers’s ear. He doesn't slow down; instead, he hits him harder, his large thighs battering against Piers’s trembling legs. "You wanted your Captain to take you? This is what you get, Piers. Take all of it."
The bathroom becomes an absolute blur of heat and friction. The spray from the showerhead drenches them both, washing away the sweat only for it to be replaced by the slick heat of their skin. Piers is completely airborne now, entirely dependent on Chris's bruising grip on his waist to keep him from collapsing onto the wet linoleum. Every heavy, wet thud of Chris's hips against his own makes Piers's vision shatter into millions of white-hot sparks, his choked-out groans turning into a continuous, breathless chant of his Captain's name.
The friction in the tiny stall builds to an unbearable, scorching flashpoint. Piers is entirely airborne now, his body trembling violently, completely suspended by the brutal, bruising lock Chris has on his hips. He is entirely hollowed out, filled to the absolute brim by the thick, unyielding stretch of his Captain driving into him over and over again.
"Chris— please, I'm gonna— I'm close, I'm so close—" Piers screams into the humid air, his voice completely wrecked, his fingers clawing blindly at Chris's wet hair, trying to pull him down for a kiss, a breath, anything to anchor himself.
Chris hears the ruined, desperate edge in his sniper's voice and snaps. His own vision is narrowing, tunnelling down to nothing but the scorching, pulsing wetness gripping him inside. "Not without me, Piers. Look at me," Chris barks, his voice a deep, guttural roar that rattles against the tiles.
Without breaking his furious pace, Chris reaches down with his large, calloused right hand. He slips it between their slick, soaking chests, his thick fingers wrapping tightly around the base of Piers's throbbing length. He pumps his hand in perfect, bruising sync with the heavy, wet slams of his hips, trapping Piers in a vice.
"Chris! CHRIS!"
The double friction is too much. Piers's eyes roll back, his entire body going rigid as his mind completely shorts out. He blows apart first, a thick, white stream of come erupting from him, splashing blindly against Chris's bared, heavily muscled stomach and the wet tile wall. He shudders violently, his throat releasing a high, broken sob as his climax tears through him in relentless waves.
Watching his sniper completely break in his arms triggers the final fuse in Chris. He lets out a low, feral growl from the deepest part of his chest. He drives in one last time, pinning Piers completely flat against the wall, burying himself to the absolute root.
Chris's body locks up, his muscles turning to solid stone as his own orgasm slams into him. He fills Piers completely, his length pulsing violently inside the tight, clamping heat of the younger man as he releases a massive, scalding torrent deep inside him. He stays buried there, heavy and trembling, his forehead pressed hard against Piers's wet shoulder as the old pipes roar and the water continues to wash over their spent, ruined bodies.
The deafening roar of the shower gradually fades into a low, dripping hiss as Chris finally reaches out with a heavy, trembling arm and twists the rusted handle shut.
The sudden silence in the tiny bathroom is thick, broken only by the sound of their ragged, synchronised breathing. The air is still heavy with steam, smelling intensely of safehouse soap and the raw, musky scent of their spent release.
Piers is completely limp, his forehead resting against Chris's broad, slick shoulder. His legs are trembling so violently that he can barely keep his feet on the wet porcelain basin. If Chris weren't still holding him up by the waist, his fingers still dug firmly into the flushed skin of his hips, Piers would have slid straight down onto the floor.
"I've got you," Chris rumbles. His voice is a low, gravelly rasp, completely blown out from the guttural noises he'd been making just minutes prior.
Slowly, with a tenderness that completely contrasts the feral intensity of the railing, Chris eases himself out of Piers's body. A soft, breathless whine escapes the younger man's throat at the sudden loss of warmth, his tight muscles twitching as Chris’s thick length slides free, leaving a mixture of water and Chris's white come to trickle down his inner thigh.
Chris steps out of the tub first, his bare feet squelching against the wet linoleum. He grabs a massive, rough BSAA-issued towel from the rack. Instead of just handing it over, Chris wraps it entirely around Piers's shivering frame, bundling his sniper up like a prized asset. He scoops Piers up into his massive arms, lifting him out of the stall effortlessly.
Piers doesn't protest the handling. He is entirely spent, his eyes half-closed as he buries his face into the dry curve of Chris's neck, his fingers gripping the rough fabric of the towel.
Chris carries him out of the humid bathroom and into the cool, dark main room of the safehouse. The storm outside is still battering the roof, but inside, the suffocating tension from earlier is completely gone. Chris lays Piers down onto the small, creaking military cot, climbing in right after him before the younger man can even think to feel cold.
The cot is narrow, forcing their heavy, exhausted bodies to tangle together. Chris pulls a scratchy wool blanket over them, wrapping one massive, scarred arm around Piers's waist and pulling the sniper flush against his chest. Piers lets out a long, shuddering sigh, his body instantly relaxing as he hooks a leg over Chris's thigh, anchoring himself to the older man.
There are no words spoken about ranks, protocol, or what just happened. In the quiet dark of the safehouse, running on zero sleep and the lingering afterglow of absolute surrender, they finally find their peace— safe, breathing, and completely belonging to each other.