AN: This is a bit late, I know, I know, but life caught up and told me that I wasn't allowed to write. I still don't feel too well, so this was a pain, but my Gears pairing needs some love, so I went for it.
I haven't ever posted any of my gears writing, but poking around…I don't feel too bad about that. Hoping that this brings some holiday cheer to someone- because yes, it's still the holidays, it hasn't been the new year yet!
Warning: MarcusBaird, as in MaleMale of the not MarcusDom variety. You ship yours, I ship mine, we'll all be happy. Also, possible mild spoilers, not to mention the fact that I COULD NOT STAND how the books were written. Any errors are mine, and there is no need to point them out. Enjoy it for what it is. Also, I don't actually have a computer. Reviews will be loved upon unmercifully, but responses will be scattered. Know that I appreciate them, nonetheless!
Happy is a Matter of Opportunity
Part One
The Sovereign pitched like a toy boat on choppy waters, and it took everything in Baird's power not to upchuck the dinner he'd consumed only half an hour previous. With actual protein no less, one of the many laying hens taken to block for the special holiday. Bland as it had tasted, his body craved the meat like no other and he was not losing it. Cole would never let him live it down. Still, it was a hard fought battle, one that only worsened when the ship's generators caved to the storm's oppression, leaving him in the pitch darkness of his cabin.
"Great," he murmured, quietly at first, then a louder groan of, "PERFECT", just to let his hall mates know how he felt about their little situation. Not that any of them were around as of yet, seeing as the party was still in full swing, but he could damn well bitch if he wanted to. He was probably going to be the one to fix it anyway.
With the initial passing of his darkness induced claustrophobia, his nausea eased up somewhat. In the dark, the objects rolling on his work bench weren't visible, and thus worked far less towards inducing vomiting. The only light in the room came from the energy cells on his armor, which was currently shoved in the corner for repair. Later. When there was light and the world stopped spinning. In its own way it was soothing, and he allowed himself to relax in the gentle flow. It wouldn't last long, anyway.
The Christmas Party had been…well, pretty pointless, as he'd expected. He wouldn't go so far as to say boring, though. When they weren't in his personal space, he had to admit that the drunks were entertaining, in their own pathetic way. After three rounds of you-are-an-asshole with Sam, however, the entertainment value became outweighed by bitch value and he had escaped.
"Damon Baird to generator repair. Baird to generator" echoed loud and sudden through the speakers and, despite the sudden break in silence, the blond couldn't say he was surprised. There hadn't been a single Christmas where he hadn't gotten screwed- and not in the awesome way, either- since he'd turned five and his parents had decided his career path for him.
The all call echoed yet again- just in case he hadn't heard it, one would assume, but he just knew it was because their beloved Captain was a hard ass who assumed he was drunk like the rest of them- and Baird sat up, grumbling in the dark. "Yeah fuckin yeah. Heard you the first time. Off to save the fuckin day again." He swung off of his little bed ( careful to avoid smacking his head on the bunk above it ) and stretched, waiting for the wave of nausea to pass and for his legs to support him before he started forward in the dark towards his work bench, nabbing the large, rectangular flashlight there. The backup generators should have kicked in but, just like the rest of the ship that was held together largely by patch welds and duct tape, they were probably on the fritz. Another thing he'd look at in the daytime, because fuck this dark bullshit.
Without turning on the light he exited the hallway, relying for a moment on his keen sense of hearing while he checked his waist for the tool belt that had been there permanently for the last few months. Except in showers, of course, because he refused to look like he was in a bad porno. Immediately out of the room, however, a sound caught his attention- small, in the tossing of the waves, but definitely there. Within a heartbeat he had the light on, hand down to rip his wrench free from the belt, but at the same time there was an illumination and he was cursing aloud his own idiocy for being complacent, a massive hand was slamming him back against the wall with a vengeance. Baird cursed, a mixture of anger and fear, the wrench halfway out before his eyes adjusted and he found himself staring into the brilliantly illuminated, pissed off eyes of Delta Squad's leader.
"Baird," Marcus said, voice a low growl. His gaze flickered down to the makeshift weapon, which was inches from leaving a nasty break in his ribs, before he released his grip on the corporal and stepped back. "What the fuck are you doing skulking in the dark?"
"I could ask you the same thing, jackass," the blond responded testily. "Shouldn't you be up there with the communication's officer, taking advantage of the fact that there's alcohol so you don't have to actually admit you give a shit?"
The look this got him was a mixture of disgust and irritation, which Baird would have analyzed further if the world weren't spinning and he didn't have someplace to be. "Came down here to see if you passed out in your own puke."
Green eyes rolled. "Oh yeah, real-"
His smartass comment was cut off as the ship decided it wasn't a good time for them to be standing and pitched violently. Baird staggered, his equilibrium still skewed, but before he could eat ship floor one big hand snagged hold of his bicep, the other planting firmly on the wall, and he found himself again staring into squinting luminous blues.
"Watch where you're pointing that fucking thing," Marcus muttered, ducking his head to the side, and Baird blamed his nausea for the little shudder that rolled down his spine. Because it was not the sergeant's breath trailing across his neck. Because that was disgusting because it was Fenix.
"Oh sorry," the blond responded, voice a high falsetto, "I'll try to keep my light out of your eyes the next time I almost eat it."
Marcus snorted, callous amusement to his voice, and glanced back to Baird as the light was shifted away. The corporal itched, suddenly, to plant the beam right back where it had been originally, because all at once this was too close. It didn't matter that they'd been this close before- patching wounds, catching each other from exploding helicopters, tossed together in casual brawls- this was different. It was dark, and stormy, and Christmas, and there was no one around. Baird was a genius. He knew exactly why his stomach squirmed at the thought. He would just rather shove his hand in a moving lancer chain than admit that he was attracted to Marcus Fenix.
They hadn't been like that for long, but the moment felt like it stretched on forever, those few seconds stretching out like taffy. It didn't help when Baird looked up and found that some jackass ( who Anya would refer to as mischievous and Baird would refer to as a twat with no life ) had planted a sprig of mistletoe on the ceiling just before the stairwell. Which was where they were. His lips quirked wryly at the darkened ceiling and maybe Marcus saw the expression because, a moment later, he was looking up too.
"Well isn't this romantic," Baird drawled sweetly. He looked down, smirking. "Come on Fenix, you don't have to resort to mistletoe to get…"
There was something of a hiccup in his logic when the sergeant looked at him, a delicate twitch to his lips. Like he was thinking of something that Baird was in complete denial about.
"Yeah, Baird?" Marcus asked, and the mocking in his tone rose a tide of hot anger in the blond. "Polyp got your tongue?"
He hated polyps. He hated being mocked. He hated the stupid sergeant, because why in the hell did he get the title when Baird was the one that did all of the goddamn work? He was a grunt. Even if he was a good leader, Baird pulled his goddamn weight too.
It pissed him off the most that, rather than wanting to slug him, he wanted to kiss him. Which sort of made him want to slug him more, but it was still eclipsed by the sudden, twanging urge to see how Marcus would react. Probably hit him. Maybe that would be better because then he'd get it out of his fucking system, because he was sick of worrying like a goddamn puppy or some other bullshit term.
Marcus snorted softly, but Baird didn't comment on that because as he did, he leaned forward, the inches between them disappearing like lightning, and his phobia of people, his need to push them away, was momentarily short circuited by his need. Sexual misconduct was just fine, it was when he cared that was the problem, and it terrified him that he gave a shit about the man that was four inches, three inches, two inches, almost touching, away from him. But he needed this. Just once and he'd be good because he had an itch…
And maybe because he was tired of seeing Anya fucking mooning at Marcus, tired of their little quips, sick of seeing them interacting when there was no chemistry, absolutely driven up the goddamn wall every time she could subtly touch him and not get the sideways look from Cole because Cole knew, Cole always knew, even if he played dumb. They were hovering, that bare breath apart, and anyone else would have thought it was Marcus being kind, giving him an out, but the blond knew better; he was controlling him, yet again, making Baird take that last step, pushing him subtly.
"You're an asshole, Fenix," Baird muttered, just because he had to say something, but he didn't let Marcus respond. As interesting as it might have been, this was better. The blond steadied himself with one hand back against the cool metal of the ship and leaned forward, head cocking to the side so they wouldn't mesh awkwardly, and-
"Damon Baird to Generator Repair!" Echoed suddenly through the loud system and Baird jerked like a guilty teenager. His lips just skimmed the corner of Marcus's as his head whipped to the side to look up the stairs, and the sudden movement jarred the sergeant away. The Sovereign rolled and Marcus, on the opposite side of the hallway, snatched hold of a beam to keep himself upright while Baird grabbed the railing of the stairs. For a moment there was silence, save for the waves slapping against the ship.
"Merry Christmas, Damon," Marcus called finally, and Baird realized the dull twang in his chest was the disappointment of a lost opportunity.
"Yeah," he said slowly, frowning. "Yeah sure, Fenix. You too."
He bound up the stairs, running a hand through his hair and exhaling a breath that was more shaky than he liked. To be merry meant to be happy. Well, he should have been happy that he'd just lost that opportunity, that it had, so to speak, 'jumped ship'.
But he wasn't happy. He was pissed.
"Merry fucking Christmas," he spat nastily at no one. Then he went off to do what he did best; fix shit. Because happiness, in this instance, was a matter of opportunity, and he'd just fucking lost it.
AN: There's another part on the way, guys. Hope you liked!
