Saving the world is a lonely and a thankless job, though the excitement does make up for it.
After getting everyone patched up and put back together on the Paladin, more or less, the Fourth Echelon team found themselves with enough adrenaline to blow a hole in the wall of the airship. They just saved the country and the stability of international relations that hinged on the most powerful country in the world not getting into a bloodbath with pretty much everyone else. Yet, while people who had very little to no role in achieving this were celebrating, openly or less openly, all across the USA (apparently someone actually broke out a Captain America costume in the Times Square a la the killing of Bin Laden), the ones who actually made a difference in this conflict were solemn and thoughtful. The nature of their job was to keep quiet, no matter of their incredible accomplishments. And while they all realized that, there was thick tension brewing in the team. Figures, you put people who have just beaten certain death in a metal cage and they get a bit grumpy.
So, in their well deserved (not to mention, ordered) break, they had no-one but each other and quite a bit of down time. So they did what any group of colleagues would do – the team hit the bar to enjoy the mutual relief; considering they won't be receiving medals for saving the country, they sure as hell deserved a few stiff ones. Three hours into their little field trip, when Charlie was borderline passed out and Briggs was talking to a pretty college student who was hanging on his every word, Grim approached Fisher out of sheer curiosity and quite a bit of single malt in her system.
She doesn't recall how they connected that night, not that it matters now, anyway. He was drinking by himself, killing a bottle of whiskey at the end of the bar, and the rest of team seemed almost scared to approach him. She wasn't sentimental, at least forced herself not to be, but it seemed almost sad to see the man sulking alone while in reality the free world should be carrying him on their arms. He was drinking in a tempo that would impress Oliver Reed, but apart from his hazy unfocused gaze, nothing betrayed it.
Grim walked up and made a appreciative gaze towards his bottle of Jack Daniels. Very American, as expected. Of course, nothing slipped by Sam. He actually made a mimic of a smile towards her. She had expected him to tell her to piss off.
"Should I help you kill it?" Grim asked, straight to the point just like he liked.
"Sure." She now realized he was very slightly slurring his words. "You're good at helping me kill things"
Wait, is that a compliment? "That's...fucked up, Sam." And she let out a chuckle. Only they could laugh about stuff like this.
An hour later the bottle was dead, so were the numerous shot glasses, stained with the remnants of whiskey, scattered around their table. They hadn't mentioned work at all. He laughed at some stupid remark she made, a sound that surprised her just as much as him.
For once they felt like two strangers in the bar, no past, no finished and unfinished business. And in that moment, it didn't matter that eventually the POTUS will demand an in-depth live debrief, that their teammate had killed a standing SecDef, that Sadiq was rotting in Gitmo, that nobody will ever know what they've done and that in a month, maybe some weeks down the line he will put his life in her hands while walking into a hornets nest again. Fuck it all.
They both shared drinks, one after the other and their conversation topics veered further and further away from what they were usually comfortable with . It was near Christmas and they felt like the loneliest people on the planet. They knew they were nearing a dangerous territory, but maybe people who can't afford to make mistakes professionally tend to compensate for it in their personal lives.
When Sam kissed her that night, after they had shared a cigarette outside, he kissed her with ferocious desperation. Grim responded likewise. It was a thunderstorm, bad history and their stubborn natures crashing together. He gripped her tight, enough to make her acknowledge that he could kill her with his bare hands if he wanted to, but she still felt in charge, and she fucking loved that. Ironically, the two people who would never let their professionalism crack, let it happen with each other.
They ended up stumbling on a hotel room. It was a mess, but what a mess it was. A man who relied on such cold calculation and pragmatic brutality in his daily life, completely switching to his primal instincts and momentary whims was probably one of the most erotic things she'd ever seen.
He was rough, no surprise. He took what he wanted, but what he gave her in bruises, she gave back in scratches and bites. Despite Sam's stone cold demeanor, he was still human enough to yearn for the affirmation he's still alive, for the primal human contact anyone longs for after staring down death. Grim took him in her hand, long, thick and pulsating, and felt him swear in her ear, all over her neck, his mouth wet and his jaw rough with a week's worth of beard. He was hard and borderline unhinged, and she let him whisper in her ear, how wet she is, what he's gonna do to her, silent but determined, gruff but clear, not so different from the way he talked to the unlucky bastards that managed to get themselves in his chokehold. The thought left Grim's mind when his finger entered her, calloused but flexible. Touched thousands of triggers, he had perfect control on her. He was winding her up with the utmost precision.
They fucked hard, with no inhibitions, and while it could've been too much for any other woman, one who lead a different life, Grim enjoyed wrestling away the reins now and then. She tangled her fingers in Sam's salt and pepper hair while he went to work between her legs, him pleasing her with the same ferocious intensity he employed in his professional life, held him there as if she had the power to kill him right then, whispering filth between moans…He growled, like someone who just can't get satiated enough and it elicited a dark chuckle from her. She got on top of him and either Sam enjoyed giving up control as much as he enjoyed having it, or he was too turned on to do anything about it.
They ceased to think as coherent individuals and disappeared into primal instincts, rough touches, bites and desire.
It was like that drink that sets you over the line, you know it's not gonna end pleasantly, yet you can't help but intoxicate yourself further, like you've earned the right to let go and fuck whoever thinks differently. And when she came yet again and again, biting down on his shoulder, trying not to give him the satisfaction of hearing her scream, as if he didn't already know just how good he was, she grew more and more confident that the world owed her a chance to let go.
They didn't slow down much that night, but when they did, Sam looked at her body in a way a man would look at a cold beer on a hot summer's day. Grim couldn't help but admire him herself – he was built to kill, lean but solidly thick, with plenty of scars to document his work. The next time they stopped, they didn't stop until the dawn broke through the curtains, collapsing in exhaustion. And, despite all the things they did to each other that night, at the very end they regressed into their reserved selves - Sam dragged his hand across her body one last time, fell back on his side of the bed and was out in seconds. Grim, barely able to move, took one last look at his rhythmic breathing and joined him.
They avoided looking at each other the next morning. If anything happened while they were sobered up, they wouldn't be able to write their escapade off on drunken foolish decisions. He left before her, both sharing a moment of silent agreement that after leaving the hotel, nothing like this will ever happen again.