wash my bones in the ocean.

g.i. joe: marvel/devil's due

(1224 words // pg13)

pairings; firefly/wild weasel

warnings; mentions of violence, language

Some things aren't worth getting upset over-- not when the company's so great.

The air aboveground is cool with the bite of brine-filled wind and the unflinching night sky, and the cement of the wall behind him is rough against his back. Tonight is a training night and about as close to real winter as you can get in southern Florida, although they will not be here long-- tomorrow it is Amsterdam, then Singapore, and on, and on. They are being trained, being groomed for something they have been doing more than half their lives, but Firefly (Snake-Eater, god, what a code name) can't bring himself to mind.

He lets his head thunk against the wall behind him, the wall of the building of their latest infiltration, their latest conquest. Shoulders aching pleasantly from the weight of the gun he'd been lugging around for the past seventeen hours, he tugs the mask from his head, and then the goggles, running a hand through his damp hair-- not a record, not by a long shot, but it's more work than he's done in the past few months, and pulling the trigger is still a glorious feeling. He thinks of Scrap Iron with a fond smirk, wonders how long it'll be until they're shooting at each other.

And speaking of teammates--

Absentmindedly he glances towards his favourite comrade-in-arms. The man next to him has dark, dark hair and impassive eyes-- their resident jumper is quiet as usual, but it's a peaceful sort of quiet, not his usual edgy get out of my face. It's the type of quiet that shows up after a particularly good gunfight, and it makes him accessible.

Probably noticing he's staring, Wild Weasel mutters offhandedly, "Do you want to blow something up right now?"

Firefly tucks a hand behind his head, raising an eyebrow. He continues, "I feel like I haven't blown anything up in ages. It's oppressive."

With a grin, Firefly pushes off the wall and turns towards him, pinning the other man with his body, palms pressed flat against the dirty cement on either side of his head. It feels entirely too natural, crowding him in like this, but there's no resistance. Dark brown eyes stare up at him calmly. He grins sharper. "We'll get to that. Settle for shooting a bunch of low-lifes next week?"

"And you call me a pussy."

"They're not paying me enough to make me play nice." Firefly brings one hand down, twisting his fingers through Wild Weasel's hair, tugging his head back to bring his chin out from huddling under that collar of his. He feels the other man tense slightly, but all he does is reach out with his free hand, gently thumb down the side of his forehead. "Brand new face, I see."

Wild Weasel lets his eyes fall closed for the briefest of moments. "I think I'm going to keep this one. Maybe Zartan will forget about it." He says it like it's a joke-- hands sway upwards, but his mind catches up with his body and they fall back to his sides, gloved fingers curling against the cement.

"It looks good on you." And it does, but in truth, it's the new personality that gets him. As Halo, Wild Weasel is tactile and efficient-- and willing. There are none of the reservations that came with his previous body, none of the debilitating shyness that kept his burned, damaged skin hidden. He's still antisocial, but just high-strung enough that Firefly can crack his shell. As if to prove his point, he strokes the other man's cheekbone with his knuckles. "Kenneth, right? That your real name?"

That earns him a sharp laugh but no response. Firefly continues to stroke his face, letting himself marvel at the work of their chameleon friend-- someday, he thinks, he'll either have to do Zartan a very large favour, or kill him. Wild Weasel tilts his head into the gesture for a moment, then says, "I'll tell you my real name if you get me back in the sky."

The slightest of grins, then, barely there. Taking it as an invitation, Firefly leans in, mouths his way up Wild Weasel's jaw, sucks and bites at the sensitive area beneath his ear. Halo-- Wild Weasel-- Kenneth Leggitt for all he cares-- grimaces slightly against his ministrations, twitches. Firefly tightens the hand knotted in his hair and grins loftily. "Oh, shut up, it's not so bad."

The grimace turns into more of a glare, but it's got no malice in it. "Yeah? You've done worse, god knows."

Firefly breathes out a little sigh of discontent, pulls back and impulsively nips at Wild Weasel's bottom lip. At the sharp whine he recieves for his efforts, he affectionately presses their foreheads together, stares at the other man through one half-lidded, amused eye. "You're not used to dealing with tough employers? Tough."

Wild Weasel pushes back against him, half-jostling half-challenging, and their noses press against each other, and neither of his eyes are open. "I think this man vomits stars and stripes. He's completely useless." Firefly huffs out a surprised laugh, lets his hand fall from Wild Weasel's dark, mussed hair to cup the back of his neck in an almost subconscious motion.

"Shh. Shut up. We're fine. I'll shoot him through the head for you when this is over. All for you."

That provokes a bit of a questioning, although not entirely displeased, grunt. "You think it's going to come crashing down?"

Impulsively, Firefly pulls back, dropping his hands. "Obviously," he says, frowning the sort of frown that'll give him wrinkles early-- he's not young anymore, but maybe that's not such a bad thing. "You think I'd stick around for-- what? To become a fucking Joe?" He laughs. "I'll tear this whole operation down myself if I have to."

For a moment, Wild Weasel looks bereft at the sudden lack of contact, but he unfazedly pulls his collar back up and schools his face back into an expression of cold disinterest. Halo again. "Don't let them hear you say that."

Unnecessary advice if he's ever heard it. He rolls his shoulders out of adgitation. "Loyalty games," he mumbles to himself after a pause, pressing the heel of his palm into his eye, inhaling slowly. Loyalty games is all this job is, and his willingness to shoot his fellow Cobra operatives just proves one thing: he won't play. He hopes he's sending a clear message to the Commander. "What are you going to do after this?"

Wild Weasel, with Halo's dead eyes, smiles in a not-telling sort of way. He's not one for trust, but then again, Firefly is the one asking all the questions. His response isn't exactly an answer, but it's good enough. "How about I take you flying?"

"Do you mean flying or falling, jackass?"

"Parachutes are not a guarantee." Then, as an an afterthought, "No refunds."

For a moment, Firefly stares out at the ocean, feels the sting of salt against his nostrils and thinks of freefall. Then he turns back to Wild Weasel, cupping his jaw in one hand and pressing a kiss to his forehead-- he knows his smirk can't cover up his excitement at the prospect. "I'll hold you to it."

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