Useful

Title: Useful
Pairing(s): A surprise in the nature of the cold end of the color spectrum :3
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Smex? A tiny, tiny bit of angst and a bit of OOC. Possibly.
Summary: It breaks, he fixes it.

I watch him peel off the sealed layer of the armor, black material stretching as it is pulled away from the bunched muscles of his back.

These suits were not designed to be removed. They were not designed to be slowly and lovingly disassembled for evening showers. They were designed to contain the rippling beauty of the massive warrior who cocks his helmeted head to the side and chuckles in my direction.

I'm a sick bastard.

God damnit, that's the third time this month! I storm away from the showers in a fit of embarrassed rage. Caboose calls after me, asking where I'm going and if I'd like to stay and help him wash his back. My teeth clack together, hard, as I gnash my molars.

Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, you son of a bitch. With your perfect muscles and your stupid voice and that DAMN FUCKING PERFECT SKIN.

That's as far as it always gets. The first time it happened, I was fixing a pipe that had busted and sprayed all over the shower room. Church was taking a piss or something when he heard the noise. As my 'commanding officer', he demanded I take care of the problem.

I told him to eat shit.

He grabbed me, twisted my arm behind my back, and slammed me to the ground. You know, you wouldn't think Church could actually be a badass from the way he constantly whines and bitches. But he is. I've got the bruises to prove it. Part of me is pretty pissed that he can so easily manhandle me. But the other...

Regardless, a few minutes later I was down in the neglected showers fixing a weak bolt. Imagine my surprise when, humming and completely oblivious, Caboose strolled in the door, swayed over to the nearest bench, and began twisting and snapping off the outer layers of his armor.

My hand stilled on the tool. Who the fuck takes showers anymore? I'd asked myself. These suits are self contained and self cleaning. Hell, I hadn't showered in months thanks to this baby. It did all the work for me. Ignore the fact that by now I've forgotten how to take the whole thing off...

Anyway, when I saw that second skin suddenly removed, I couldn't look away.

Caboose was gold. I was fucking shocked. We've all spent so much time in these suits that we've become deathly pale. Well, I have anyway. I know Church has, too. I've seen him make adjustments to his gloves and his hands are ghostly.

Not Caboose. Caboose looked like he'd been out in the sun just long enough for it to mark him with its warmth. He glowed. His back muscles churned as he cranked the thin fabric over his shoulders and scrunched it down at his waist.

I dropped the wrench. Before the clatter had even registered in my addled brain, I was diving behind a row of lockers and holding my breath.

And then Caboose did what he was famous for. He gave a frightened yell and called out in my direction.

"Santa!? Why are you spying on me? Have I been bad? Oh please, don't put a lobster in my stocking like you did that one year. The pinching...oh god, the pinching..."

He opened his mouth and showed the extent of O'Malley's handiwork.

I booked. Cowardly? Yes. And honestly, I hope he still thinks it was Santa spying on him in the showers. As creepy as that sounds.

I ran all the way back to my room, closed the door, and leaned back against the metal with my eyes squeezed shut. Trying to get the vision of a perfectly sculpted CABOOSE out of my head. Seriously, of all the people to walk in on. At least with Church it would have been pasty, creamy white skin and a dark, irritated growl...

Holy God. I shifted in my armor, scraping the back panel over the door and causing a harsh squeal. Where was Tex at a time like this? At least Tex had tits, and probably a nice, juicy snatch. No dick. No broad shoulders and thick biceps and-

I banged my head so hard against the door I saw spots.

The second time wasn't really an accident. In my chickenshit escape from the showers, I'd left the bolt just lose enough for it to pop off. Church was breathing down my neck the very next day. Flooding, he said. Into the bathrooms, even. Not wanting another ass-kicking, I grumbled and went off to fix it.

Caboose was already there.

I ignored him as best as I could, keeping my attention on the task of fixing the pipe. But he just kept talking to me. As he pulled off the last section of his chest piece. As he turned on the shower. As he stepped under the stream. And not once did his voice change from the gravely static that projected from his helmet's speakers - which meant he hadn't taken it off. Eh, it was Caboose. I wouldn't put it past him. Still, I was curious, so I snuck a peek at my teammate.

It was a quick glance, no more than a millisecond. But in that infinitesimal amount of time, I'd registered flawless, droplet covered skin, muscles sliding smoothly next to each other as he moved under the spray. Arms chiseled, back curving into the top of his well-defined, partially exposed ass. His legs were still encased in the suit, boots, and armor.

And yes, his helmet was still on.

My mind went numb. Caboose kept talking and my hand kept turning the wrench, but for the life of me I couldn't hear what he was saying. Something about Church. Church. Right. Um...Church's bad attitude. His sour-pussness. His sneery, annoyed demeanor. How he always stands with his legs slightly apart and his arms crossed. The way he tosses around that sniper rifle like it weighs nothing, when the last time I even had the chance to touch it I couldn't pick it up.

"Tucker? Tucker, are you listening?" Caboose's voice came from the side and his bare hand landed on my shoulder.

I was standing and walking out of the room before I even realized what was happening. Caboose whined about me leaving, but I didn't really register the words. My feet moved without my permission, carrying me up the stairs and right to my room. I closed the door. I leaned against it. I closed my eyes.

He touched me. He fucking touched me. Right at the juncture of neck and shoulder, RIGHT where the armor ends and the suit leads up to the lip of my helmet. He might as well have been gripping my flesh. It had been the closest to a real human touch I'd had in almost six months.

It affected me. In a way that would have been awkwardly obvious if I'd been wearing pants.

And now, today. Wash his back. Fuckoff.

This has become my usual spot to be after these run-ins with the retard. In my room, leaning against the door, head against the metal.

Breathe in.

"Shit."

Breathe out.

"Whore."

My personal form of meditation. It's oddly relaxing.

The peace doesn't last long. Minutes later, a few startling booms send jarring vibrations straight into my skull.

"Faaack," I grumble and stand, suddenly feeling completely drained. I lean heavily against the frame and open the door to a toe-tapping Church.

"You fix that shit yet, Tucker?" he asks, a hint of impatience in his voice.

"Yeah. Yeah, I fixed it. It's fixed." I reply, rubbing at my shoulder. The one Caboose put his hand on last week. Flinching, I take my glove away.

"It had better be," he warns. There's something distinctly unhappy in his tone. Granted, Church is usually unhappy, so I don't take it seriously.

"Oh fuck you, sir," I snarl. "What the hell gives you the right to tell me what to do? You know, it breaks again and you hear it, why don't YOU fucking fix it if it's such a big deal?"

I was half expecting this. But the ground still hurts when my helmet clacks against it.

"AW, what the fuck!?" I yelp, and in response my wrist is yanked higher between my shoulder blades. Church swings a leg over my back, easily straddling me, and smashes me into the ground with his weight.

"You're a snappy little shit." He growls and shoves harder. His right hand lands on the ground near my face, fingers curled against the cement. My other arm is tucked beneath me, hand pinned between my codpiece and inner thigh. I struggle to toss him off. He pushes back. "You never listen to a thing I tell you unless I force you down."

He's heavy, so heavy I can barely breathe. Cobalt-armored legs grip mine and he shifts, but suddenly this doesn't feel like Church wants to make it feel. His weight, his heat, his strength, and my wish that he'd just slide a little to the left and grind down...

I groan.

Oh Fuck.

We both go completely still. Exactly two beats later, Church is standing and walking briskly down the hall without a backwards glance.

Oh god. What did I just do?

I don't want to think about it. I don't want to think about it. Dizzy, I pull myself off the floor and collapse onto my bed.

I'm not going to jerk off to Church. I'm not going to jerk off to Church. I'm not going to think of Caboose, half naked and wet and asking me -oh christ, asking me - to touch him. His back, his arms, his stomach, his thighs, his...

I'm not, I'm not, I'm not.

Even if I had intended to rip off my codpiece and 'handle' the situation, it doesn't matter. It only takes a few uncertain, ashamed thrusts against the mattress before I'm coming helplessly and disgustingly hard inside my armor.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck, that was hot.

The suit obediently absorbs the sticky mess. Fucking embarrassed and sick beyond belief, I burrow my helmet into the padded pillow. Shame burns low in the pit of my stomach.

Never again, I tell myself. Never again.