2nd Drabble of March 2019

Looking at Gabriel, Baptiste can still see him dwelling in the past. He will be sitting at the window, quietly – literally – fuming, smokes of ash billowing around him as he stares holes into the grey sea surrounding the base.

It’s not been long enough to forget the ordeal, the medic supposes. The hole he’s gotten him out of had been stinking of bodies and cum and feces, the wraith more animal than man as he had been chained to the brick wall, nanites made sluggish and unresponsive by a cocktail of drugs that would have killed a lesser man.

Baptiste hadn’t asked questions back then when he’s pulled his gun and shot Reaper’s assailant without hesitation; he hadn’t asked questions when he’s pulled the corpse off the struggling prisoner, Gabriel panting and shivering and staring at him with dark, panicked eyes until recognition had come somewhat back – and he’s not going to ask any now, sitting at the other side of the room and watching Reaper barely keep himself together.

Baptiste has fallen out of the habit of asking questions a long time ago. He is more of an… action kind of man. He works with his gut feeling and not with his head – the latter has betrayed him one time too many.

When Gabriel dissolves in front of his eyes, the thick plume of smoke sliding silkily across the floor, Baptiste jerks back in mild surprise, but opens himself up readily enough when it becomes obvious that the old man wants to come close. Get some contact.

Baptiste grunts as Reaper materializes himself again in his lap. He is heavy and feverishly hot but solid.

His dark eyes are burning like sweltering coals as he comes right up into Baptiste’s personal space, their mouths just a breath apart.

“I have work for you, soldier,” Gabriel purrs. His voice had always been nice; deep and rolling and intoxicating. Baptiste finds himself inclined to just go along with it. He wants to lean in and kiss Reaper, but he can feel the small tremor running through his body, and he pauses; pulls back again.

He stares into Reaper’s face; He’s been a gorgeous man once, but incessant, cruel experiments have left him with scars and a few too many eyes that are not all focused on the medic he’s pressing ruthlessly into the chair; a few of them are skittering away nervously.

Baptiste slowly licks his lips, thoughts racing while his hands grip at Reaper’s thighs that feel hard like concrete.

In all fairness, Reaper still is a gorgeous man.

Gabriel reaches up, sharp claws digging into the tight curls on Baptiste’s head; digging in until Baptiste can feel his face contorting in pain, holding carefully still beneath the other man as Gabriel seems to inspect him; leans in and sniffs at the point of Baptiste’s jaw, then farther down, the tip of his nose trailing his pounding pulse.

“Can you keep your hands to yourself?” Reaper whispers, his beard tickling the lobe of his ear.

“Yes,” Baptiste sighs out, eyes sliding closed. Gabriel crowds closer, his body thrumming like a heart, quick and nervous, and, yes, afraid.

“Show me.”