Considering that Callum is (was? is?) a soldier, he sleeps like the goddamn dead when it suits him. Zack props himself up on one elbow and considers the scene with a smile: Conquest, sprawled inelegantly over the pillow, his hair sticking up in a thousand different directions. Very majestic. Zack's been awake for a while, couldn't get back to sleep, and has nearly woken him about half a dozen times already, either by tossing and turning or by upsetting the hotel bathroom's shower rack with a crash that sounded like a gunshot in the tiny room. But "nearly woken" is clearly a relative thing, because the most that he could tell had happened, poking his dripping head out of the bathroom door as suds ran down his nose, was that Cal had maybe turned over a bit. He'd asked about that once; Cal had laughed. Apparently when you're a soldier, if you know it's safe then you learn to sleep through artillery barrages - otherwise you wake up if a mouse farts.
At least...that means he feels safe. Though he never takes up more than half the bed - apparently that's a soldier thing too, something about tiny army cots and mud.
So Zack's been twiddling his proverbial thumbs for some time now, mind whirring around with nothing to do. And boredom isn't kind to him. Cal's hands are both outside the duvet, and Zack does a quick mental inventory of the contents of his own bag. There's a nice green, would go with his eyes.
He reaches out, pokes an exposed shoulder. Quite hard, to be honest.
Shit all happens.
The last of his caution flying out the window, Zack leans over the side of the bed and rummages the rich, dark green nail polish out of his bag.
A little later, he surveys his handiwork. It looks good, if he says so himself; smooth and even. And it probably does match Cal's eyes - eye - but he's still asleep. Zack snickers to himself; he can't wait for the reaction. He has a few predictions, but the very fact that the two of them are lying next to each other under rumpled sheets is testimony to the fact that Cal doesn't always conform to his expectations, so he doesn't want to choose just one. Either way, it'll be entertaining.
It isn't entertaining, not at first. Cal wakes up, as usual, and then just...goes about his business. As usual. He's not angry, not dismayed, not embarrassed, nothing. And he definitely noticed, because the second thing he looked at, right after Zack's eager face watching him with probably disconcerting glee, was the shiny deep green of his fingernails, somewhat closer in his field of vision. But then his gaze - and the polish did match his eye, Zack thought triumphantly - just moved on. It isn't like he's blanking Zack, either. Their usual chitchat and banter continues, even as Cal slips his black leather gloves on that evening to complete Conquest. Everything is just...normal.
The race goes to plan, or as much as it ever does. The police get wind of things, as they often do - how do you honestly keep hundreds to thousands of people jammed into a dozen or so miles of streets a secret, after all - but there's a persistent one who hasn't engaged with the bribing of his superior, so Cal slinks off to do a deal, unmounted of course because it's difficult to slink anywhere when you have a glowing white horse. Zack sees him go, but continues in his own duties and doesn't glance over again until later, when he sees them finally shake hands. Something lurches, hot, inside him, as he realises that Cal never took the damn nail polish off, all day. It's still on, underneath those black gloves, shaking hands with the officer. He grins at the mental image, not sure if the audacity is something Cal intended, not sure he even knows, but as Cal remounts Spitfire and rides up beside 007, he tilts his head very slightly in the way that tells Zack that he's glancing over behind his black mirror goggles.
"Later," he says, with the tiniest of smiles.
Oh. Oh yeah, he knows.
Later, those slick, shiny green nails are inside him, fingers pressing against his prostate as he arches and moans and tries to look down, down the length of his body to where the other hand of green points are lazily squeezing and stroking the base of his cock while Cal's green eye - they do match - watches him as he sucks the head, tongue swirling around it in the wet heat of his mouth. Zack knows it doesn't make any sense, but he really doesn't care because he's coming faster and harder than he thought possible, and Cal's swallowing and stroking and pressing and watching him arch and swear, and this had been a fucking amazing idea.
And he's happy for Cal to keep surprising him.