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A Snowball's Chance in Hell

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Floyd Lawton was going to get Rick Flag out of that dungeon, even if that meant shooting every single other person there. This might take him some time but, Floyd reckoned, it would be a damn sight easier than having to tell Rick that he’s sorry.

At that moment, Rick was somewhere in the depths of a castle carved out of the side of a mountain in Slazkoanovia, and, for a start, what was it with villains and headquarters inside mountains? Floyd never saw the appeal of them when you could get a nice Gotham city Brownstone for half the price and enjoy central heating. But the particular bad dude who’d grabbed Flag was a self-styled General Von something-or-other, an Aryan race-warrior-WWII-throwback complete with eyepatch, had chosen this ornate hidey-hole as his centre of operations. As snowflakes clogged up his vision, Floyd cursed all neo-Nazi wannabes who took Indiana Jones movies as inspiration, and he doubly cursed the remote Eastern European nation of Slazkoanovia. He’d almost rather be in Belle Reve than be back here.

But Flag wasn’t in Belle Reve. And he wasn’t at Floyd’s side, being an uptight pain in his ass, telling him to quit bitching about the cold while pretending that his lips weren’t turning blue. Which pissed Floyd off because, while he wouldn’t care to admit it even under the most withering of Amanda Waller’s glares, he preferred having Colonel Flag around on their missions, providing his law-and-order counterbalance to the Squad’s anarchy.

Cracking his knuckles, he checked his wrist gauntlets to make sure they hadn’t iced over as he crouched under a rocky outcrop. He’d been dropped on the mountainside ninety minutes ago and had hiked his way up to this vantage point as the snowfall got worse. From where he was huddled, he could make out the vague shape of the castle underneath him. Waller was in Lawton’s earpiece, saying that Flag was definitely alive. Floyd realised that Rick must have his own chip stuck in him, recording his vital signs, which was both disturbing and reassuring in turns.

General von Fuckface had grabbed Rick fifteen hours ago during a Suicide Squad call-out to a shopping mall in Coral City. It had all started off normally; normal for them, at least. There had been reports of something weird going on that the general populace definitely needed to be shielded from, but not something the regular army would be well-equipped to deal with. Just the kind of thing that Waller wheeled her merry band out for. This time, it was sightings of re-animated corpses showing up in people’s backyards.

Boomerang had been excited. “Zombies? Fuck yes. Always wanted to take a pop at one of those rancid buggers.”

Katana and Croc were less thrilled about the whole enterprise, but Flag whispered something to Tatsu in Japanese that reassured her, and Floyd reminded Croc that Coral City had a lot of wetlands.

Once on the ground, it quickly became apparent that there was nothing much there for them to do. After a couple of hours of Croc freaking out the suburbs as they prowled through gardens and playgrounds fruitlessly looking for signs of the undead, there was a new development - a bomb was reported in a discount shoe store in Coral City’s third biggest mall. Flag took the call and agreed with Waller that, as long as they were in the neighborhood, they might as well go in and check it out. They were all expendable, after all, as Boomerang bitched to Floyd on their way in, before he got distracted by a toy shop’s pony range.

Now, sitting on an icy slope and shaking snow from his shoulders, Floyd knew that the whole mission must have been a deliberate set-up from someone targeting the Squad. The zombies were no more than smoke and mirrors, and the bomb an excuse to split him up from his team. When they had assembled in the food court, Waller gave the order for Floyd to go in and deactivate the device. But Flag overruled her, insisting that he would go instead and that the rest of the Squad secure the area and get themselves to safety.

Floyd had told him that safety wasn’t really a Suicide Squad concept, “And this so-called ‘bomb’? It’s probably just someone’s lunch, or a discarded science fair project. I can deal with it, you can go back to run around the suburbs chasing dead folk.”

Rick shook his head. “This is a direct order, Deadshot. I’ll assess the device and neutralise it. Do not enter until I send for you.”

“How is that fair? You just want to raid this shoe shop for some fresh kicks, right? Get yourself a pair of Jordans?”

Waving him aside, Flag turned to tell Katana to get to the perimeter. Floyd tried his last tactic and held out his arm, palm faced upwards. “C’mon, let’s settle this.”

Flag rolled his eyes but stuck out his hand. “Call it.”

Floyd raised his fist. “One, two, three,”

Their hands went out in front of them. Rick’s was curled up. “Rock beats scissors. I’m going in. Grab Boomerang on your way out.”

Floyd shook his head. “Dammit, you always choose paper.”

“That’s only because you always choose rock.”

And that had been the last time Floyd had seen Colonel Rick Flag, who had smiled at him before walking towards the shoe store. Floyd swore under his breath, then worked on hustling the rest of the Squad out to the parking lot, along with a janitor and one very annoyed shopper who couldn’t understand why she wasn’t being allowed to return her sweater set. Floyd was on edge, waiting for the sounds of a detonation, and didn’t stop Boomerang from telling her to shut up and submit her receipt of purchase right where the sun didn’t shine.

Then, instead of Rick’s voice, Waller had barked into Floyd’s earpiece. “Flag’s been taken.”

What? Where to?” Floyd should’ve known there was something rotten with this whole thing. A deeply uncomfortable plane ride later and he was freezing his balls off on a Slazkoanovian mountain range. He twitched with impatience, waiting for the infra-red analysis of General von Fuckface’s stupid lair to be uploaded to his eyepiece so he that could determine the best point of entry. Croc and Katana were at the base of the mountain, subduing a pack of goons who had met the Squad’s transport with machine guns. Boomerang was still in Coral City. He’d ended up in a hospital bed after being incapacitated by the sweater set lady, who turned out to be a Tae Kwan Do champion with a serious anger management problem.

“Looks like the North-West turret is under-defended. I’m going in there.”

Goddamn, but it was cold. Floyd climbed up the turret base regretting all the life choices that had got him to this point. He particularly regretted the job that had last taken him to Slazkoanovia. It had been eight years ago, and it had been just as cold then, if not colder. The assignment had been a simple in-and-out at remote chalet. Floyd had traveled there on foot, walking through wintry landscapes where he’d seen wolves dart among the dense forest.

Hauling himself up into the turret Floyd dispatched the sentry with a punch to the face and began working on the entry code for the doorway entry. It was easily overwritten using a bit of tech help from Belle Reve’s labs, and he walked into the castle.

Eight years ago, Floyd didn’t think twice about taking the job in Slazkoanovia despite the logistics. The mark had been some tyrannical jerk-off who was running a provincial district like his own personal fiefdom, including a spot of ethnic cleansing in some of the rural valleys. The hit had been paid for by a political rival who wanted to ensure that the Slazkoanovia monarchy wouldn’t hand over any more military control to his high-ranking family. Floyd took the money, dispatched the hit, and on his way out of there helped himself to a bottle of brandy from the chalet’s cellar. It had turned out to be the worst-tasting alcohol he’d ever tasted, and ended up flushed down a toilet in Belgium.

Moving down the corridor, Floyd encountered a couple of guards, both mercifully less well-armed than the ones Katana and Croc were fighting. Switching to night vision, because castle-makers never thought about decent lighting, he quickly made his way down three levels through the old servant’s passages. According to Waller, Rick was located somewhere near the old kitchens. Dungeons were often placed near the pantries in old fortresses, an architectural choice that baffled Floyd. Keeping your food and your prisoners seperate seemed like basic common sense to him.

Floyd hadn’t thought about that Slazkoanovian job since the payment had cleared in his bank account. Then four hours ago, on the plane trip from Coral City, he’d been handed a tablet which Waller had filled with intel on the guy who had snatched Rick and carted him off to a forgettable corner of Europe.

As soon as he saw the face of General von Fuckface Floyd realised what had happened. His Slazkoanovian mark had been Baron von Fuckface. The General was his little brother. And, looking over the files that Waller had uploaded, this self-styled General had all of his bro’s homicidal flair with an added need for revenge. And Floyd was his target.

Cue his intricate plan to grab Deadshot, the hitman who killed his brother and set back the cause of Slazkoanovian genocide a decade, and take him to his castle lair for a spot of torture and gloating. But instead of picking up Floyd, he’d gotten the wrong guy, and as Floyd broke the kneecaps of a couple of would-be race warriors at the top of a stairwell, Floyd promised himself that whatever pain they’d inflicted on Flag, he’d serve the General back double.

The castle steps rang out below him with the sound of someone climbing them at a rapid pace, Flattening his back against the stonework, Floyd prepared to drop them. As soon as an arm came around the corner he’d grabbed it and bent it back as he slammed them to the wall with a hand over their mouth.

Rick bit at his fingers.

“Let me go, Deadshot!”

Floyd instantly released him and stepped back. “Where the hell did you come from?”

Rolling to face him, Rick didn’t look too shocked to see him. “Dungeon. Down there.”

He pointed to his feet. Floyd took stock of how he was standing - leaning against the wall, nursing an arm to his chest. No visible contusions, but he looked pale. Rick snapped, “I know you were in the dungeon, how did you get here?”

“What do you think - I hailed an Uber? I have a few tricks of my own, Lawton.”

Floyd finally felt like he could relax a little. “And General von Fuckface?”

“Taken care of. Let’s just say, now he’s going to need two eyepatches.”

Taking a second to let that image sink in, Floyd remembered they weren’t out of the woods quite yet. “Well at least I won’t have to carry you out, Princess. C’mon, let’s blow this joint.”

Rick managed a smirk. “Best idea you’ve had all day.”

By the time they got back to the North-West turret a blizzard had set in. The guard Floyd had punched out was covered in two inches of snow.

“Grab his coat. And his hat.”

Rick insisted on lugging the unconscious guard to shelter before taking his outerwear. Floyd tried to not stare at the wrist he was favoring, and pulled up the topographical map of the mountains he’d uploaded to his eyepiece.

“OK, there’s some sort of building half a mile away, across the ridge - looks like it’s connected to an old skiing resort.”

“What does Waller say?”

Floyd shook his head. “Not a thing. Blizzard’s knocked out all the comms.”

“So you think we head to this possible shelter and hope for the best?”

There was a sharp bang on the door to the turret. Someone was trying to shoot the lock off. Floyd headed to the castle’s edge. “Run first, hope later.”

Pulling the guard’s hat down over his head, Rick followed him over the wall.


The climb over the ridge was agonizing. Their visibility was near zero, and Floyd could only head upwards, trusting that Flag was behind him. Whenever he looked back he could see the vague shape of the guard’s coat and hat struggling forward in the white storm of snow. From the ridge’s apex there was a worn slope that led down to a cleft in the mountain, and after slowly picking their way down a slippery cut, to a tiny A-frame building settled in a hollow. To Floyd’s eyes, it looked like the Taj Mahal.

A good kick opened the door and they both rushed in. Shaking snow off himself like a dog, Floyd bolted the door behind them and groped around for a light switch. He could hear Rick shuffling around, before his pale face was lit up with an orange beam.

“Found some torches and lamps,” Rick told him, redundantly.

They were in a ski cabin, but not one of those fancy Aspen ones that featured in photo shoots for Vanity Fair. This place was rough and ready, with a bare-bones kitchen, bucket shower, and a few sheepskins scattered on the floor. But there was a fireplace, which Flag was already doing some sort of one-handed Boy Scout number to get going.

“Let me. That arm of yours looks terrible.”

“S’fine.” Rick’s answer was curt and miserable, even for him. But his face was tight with pain. Floyd began turning over the shelves until he found a first aid kit. He began naming the other supplies he could see. “Matches! Got some matches for ya. And cans of what look like Slazkoanovian equivalent of Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup. Some toffee, what the fuck’s up with that? Why not leave behind booze?”

“Pass me the matches.”

Floyd did one better and lit a match for Rick, who held it to the crumpled pages of newsprint in his neatly-made fire. It caught, and Floyd sat next to Rick watching the yellow flames licking the edges of the wood. To his reckoning, snow, ice, remote cabins, and skiing all sucked out loud, and Floyd would never understand the appeal of coming to the mountains, but there was something to be said for an open fire.   

After the fire had been lit and they had established that there was no radio contact to be had, Floyd convinced Rick to let him deal with his arm. He knew Rick wouldn’t be the easiest patient, so Floyd framed the request in purely selfish terms.

“If you try to splint that yourself, you’ll do a terrible job, get gangrene, they’ll have to amputate, and then you’ll be left to write up reports with a hook for a hand because they spent all the budget on Santana’s last arson job and the entire system will grind to a halt, I won’t have anyone to take me to see Zoe and that shit will get real tired, real quick.”

Rick didn’t meet his eyes, just held out his hand. Floyd counted to three and made a V sign with his.

“Scissors beat paper!”

Rick didn’t take defeat well. “You’re a fucking child.”

“Says the man with a toy collection.”

Fidgeting as Floyd began to wrap up his wrist, Rick grumbled, “It’s not a toy collection. It’s a set of tabletop gaming figurines.”

“That you hand painted.”

“It's the only way to properly maintain them.”

“Spoken like a true Nerdosaurus Rex.”

Floyd wished he’d found some aspirin or some sort of pain relief in the cabin. Rick’s wrist looked bad, and though he’d bound it as well as he could, Floyd knew it must be aching to high heaven.

Smacking him on the back, Floyd let go of Rick’s arm and stood up. “Let me get that soup on the fire. Thank fuck we have a can opener and I don’t have to open it on your pointy head.”

He gave Rick the bigger share of soup and kept an eye on him to make sure he ate it all. The fire had warmed the small space up enough to make it bearable, but Floyd was still worried about hypothermia. He pulled out the sleeping bags and blankets he’d found in the cabin’s loft and made a tiramisu-style stack of them on top of the sheepskins. Kneeling on top of them, he surveyed his work. It reminded him of the blanket forts he made with Zoe when she was a kid.

Rick was sat to the side of the fire, nursing his arm and staring into the flames. Floyd could see the fatigue in his face. “Time for bed, Colonel. You and I gonna have to get cozy, because I am not turning into an impossibly handsome popsicle on top of Mount Shitstinkskia, Slazkoanovia.”

Moving slowly, Rick sat up on his knees and crab-walked over towards him, his eyes on the floor. Floyd sighed and told him, “And take that coat off - it’s not properly dry yet. Even I know you shouldn’t sleep in wet clothing.”

When he saw how Rick was struggling with the heavy coat, Floyd moved behind him and took hold of the lapels. Rick muttered something under his breath but the line of his shoulders eased with relief as Floyd carefully pulled it off of his arms.

“Now, let me tuck us both in and get some shut-eye. Wanna bet Waller won’t serve us breakfast on the flight back?”

They settled under the blankets, and Floyd draped the guard’s heavy coat over their feet. Laying back, he was aware of every hitch in Rick’s breath, and the palatable sense of stress radiating from his body.

Generally, Floyd slept like a baby. Tonight he could feel the fatigue in his body but was restless, staring up at the dark roof of the cabin. Pressing his eyes closed, he did physics equations in his head, which was his preferred way of calming down his mind.

After calculating eight different ways he could have shot out the power supply to the castle from the North West turret, Floyd opened his eyes. He was nowhere nearer sleep, and he could tell that Rick wasn’t either.

Floyd turned over in the makeshift bed, facing Rick’s neck. The Colonel was lying on the side of his good arm. Floud could see the lines of tension in his back. Rick was breathing heavily. There were no pain meds for miles, no booze, not even any terrible Slazkoanovian brandy, to take the edge of Rick’s wounds, and on top of that, the stoical SOB was suffering in silence. Floyd knew that a lack of sleep could aggravate the nervous system, prolong the effect of shock, and slow down Rick’s immune system from healing.

Prodding him in the ribs, Floyd pushed him to roll over to his back. “Flag, you need to let me help you.”

The worst thing wasn’t seeing the pain on Rick’s face, it was the flash in his eyes - he was angry, Floyd could tell, but not at him, it was internal, self-directed rage, and it swept over his expression so quickly Floyd could tell it was practiced. Rick Flag believed he had to be the perfect soldier, all of the time, even lying in an isolated cabin with a broken wrist.

“I’m fine. You get some rest.”

“Like hell you’re fine. You need to sleep, or your recovery will take even longer and I’ll get an even bigger pain in ass to deal with in your place.”

Rick snorted, and kept staring straight ahead.

Floyd said, “I’ve got an idea.”

“Is it shoving your fist in your mouth until no sound comes out of it? Awesome idea. I co-sign.”

“Here,” Floyd lifted Rick’s head in his palms and shoved a rolled-up blanket under his shoulders. “Lie forward a bit more. To your left. Loosen your shirt.”

“I can’t - ” Rick sounded resigned, not just pissed-off, which meant the pain was bad.

“Let me.” Floyd reached over and began unfastening buttons, feeling the rise and fall of Rick’s chest under his palm.

“Now,” he said as he kept one hand steady over Rick’s heart for support, “let your right shoulder go forward.”

Rick sighed. But he did it. His movements were stiff and unsure, but he allowed Floyd to rearrange his limbs. Floyd wondered if he’d ever submitted to a proper massage, or any body work beyond basic physio. Maybe if he took some care and pleasure in his body it would dislodge the massive stick up his ass. Floyd decided to keep this diagnosis to himself for now.

“I’m gonna move your shirt out of the way. The weight of your arm should stretch out these muscles here.”

As he said it, Floyd was busy moving as much fabric as he could out of his way. Rick was wearing a long-sleeved tee under a button-down, and after a pause, Floyd elected to take it off of him. They had warmed the bedding up considerably, and Rick’s skin was hot to touch.

“I’m trying to loosen you up. You need to sleep, goddammit, not grind your teeth to dust while pretending like you don’t want to kill me.”

“I don’t want to kill you.”

Floyd snorted. “You probably do, and I don’t even blame ya. I got your arm broke by General Gesundheit and whatever other shit he did to you,”

“No, you didn’t.”

Floyd wanted to smack him. This noble high-road-taking self-sacrificing asshole didn’t realise just what danger Floyd had put him in. “You don’t know everything about this mission.”

Rick narrowed his eyes at him. Floyd could see the bullheaded determination in his glare, even in the faint light of the fire. “I know about what you did to his brother. He told me.”

Well, fuck. Floyd sighed. “So, you can lecture me all you want once we’re out of Slazkoanovia, blah blah serial killer merc blah blah sociopath. Let’s just get you through tonight first - ”

“Just - just shut up, Floyd. You think I’m angry at you? You know what I told that prick, as he smacked me about in that castle, gloating about his nefarious plan? I told him that I was glad to hear what you’d done. I was happy that you killed his fascist fucknugget of a brother, and I would be even happier to dispose of him because you hadn’t properly finished the job.”

“You know?”

“C’mon, you ever met a delusional villain who didn’t boast about his motivation before trying to kill you? He strung me up on a rack and lectured me about how he was getting his vengeance on behalf of the white race. I thought he’d never shut up. It was either break my wrist to get free or be bored to death.”

“You broke your own arm? Damn, son.”

Rick lowered his voice. “And I was happy to take him out. I drove his own dagger into his one remaining eye. And maybe we’re both sociopaths, because I don’t feel an ounce of regret over it.”

Floyd had to - had to - put his hands on Rick right then. Had to let him know that, if that was what Rick was thinking about himself, he was wrong. Keeping one palm pressed to his chest, Floyd softly kneaded the knotty muscles around his shoulder blade.

“You know you’re not like me, Flag. You’re hopelessly addicted to doing the right thing.”

He could see Rick’s eyelids close in the flickering light. He replied in an even quieter voice, “Then maybe we’re more similar than you realise, Lawton.”

Figuring Rick could believe what he wanted, if it settled his mind, Floyd focused on pressing his fingers into the tight muscles of Rick’s back. They stayed like that for a while, Floyd gently rocking Rick back and forth on his side, one hand on his chest, one on his back. He could feel the stress ebbing out of his body, but he could tell it wasn’t enough.  

Working a hand down to the waistband of Rick’s pants, he popped the button of his fly. Rick said with a start, “What- what are you doing?”

Floyd made soothing noises in Rick’s ear. “Said I wanted you to sleep. This is one tactic I bet would be highly efficient. Yes or no, Colonel?”

Rick bit his lip, swallowing whatever he was going to say. Floyd stroked his waist. “There's nothing wrong with it. Don’t tell me you never gave another grunt a combat jack to calm them down. It’ll take your mind off that arm.”

Rick made a half-nod, half-head shake, “Yeah, but - not like this.”

“Like how?”

He spoke in a clenched whisper. “Letting me take it. Not being able to - give back. S'not fair.”

Rick choked on the last few words. Floyd snapped back, “‘Letting you’ take it? What’s wrong with you, you can’t even enjoy the slightest bit of pleasure without resenting yourself for it?”

“I’m not - ” Rick stopped speaking, his good hand moving up to grasp Floyd’s arm, looking exhausted. Floyd was thinking of all the things Rick might think he was not: gay, happy, on the verge of killing Floyd with the can opener.

Floyd spoke softly, not wanting to spook Rick and have him do something stupid like try to get up. “How do you want it?”

“You have to,” Rick’s eyes kept darting up and down Floyd’s chest, which was raised above his own, and coming back to his face. “Be in the same position as me.”

“Uptight and terrible at motivational speeches?”

“Like, the shirt. Off.”

Rick plucked at the offending garment. Floyd quickly pulled his top layers away and moved his hands back to Rick’s torso. Rick trailed his own hand down Floyd’s chest with unsure fingers, his touch hesitant, but Floyd’s skinned still bloomed with warmth beneath it.

Forehead creased, his mouth in a firm line, Rick settled a little closer to him, rolling to his back. He glared up at Floyd. “Just a combat jack?”

Floyd breathed out through his mouth. “Yeah, soldier. Just to unwind. Think of it as pain relief.”

Whatever resistance Rick had dissolved away, and Floyd felt him breathe deeply in his diaphragm, his belly muscles shaking a little. Slipping his hand back down to Rick’s underwear, he reached into the warmth between his legs. He brushed his fingers through the wiry curls and wrapped them around the half-hard shaft. Rick’s whole body jolted at the contact, and Floyd maintained eye contact with him as he pressed his thumb and forefinger on either side of Rick’s cock and slowly pressed down his length.

Which took some time. Rick was built proportionally. Floyd wondered what he looked like naked, how all those parts of his body that Floyd was familiar with - his neck, his hands, the brute strength of his arms, the range of his legs, that creamy skin that flushed easily - fitted together. Sliding his grip back down, he rolled it up again, long and loose, as Rick made a little hiccupping sound, looking down at the tented blankets where Floyd’s hand was moving.

If Floyd could stretch Rick out in the firelight, nude, maybe loosened up with a drink or five, with no busted wrist or sore shoulder, Floyd bet Rick would make quite the vision. If Floyd wasn’t trying to quieten Rick down but had the time and circumstances right, he bet that he’d enjoy drawing out Rick’s pleasure. He’d keep him on edge, built him up slow and take him away from release over and over again, make Rick work for it. Make him beg. Rick could curse out Floyd like no one’s business if he was in the right mood. It always made Floyd smile.

But this wasn’t about taking his time, because this wasn’t about him, no matter how nice it felt when Rick’s good hand clutched at his shoulder. It was about dispatching Rick to the land of nod.

He sped up, putting a little twist into it, doing the best he could - which was pretty goddamn good, he was called Deadshot for a reason - with the limited space. Rick’s breathing got heavier, and he moved his hand from Floyd’s shoulder to his chest, which he gave urgent little pats to. Floyd watched his lips twitch, and he said, “Now.”

“You sure?”

Fuck you, Lawton,” and with that, Rick was coming. His body trembled with it and went lax, and even with his hand sticky and cramped, Floyd felt content at getting the job done well.

Feeling magnanimous, he took care of the clean-up, using a pack of tissues he found in the pocket of the guard’s overcoat. Settling back into the pile of blankets next to Rick, he tried not to sound too smug. “Now, get some sleep, or I’ll sing you a lullaby.”

The light was still faint, but Floyd could make out the single finger Rick raised in response.

Later that night, Floyd was drowsing. The fire had gone out and it was totally dark, but his nerves were flickering at the presence of Rick, so he stayed half-awake, his mind satisfied with the warm weight next to him and the gun under his pillow. No one was getting to Flag on his watch. It may have been pitch black in the cabin, but it was a good darkness, one that Floyd felt at home in. It wasn’t the darkness of solitary confinement at Belle Reve. He lay on his back coming in and out of florid, Rick-heavy dreams.

A hand on his chest brought him to, and he moved his head towards where Rick must be facing him. Either he or Rick made a questioning sound, and the other one murmured something reassuring, but no words took shape in the dark, the place between them becoming the hottest place in the cabin as they rolled together.

This time no one needed any convincing. Curious fingers moved through clothes to explore bodies that they already knew so well, from working alongside and observing as much as had been acceptable. Floyd was as familiar with Rick’s arms as he was with the walls of his cell, he had seen the man lift his rifle often enough to know how the muscles knit together around the bone. In this dark night, under two unzipped sleeping bags in a cabin stuck in a mountain crevice, they were finally accessible to each other - the way they had only ever been in battle, where one of them could move around the other always knowing where they were and what the other had to give.

Talking would have made it all too real. Instead Rick’s mouth landed on Floyd’s cheek, lips brushing over his face, his breath hot. Floyd had always regarded Rick as a hungry man who kept himself perpetually in check, but even so he was surprised to get kissed with such force.Oh, he thought, angling his jaw to let Rick lick into his palate, letting the softness of lips override the sharpness of teeth, he needs this so much.

Blunt fingers struggled with Floyd’s underwear, and Floyd delivered a warning tap to the hand - it was Rick’s injured wrist - and wriggled them off. As clothes began to be shed, the stack of blankets around them felt more solid, more warm, like they were building a new house out of their bodies. A fortress of two.

Cupping Rick’s skull Floyd drew it down to lie on his chest, angling Rick’s body on top of his own in order to protect Rick’s wrist, which slipped easily into the space between Floyd’s arm and his ribcage. Floyd was happy to feel it there, as Rick panted into his collarbones. The short bristles of his hair were velvety-soft under Floyd’s fingertips, just as Floyd had always suspected they would be. Turned out that Rick Flag was a man familiar with conditioner. Floyd had always thought that for all his toughness, Colonel Flag wasn’t hard all the way through like Waller was.

Ah, but there was something hard to him - and it was poking into Floyd’s hip. Floyd stopped stroking the back of Rick’s neck, as incredibly pleasant as that was, and moved his hands down to his waist to take care of business. He was diamond-hard himself, only helped by the short, breathy moans that Rick was making as he licked and sucked on Floyd’s neck like they were teens making out in the backseat of a borrowed car.

Getting Rick’s waistband pushed down to his legs was pretty easy, even with the grinding happening between them, but every time he went to release his own throbbing dick he’d get distracted by the hard-on pushing into his belly. Now that he was familiar with it, there were so many more things Floyd could imagine doing with Rick’s cock; he could flip him to his back and suck it down, he could slide it between his own thighs and let Rick rut between them, he could lift up Rick’s hips to his chest and let him come all over his pecs - and judging by the way Rick’s good hand was pawing at Floyd’s nipple and the curve of muscle there, Rick really liked Floyd’s chest - but there was too much urgency between them to get into complicated logistics.

Wrapping an arm around Rick’s hips Floyd tilted him to the side just enough to synch their bodies up. Capturing his mouth, Floyd hummed into Rick’s lips and their tongues met around the same time that their dicks did.  

They rocked together, their hips rolling like the winds over the roof of their little cabin.

Floyd grabbed a handful of Rick’s ass, which was as firm and fuzzy as a summer peach, pressing him even closer. Rick’s whole body flowed on top of him, unexpectedly supple for such a built guy, but then Floyd already knew how Rick could move, had watched him enough times.

Down at the center of them, their cocks slid together, the pressure of each other’s bodies intense as they grew increasingly frantic. Floyd knew it was only the dark that was letting this happen, but he still wanted more, wanted to see the hunger in Rick’s eyes, wanted to see his own hands on Rick’s body.

He let himself lose a little control. Breaking the seal of his mouth under Rick’s, he thumped his head back on the pillow and groaned, his balls tightening, and Rick muttered some sort of encouragement, which was all Floyd needed. He came suddenly, feeling his whole body seize up and then let go under Rick’s weight.

Rick moved his hand down between them, jerking himself off with Floyd’s spunk coating his fingers. Soon he was heaving on top of Floyd, coming hot and slick over his belly.  

They both lay there, sagging under the weight of blankets and release. At some point the pack of tissues was grabbed for a second clean-up, and Rick slipped away. Floyd pulled their covers closer around his body, and told himself that sleep was the best way to deal with the present situation.


Amanda Waller, being Amanda Waller, found them the next day. A helicopter arrived just after daybreak, when Floyd had woken up to the sound of Rick boiling water to melt the ice that crusted around the edge of the doors. Before they left the cabin, Floyd pocketed the packet of toffee, knowing that Tatsu liked sweet things.

He slept most of the plane ride back to the states. As he’d predicted, there was no breakfast served on board, so he and Rick split the toffee in silence.

Floyd still felt groggy when he was called up to Waller’s office to debrief. At least they’d fed him, which he suspected was due to Rick’s direct order. Sitting back in the chair facing her desk, he answered her questions about the General as plainly as he could.

“I iced his brother, but I guess you know that by now.”

She nodded. “And you were hired by his former aide, a rival who wanted to prevent his family consolidating their power among the Slazkoanovian elite.”

“Well, I didn’t ask too many questions, but yup. You need anything more from me?”

Waller rearranged some files on her desk. Rick was there, standing with his arms crossed. They were scheduled to go and visit Zoe later. Another thing Floyd suspected had come about due to one of Flag’s direct orders.

“Lawton, you’re going to get your tech updated to make it more resilient in the snow, and Flag, you better take care of that arm. As soon as the med bay clears you for action you’re both going back to Slazkoanovia.”

Both of them responded at once. “What?”

Rick put his hands on her desk. Automatically, Floyd’s eyes flew to the cast on his right arm. “I get that these guys posed an international threat, but I disposed of the General, and Floyd got rid of the Baron.”

Chiming in, Floyd asked,  “And why do you want us to go back to that icy hellhole?”

Waller didn’t flinch. “Because you dealt with the brothers fairly efficiently. But neither of you did anything to neutralise the sister.”

Floyd said, “Baroness von Fuckface?

“She goes by ‘Countess’. And in two months she’s going to be back in Slazkoanovia to buy a nuclear missile. You two will be waiting for her.”

Rick looked at Floyd. “Where are we going to be waiting?”

Waller opened up one of her files and pulled out a glossy photograph of an ornate building. “In her ski lodge. It was built with the money her family embezzled from the government. Thirty rooms, private cinema, hot tub and sauna.”

“Geez, Amanda, only thirty?”

She pointed at Floyd. “There’s a strategic reason I’m sending you with Flag alone - the whole Squad will be too conspicuous. But remember, this a mission, not a vacation, so keep your head down.”

Turning her attention to Flag, she gave him a critical look. “That goes for both of you.”

Ordering one of the guards to take Floyd back to his cell, she dismissed them. Floyd didn’t look over at Flag as he strolled out of the office, thinking about ski lodges, methods of keeping his head down, and how he might find it in himself to appreciate mountains after all.