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amiserableseriesofevents · 15 hours ago

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A Kiss, If You Would #2

This is 7k so here's the link to the fic on AO3 for those who prefer <3 For the prompt : A kiss on a freshly bandaged wound A Kiss, If You Would #1

With the sun reaching its highest peak, the heat bears down on Jalo hard enough that even crows do not fly, the sky empty from birds and clouds; not even the walls offer any shade or respite, any coolness suffocated by the desert. Jalo stands ruined and silent, makeshift tents still in the heat as the men have retreated under white canvas to sweat without burning. Even the locusts have retreated, the absence of their song leaving the camp isolated and seemingly deserted. Only faint notes of piano disturb the silence, the sounds muffled but the melody familiar, if a bit stilted, as it carries through the camp.

In the mess, hunched over the piano, Eoin ignores the beads of sweat at his temple, running down his nape to finish their course in the cotton of his uniform, focused on the black and white keys under his fingers. Index then middle finger, thrice.

The piano answers him like a dog to his master’s, slightly out of tune and grainy with sands in its cords but still clear and beautiful, taking him back years; a piano tucked in a corner of his parent’s living room, drunk nights at the pubs singing folk songs with Paddy, a hand at the juncture of his neck, bold and intimate. The sound soothes the ragged, deep part of Eoin’s soul that still lays bleeding out in the sand.

Index, then middle finger; this part, he’s got. Easy and natural, like rivers flowing to the sea.

Then, to stretch his thumb to get to the Si, mindless of the stiffness of his pinkie, still on the Mi. His back throbs dully, protesting the position that Eoin has been seated on for the better part of the last hour, but the pain is pushed to the back of his mind; he just needs his fingers to do what his brain is picturing, like they were doing before the jump. Before Eoin woke up and almost cried in agony as every part of him ached and throbbed, some fingers swollen and bent at an unnatural angle.

Biting his lip in concentration, Eoin plays the succession of notes in his head—Si Re Do La—projecting what his fingers will have to do. It’s nothing he can’t do; he’s played this tune countless times as a boy, has played it even more recently, in a dingy mess in Heliopolis. Yet his hand cramps up before he can reach the La, middle finger shaking against the key until it presses too hard, a loud, jumbled Mi spitting out of the piano like an insult.

“Fuck,” he bites under his breath, clenching his eyes shut against the stinging frustation burning at them. Achingly slow, Eoin brings his hands to his lap, clenching and unclenching his fists to ease the cramp away.

No longer focused on the piano, there’s no distraction from the pain; a dull ache that has spread from his right hand to his wrist, a burning sensation along his shoulder blades, a throbbing at the small of his back, protesting the additional strain of the still bandaged knee that Eoin was “not to put any weight on”. With a frustrated, pained groan, Eoin rolls his shoulders in small circles to ease the tension, ignoring the crack the joint gives. Weeks spent at the Cairo hospital with nothing to do taught him that there’s a beat to everything; the constant throbbing in his knee, the continuous ache in his back, the pulsing behind his eyes. If he breathes in and out slowly, letting the air fill his lungs, feeling the beat at the core of him, he can build his own rhythm. A bloodied, fractured song, but a song nonetheless.

Once the frustration bites harder at the heart of him than the pain, Eoin tips his head back before opening his eyes again. The ceiling is cracked in some places, and Eoin follows the ragged lines like they hold the secrets to the universe, mindlessly stretching his bad leg in front of him to massage his cramping thigh.

How can he teach Paddy how to play the piano if he can’t play himself?

When he’d first woken up at the hospital, two days after the jump, there had been too much morphine in his system for any coherent thoughts, but Eoin remembers noticing with a pang the absence of Paddy at his side, though he holds no contempt to the fact—Paddy must have been needed elsewhere, and it’s enough for Eoin to know that, if he could have, he’d have slept on the floor next to Eoin’s hospital bed. Paddy hadn’t been there the next few times Eoin woke up, more and more lucid each time to worry about the raids, to curse his own stupidity for forgetting to roll.

It must have been a week after Squatter that Eoin had opened his eyes, and Paddy had been seated in the chair at his bedside, back straight and hands on his knees like he didn’t know what to do with them. The relief that had flooded Eoin’s veins far outweighed the remnants of sleep that had clung to his eyes, leaving him wide awake as he’d pulled himself in a sitting position, soaking in the familiar touch of Paddy’s hands helping him upright, fluffing his pillows to prop up his back, pulling the blanket higher from where it’d fallen on his lap. The first few minutes had been almost silent, Paddy’s eyes darting all over his face in quiet observation, cataloguing every bruise and cut, his mouth agape as though he couldn’t believe Eoin was still there, pinkie brushing his on the bed.

Then, finally, Eoin had managed to get him talking about the raids, and Paddy had come alive under his eyes; his eyes had taken a wild, almost manic glint, and his smile was sharp when he’d mentioned the New Zealanders’ camp; Eoin couldn’t help but laugh at the tale. There had been a pause as Paddy had watched him laugh, face softening in a manner that Eoin would have squirmed at if he could move his leg. “I got us a piano,” Paddy had said, looking anywhere but at Eoin, the tips of his ears red. It had been terribly endearing, and Eoin had leaned as much as he could to catch Paddy’s eyes, grinning like a madman as golden warmth had spread through his veins, curling in his chest like a fist around his heart.

Paddy had gotten them a piano in the middle of the desert. He raided a camp for military resources to win the war and came back with a piano so Eoin could keep on teaching him. Paddy had no idea if Eoin was still alive, but he still got a piano for him—the closest thing there is to a prayer for a man like Blair.

And now, Eoin can’t play, let alone teach. His fingers don’t obey him, not as fast or as firm as he needs them to be. He might as well be a bairn starting over with how clumsy his hands feel over the delicate keys. At least, nobody bothers him while he retreats to the mess to teach his fingers how to fly across the piano again.

Delicately, Eoin traces his fingers over the notes. He could teach Paddy without playing by his side, but the time spent with Paddy at the piano wasn’t mere lessons. It was them , seated on the same stool, joined knee to hip to shoulders. Fingers brushing each other. Creating a melody together, in a moment that belonged only to them, no matter how crowded the room.

But if Eoin were to play with Paddy right now, he’d ruin their haven with jumbled, out-of-rhythm playing; he could already see the frown that would crease Paddy’s forehead, the thin line of worry of his mouth.

Curling his fist until his palm stings, blunt fingernails digging into the skin, Eoin is determined not to let that happen; their lessons were one of the rare moments Paddy would relax despite the presence of others around them, and Eoin will not be the one to bring him a cause for concern. He’ll practice the piano until he can play as he used to—until he can play along with Paddy. It hadn’t been easy to ask for some alone time to practice the piano after witnessing Paddy’s distress at his injuries, guilt having made itself at home in Eoin’s gut, the request stuck in his throat with how big its cruelty. But Paddy had only nodded, mouth soft in understanding as he’d placed a kiss on the swell of Eoin’s shoulder, nuzzling his nose in the curls at the back of Eoin’s neck. Days after and his nape still tingles with the ghost of Paddy’s kisses.

His leg gives another wave of pain, causing Eoin to sigh, shoulders dropping for a second as his fist relaxes, wiggling his fingers to get the blood flowing again. His eyes fall to the piano keys, some dirty from stray drops of whiskey or beer, sand gritted in every interstice, and he rests his right hand over them. Stark against the white of the piano, his ring finger throbs, his knuckle red and starting to swell. Though stubborn, Eoin knows when to admit defeat for the day, even though it leaves a bitter taste of helplessness in his mouth.

Bracing himself on the piano with his right hand, he takes his time rising from the stool, making sure to put his weight on his troubled leg only progressively, testing it a few times before taking his hand off the piano. His knee protests, but it doesn’t feel as though it won’t hold his weight, so Eoin ignores it, making his way out of the mess hall with two beers in hand.

Stepping into the sun has him wincing, a sharp pain lancing through his skull as he blinks and squints, giving his eyes a few seconds to adjust—maybe he should have brought his sunglasses. Then, as soon as his eyes get used to the light, they find Paddy like sailors the North star, as though a thread is wrapped around Eoin’s heart, tying it to Paddy and tugging whenever they’re apart. Perhaps this is how Paddy found him in the middle of sand dunes.

Lounging in the hammock he’d set up between two trees, sheltered from the sun, Paddy seems absorbed in the notebook on his lap. The sight has a fond smile cross Eoin’s face, heart twisting with pent-up love. Not bothering to take the long way to avoid the sun, he starts making his way over, ignoring the way his knee protests with every step against the mix of uneven sand and rocks under his boots.

Paddy doesn’t move as Eoin approaches, eyes not leaving the pages once, but Eoin recognizes the forced casualty of his moments, can see the tension in his neck and shoulders as Paddy’s eyes stubbornly stay on his notebook; he’d been waiting.

While he granted Eoin’s wish without hesitation, Paddy doesn’t like staying away when he knows Eoin is alone in the mess hall, frustrated and angry at the world. Yet he’s never interrupted him, never seeked him out first, letting Eoin come to him whenever he’s ready instead. To see Paddy restraining himself like that for Eoin’s sake sends bursts of love through him, and his throat tightens around words he cannot speak in such an open space.

Only when he’s almost reached him does Paddy turn his face towards Eoin, the focused frown on his face softening at once as he leaves his pencil between the pages, notebook forgotten on his lap. Blue eyes flicker from his face, taking notes of the beads of sweat at his temple and the tired tilt of his mouth, to his knee, bandaged and shaking just lightly as Eoin puts most of his weight on his left leg. Though he doesn’t say a word, concern clouds Paddy’s gaze, and Eoin bites his inner cheek until copper fills his mouth.

A beat of silence passes, during which Paddy wets his lips, carefully choosing his words as he takes the offered beer.

“Piano works alright, then?” He ends up asking, a clear distraction to what he really wants to ask but Eoin is grateful—while the concern is sweet, he doesn’t know how many more “are you alright?” he can take.

“Aye. Can’t say the same for me, but,” Eoin gives a shrug, resting a hand on Paddy’s knee to lower himself to the ground. His thumb strokes small circles on the skin in thanks while he settles, head near Paddy’s ankle, but the bandage wrapped around his knee pulls on his skin, digging into the soft skin behind his knee when he instinctively tries to sit cross-legged. With a grunt, he stretches his leg out in front of him, parallel to Paddy’s torso, and leans sideways into Paddy’s legs for support.

Paddy merely watches him, mouth pursed but mercifully silent until Eoin has found a comfortable position.

“It’ll get better.” Paddy’s voice is firm, leaving no room for disagreement. Still, doubt lingers in Eoin’s chest, bitter and suffocating. His fingers are still aching, protesting the slightest bend and refusing to act as quickly as Eoin wants them to. It’s funny how easily one takes his own body for granted.

Eoin’s not stupid; he knows he’s lucky to have survived his wounds, luckier still he hadn’t had to go home, hadn’t had to part ways with Paddy. His knee aches fiercely, pain spreading to his thigh and back, and now to the other leg too, but he can still walk on it. Scars are running down one side of his face, pulling uncomfortably on the skin whenever he smiles or talks, but he can still kiss Paddy, can still laugh into his skin and feel Paddy shiver under him.

But his knuckles are marred with white scars where thorns have cut open the skin, two fingers bearing the marks of a break that hadn’t healed right despite the doctor’s best efforts. Sitting here with his scarred hands above his bandaged knee, Eoin feels like a giant wound that refuses to heal, every muscle in his body protesting a different kind of harm; he turns his hands palms up, drawing them into fists though sparks of pain spread from his ring finger, the last knuckle too stiff to fully bend. A bitter smile curls his lips, and Eoin huffs through his nose in disdain.

Next to his head, Paddy shifts so his knee gently knocks against Eoin’s shoulder, startling him; for a few seconds, he’d forgotten Paddy was there. Guilt weighing like a stone in his gut, Eoin tries for a more genuine smile, but stops short when he sees Paddy’s eyes, focused and narrowed as they hold him there. Paddy never misses a thing when it comes to Eoin; there’s no use trying to pretend all is well. Paddy observes him for a few seconds more in silence, and if Eoin wasn’t used to it, he’d have started squirming under the attention. It’s an instinct he’s had more often since waking up at the hospital, Paddy’s worried frown hovering above him. He hasn’t yet caved in, but his back tenses under the attention, and Eoin can’t help feeling like the scars adorning his face are bigger now that Paddy’s looking at them.

When Paddy finally speaks, voice slow and certain, he doesn’t tear his gaze away, looking Eoin in the eyes like he’s staring into his soul and daring Eoin to disagree.

“Those hands of yours know how to pull a tune out of anything; a wee fall isn’t enough for them to forget.”

Gratitude flows through Eoin at Paddy’s unwavering trust, and he huffs a laugh, knocking his shoulder back against Paddy’s legs. Despite himself, memories of Paddy writhing breathlessly under him as he runs his hands over the valley of his ribs, and down, down, have him look up at Paddy from beneath his eyelashes, an impish smile on his lips. The action causes Paddy to scoff, but the lines around his eyes relax, and his lips twitch in a fond smile all the same.

“Down in the gutter, are we, lad?” Eoin’s shoulders shake with restrained laughter before he gives in, giggling as Paddy joins him. It’s too hot to be laughing like this, the beginning of headache building behind his eyes and his uniform sticking to his skin uncomfortably, but Eoin laughs until his stomach cramps. Even then, bursts of laughter spill from his lips, Paddy’s smirk setting him off again whenever he manages to get his breathing back under control.

After a few failed attempts at composure, their laughter dies down as they catch their breath, chests heaving. Eoin can’t remember the last time he’s laughed like this; not since the jump at least. His chest feels lighter, cheeks aching from something else than the tugging of his scars for the first time in weeks. The way Paddy looks at him, openly fond and something like awe in his eyes, as though he cannot believe Eoin is real, sitting and laughing next to him, has a flush take over Eoin’s face. A buzzing feeling settles over his heart, and he ducks his head, pulling at loose threads in his shorts until a finger softly traces his dimple, pulling another smile out of him as he looks up at Paddy.

“Give it time, love,” Paddy adds, softer. The pet name washes over Eoin like sunshine in summertime, melting away the remnants of bitterness as though it was only dust.

His skin is clammy from the heat but there’s nowhere else Eoin would rather be than here, leaning his head against Paddy’s leg as his eyes roam over the man’s figure without pretense. Paddy’s left his shirt open despite having it tucked in his shorts, uncovering miles of golden, freckled skin for Eoin to admire. His eyes drift to Paddy’s sternum, the angry red desert sore stark against the tanned skin. Just the sight of it is enough to make him grimace; Eoin hasn’t spent enough time in Jalo to get any such infection yet, but seeing it on the man he loves twists his gut unpleasantly. Bringing the bottle of beer to his lips, he downs a good portion of it while mulling over a half-baked plan. It is doable, Eoin muses, nodding to himself once before laying his hand on Paddy’s knee as leverage to get up, careful to keep his smile off his face.

“Come on, it’s too hot to be outside,” he jerks his head towards the general direction of their tent.

Though his eyebrows rise, Paddy follows him without a word, sending a rush of warmth through Eoin, giddy with the unspoken trust even after all these years. They walk quietly, dirt and sand scrunching under the sole of their boots, and Eoin pretends not to notice Paddy slowing his steps to match his. The midday heat is getting unbearable, stifling the air, and giving Eoin the terrible sensation of being damp all over. Yet, he can’t help reaching out to brush the back of his hand against Paddy’s every few stops to hear the hitch of Paddy’s breath, to see the twitch of his fingers. Eoin might as well be flying with how light he feels.

After what he deems a reasonable distance, Eoin stops abruptly, clicking his tongue in what he hopes Paddy will interpret as annoyance.

“I forgot something in the mess,” he sighs, making sure to put just enough whining in his voice before straightening his back and looking at Paddy. “I’ll just be a second.”

Paddy squints at him, seemingly unimpressed as he observes him, obviously aware that Eoin hadn’t brought anything with him in the mess hall in the first place. Still, he nods slowly, and Eoin relaxes a fraction.

“Don’t be long,” Paddy says slowly, brows furrowed as his eyes dart all over Eoin’s face, and Eoin is quick to turn away, feeling too exposed under Paddy’s scrutinizing gaze.

“Because you’ll miss me too much?” he teases over his shoulder, grinning when Paddy scoffs, a faint “little shite” making its way to Eoin who only laughs, head thrown back as he keeps on walking. Once he’s certain Paddy is out of sight, Eoin veers from his trajectory, leaving the mess behind to make his way to the tents, quickly finding the one he needs.

Sadler doesn’t seem surprised to see him, but then again Eoin has rarely seen the man look remotely close to surprised since he’s met him. With a few pleasantries that neither man needed to bother with, Eoin is on his way back to his own tent, cotton pads and fresh bandages in his pockets, and a glass bottle in his hand.

He finds Paddy sitting on his cot, drinking his beer, and for a second, Eoin can see nothing but the domesticity of it. Coming home to find Paddy lounging in the living room, dressed in a comfortable knitted jumper instead of his sweat-stained uniform shirt, the warm light of a fire in the chimney turning his dark honey strands copper. A well-loved book in his hands, Keats or Whitman, that Paddy would read aloud as soon as Eoin comes into the room, a smile twitching at the corners of Paddy’s lips before he’d look up, eyes warmed by affection.

The illusion shatters when Paddy takes one look at the bottle of iodine dangling from his fingers and immediately shakes his head, mouth curled downwards as his shoulders tense up.

“Oh no. Absolutely not, lad.”

Eoin rolls his eyes, already marching towards Paddy’s cot.

“I can get Sadler to do it for you, if you prefer.”

“I don’t need Sadler to do anything,” Paddy denies, a snarl on his face that doesn’t translate to his voice even though it stands firm. Eoin plants himself between Paddy’s knees, relishing in the way Paddy carves a space for him even when annoyed. His free hand curls around Paddy’s shoulder, thumb brushing against the side of his neck, Paddy’s beard catching against the pad of his finger. Paddy looks up at him, his eyes darker in the low light of the tent, but Eoin already knows he’s won; the flutter of Paddy’s eyelashes, the dropping of his shoulders. The strong hands cupping the back of Eoin’s thighs to bring him closer.

“Whether it be him or me, someone’s taking care of that,” Eoin insists, jerking his head toward the wound. Paddy opens his mouth around another protest. “And I have a feeling Sadler isn’t going to kiss you afterwards,” Eoin interrupts, smile growing as Paddy groans and drops his head against Eoin’s sternum.

“Fuck’s sake, do you ever not get what you want?” He complains with no bite, the words muffled by Eoin’s shirt.

“You spoil me,” he agrees heartily, a bright smile on his face that only grows wider as Paddy pulls back just enough for Eoin to appreciate the long-suffering look, the twitch of his lips as Paddy bites back his own smile.

“I’ll be quick,” Eoin promises, leaning down to press a chaste kiss to Paddy’s lips. A calloused hand cups his cheek, keeping him there as Paddy angles his head, deepening the kiss until Eoin’s mind goes fuzzy with it.

“You,” Paddy whispers, nipping at Eoin’s bottom lip and grinning sharply at the moan the action elicits, “are a menace.” Eoin chuckles, chest heaving. His eyes flutter open, mind still hazy with the taste of Paddy on his tongue.

“Look who’s talking. Trying to distract me with kisses,” he teases, lips catching Paddy’s with every word. Paddy chuckles low, and Eoin’s knees weaken at the sound, warmth curling in his chest.

“What is all this sweet work worth / If thou kiss not me? ”

Eoin snorts against the smug curve of Paddy’s lips, kissing him again, then again when Paddy’s hand slides to the back of his neck, holding him there until Eoin’s smiling too wide to kiss him. With a small, teasing tap on Paddy’s shoulder, Eoin pulls back, not budging against the hand on the small of his back, tugging him closer.

“Alright, Paddy, you win.” Eoin kisses him one last time before straightening up to his full height, out of reach. “Now, about that desert sore,” he ponders, giving the best imitation he can of his mother’s no-nonsense voice that Eoin has heard many times as a bairn. Paddy’s mother must have used that tone too—perhaps a universal Mother thing, like the ability to always know when alcohol had been sneaked into the house—because Paddy visibly sags with a groan, lips pulled in a pout. It’s tempting to kiss it away, Paddy’s kiss-swollen lips red and inviting, but the devilish glint in Paddy’s eyes stops him with a quiet chuckle; Eoin knows better than to fall into Paddy’s arms when he has other things to do.

Mindful not to bend his knee too much, Eoin lowers himself to the ground until he’s seated between Paddy’s legs, bandaged knee stretched out on the floor along the cot. Resting his elbow on Paddy’s thigh, he carefully moves aside Paddy’s shirt, wincing at the sight of the sore. Seeing it close like that, it’s hard to imagine it is anything but painful, despite Paddy’s nonchalant attitude about it.

The wound is a deep red, the skin around swollen and inflamed, slightly hot to the touch when Eoin ghosts his fingers around the edge. Paddy takes a sharp breath above him but does not flinch, spreading his legs to give him more room instead.

The bottle of iodine feels oddly heavy in his hand, the glass warm from his skin when Eoin tips it to pour some of the liquid onto a cotton pad, feeling wetness dip into his palm and down his fingers. Paddy’s watching him intently, but Eoin is nothing if not efficient; he waits for Paddy to nod once, then swipes the soaked cotton over the wound gently. A hiss makes its way through Paddy’s teeth as his body tenses, hand closing in tight around Eoin’s wrist, though his grip is far from painful. If he wasn’t so focused on disinfecting the wound, Eoin would have smiled at Paddy’s thoughtful care, especially when he can hear the tight grip the man has on the light cotton cover of the cot.

“I’m almost done, love,” he whispers after Paddy’s cursed again, though it was only a sharp ‘fuck’ muttered underneath his breath that he probably hadn’t meant for Eoin to hear.

He works diligently until he deems the wound clean, setting aside the used cotton balls and the bottle of iodine to pick up the roll of bandages from his pocket. After so many weeks in bandages himself, Eoin is used to the rough feel of them against his fingers, made rougher still by the contrast of Paddy’s soft skin against his palm where Eoin has rested his hand on his side to properly dress the wound. There’s the sound of a trembling breath above him, Paddy’s grip around his wrist loosening to a simple hold, his thumb running back and forth over Eoin’s forearm.

“You don’t have to do that,” Paddy murmurs, voice strained with something Eoin cannot name. Briefly looking up from his task to meet Paddy’s eyes, Eoin’s heart sinks at the face the man makes. There’s an unmistakable tension in his shoulders, looking like he’s ready to bolt, and his jaw is tight, a contrast to the fleeing gaze in his eyes, never meeting Eoin’s. As though Paddy’s embarrassed, ashamed to have someone caring for him.

Swiping his thumb over Paddy’s ribs in a tender caress, Eoin purses his lips in thought. There are many things he wishes to say, like how he’s here because he wants to, not because he has to, but it’d only placate Paddy for a moment. The root of Paddy’s reluctance to have Eoin care for him the same way he cares for Eoin is still a mystery, but Eoin remembers Paddy denying himself the care he’d needed after a nasty fall playing rugby, only to find Paddy huddled in a corner, mending to his wounds himself through gritted teeth.

“You bandaged my knee just yesterday, Paddy,” he reminds gently, just a hint of reproach in his voice as he resumes carefully wrapping up the wound to protect it from the sand. Above him, Paddy shifts minutely, feet fidgeting in the sand, and Eoin thinks of the way Paddy had wrapped gentle, calloused hands around his knee, bringing his leg to rest on Paddy’s lap as the used bandage had been removed and the skin underneath massaged with just the right amount of strength for Eoin to sink in the pillow, the pain finally receding. The deep, even voice reciting poetry to distract him from the occasional flare of pain when Paddy stretched his leg so and so once it had finally been freed from the confines of the bandage. The careful, tender way Paddy had wrapped his knee in fresh cotton, and the soft voice asking Eoin if it was too tight, if it was hurting him.

Paddy’s been taking care of him for so long, Eoin aches to return the favor.

“Is it wrong for me to care for you the way you care for me?” Eoin asks, keeping his eyes on Paddy’s torso to hide how vulnerable he feels, though his voice catching probably gives him away.

There’s a long pause, Paddy staying unmoving, like he’s frozen in place. Eoin’s heart races in his chest, but he forces himself to swallow through it, putting on the last bandage on the desert sore. He’ll just get up and lie down in his cot until the air between them isn’t so—

“No.”

Eoin almost flinches at Paddy’s hoarse voice, the sound unexpected above the thump of his blood at his temples. The hand around his forearm squeezes once, prompting him to look up.

Mouth pursed in a thin line and eyebrows furrowed, Paddy looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here; yet, the light in his eyes is sharp and determined, and he holds Eoin’s gaze without wavering.

“But I am not expecting you to—”

“I want to do this, Paddy,” Eoin interrupts, voice fond, the barest of admonishment in the squeeze he gives to Paddy’s knee. “Let me take care of you, yeah?”

Paddy’s ears look endearingly pink as he nods mutely, lips parted like Eoin’s a wonder to behold.

It truly is a marvellous thing to be the one to render Paddy Mayne speechless—Eoin feels giddy with the knowledge.

“So,” he begins cheerily, leaning over the cot until his lips are just hovering above the covered wound, the teasing edge of his voice softening as the intimacy of the act dawns on him. Paddy tenses under him, but he does nothing except move his hand from Eoin’s forearm to his shoulder, not pressing down, and Eoin takes it as a yes even as the question forms on his lips. “I can do this?”

Without waiting, he gently presses his lips to the cotton in a barely there press, mindful not to cause any pain, and Paddy’s breath hitches, a winded, disbelieving laugh escaping him as Eoin pulls away.

“Aye,” Paddy breathes, eyes so fond Eoin wants to live here forever, make his home between Paddy’s knees and let himself be warmed by the golden love surrounding him, mold himself to always fit the space between Paddy’s hands — the calloused palm on the side of his neck, the soft touch that cups his cheek. The tent is doing little to shelter them from the sweltering heat, but Eoin melts all the same in Paddy’s hands, dropping a kiss at the heel of his palm when Paddy starts stroking his thumb back and forth over his cheekbone. Eyelashes fluttering, he tilts his head up, and Paddy indulges him, leaning down until Eoin can taste the softness of his smile, the warmth of his love. Paddy lingers for a second more, resting his forehead against Eoin’s.

“Whatever you want, sweetheart,” he murmurs in the space between them before pressing their lips together, though Eoin’s smiling too wide for it to be a kiss.

Slowly, Paddy leans back though one of his hands doesn’t leave Eoin, splayed over his collarbone in a comforting weight as Eoin shuffles back until he’s seated between Paddy’s legs. The cot digs into his back, not quite uncomfortable yet so Eoin doesn’t move, distracting himself by playing idly with Paddy’s fingers, fidgeting with the signet ring on his pinkie.

Turning his head, Eoin gently nuzzles the inside of Paddy’s thigh, content to stay here; his knee doesn’t hurt terribly, and Paddy has wound a hand in his curls, feeling them against his fingers as he caresses the strands, detangling them from the gel Eoin had carefully put this morning. The soothing motions combined with the heat have his eyes grow heavier, but just as Eoin was letting his head rest against Paddy’s forearm, sure Paddy would wake him up before he could get a crick in his neck, a thought jolts him awake with a delighted gasp. His lips have already curled into a smile, and his chest feels light as he twists his head to look up at Paddy, who raises an eyebrow, expression carefully guarded.

“Do you want me to get Sadler to kiss it better, too?” He asks, making sure to keep his voice light and innocent though Paddy isn’t fooled; his eyes widen comically, caught between shock and disgust, mouth agape at Eoin’s cheek, and it takes everything in Eoin not to lose his composure, and stop the giggles bubbling in his chest. But Eoin stands strong, twisting more of his body to face Paddy, drinking in his indignation with delight. “I’m sure for a good bottle of—”

“To hell with fucking Sadler,” Paddy growls, hoisting Eoin up by the elbow; he goes willingly, laughing even more at the roll of Paddy’s eyes when he wiggles his eyebrows at the choice of words.

“Wee fucker,” Paddy grouses with too much affection to be anything but for show, wrapping an arm around Eoin’s shoulder to pull him in his chest, though not without pressing a kiss to his forehead that leaves Eoin grinning from ear to ear.

The cot is too narrow for two grown men to be comfortable sharing, especially with Eoin’s long limbs, but he curls into Paddy’s side, mindful to keep his bad leg just slightly bent. Like this, with his head resting under Paddy’s chin, the sound of his heartbeat under his ear, it’s hard to remember they’re in the middle of the desert, thousands of miles away from Belfast. As far as Eoin’s concerned, this is home, the same way his old childhood bedroom or his mother’s cooking is.

Shifting minutely, he brings a hand to rest against Paddy’s sternum, feeling the rise and fall of his breaths. The rhythm is soothing, and Eoin finds himself timing his own breathing to match Paddy’s, eyes closing despite himself.

In.

Paddy’s arm around his shoulders, keeping him close. The soft, slightly damp skin under his fingers.

Out.

The breath Paddy lets out ruffling the top of his hair. The thumb rubbing slow circles on his arm.

A calloused hand takes hold of his, and Eoin blearily opens his eyes to see Paddy had taken the hand on his sternum, holding it closer to his face as though inspecting it, though his touch is that of a man holding the most precious thing there is. Blinking the sleepiness away, Eoin observes his hand in Paddy’s distantly, like his body doesn’t quite belong to him. He feels strangely disconnected from the action, floating somewhere above this tenderness. Only when Paddy runs his thumb slowly over the white scarring on his knuckles does something prickle at the back of his neck, running down his back—overcome by an urge to pull his hand away from Paddy’s pensive gaze. His mouth opens around nothing, words caught behind the sudden lump in his throat, but Paddy must have sensed him tensing up in his arms; his lips purse, and his touch grows tender still, thumb tracing the white lines on the back of Eoin’s hand like the softest of feathers. As though the webs Eoin sees on his skin are rivers of gold, rare and precious.

The poetry spills from Paddy’s lips like second-nature.

“This living hand, now warm and capable / Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold / And in the icy silence of the tomb, ” Paddy’s voice catches, grasp tightening around Eoin’s hand, and pulling him tighter against him, “So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights / That thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood .” Biting his lip to keep it from quivering, Eoin watches as Paddy brings his hand to his lip, speaking the words against Eoin’s skin, goosebumps rising on his arm. “So in my veins red life might stream again, / And thou be conscience-calmed--see here it is– ”

“I hold it towards you ,” Eoin finishes hoarsely, blinking against the sting in his eyes. Paddy’s beard scratches against his fingers, but his lips are soft and the kiss reverent. Gently, he brings Eoin’s hand back down to his chest before turning to look at him, face soft and adoring. Warmth flooding through him, Eoin tries to fight off the blush he can feel rising to his ears under Paddy’s loving gaze.

“‘Tis Irish blood that flows in those veins, my sweet Belfast boy,” though soft, Paddy’s voice leaves no room for argument, unwavering trust and soft admiration as he presses a kiss to the crown of Eoin’s head. “Your hands will grow strong again, and this heart will beat long after these have faded,” he presses on, speaking the words like a vow while his fingers trace the scars on Eoin’s hand. They travel up his arm to his jaw, tilting his head up and lightly caressing over the pink line going across his cheekbone as Paddy gently rolls them over so he’s hovering above Eoin. Blue eyes travel up and down his face, like Paddy’s memorizing each freckle with rapture, and his hair is smoothed away from his forehead with a gentle hand.

“Eoin,” he calls, though Eoin is already looking at him. “Eoin,” Paddy repeats, because he can, because Eoin is still here to hear it. A smile curls at Paddy’s lips with the word, like it’s joy and love and happiness in four letters, and Eoin finds himself mirroring it.

“There is music to be played, and stories to be written still.” A kiss is laid on his forehead, and Eoin closes his eyes against the wave of love coursing through him, tipping his head to follow the ghost of Paddy’s hand as it leaves his face to rest it on Eoin’s chest, above his heart, pressing gently.

“This is the music.” Paddy peppers his face in kisses—temples, eyelids, nose, dimples, the hinge of his jaw—until a wet laugh bubbles out of him, and he presses it into Paddy’s cheek, feeling the shape of his smile.

“And there’s the poetry,” Paddy whispers, kissing Eoin’s scarred cheek before pulling back, eyes glinting like a thousand stars. Eoin’s eyes sting with unshed tears that he stubbornly blinks away, turning his face into Paddy’s hand as a calloused thumb wipes them away. There’s a knot in his chest, weighing down on his lungs until Eoin feels like he can’t breathe through the swirl of conflicting emotions—the pain, the bitterness, the fear, and the affection, the love for the man in his arms consuming every part of him, coursing through his veins like lightning. Paddy doesn’t say anything, only buries his face in Eoin’s neck while mindful not to crush him with his weight.

His sweet, thoughtful Paddy.

The tears come before Eoin can shut his eyes, and soon he’s sobbing in Paddy’s shoulder, clutching at his back. Though he doesn’t hear the words, he listens to Paddy’s voice like it’s a lifeline, the gentle cadence of his accent, the softening of his voice—something that’s always been just for Eoin. Paddy’s petting his hair, he realizes belatedly, and that only makes him cry harder. Weeks of fear and frustration spill out of him like summer rain, and if he had the presence of mind Eoin would be embarrassed at the display.

But there’s no safer place for him to be than here, sheltered from the rest of the world by Paddy; here, he can cry for hours, letting the fear that’s been swelling in him since he woke up, body mangled in the sand, overflow. He’ll be Eoin McGonigal, lieutenant and amateur writer, in a few hours when it’ll be time for dinner.

For now, he can be Eoin, a twenty-one year old who can still feel the shadows of death’s claws sinking in his body.

The sobs subside, no longer tearing him apart, and Eoin can finally make out the words Paddy’s whispering against his temple, fingers still caressing his hair.

“It’s alright, love, let it out.” Eoin clenches his eyes shut again, gut twisting at the sadness that can only be love in Paddy’s voice. “Aye, just like that, my sweet boy,” Paddy shushes.

Seconds pass as Eoin sucks in shaky breaths, Paddy whispering sweet nothings in his hair keeping him afloat. His sobs have died down, and exhaustion seeps through his bones, but when Paddy starts to move, Eoin tightens his hold, not ready to face him just yet. Paddy freezes for a split second before he lowers himself again, nuzzling his nose in the hinge of Eoin’s jaw in a gesture so tender Eoin wants to weep again.

He may never play the piano as he used to again. He doesn’t even know if, when the time comes for another jump, he won’t freeze at the door.

But this is where he’ll always be the safest, wrapped in Paddy’s arms, breathing in his scent like nothing else exists in the world. After each jumbled play and failed jumps—though Eoin is determined to land the next one properly—this is where he’ll always come home to. He’ll comb his scarred fingers through Paddy’s hair, and Paddy will shiver and hum in contentment just like he did months ago. Eoin’s knee will ache, but so will Paddy’s back, and they’ll take turns massaging the pain away.

“Come play the piano with me tomorrow?” He whispers in the space between them, voice hoarse but determined. Paddy smiles wide against his neck, and Eoin finally lets himself trust that the blotched jump hasn’t changed what he holds dearest.

#Thursday fic!!!#Ali's fics #sas rogue heroes #for whoever knows the blorbos

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