#but i figured I'd take a crack at articulating it anyway

[queenlucythevaliant]

"Battles are ugly when women fight" =/= "women shouldn't fight ever." Jack never said that. In Narnia, women demonstrably do fight in battles. Case in point: Lucy in HHB, Jill in LB.

You can judge the moral value of any society based on how it treats its most vulnerable members: women, children, minorities. Women are inherently vulnerable in wartime. Any battle in which women must fight is de facto extremely ugly, and it reflects very poorly on the society that placed them in that position.

That said, "Women feel that they must fight in the battle because the situation is so desperate/the culture fails to recognize their vulnerability/the culture actively exploits them" is entirely different than "adult women choose to fight as a matter of calling and do so in culturally appropriate ways." There's a very good reason why most modern democratic nations allow women to enlist, but don't include women in their drafts.

Father Christmas says "battles are ugly when women fight" specifically to clarify that Susan and Lucy don't have to go into battle against the Witch even though he's arming them. He's saying, "That's not your job; Narnia won't put its women in positions where they must fight." This is not a remotely misogynist statement; it's saying that a noble society has a responsibility to care for women during wartime. Which. Yes.

[almost-a-class-act]

For @mutantmanifesto - I hope you weren't kidding about liking the zombie AU! Happy birthday my friend, here's some NSFW luztoye.

--

Joe hears him coming up the stairs long before he reaches the doorway to their bedroom. He thinks George does it on purpose, these days - makes enough noise that Joe has plenty of forewarning. He doesn't exactly know why, but he guesses it has something to do with his own propensity for being on his own since the bite.

You won't be alone in a second, those footsteps say. Put your sad shit away.

Which is uncharitable, probably. (Definitely.) But the thought fits itself into place anyway and won't be dislodged.

"Hey." George pushes open the mostly-closed door and spots Joe sitting on the bed. He'd been doing the physio the Doc had told him to try, but it's exhausting and frustrating and sometimes he doesn't have it in him to finish.

Sometimes he sits by himself, not bored or upset or anything else, just - foggy. Just gazing into space. George never knows what to do with that, so Joe pretends he hasn't been doing it.

"Hey," he replies. "Just finishing my stretching."

George purposefully closes the door behind him and ambles closer, overly casual. "How's that going?"

"It's fine."

"Fine, huh." It's a game they play at this point, Joe saying nothing that matters and George playing along. Joe knows it's destroying them. He can't tell if George does, too. Neither of them do anything about it, and the game continues. "That's good. You, uh. Want to come down to dinner?"

Joe shakes his head. "I'll come get something later." When there's no one around.

George regards him for a moment. He never used to hang back like this. Joe wishes he would cut it out, but you can't call out someone else's reaction unless you want them to call out yours. "Can we talk for a second?"

Joe takes a breath. "About what?"

George has one of those faces not cut out for this kind of conversation. Joe keeps expecting him to smile, even when it doesn't make sense. "Kind of feel like we hit a wall, Joe."

Joe eyes him, and then drops his gaze to the bedspread. "Yeah."

"I know it's not me," George says. "At least, I think it's not me - that you're sick of me, I mean." He hesitates. "You can tell me if I'm wildly misinterpreting and you want me to fuck off."

"It's not you," Joe grinds out.

"Yeah, good. That's good." There's the smile Joe had been expecting. There's more relief in it than he'd like there to be. "I thought maybe... I don't know. Maybe it's stupid. But I thought we could try something."

Joe doesn't know what that means, but he has an inkling of where it's going. "George."

"I know you don't want me to touch you." The words sting, even though there's nothing unkind in George's tone. Joe hadn't articulated as much to himself, but the dread that rose up every time George reached for him over the past little while is familiar, a bitter taste in the back of his throat.

"Not just you," he rasps, which is pitifully not enough, but he needs George to know that it's not him specifically that makes Joe nauseous at the idea of someone learning his body the way it is now.

"Well, I figured you didn't have a line-up of compact but incredibly charming radio techs coming by while I wasn't here," George says, with that crinkle of laughter at the corner of his eyes that is one of Joe's favourite things in the world.

He thinks about reaching for him, but can't make himself do it. "Thought I'd handle something like this better than I am," he admits.

"I don't think any of us know how we'd handle weapons-grade terrible shit happening to us until it happens," George tells him. "Can you imagine me? I'd be insufferable. A hundred and sixty jokes a minute, at least."

"You think you could double it?" Joe asks. "Without losing quality?"

George looks so deeply pleased that Joe had joked with him that it cracks him open a little, makes him easier to read - makes the exhaustion more plain on his face. "If I'm lucky, we'll never find out."

Joe hesitates. He doesn't want to do ask the question, but he also knows that there's nothing to be gained by kicking the can down the road. He can't guarantee that things will get better in a week, or two weeks, or a month, and he's never been someone who avoids the difficult things. "What's your something that you want to try?"

"I thought..." George sniffs, wrinkling his nose. There's that over-casualness again. "Would you just want to watch?"

Joe freezes. "Watch?" he echoes. The back of his neck feels hot.

"Yeah. You know..." The two of them are very different in some ways, but very alike in others. George looks uncomfortable to be saying this, and Joe recognizes that he would probably rather chew his arm off than get through the words. The fact that he's doing it anyway means he thinks it's important. "It's been almost three weeks since we sprung you from the hospital, and it's been pretty quiet on the intimacy front."

It's been dead silent, actually. Joe lets him hold his hand sometimes, but they inevitably wake up on the far side of the bed from each other. Joe's not even sure they've kissed since he woke up from his surgery, if that's what you'd call the butchery the Doc had had to figure out on the fly to save his life.

"I..." He swallows. Fuck me. He's not a coward. Neither of them are. If George is putting the effort in, so can he. "Yeah. That might be - okay."

George's shoulders go heavy with relief. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Joe has never just watched before, and he's not about to ask whether George has ever jerked off for an audience. He figures maybe it's better if they both pretend that they know what they're doing, so he reaches behind him to readjust the pillow and eases himself back to sit against the headboard, in that tentative way he does everything now that his leg fucking kills if he so much as jogs it.

George watches him get settled, something a little hungry in his eyes, and then slowly climbs to his feet. There's no preamble, no putting on a show as he unbuttons his jeans, unzips, and pushes them down. Joe's glad for that; the unbearable awkwardness in being the person having a show put on for them aside, in this situation where this is happening because Joe can't participate, not because either of them specifically thought this would be hot, he doesn't want it to feel fake, like a performance.

"There are a lot of lights on here," George jokes, sitting back down on the edge of the bed in just his underwear now.

"I don't remember you getting stage fright," Joe returns.

George grins. "You're right. I changed my mind. Get me a spotlight."

Joe doesn't laugh. "Take your shirt off," he suggests.

George gets that hungry look again so fast that Joe realizes it's been there since earlier, lurking behind the other things. He reaches behind his head and hauls that t-shirt off in one motion, tossing it onto the bed behind him.

Joe has seen him get undressed for bed in the past few weeks, of course, but this is not that, and the way Joe looks at him seems to give George the spur-on he needs to palm himself lightly through his boxers. Joe doesn't say anything, both of them zeroed in on George's hand, and the latter doesn't hesitate, pushing it under his waistband.

The outline in his underwear, the movement that takes shape beneath, makes it clear when he has his fingers wrapped around himself in the way he likes. Joe's throat goes dry at that soft sound George makes, almost pained, like it's been a little while.

"Let me see," he murmurs.

"Yeah?" George's hand is already moving smoothly, rhythmically, under that dark fabric, Joe's eyes on it and George's eyes on him. When he tugs his waistband down a little with his other hand so that he can pull himself free, Joe swallows at the way he's already half-hard, those fingers wrapped so securely around himself, specific and practiced, from all the years he's done this alone, all the times he had figured out how to get himself off as efficiently as possible.

"You want to help me out?" George asks, nodding at the drawer next to the bed, and Joe leans over without taking his eyes off him. He tosses the lube, and George knocks it down with his free hand, fetching it up off the duvet and flipping it open in one motion. He lets go of himself long enough to squirt a haphazard amount into his palm, and then he's slicking himself down, that hand twisting slowly.

"You look good," Joe manages, almost on a delay; he'd been so focused that it almost surprises him to hear his own voice. He adjusts himself a little awkwardly - this a problem he probably should have foreseen, but he's gotten himself accustomed to not feeling much of anything lately - and George is good enough not to mention it.

"I got good at doing this quick, out there," George says, bracing himself back on one palm so that Joe can see better, fixing those eyes on his face as if to make sure he's watching.

As if Joe could look anywhere else.

"Not like this," Joe remarks.

"Nope." George smooths his thumb over the head of his cock, making his own voice falter for just a second. "Sort of forgot I could take my time."

"You ever do anything else?" Joe asks.

"What, like finger myself?" George asks it like it won't make Joe's hands twitch, and he smiles slowly when it does. "Maybe once or twice. Not as good as someone else doing it for you, though."

If Joe could touch him without George touching him, he would. It makes him curl his fingers into fists in his lap.

"I want to," he rasps.

"I know." George's pace has picked up a little, his eyes gone darker.

"I wish..." He swallows around it, that ache of want that he can't act on.

"Tell me."

It hangs in the air between them, until Joe makes himself speak.

"I want you like that first time."

George ducks his head with a quiet fuck. "Yeah," he murmurs. "That was a good one."

It hadn't taken long - in fact, it had been the night George had come to the compound for the first time, after Joe had found him in the mall. Both of them were starved for it; Joe had had him up against the wall the moment they were alone, George urging him on with a grin and that big mouth of his.

"You wanted it so damn bad," Joe murmurs, and George has to sit up a little straighter, renewing his grip on himself.

"Not just me."

"Nah, not just you." Joe watches him sweep at precum with his thumb, dragging it down the shaft. He can't help but grind his own hand down onto himself through his jeans, trying to get enough friction to feel relief.

"I did fuckin' want it, though." George sounds less steady than before. "The second I saw you. Tall, dark, and built like you could put me through a wall. My favourite."

"Like I couldn't tell."

George spares him a glance, mischievous. "I would've let you fuck me in that RadioShack if I hadn't come too far to get my brain eaten over some good-looking stranger who didn't shoot me on sight."

"Only you would talk about brain eating right now," Joe mutters, prompting George to grin and then squeeze his eyes shut as his own hand briefly loses rhythm. He picks it back up, faster than before.

"Hey, Joe?" The tendons in his forearm stand out, and he's focused down on himself now; Joe takes advantage of it, to watch without being watched, to let himself want.

"Yeah, gorgeous."

"God. No fucking fair." George almost chokes it out. "You know how much I like that."

Joe does know, as it happens. "What were you going to tell me?"

George doesn't say anything for a moment, the only sound the movement of his hand. "Say it again," he manages at last, like he's straining to coordinate his thoughts. "That you want me like that first time."

"I want you like every time," Joe says hoarsely. "God, George. I always want you."

George gasps, a seam of sound in the bottom of it, and then he comes. His body curves around his hand, and he ignores the splash up his stomach and chest, maybe doesn't even notice, tugging himself through it.

When it's over, he gently unwraps his fingers and leans back, bracing himself on his elbows, still breathing too fast. Joe hesitates, and then reaches out.

George looks at his hand, then up at his face. "You want me to...?"

"No," Joe says. He's not ready for that yet. "I just - come here."

George nods, sitting up and tucking himself back into his underwear before he reaches for his shirt.

"Here," Joe says, and George passes it to him, crawling obligingly up to kneel next to him so that Joe can wipe him clean. When it's done, George sits against the headboard next to him, and Joe takes his hand.

The silence is much, much easier than before.

George glances his way. "That okay?"

Joe nods. "I - yeah."

George tightens his grip for a moment, warm. "Okay."

Joe is so damn grateful they're good at first times.