Archive of Our Own

"Hsst, Lip!" Harry Welsh hissed from in the doorway. He beckoned. "C'mon! Come here! I have news," he said, wiggling his eyebrows.

And that was how Carwood Lipton ended up corralled into a cosy stationary supply room as Harry filled his ears with all kinds of nonsense. "I heard from Winters that you're going to be transferred to the team of..." and Harry paused with a dramatic flourish of his coffee cup, the strong brown liquid slopping over the edge of the cup and creating quite a substantial OH&S issue. "Ron Speirs!" He eyeballed Carwood expectantly.

Carwood stared at Harry, the dripping cup, the spreading pool on the floor and then back up at Harry. He wasn't really sure exactly why Harry was looking at him like that; it was probably meant to be a conspiratorial leer but somewhere along the line it had morphed into an awkward mix of horror and schadenfreude-laced glee. The end result was Harry looking more than a little bit constipated than anything.

"Um," Carwood said. "Yes?"

Harry rolled his eyes. "C'mon, Lip, you've at least heard some of the stories, right?"

"...No?" The depth and breadth of Carwood's knowledge of Ron Speirs could fit on the back of a postage stamp. Or possibly the head of a pin. Yeah, more likely a pin. All he knew of Speirs was that Dick Winters had poached him from one of their sister companies after the E Company team leader, Norman Dike, had checked himself into a mental institution instead of checking out of life. He still hadn't forgotten the sound of Dike wailing "I don't know, I don't know, I don't know!" as he was escorted from the floor.

"Don't tell me you haven't heard any of the Speirs stories," Harry said incredulously.

Carwood shuffled his feet uncomfortably. "Well. You know me, Harry, I don't – I don't really like to listen to gossip."

"Augh! Lip, this isn't gossip, this is – this is gospel! Listen, you're gonna love this," and Harry grinned, leaning in as his voice took on a secretive tone. "I heard from this guy that worked in Speirs' old company that Speirs fired one of his sales executives on the spot because he disobeyed a direct order. This guy said that the sales exec apparently came back from lunch, had had a bit to drink and mouthed off at Speirs and bam! Fired. Right on the spot."

"You heard it from 'this guy'? Harry," Carwood tried for his most reasonable tone, "that's called gossip."

Harry waved his cup and another tidal wave of coffee slopped over the edge. Carwood inched his shoe back. "Okay, okay, gossip or not, I'd believe it of him though. The guy is fucking crazy," Harry said. "And get this: Winters? Says he thinks you're a perfect foil for Speirs' ...abrasive personality. Come on, Lip, doesn't that tell you that these stories just might be true?"

"What, because someone has an – an abrasive personality doesn't make the stories true. Don't be silly."

Harry just gave Carwood a long, speculative and amused look. "I guess you'll find out sooner or later." He reached out and patted Carwood's arm. "Don't worry, Lip, I'm sure you'll be fine."

Later, as if what Harry had said had sensitised Carwood to every mention of the man's name, he overheard a group of juniors gossiping about Speirs. He knew all of the boys, and they'd invited him to their table when he'd taken his break, but still stewing over what he'd learned from Harry, Carwood preferred time alone. As word spread of his promotion, though, Carwood probably should have expected the tone of the conversation in the break room to be set.

"Uh-uh," said Don, shaking his head. "I told you. I didn't see it."

"Which one?" Alex said, "Speirs firing the labourers, or the top sales exec in his own division?"

"Whaaat?" Skip said incredulously. "I didn't hear that one—"

"He fired his best guy?" Don interrupted.

Alex leant in. "Well, supposedly, the guy was drunk and refused to follow Speirs' direct orders. Who knows if it's true?"

It was the same story Harry had shared with Carwood with such glee. Gospel truth or not, it seemed that Carwood must have been the only man in the company not to have heard it. But there was more.

"Well, I know a guy," Skip said, "who said an eyewitness told him Speirs fired those eight labourers." His voice sank to a hush as the guys leant in to hear him. Despite himself, Carwood found himself listening closely. "This guy said Speirs went down to one of the factories, called everyone together. He breaks out a pack of smokes and passes them out. He even gives them a light. Then, all of a sudden, he fires everyone." Skip's voice fell into the rapt silence and then there was a general hubbub of voices raised in shock. "I mean, goddamn!" Skip said. "He gives them smokes first? You see, that's why I don't believe he really did it."

"I heard he didn't." It was Alex's turn to interrupt.

"Oh no," Alton said, looking moodily at his juice box. "It was him alright. But it was more'n eight guys. It was more like twenty. All of them except one guy, who he left alone."

There was a long pause as they considered the kind of man who would fire a full factory floor of labourers and leave one man standing. Finally Alex spoke up, "Well, all I know from what I heard, was he brought in the defence contract all by himself. Working overtime like a maniac."

Don latched onto that, nodding. "Oh, now that I did see—"

"On his own?" Alton asked sceptically.

"Yeah."

Ignoring them, Alex shrugged. "I don't care if any of the other stuff's true. If he can turn it all around after Norman Dike, then he gets my vote, that's for sure. Hey!" he yelped as Skip pinched half of his toasted sandwich from right under his nose and the conversation devolved into topics less relevant to Carwood's interests.

There was an email from Dick Winters in Carwood's inbox when he returned to his desk, requesting a meeting at Carwood's convenience, which was generally taken to mean 'immediately' – not that Dick would ever say that. Carwood promptly cleared his afternoon and headed on up to Dick's office. Thanks to Harry's heads up he was prepared.

Or at least as prepared as he could be.

Dick was standing by the window with his back to the door when Carwood knocked and then poked his head in. Lewis, Dick's best friend and supposed PA, was sitting opposite the desk, his feet up on the desktop. By dint of their friendship, his and Dick's relationship was rather more relaxed than most others in their position. "Lip," he grinned and Dick turned.

"Ah, Carwood, thanks for joining us. Please, take a seat," he said and gestured to the seat next to Lewis. "Now, I'm sure you've heard about the man we've brought in from D Company to replace Dike on his, uh... his sabbatical, Ron Speirs?"

"I've heard... rumours," Carwood said delicately.

Dick laughed. "Yeah, the rumours. Well, pay no mind to them. I've asked you here today because we – I – think you're by far the most knowledgeable person we have in E Company regarding what we do here and how this company works. I've organised for you to be seconded to Ron's team for a four month period to assist with his transition." He took a breath. "Now, you've probably heard that Ron," he said, and Carwood thought 'here we go', "can sometimes be a bit... well, not so much difficult as... rough. He's very, very good at what he does – I assume you've heard about how he brought in the defence contract? Mmm – but sometimes he's not necessarily the best at relating to new people."

This, from what Carwood could tell, was a very delicate way of putting it. Harry had said Speirs had an abrasive personality. Dick was essentially saying he wasn't a people person. The rumours said he was a ruthless man who made little effort to compromise. Carwood wondered just what the hell Dick was getting him into.

"But I think you'll be fine," Dick said with what looked like a hopeful smile.

"We think with your personality," Lewis said, idly leafing through a magazine, "you should work well with him." He raised his head and grinned. "Congratulations, Lip."

"Thanks?" Carwood wasn't sure what Lewis was actually congratulating him for. Being, as Harry had put it, a 'perfect foil' to a difficult man? His temporary promotion? Providing entertainment for Lewis Nixon?

Dick cleared his throat and gave Lewis a Look. "Listen, Carwood, Ron's not in the office today – he's got a few things to wrap up over at D Company this afternoon, but he'll be in first thing in the morning, so I'll want you to head on up to his office from tomorrow. We've organised a desk for you there too, so you might want to think about moving your things there today."

Lewis gave him a bright smile. "That way you can be ready when Speirs comes in tomorrow."

Carwood didn't miss the glare Dick shot at his friend. Back at his desk, packing his belongings into a cardboard box to move to another office felt strangely like packing his desk to leave forever. Whatever may happen with this Speirs character, Carwood felt like he'd never be coming back to this desk.

It wasn't a comforting feeling.

 

---

 

Carwood had worked in this section of E Company's offices before; when he'd first joined Easy he'd gotten his start here, so it was with more than a hint of nostalgia that he entered the offices. He was ten minutes early and hoped he'd beaten Speirs to the office, but when he placed his keys and wallet in his desk he could hear someone rustling around in the team leader's office.

He hesitated a moment, before taking a deep, steadying breath and popped his head around the doorframe, tapping on the door to alert Speirs to his presence. The dark-haired man at the desk looked up at Carwood's knock.

He wasn't what Carwood expected.

From the horror stories circulating, he'd expected an older man, greying and hard, cut from the same kind of cloth as Director Sink. He wasn't expecting someone his age, and he certainly wasn't expecting someone quite so good-looking.

Of all the things Carwood had expected to happen that morning, the sharp kick in the guts feeling of attraction was not even close to being on the list. And Speirs had done absolutely nothing to warrant it apart from, it seemed, merely existing. He sure as hell hadn't been nice to Carwood; his "good morning" was curt, and no, he didn't need any assistance, once he was set up and comfortable then he would have a word with Carwood.

But Carwood didn't mind; he was completely spellbound by a fine jaw line and cheekbones, a well tailored suit and a pair of irritated hazel eyes.

He had his first ever crush.

At 26.

It was completely ridiculous.

But ridiculous or not, he was preternaturally aware of Speirs in his office, and no matter how hard he told himself to focus on what he was doing (which was, to be honest, not a whole lot, just re-reviewing records and compulsively refreshing his email), every single noise and movement from behind him had him twitching and starting like he expected the man to suddenly pop up behind him.

Ironically enough, he was saved by Harry.

Carwood had been at work for precisely thirty eight minutes before Harry messaged him. To be honest, he thought it was an epic display of restraint, only bettered by the fact that he hadn't seen Harry lurking on the other side of the half-frosted office doors, a giant, shit-eating grin on his stupid gappy-toothed face.

HWELSH: hay so r u fired yet lip?
HWELSH: lol no wait you wouldnt reply would u?
HWELSH: ud be packing ur cardboard box
CLIPTON: no Harry, I'm not fired.
HWELSH: is anyone else fired? i have a et going.
HWELSH: *bet
CLIPTON: A bet?
HWELSH: with nix. he thinks some1 will b fired by COB. im giving spiers till the end of the week. our money is on luz 2 go first.
CLIPTON: That's not very nice.
HWELSH: just 2 pass the time. if luz does go we ll throw him a party
CLIPTON: How generous of you both!
HWELSH: oh u no me lip. generous 2 a fault.

Carwood pulled a face at his computer screen. Of course they had a bet. It was probably for a case of Vat 69 for Lew and a keg of whatever was going for Harry. He didn't like them betting on specific men though, that was completely tasteless. As the team's IT specialist, George Luz was going to be in contact with Speirs nearly as much as Carwood. And George was a bit of a clown, a bit of a comedian, and by the sounds of it Speirs didn't have much of a sense of humour. Carwood made a mental note to keep an eye on George, maybe have a quiet word for him to be on his best behaviour, at least until Speirs was settled in and used to his new team's quirks.

CLIPTON: hmm. So how much do you have on me?
HWELSH: what r u getting fired all ready? lip is there something ur not telling me???? ur not a perfect foil for spiers at all?!
CLIPTON: don't be silly. How much is the bet on me, Harry?
HWELSH: nooooo no bet on u i promise!!!
CLIPTON: Harry. If you don't tell me I'll tell Kitty about what really happened at the EOFY dinner.
HWELSH: [[email protected] is offline]

He couldn't help laughing. It was pretty obvious that if they were making bets on the rest of the staff, there would be money on him too; he was probably top of the list. Although to be honest, he was reasonably sure that Dick wouldn't let Speirs fire him, no matter how 'rough' a personality Speirs was.

"Lipton?"

He heard his TL bark his name from inside the officer and stiffened in his seat guilty. Christ, Speirs was in the office, not looming over Carwood's shoulder reading his messages. Carwood had listened to far too many rumours about the man, he was sure of it.

He closed the messenger window and slid out of his seat, moving to the doorway. "Sir?"

Speirs was seated behind the desk. The desktop had precisely three things on it: the computer, a cheap blue ballpoint pen and what looked like, from Carwood's upside down vantage, a printed list of names. He eyeballed it uneasily.

"Please, take a seat," Speirs said. He looked like he was trying to put Carwood at his ease, he really did, but his relaxed posture with his hands folded together on the desktop was belied by the tautness through his shoulders. This man was not going to be easy to work with at all, Carwood realised, not even for someone like him who tended to get along with everyone.

Once Carwood sat, Speirs began to speak. "Lipton, I know Dick's assigned you to help me... integrate with the team and while I appreciate his concern," the thin thread of exasperation running through his tone contradicted his words, "it's not really necessary."

Uh oh, was Carwood getting fired already? He hadn't even had the chance to do anything wrong. Jesus, Harry was going to laugh and laugh and laugh and would never let him live this down. He was going to have to walk of shame right the way up to Dick's office and let him know. "Well, sir," Carwood murmured, "I'm sure you will do what you feel necessary, but—" and he hesitated a moment before ploughing on; Speirs would find out about it sooner or later, "the last TL left this division a helluva mess to clean up. I'm sure you could find a role for me – I could assist in sorting out that mess if the role Winters has assigned me is unsatisfactory?"

Seriously, he didn't want to get fired already. He was very, very good at his job. He knew he could be useful to Speirs. He wanted to give Speirs the chance to see how useful he could be.

...He didn't just want to hang around and stare at Speirs like a giant creep, honestly.

"Dike," Speirs said in a disgusted tone. "Promotion grooming is a poor excuse for giving a man a team he hasn't the skills to lead. Where is he now?"

Carwood coughed delicately. "Last I heard, sir, he checked himself into the Sunshine Home for the Bewildered for an extended stay."

Speirs grunted. "None too soon." He picked up the pen and sat back in his chair, twisting the plastic through his fingers. He had long fingers, strong hands. Carwood jerked his gaze up when Speirs spoke. "I've had a brief look through Easy's records and you might be right. E Company is on the brink of disaster. This Foy deal Winters practically handheld Dike through is a goddamned mess. If we lose Foy, then there'll be no chance on Noville." Carwood nodded. It was the same conclusion he'd reached, even before Dike checked out, leading him so far as to take the unusual step of having a word with Dick about Dike's leadership. The conversation hadn't really accomplished much, but Carwood thought it important that Dick at least knew where he stood.

Speirs looked intently at Carwood. "Fine," he said eventually. "I'll keep you. I can use you." There was a sharp emphasis on 'use' that Carwood wasn't sure he liked. He could tell that Speirs was the type of man who would use anyone he wanted too, when he wanted to.

Speirs leant forward, reaching for the list, turning it and sliding it across the desk to Carwood with a sharp movement. "These people, however."

Again Carwood felt a sinking feeling. It was a list of almost all the Easy staff.

"I don't know anything about these men. I want you to tell me about them. Tell me what their role is within the team. "

It took the better part of five hours for Carwood to get through the list to Speirs' satisfaction. The man had an uncanny knack for ferreting out the little things Carwood wanted to keep private about each man (just for now, it wasn't like he was going to keep the secrets forever; he just wanted each of the men to have a chance with the new boss) and he had a mind like a steel trap. Carwood could mention something in passing and two hours later, regardless of the information that had flowed between, Speirs could bring it up word for word without fail.

Lunchtime came and went with little pause, Speirs throwing down a couple of bland cheese and tomato sandwiches and telling Carwood to help himself as they continued the with the list.

Perhaps it was coincidence, but right after he and Speirs had discussed George Luz – Carwood really did try to gloss over anything that might cause trouble between George and Speirs – Speirs called George in to fetch them fresh coffee.

"Oh, but I'm the IT guy. I don't do—uh." George stopped and swallowed. "I mean..."

Speirs stared at him.

Carwood silently willed George to just go and do it, please go and do it, oh god, no don't look this way, that's not a good idea at all, oh damn, too late, okay I'm just going to smile and nod, be reassuring, and... go, George, for the love of god, go.

George went.

Of course Speirs was watching him when he glanced back over, his expression blank but for the slight narrowing around his eyes. Carwood felt like he should apologise, but he wasn't entirely what for. Speirs watched him for a spine-tingling moment (and Carwood could feel his cheeks colouring) before leaning forward and twitching the paper over to the next page.

Speirs scanned down the list and said, "Now. Tell me about... yourself."

He swallowed nervously.

 

---

 

Carwood shared a house with one of the biggest overachievers ever. Nate Fick was a former officer in the United States Marine Corps, done a tour of duty in Afghanistan and Iraq, left the armed forces, enrolled in Harvard Business School and was now writing a book. With all his accomplishments under his belt, what he thought he needed with a roomie Carwood had no idea, but the rent was cheap and it was a sweet deal, so he wasn't going to complain.

There were other things that were handy about a roomie like Nate, apart from cheap rent and a sweet deal. He could make a meal out of nothing whereas Carwood was skilled enough to burn water. He had a very handy boyfriend, Brad, who cooked approximately a million times better than even Nate did. And within three days of Carwood moving in, Brad had cannibalised Carwood's shitty old laptop into some futuristic weapon of war, possibly running off nuclear power if all the glowing lights were any indication.

Carwood hadn't yet attempted calling in a tactical strike with it, but he wasn't entirely sure he couldn't, either.

Brad was a currently serving Marine, and while Carwood wasn't really up to date on the politics of being gay in the military he knew enough about the Don't Ask, Don't Tell policy to realise that Nate and Brad's relationship might just be the best and the worst kept secret in the whole of the Marine Corps.

Nate was still out when Carwood got home from work, but Brad was sitting at the dining room table, a pair of black-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, as he did something to a circuit board with a soldering iron and a pair of tweezers. Carwood recognised the carcass of the computer as Nate's brand new desktop.

"Technical problems already?"

Brad grinned. "If by 'technical problems' you mean Nate ignoring all of my advice and buying some cheap-ass over the counter desktop model from some pimply, pubescent kid that saw an easy mark, then yeah. Technical problems." He gestured with the soldering iron. "So I'm fixing it for him."

"Clever."

"Thank you."

"No, I mean... it's clever of Nate. He buys a cheap computer and then you deck it out for free with all the bells and whistles he could ever want. And probably some he doesn't."

The look Brad shot him was consternated and Carwood snorted. "Must be nice having a boyfriend who can do things like that." He didn't even realise how wistful he sounded until Brad gave him a sharp, surprised look.

"You're in the market? For a boyf—"

"What? No!" Carwood said quickly, his cheeks burning. "I'm not – I mean, I don't... I'm not like that."

Brad's tone was completely neutral when he said, "Really?" but it got Carwood's back up all the same.

"Yes," he said firmly.

End of story.

Except it wasn't, of course. Not even remotely. Carwood Lipton had had precisely three girlfriends in his life. Two were during his teens – failed high school teen romances, that kind of thing – where he went out on dates and hung out with the girls in his group of friends because that's what you did, and it was what the rest of his friends were doing. Carwood was very good at imitating what he thought was right.

His last girlfriend had been rather more serious. He'd met her when he was 21 and they'd dated for the best part of three years, and he loved her, he did, he just... he wasn't sure he loved her the way he was meant to love her. Not that he really had anything to compare it with. He certainly hadn't loved his first two girlfriends with the kind of love he'd always read about, either. Maybe that was just a fictional storybook love, he'd eventually concluded, and decided that what he had was good enough and it wouldn't be such a terrible thing to spend the rest of his life with one of his very best friends, would it?

So Carwood had then fulfilled what he saw as his next obligation in their relationship and dutifully proposed. He'd expected her to say yes, of course, so when she'd laughed fondly and sadly and turned him down he'd been completely and utterly flummoxed.

"I don't think I'm what you're looking for, Carwood," she'd said. "I just – I don't think I have... what you've always needed. Maybe no—no-one, no girl has."

No girl? What did that mean?

Turns out she'd seen something in him that he hadn't ever realised about himself, and while he was left without a fiancée or even a girlfriend, there was a blooming knowledge that there was something more for him out there. He just had to find it.

This was something he hadn't been particularly successful at. Carwood had never been the best at picking up women and after growing up thinking he was just bad at girls, love and relationships, he had no idea where he would even start when it came to men. He didn't just want random hook ups; he'd never wanted that even when he thought women were what he wanted.

Brad was still looking at Carwood speculatively, tapping his finger thoughtfully against his chin. "I have this friend that you might—" he started, but Carwood overrode him.

"Oh no. No, absolutely not." Carwood could just imagine the kinds of friends Brad Colbert had. Big, buff Marine types who wouldn't have the slightest interest in a mild-mannered, shy and slightly balding man in a middle-management position. Big, buff, hot Marine types. (Although Carwood had met Ray Person – who definitely did not fit this stereotype – he was pretty sure Ray was the exception rather than the rule.)

Brad leaned back in his chair, a slow grin forming on his face. "But I think you'd like her."

"H-her?" Carwood could feel the slow crawl of humiliation clawing its way up his cheeks.

"Well sure. Since you're 'not like that'." If Brad looked any more innocent there would be a shining halo over his head.

Carwood gaped like a landed fish for a moment, but was saved from any kind of even more humiliating follow up by Nate coming home in a rustle of shopping bags. "Hey Brad," Nate called from the door, and Carwood scuttled to his room.

He shut his door behind him, leaning against the wood and closing his eyes.

He could argue that he wasn't 'like that' until he was blue in the face, but it wasn't going to change the facts. His sudden, unnerving crush on his new boss was proof of that.

Hell, leering at Speirs' ass in those trousers like he'd done was sexual harassment, right?

 

---

 

"Carwood?"

Carwood poked his head around the doorway. "Sir?"

Speirs didn't look up from his paperwork as he said in a tone a little too fierce and clipped, "I was wondering if you were free tonight. To go for a drink and something to eat." It wasn't a question, it was a statement.

Staring at the top of Speirs' head didn't make him look up, so Carwood quickly ran through his mental diary. Get Chinese takeout, go home, eat and watch Desperate Housewives, treadmill (and more Desperate Housewives) to make up for the take out, the newest episode of House with Nate and/or Brad while being mocked for watching Desperate Housewives and then to bed.

Nothing that couldn't wait.

"I... don't have any plans," he said in a vaguely non-committal tone. He was proud of himself for not sounding either panicky or – as was more and more the case as the weeks rolled on – completely smitten. Because it wasn't like Speirs meant this as a date or anything. If Speirs even dated anyone. The rumours – rife in the first few weeks but now tapered off – certainly hadn't been about dating as Carwood knew it.

"Good. I'll meet you out the front at six."

"I – okay, sure." Carwood skulked back to his desk. Okay. The rumours – whether you believed 'em or not – had established Speirs as a womaniser, not a – a man-iser, if there was only a shred of truth in those rumours, and that successfully ruled out this being a date. Besides, if Speirs really was into men too, Carwood was pretty sure he wouldn't even register on Speirs' radar like that. Those few men whose names had been dropped in connection with Speirs had been out-going, ridiculously handsome types. A type which Carwood Lipton was most definitely not.

...Shit, why was Carwood even thinking like this? Just because he was stupidly, irrationally besotted with the man didn't mean that it implied a likelihood of reciprocation. So, disregarding all possibility of this being even remotely date-like, the important question was: since when was Speirs interested in socialising with him? He would be the first to admit that Winters had been right; they got along well, and apart from the initial friction when Speirs had thought Carwood had been assigned to placate him, and Carwood thought he was going to be fired just for existing, he was a good foil for the more pointy parts of Speirs' personality.

They'd been working together now for three full months and Carwood could tell the man had defrosted towards him. Speirs had gone from tolerating him to taking advantage of his skills to – as he'd started doing in the past week or so – actually asking Carwood's advice and opinion. It was still a new enough development in their working relationship to feel like a novelty every time Speirs did it. The glint of humour he was sure he saw on occasion in Speirs' eyes told Carwood that Speirs knew it, too.

But even with all of this warming to him and asking of opinions, Carwood didn't labour under the illusion that they were actually capital-F Friends.

However, despite all this, he was out the front at five minutes to six because he knew Speirs appreciated punctuality. Speirs himself came striding out of the building at 5:59pm, looking irritated. He'd lost the tie and with his hair a little dishevelled by the breeze, Speirs looked so sexy Carwood had to take a moment to remind himself to breathe as his mind derailed straight into all the carnal things he wanted to do to Speirs.

It was so unfair.

Speirs' sour expression brightened when he saw Carwood. He gestured towards the cab rank, and it was with a gentlemanly hand at the small of Carwood's back that Speirs ushered him into the vehicle, sliding in after him. Carwood caught a whiff of aftershave, fresh and clean and definitely not what Speirs had been wearing that morning. Maybe it was sad that Carwood was so switched on that he knew that.

"No shop talk," Speirs murmured to him after giving directions to the driver. "Work finishes now." He flashed Carwood a wry grin and Carwood smiled and nodded, mind racing as he tried to figure out what the hell they possibly had in common to talk about apart from work. The total number of topics he came up with was zero. This was stupid; he should have told Speirs he was busy, that he had something on that couldn't wait. He had a TV date with Nate and/or Brad, after all (if it was Nate, they'd just watch House, but if Brad was involved it would devolve into some kind of MSTK drinking game version as it always did, because the man was incapable of not pointing out the flaws). It was bad enough that Carwood was attracted to this ridiculous, impossible man, now he was going for dinner and drinks and he couldn't even think of a single thing to talk about.

On arriving at the restaurant (a very fancy, very expensive restaurant Carwood would never go to normally), Carwood excused himself to the bathroom. He texted Harry: ‹Need topics 4 conversation. Don't say "weather" or I will kill you in your sleep.›

Just when he was starting to think that he was spending entirely too much time in the bathroom, his cell buzzed with Harry's helpful answer.

‹What.›

Carwood groaned. ‹I need topics ASAP. For conversation. PLEASE.›

‹What.................. LOL›

Calling Harry, Carwood scowled up at the ceiling.

"Heeey Lip," Harry drawled. "What's up?"

"You," Carwood said, "are the most useless, completely annoying man in existence."

"I do my best." He could hear the grin in Harry's voice. "So what do you need conversation topics for?"

"I'm at dinner." Carwood hesitated. "With, uh... with Speirs."

Harry's hyena laughter went on for so long that Carwood almost hung up on him. When he said, "I have you quite finished?" in an acid tone he set Harry off again.

Eventually Harry calmed down enough to say, "What the hell are you doing at dinner with Speirs?"

"Well... uh. He asked me. I didn't – I mean. You know he's not a man you say 'no' to, Harry."

Harry snorted. "That's true," he said. "Okay, what do you have in common with the man? Wait, no this is silly – Lip, I'm sure the only reason he asked you was to talk about work stuff, so there's your topic—"

"No, see... no. He banned it as a topic. Work. No talking about it, that's what he said." Carwood was aware that he sounded a little unhinged, and Harry's pause this time was silent, a lot longer and thoughtful.

"Did he say why he wanted to go for dinner?"

"No. Look, I guess he was just hungry, right? And maybe he wanted company. C'mon, I need topics, Harry, and fast, 'cause I've got no idea what to say to him."

Harry chirruped a laugh. "Speirs? In a social context? Sorry, Lip, I got no idea. You're on your own, buddy."

Carwood sighed and slunk out of the bathroom. Speirs was waiting for him at the maître d's station, and he smiled when he saw Carwood in a way that made Carwood's heart go a little flippy in his chest. "Everything okay?" he said, and there was something in his tone that made Carwood wonder if he knew exactly what Carwood had been up to in the bathroom.

"Just fine, sir."

It turned out that of all things, Carwood needn't have worried about the conversation side of things, because if Speirs had an average superhero power it would be making comfortable conversation. Not once did Carwood feel lost for words or did an awkward silence fall over the table, and Carwood was left wondering more than once how much he was inadvertently showing of himself in the face of these casual questions from Speirs.

What Carwood should have been worried about was that at some stage between mains and dessert, Speirs had gone from "Speirs" to "Ron" and Carwood's infatuation with a piece of eye candy with a shitty personality had turned into actually liking Ron-the-person.

Ron, as it turned out, was as excellent at keeping his personality separated from work as he was at making small talk over Atlantic salmon. Now those rare flashes of personality Carwood had seen at work made complete sense.

Apart from the world ending in fire and thunder, Carwood wondered what would happen if Ron was actually this man at work too. He was pretty sure Ron could be almost as popular as Dick Winters if he wanted to be. That was probably the point, though. Ron didn't want to be popular.

Carwood also should have been worried about his bottomless glass of wine. He should have really, really been worried about that.

Ah, hindsight.

 

---

 

"How was your date?" Nate said, twisting around in his chair. It looked like a library had vomited all over their kitchen table with the number of books, photocopies and paper strewn across the table.

"Hmm?" Carwood stared into the depths of the fridge, as if he could find the answers to life within (or at least answers the dizziness and buzzing in his head and faint queasy feeling brewing in the bottom of his stomach). "What date?" He carefully picked up a bottle of juice and weaved over to the table.

Nate reached out and cleared a spot for Carwood at the table. "Well, I assumed since you're home late and," he sniffs, "you smell a little like you've borrowed someone's aftershave – nice choice, it works for you – I thought you must have... y'know."

"Oh! Oh no!" Carwood laughed. "It wasn't a date. Ron doesn't – I mean, he wouldn't – I mean, even if he was, he wouldn't – I mean, I'm me after all. It was just dinner."

"Ron? As in... Ron Speirs?" Nate looked interested. "Your boss?"

"We went out for dinner. That's all. Definitely not a date." Carwood frowned. The look Nate was giving him was both amused and disbelieving. "Did you miss the bit where..." Carwood waved his hands around. "Me?"

Nate tsked. "There is nothing at all wrong with you and you know it, Carwood."

"Well... he just might not be interested. In... men." As soon as Carwood said it (as soon as he managed to choke the words out like some kind of speech-deficient idiot) he realised he'd already told Nate all the stories he'd heard about Ron's extra-curricular activities, from the womanising through to... oh. Oh yeah. There was that time he'd mentioned in something slightly more than passing that Ron seemed to be open to male attention too. Of course, he'd quickly clarified that it didn't mean he was interested, because Ron really wasn't a nice person, but he'd admitted he found Ron attractive and apparently that was enough when it came to someone who was as much of a ridiculously intelligent smartass as Nate was. Ugh.

At first Carwood had been sceptical, since the womanising rumours were so rife, but when Joe Liebgott was the source of one of the stories (Speirs coming over all predatory on some handsome young slip of a thing at one of the End of Financial Year dinners), well, Carwood believed it. No one called Joe a liar and got away without a bloody nose.

Leaning forward, Nate poked Carwood in the chest. "There. Is. Nothing. Wrong. With. You. He'd be mad not to be interested. You're a smart, good-looking guy who'd be an absolute catch for anyone. Shit, why do you think me and Brad keep on trying to set you up with our friends? It's not out of pity, I can tell you that."

Carwood could only shrug, feeling his cheeks colour at the sincerity in Nate's voice. His youth had been full of practical examples where attractive people hooked up with other attractive people. And while Ron was better looking than most, Carwood felt he really wasn't. He was just plain ol' Carwood Lipton, and he'd always thought someone like Ron would be interested in one of their other good looking men like, say, Chuck Grant, were Chuck that way inclined. (What carwood was completely oblivious to was that in E Company even the straight boys harboured mad crushes on him. Capability was sexy. And those who weren't entirely straight might have their reasons too; he wasn't homely as he believed he was, and at the annual intercompany baseball game by coincidence he always seemed to end up on the skins instead of shirts team and by god, did they all appreciate the view.)

"Okay, okay. I won't – I'll stop pushing. Where did you go for dinner on your not-date?" When Nate grinned Carwood couldn't possibly be annoyed with him. He didn't tease like Brad did. Nate was gentler, less goading for a response. When Carwood named the restaurant, Nate's eyes widened. "Oh man. Carwood, you do know that's a restaurant that people like Brad and I would be likely to go to—well, actually, not really, because Brad wouldn't be caught dead in a place so obvious, but... you know what I mean, right?" Nate said.

Carwood stared at him.

Nate stared back.

"I, uh – I don't think I do?"

"It caters to a particular kind of clientele."

"What?" Carwood snorted. "Terribly rich people?" He was glad Ron had told him in no uncertain terms that he was paying, because Carwood had taken one look at the items on the menu – the place was so fancy it didn't even list prices! – and blanched.

"Well, apart from that..."

Carwood wracked his brain (still fuzzy and not quite right), but couldn't come up with a single thing. What the hell was Nate talking about?

Nate groaned and buried his face in his hands. "How can you not – after what we've just... I tell you what. We will have this discussion when you're sober."

"I'm not drunk!" He wasn't! Well, not really. Okay, maybe he was a little. He'd had some wine with his meal. And then some after. Speirs had been drinking too, so he couldn't have had that much. They'd finished, what, one bottle? No, wait, maybe it was two... or three? Shit. Maybe he was drunk. Carwood wasn't a big drinker, though, so if they'd had three bottles between them he was sure Ron would have had to pour him into the cab. And he'd definitely only assisted Carwood in getting into the cab to come home, right? It was... gentlemanly concern, that's all. Like when he'd wrapped his arm around Carwood's waist after he'd stumbled.

...After he'd stumbled? Carwood wasn't a stumbler. But god, Ron had smelt so good. Christ, that might be the aftershave Nate could smell on him. "Okay. Maybe I am. A little bit," he conceded reluctantly, holding up his hand, his fingers barely apart. "Just a little."

Nate didn't say anything, just shook his head, a poorly concealed smile on his face as he stood up and went to the fridge. He measured out a large glass of filtered water and placed it on the table in front of Carwood. "Drink up," he said. "I think I like the sound of this Ron fellow."

Carwood paused in his obedient chugging of the glass of water. "Why?" he said suspiciously.

Patting him on the shoulder, Nate just grinned. "We'll talk about it in the morning."

That conversation never happened, because when Carwood finally fell out of bed the next morning at some time around eleven am, Nate was sitting in the living room, flipping his cell phone over and over in his fingers as he stared at the wall.

Carwood stared at him blearily for a moment before stumbling off to the shower. That was it; he was never touching booze ever again. This was awful! He couldn't believe the boys at work did this every weekend Friday and Saturday night. And sometimes during the week.

Nate was still sitting on the sofa when Carwood padded back out of the bathroom, feeling slightly more human. Holding his towel firmly around his waist he retired to his room to find some pants. Nate still hadn't moved when he came back out.

"Hey," he said. "Everything okay?"

Nate looked moody. "Brad's been invited out to lunch with some friends of his. He wants me to come along."

That didn't sound so bad. Not like it should put that look on Nate's face, anyway. Carwood was pretty sure Nate had mentioned before that he liked most of Brad's friends. "Problem?"

"It's his ex-fiancée and best friend."

"His ex-fiancée is his best friend?"

"No." Nate frowned. "His ex-fiancée married his best friend."

Carwood stared at Nate. Ugh. "That sounds like it could be messy," he said tentatively. To be honest, he couldn't see how it could be anything else.

But Nate shook his head. "No. It's not at all and that's what's got me thrown, I think. I mean, of course it wouldn't have been so... amicable when it happened, you know? But now they're all still friends and it should be weird and I don't think it will be and..." he shrugged helplessly. "All I know about them really is what Ray's told me. And you've met Ray; you know what he's like."

Ray was the most unique snowflake Carwood had ever met in his whole entire life. He'd come to a party Nate had been hosting at their house not long after Carwood had moved in, and as a friend of Brad's he'd been like nothing Carwood had expected.

"Nate, I don't know him too well, but what I can tell is that he's fiercely protective of Brad and you'd – look, Ray likes you. You're good for Brad. That makes you good in his book for more than," Carwood waved a hand, "Iraq and everything. He respects you for being a good leader and because Brad respects you. And I think if Ray's confided something about Brad, then chances are that its true. He's not going to lie to you, is he? Not about Brad. Besides, if he lied to you about Brad, well, I'd definitely be putting my money on Brad winning that fight any day."

"Oh, I don't know. Ray fights dirty," Nate said, but he'd finally cracked a smile, one of those ridiculous, boyish smiles that made him look like he'd barely hit puberty. Carwood didn't know how Brad lived with himself, some days. It would be like debauching a teenager. A very hot teenager who'd been a Marine and a commanding officer and all sorts of authoritarian things, but still... sometimes Nate looked very young.

Carwood reached out and placed his hand on Nate's arm. "I think it will be fine," he said sincerely.

"What if I don't get along with her? Or – or him?"

Carwood gave Nate a steady look. "Nate, you've told me a bit about your commanding officers in Iraq. Believe me, if you could get along with them, I am sure you'll have no problems at all getting along with people Brad actually considers as friends. No matter what his history is with them."

Nate brightened. "That's true." He laughed. "I'm sure I could have thought of this myself—"

"Of course you could've," Carwood interrupted with a smile.

"—But I think I needed to hear it from someone else."

Obviously the dinner didn't go too badly, because Carwood got to listen to Nate and Brad having sex for a good part of the night, and – in Carwood's grand experience of such things (ie. slim to nil) – it didn't sound so much like make up sex as enthusiastic "I made the right choice between you and the ex-fiancée who married my best friend" sex.

Very enthusiastic.

It wasn't that Carwood necessarily liked to listen in to Nate and Brad having sex; in their defence they were usually very, very quiet about it, but there were times when Carwood might hear even the faintest noise that could vaguely be sexual in nature and even with his pillow clamped over his ears his imagination worked overtime, furnishing him with images of his hot roomie being fucked by his equally as hot boyfriend.

These weren't necessarily bad images, of course, no, Carwood rather enjoyed them, but it was always difficult meeting Nate or Brad's gaze the next morning without blushing hotly.

This night, however, any kind of subtlety or quiet was out the door and after an incredibly frustrating hour and a half Carwood crept out of the house to take a long, long walk. Last thing he really needed was spend the rest of the night listening to his roomie getting thoroughly laid.

 

---

 

Perhaps it was something of the hangover of little sleep and an overactive imagination fuelled by roommate shenanigans (their love fest had lasted well into Sunday, Nate and Brad finally emerging for good rather than for snacks at some time around 5pm), but Carwood found he was completely and utterly attuned to everything Speirs – Ron – did when he went into work Monday. Who cares, it wasn't a date, but Carwood was still eager to see Ron, to see if anything might have changed.

It hadn't. If anything it was almost as if it had gone backwards.

Ron breezed past him and straight into his office, the door rattling behind him as he slammed it. Within half an hour he was leaning out of the doorway, bitching about the Webster report in that familiar, peevish tone. "You tell him... you tell him: fewer sharks, more content." He slapped the report down on Carwood's desk and stomped back into his office. He didn't slam the door behind him this time, but Carwood could tell that he wanted to.

Carwood's day was spent managing Ron's temper and making sure that any of his boys who got on the boss's wrong side weren't permanently on that wrong side. Ron seemed to have a bee in his bonnet over something, but damned if Carwood could figure out what the hell was up with him. He was exhausted by five, but there was no way he was going to be able to leave right now. Spending the better part of the day running around and putting out Easy Company fires had put his own work on the backburner, and even though Ron hadn't left for the day, most of the boys had, so once Carwood had the contract papers for the Noville deal spread across his desk for revision he was quite content.

He picked up the report that Bill Guarnere had dropped off before leaving – four full pages of single paragraph caps lock, but solid work nonetheless – and carefully began inserting Bill's research into his own documents. He worked at this for a good hour before he was interrupted the sound of someone softly clearing their throat.

Carwood started then turned. "Sir?"

Ron was leaning against the doorway of his office. Like Friday, he'd discarded his tie and popped the top two buttons on his shirt and looked less like a businessman and more like a model from GQ magazine. He didn't say anything, just stared at Carwood for a long, creepy moment.

"Uh," Carwood said. "...Ron?"

"Hmm? Oh! Yes, Carwood. I was wondering if you minded stepping into my office for a moment." Ron ruffled his fingers through his hair, stepping back a little to clear the doorway. There was something both intense and... almost needy in his gaze, and how the hell could Carwood resist that? He stood, helplessly, and stepped into Ron's office.

Ron reached around Carwood to shut the door. But he didn't move away as the door clicked closed, he just leant in closer, his lips brushing against Carwood's cheek. "You don't even know what you do to me, do you?"

Carwood inhaled sharply and then bit his lip. "Ron—"

"Shh." Ron said. "I want you to kiss me."

Ron's voice was a low rasp of electricity down Carwood's spine, his aftershave teasing at Carwood's nose. It was a sexual harassment lawsuit waiting to happen, but Carwood's eyes fluttered closed and he raised his hands anyway, feeling the edges of Ron's jacket under his fingertips. He gently gripped the material, leaning in. It was almost like Carwood had forgotten how to breathe, his chest tight as he turned his head, just a little, just enough to bring his mouth into contact with Ron's and then they were kissing, slowly and tentatively, not at all like Carwood had imagined.

It didn't last long though; the moment Ron laid hands on him it went from gentle and sweet to needy and desperate.

"God," Ron said, gasping for breath. "You. You." Carwood let Ron guide him back onto the couch, Ron pushing up between Carwood's thighs. There was nothing subtle about the way Ron thrust his hips against him, once again hungrily claiming his mouth. Was that – did that moan come from Carwood's own mouth?

Oh Jesus, oh Jesus, he wasn't ready for this. Ron's hands were everywhere, tugging his shirt out of his trousers and sliding up over his skin; his mouth was hot and wet on Carwood's jaw and neck and mouth and the feeling went straight to his cock. Carwood was really getting into it when Ron pulled back. "No," Ron said. "No, no, no."

Carwood stared at him. No? He still had his hands all up under Carwood's shirt and he was saying no? "No?" Carwood echoed stupidly.

"No. We shouldn't. Not – not here, I mean," Ron said, his voice rough and low. Oh, that made more sense. "I don't – I'm going to have enough trouble just remembering kissing you in here," and Ron leaned forward, doing just that. "I'll never get any work done if I get to have you in here too."

Carwood blushed harder than he ever had before. Ron flicked his finger against Carwood's cheek, a delicate touch. "God, look at you." There was such warmth in his eyes, such desire that Carwood had never seen directed at towards him before. It took his breath away. "You have no idea at all, do you?"

Mutely, Carwood shook his head. He had no more idea now than he'd had when Ron first posed the question.

Reluctantly Ron eased his warm hands out from under Carwood's shirt. "My place," he said, cupping Carwood's face in his fingers. "Please. Come back to my place. My car is in the garage and it's not far." He eased back and pushing himself to his feet.

Carwood reached out when Ron held out his hands, letting the other man tug him to his feet. He went to tuck his shirt in but Ron's hands were there first, and there was something almost possessive about the way Ron handled him that sent a thrill up his spine. It wasn't just desire to get off. It was specific. Ron wanted him. His thoughts were derailed and he gasped and jerked against Ron's hand as Ron cupped him through his trousers, rubbing the heel of his hand firmly against his cock. Carwood moaned helplessly, gripping Ron's arms as Ron nudged his head up and mouthed at Carwood's throat. His lips were hot on Carwood's skin and the rock of his hand had Carwood arching up desperately against his palm, and then suddenly Ron's hand was gone and his mouth was gone and Carwood was left gripping at his arms, confused and needy.

"Wh-what?" He had difficulty focussing on Ron's face.

"My place, remember?" Ron purred in his ear.

Carwood groaned. He didn't care anymore whether or not he would be plagued with memories of getting off in Ron's office come tomorrow. He reached down, but Ron pushed his hand away. "Don't you dare," he growled, curling his fingers around Carwood's wrist. "I want to be the one to make you come."

It wasn't like Carwood in the habit of ever denying himself orgasm, so it was almost unbearable at first between the arousal singing through his body and the thought of Ron making him come. It took focussing on all the work they needed to do the next day until his heartbeat slowed, stumbling after Ron as he lead him down to the basement car park (he'd tried focussing on Ron's hand on his wrist, but the thought of skin against skin hadn't helped at all).

This wasn't something that Carwood had ever done before; gone home with someone he wasn't dating for sex. In fact, he wouldn't have thought it in him to have the front to even do something like this. Except now he was sitting in the passenger seat of a very shiny sports car with a very sexy man, going to said man's house with the express purpose of fucking and Jesus, maybe Carwood did have it in him.

He couldn't stop looking at Ron's hands on the steering wheel without imagining them on him, but when he jerked his gaze away to look at Ron's face it was just as bad, because Ron kept looking at him with sly predator glances, and when he moistened his lips slowly and sensually Carwood nearly groaned aloud. Instead he dug his fingers into his palm and resolutely looked out the window at the splashes of streetlights and tried desperately not to think of anything even remotely sexual as Ron laughed softly.

He didn't do such a bad job of keeping himself under control, because when Ron pulled the purring car into a driveway, he had backed right off arousal almost to the point of nerves as his brain started to suggest that hey, maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. Because really, sleeping with your boss – having a one night stand with your boss – probably wasn't the best career choice in the world.

No matter how much of a good idea it might have seemed at the time.

And yet...

 

---

 

Carwood looked around from his curious rubber-necking at Ron's home (unexpectedly homey and well lived in as far as he could see) as Ron closed the door leading through to the garage behind him, leaning against it with a sigh. He was chewing on his bottom lip lightly, an endearing nervous gesture that showed Carwood that he wasn't quite as confident as he liked to appear. Maybe he was the one having second thoughts? Ron watched him in silence for a moment, before pushing off the door and stepping forward. Carwood couldn't help his sudden inhale; was Ron just going to pounce on him? Drag him off to his bedroom, caveman style?

And would he complain if Ron did?

"Would you – do you like – we could have some wine, if you want?" Ron asked, lingering by the end of the bench. "I have a lovely red I've been saving for a... special occasion."

"I thought we were going to—" Carwood blurted, before blushing brightly as Ron laughed and stepped forward, confident again as he reached out and snagged Carwood's tie.

"Well... we can get straight to it if you want. I just thought, maybe some wine to make this feel less... cheap. Less easy."

Carwood wet his lips. "Maybe wine then. Wouldn't want to seem cheap or easy," he said as Ron tugged him forward by his tie for a kiss. It was involuntary as he reached for Ron, sliding his hand around the small of his back, under his jacket and tugging him close. He was so warm through the cotton of his shirt. Carwood leant into him, licking into his mouth, his other hand curling in Ron's hair.

Ron groaned and eventually pulled away. His eyes were bright as he looked at Carwood, and for a moment Carwood wanted him to just— "Wine. Yes," Ron said belatedly. He guided Carwood to the table and pulled out his chair, pressing him down into the seat. "Wait here."

Carwood swallowed, took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He was so, so close to telling Ron to hell with the wine, half-drunk and half-hard already on the headiness of Ron's kiss. There must have been something in the glaze in his eyes when Ron returned, because Ron sat the glassware down on the table and reached out and cup his cheek, thumb swiping across his lips. "Patience."

This was so not normal behaviour that for a moment he wondered if he'd been roofied or something. Not that Carwood honestly thought that was Ron's style, but maybe it was possible that there was something more potent than Ron's kisses at work here. Hell, attraction and chemistry were doing their thing, but what if they'd had a little bit of a hand along the way? Carwood had never felt like this before, never felt so alive and switched on (turned on; he'd never felt so aroused in his life and that was a little scary to be honest) as he did right at that moment. Nervously, he gulped from the glass of wine Ron sat in front of him, and then blinked. Ron was right. It was a lovely red.

Ron leaned his chin on his hand, idly stroking the stem of his wine glass. "You're a hot mess of contradictions, Carwood Lipton."

Carwood had to drag his eyes away from the slow, sensual movements of Ron's fingers on the glassware. "What do you mean?"

"Look at you. You're deceptive. You might all look mild-mannered and innocent, and you hooked me by being – by being completely capable and adored by everyone who knows you and, may I add, completely impervious to my temper and moodiness." And he grins a little at Carwood; of course he would be aware how difficult a man he was. Of course. "No matter how much I try to rile you up. And yet..."

"And yet...?"

Ron wet his lips. Carwood's spine twitched at the flicker of his tongue. It was a strange feeling. "And yet there is nothing at all mild or innocent about you." The heat was back in Ron's eyes and he shifted in his seat, off his hand to lean forward, a sudden surge of intensity about him. "Not about the way you kiss or," and his gaze raked over Carwood, "that body you hide under those shitty off the rack suits you wear."

Carwood couldn't help but blush. "I'm not – I don't—"

"See? Just like that." Ron slid out of his chair, grabbed Carwood's hand and tugged him up. "I don't want to wait anymore."

 

---

 

Carwood stretched luxuriously, letting out a content groan. It wasn't his first time with another man, but it was, by and far, his best time. Not that he was going to tell Ron that. Ron looked impressed enough with his skills as it was as he stroked a possessive hand down Carwood's flank. He was still nestled in against Carwood's ass and when Carwood shifted Ron groaned, his fingers settling on Carwood's hip to hold him close as Ron sluggishly rolled his hips. "Again?" Carwood said. He meant it to be a tease, but instead it came out a little breathlessly.

Ron chuckled against the back of Carwood's neck. "Give me a moment," he said his voice a low rumble. "I'm not sixteen." He eased away (though his hands never left Carwood's skin) and Carwood rolled onto his back. Ron's hands resumed their languid caress. He seemed interested in mapping Carwood's body with his fingers, a slight furrow of concentration between his brows.

"How did you get these?" Ron's finger flicked against the scars on his cheek, his arm and then teasingly down his thigh.

"Live fire accident," Carwood said.

Ron looked at him curiously. "You're enlisted? Were enlisted?"

Carwood was surprised. Ron didn't know? Didn't he know everything about everyone in the company? "Reserve," he said hesitantly. "Most of us are. It's kind of an unofficial Easy Company thing... I mean, Dick doesn't expect it, but we volunteer anyway."

With exceptions, of course. Like Webster, who didn't volunteer for anything.

Ron seemed to be intrigued instead of scornful, which was what Carwood had been expecting instead; weren't all the regulars down on reservists? "That explains the discipline," Ron said in delight. His expression grew mischievous. "And you calling me 'sir'."

The flush that rolled across Carwood's cheeks did so in record time. He'd been wondering if Ron was ever going to bring that up. "You never complained... sir." Carwood was pretty sure he wasn't the kind of person to do anything hinky in bed, but the look on Ron's face was worth filing away for future reference. Well. If there was any future to refer to, of course. God, he hoped so.

Ron held his gaze for a long moment that made Carwood nervous and he trailed his fingers over the emblem tattooed on Ron's arm. He cleared his throat. "I recognise this," he said. "It's the Screaming Eagles. 101st Airborne."

"Mm, it is," Ron said. "You know it?"

"My granddaddy was a paratrooper in WWII. 506th PIR. I was named for him. He never liked talking about it much, not until towards the end. When he started talking he told me a lot of the men he fought with." Something in all that got Ron's attention. He perked up, rolling onto his side. The drag of his skin under Carwood's fingers was silky smooth and for a moment Carwood was completely captivated, skimming his hand down Ron's arm and across his ribcage.

"Which company?" Ron asked, intensity twisting through in his tone. He pinned Carwood's hand with his, and Carwood groaned softly as Ron shifted over him, skin sliding against skin.

"Easy," Carwood said. "E Company. The same one the business is named after. Why?" Then he realised. He'd heard all the stories. "God. You too."

Ron nodded. "Dog into Easy."

"Just like—"

Ron nodded again, a little jerkily. "Yeah," he said. "That's – that's weird." There was a pause. Eventually Ron broke the silence saying, "Do you believe in coincidence?"

"No." Some things, Carwood thought, were meant to be.

"Good, neither do I." Ron slithered over him, framing his head with both hands, and kissing him sweetly. "Stay the night," he said, walking his fingers down Carwood's neck. "Come into work with me. I'll just tell anyone who asked that I picked you up on the way."

Oh god. How would that look? Carwood thought. Not even half a week out from going to dinner with Ron and Harry would draw all kinds of horrendous and correct conclusions if Carwood and Ron happened to arrive at the same time. He was still dodging embarrassing insinuations in the emails Harry was sending out (even the insinuation he and Ron were getting along brilliantly was too much information when it came to Harry Welsh) and since he normally arrived at the same time as Harry... No, no he couldn't, this couldn't happen.

Ron gave him A Pointed Look. "No?"

"I just don't think it would be a good idea. Besides," and Carwood seized on the one thing he was pretty sure he could get away with as Ron was a stickler for appearance, "I need to go home and change."

"I'm sure I have something that would fit." Ron promptly ran his hands over Carwood's body as if measuring him for size.

He inhaled sharply as Ron none too subtly groped him, which, while Carwood had heard all about measuring the inseam from Lewis, he was pretty sure this level of inspection wasn't strictly necessary. Carwood could just imagine the response if he arrived at work in one of Ron's very, very expensive Italian suits. "That would probably be even more obvious," he said breathlessly, arching up into Ron's hand.

"Wear your suit," Ron said, mouthing at Carwood's throat. "I'll lend you a clean shirt."

Carwood tangled his own through Ron's thick hair. "Get the feeling... you just wanna see me in your clothes."

"Mm, am I that obvious?" With his mouth and teeth, Ron slowly worked his way down Carwood's body and Carwood groaned as he grazed his teeth over the rise of Carwood's ribcage. He could go to work in one of Ron's shirts, couldn't he? He couldn't leave right now, after all, not when—oh god.

Carwood whimpered as Ron wrapped his mouth around Carwood's cock and proceeded to give him the best blowjob of his life. Carwood panted and moaned, thrusting wantonly up into Ron's mouth, whining and twisting and grasping blindly at the head board, the sheets, even Ron's shoulders and hair, as Ron slid two lube-slick fingers into his body and fingered him as he let Carwood fuck his mouth. When he came it was hard and messy, and when Ron raised his head, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Carwood groaned. That shouldn't have been as sexy as it was, he was sure of it.

Then Ron surged back up his body and before Carwood could say anything, kissed him deeply, a wicked grin on his face when he pulled back. Carwood had never kissed someone right after they've been down on him before and he was startled to find that he didn't hate it. On the contrary – and he did acknowledge that maybe that it was Ron helped a little, too – he quite enjoyed it. He'd tasted himself before, he wasn't completely naïve. But at the same time something in him had cringed away at the thought of kissing someone who'd been down... there.

The look Ron gave him was challenging, so Carwood reached up and pulled Ron back down to meet his mouth.

 

---

 

It seemed like Carwood had barely closed his eyes before the loud beep of an alarm cut through his sleep. He woke up flailing and disoriented; it took him a moment to realise he wasn't going to be able to turn the alarm off because this wasn't his place. Ron was between him and the alarm and Ron hadn't even stirred. "Hey," Carwood said. "Hey!"

He nudged the sleeping man and Ron started away with a sleepy "Huh?" then "Oh!" Seconds later the loud noise cut out and Carwood sank back against the pillow. The blessed silence stretched out for a few minutes, Carwood's eyes slipping closed again before Ron suddenly shifted, rolling over and sitting up. He almost bounced out of the bed and he was whistling.

Carwood groaned and dragged the pillow over his head.

He must have dozed again, because when he opened his eyes again daylight was starting to peek around the edges of the curtains and he could smell eggs and toast. His stomach growled loudly and the smell lured him from the warm cocoon he'd made in Ron's bed.

When he padded out into the kitchen he was faced with what should have been a most ridiculous sight. The notorious Ron Speirs ruffled, stubbled and puttering around in his kitchen all homely and nesting. For all his fiercely predatory nature at work, Carwood realised Ron was a complete housecat at heart. He smiled when he saw Carwood lingering at the door and beckoned him over.

"It's only scrambled eggs," Ron said apologetically, sliding a plate and fork across the bench as Carwood pulled out a seat, "but it's better than nothing."

Carwood had already shoved the first mouthful in before he attempted to say, "Hey, no problems, it's better than my usual breakfast." It was frighteningly domestic, and even though they'd only slept together the once – correction, they'd only had sex for most of one night – Carwood had to force himself not to daydream that this was something more than it was. Hell, he was pretty sure Ron had only jumped him at the office because... actually, he wasn't sure why Ron had jumped him at the office. All he knew was Ron had been acting weird all day.

Maybe it was some kind of – of sex pollen thing. George had once sent a link that Carwood had been stupid enough to click on; like a train wreck, he'd been unable to stop reading, and was pretty sure he'd been scarred for life (and a little bit intrigued). It was the only thing Carwood could think was a fair justification on why Ron had picked him out of everyone, right?

"Everything okay?" Ron asked. "You look a little distant."

"Um," Carwood said eloquently. "Just thinking."

Ron leaned in a little. "About?" When Carwood grinned and ducked his head a little, Ron laughed. Carwood shivered as Ron reached out and ran a fingertip down his neck. "Can I convince you to share?" There was a purring lilt to his tone that trickled like ice water right down Carwood's spine and he felt a familiar tightening in his gut. He was sure Ron could see it on his face, that sudden flare of arousal, the spike of want, because he leaned in, and cupping Carwood's chin, kissed him deeply.

Carwood leaned in eagerly, opening his mouth. The gentle touch of Ron's fingers on his skin sent a shiver down his spine as Ron slowly pulled back, looking thoroughly pleased.

"Why me?" Carwood couldn't help blurting out. He then winced.

Way to sound desperate and needy.

Ron just grinned. "Because I like you," he said, like this should be completely obvious, cupping Carwood's jaw. "And you're really fucking sexy." He leant forward and brushed his lips against Carwood's shoulder in a way that made him shiver. "And you make the best noises when you come," was murmured against his throat. "And I just really like you, okay?" This against his mouth.

The flutter that hopped, skipped and jumped through Carwood's chest was definitely not indigestion.

 

---

 

Carwood was busily banging away at his keyboard when a hand on his shoulder made him jump. "Shit!"

"Sorry." Ron sounded amused, right in Carwood's ear. "Been thinking about you all morning," he purred, his voice deep and husky.

Almost on cue Carwood blushed, glad none of the boys were in the office. It would be difficult to explain any of this to prying eyes. Ron continued, "I have a place. We could take a longer lunch?" His lips brushed against Carwood's ear and it was everything he could do not to shiver.

"Um," Carwood said breathlessly. "Yes."

He would have been flat out lying if he said he hadn't spent most of his morning thinking of Ron too. Wearing Ron's shirt probably hadn't helped in the slightest, the teasing scent of his detergent (not even remotely the same as Carwood's no name brand stuff) catching Carwood at all the inopportune moments.

He'd been embarrassed when he'd popped by Dick's office and Lewis, sitting with his feet propped up as usual and doing nothing even vaguely work-related as per usual, had commented on Carwood's new shirt. "It suits you, I like it," he'd said, grinning a Cheshire cat grin like he knew where the shirt really came from.

Carwood had willed himself not to blush as he mumbled something about everything else being in the wash before retreating. He would have been fine had he not then ran straight into Harry who's first question – as always – was, "So, how is your boss?" said in the most salacious tone he could manage.

And given that it was Harry Welsh, it was pretty damn salacious.

"I'll meet you in the foyer," Ron said. No need to set tongue a-wagging if they left together.

Stopping off at the bathroom on his way downstairs, Carwood straightened his tie and his jacket and smoothed his lapels and adjusted the cufflinks he'd borrowed from Ron (he was more a buttons kind of guy, but the cufflinks almost made him look classy), and almost as if he was afraid, he eventually met his own gaze in the mirror.

He wasn't sure what he was expecting to see written in his own reflection, but whatever it was, he didn't see it. He saw a man who looked a hundred times more confident than he felt. Feeling buoyed by this image of confidence, Carwood took in a deep breath, then let it out as he about faced and marched off to meet Ron.

"It's a few blocks over," Ron said, lighting up a cigarette the moment they stepped out of the building. "Just a little place I keep for when I have to work late. Sometimes don't feel like crashing out on the couch and it's nice to have a bed to go to."

Carwood couldn't help his faintly sceptical look. He knew Ron's reputation. It wouldn't surprise him if Ron had a little love nest – sex nest? – stashed away in the heart of the city for his various and sundry rumoured epic hook ups.

"It's not a place like that," Ron said primly. He then grinned and nudged Carwood's arm and Carwood couldn't help but smile back at him, feeling a little silly. Maybe it was the infatuation talking (and he knew that everything that had happened, was happening, was going to happen between them was just going to hurt him in the long run, because Carwood Lipton was pragmatic like that) – but he trusted Ron and he'd never been given reason to doubt his word. Even when Ron admitted that this was happening because he liked Carwood, he didn't doubt Ron's sincerity.

Carwood tried not to think about how he was probably just setting himself up for a fall. That Ron Speirs couldn't really like him like that, that this was just a thing that had a short fuse and would be over all too soon. This was what he told himself, repeatedly, as their shoulders brushed and Ron grinned at him, his eyes sparkling, with lust and maybe something else in the depths. This was what he told himself, and he knew it was futile as his heart fluttered like a caged bird in his chest.

Four days since they went to dinner, and if Carwood hadn't been smitten before this then Ron cooking him breakfast and rummaging through his closet to find a shirt that looked 'suitably Carwood' and stealing him from his work for a bit of lunch o'clock fun would definitely have been enough to push him over the edge.

The little place Ron kept looked like something straight out of some kind of architectural magazine, all rich dark woods and shiny black granite and in the corner was a bed looking all the more obvious for its white linens. The whole place must have cost him a pretty penny. On ushering Carwood in, Ron went straight to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of flavoured mineral water, pouring off a glass and downing it. When he offered it to Carwood, Carwood must have given him a look, because he grinned and said, "Well, you know I don't believe in drinking on the job."

Carwood blinked. He couldn't believe – did Ron just...? Did Ron just directly refer to the rumours? The stories? That man he allegedly fired for being drunk?

Ron laughed and pulled Carwood in for a toe-curling kiss. "Don't think about it," he said against Carwood's mouth. "I have food for lunch later, but first..." and he walked Carwood backwards to the bed, shrugging out of his jacket as they went. This time Carwood felt confident enough to be proactive himself, reaching out and unbuttoning Ron's shirt, raking his fingers down Ron's belly and opening his trousers to slide his hand inside. There was something so completely and utterly satisfying about feeling Ron's cock hardening in his fingers and the sharp pleased grunt Ron made against his lips.

Ron's fingers curled against the back of Carwood's neck and that light scrape of his fingernails sent shivers right up Carwood's spine. "What do you want?" he said. He wanted Ron to fuck him again. He'd really liked that. He wasn't sure he would, but he really had. It was intimate, like making love to his girlfriend had been like. Carwood wasn't sure if it would be like that with other men, but he knew it was with Ron and that was what he liked.

Ron had other ideas.

His hands were warm on Carwood's skin as he pushed Carwood's shirt off his shoulders, hooking his fingers in the waistband of Carwood's trousers and tugging them down. "I," Ron said, mouthing at Carwood's cock teasingly (oh god, his mouth is so hot and wet and beautiful; Carwood whined helplessly in the back of his throat), "want you to fuck me."

Carwood stared at him. He wanted—oh god, he wanted Carwood to—

"There's lube," Ron said, rolling away and shucking out of his own trousers, "and a condom in that drawer." He flicked his fingers towards the drawers by the bed, not taking his gaze from Carwood, who was completely and utterly distracted a moment as Ron licked his lips and ran his hand down his body, his fingers curling around his cock and he lazily jerked himself off. It was so fucking sexy Carwood choked back an involuntary groan and Ron grinned, tipping his head back and arching up into his own hand. He was really putting on a show and Carwood felt like he could almost come from watching that alone. He swallowed and reached for the drawer, pulling it open and fumbling blindly around inside.

He frowned.

Ron stilled, his smug look fading into a questioning one.

Scooting across the bed, Carwood peered down into the drawer. His eyes widened and his cheeks flushed with the kind sudden, stupid embarrassment he should really not be feeling at all after all the things he'd done with this man in the past 24 hours.

Carwood might have been almost painfully vanilla in his sex life, though, but what the things in the drawer meant – cuffs and silk ties and oh god, that was a dildo, what the hell were those rings and balls and things for and was that a paddle as well? – was painfully obvious even to him. This wasn't just some place Ron kept to stay when he had to work late. Not a place like that. Jesus, Ron had lied to him flat out. If it wasn't a place 'like that' then Carwood didn't know what the hell it was meant to be. He might be completely vanilla, but he wasn't naïve enough not to realise that some of those toys were for two people, not one.

He couldn't help glancing over at Ron, who was still watching him with that expressionless look that he hadn't learned to read. Eventually Ron's expression cracked; a pained spasm and then the faintest of wry smiles accompanying the tiniest of apologetic shrugs.

As if to say, "Well, you know."

Of course he'd use this place for hook ups. Of course. Because I like you. Jesus. It was pretty clear what Ron liked about Carwood. For all the wine and breakfast, he was easy for Ron and didn't Ron just know it?

God-fucking-damnit.

It made Carwood feel dirty. Not the good kind of dirty, either. He was just another of Ron's hook ups. Something of that must have shown in his eyes because the tiny smile on Ron's face disappeared as quickly as it came. He couldn't believe he'd fallen for it, that he'd thought Ron might've even—no, he wasn't going to even go there.

"Carwood, wait—"

But he couldn't. He slid out of the bed (easy to do on well used silk sheets, he thought bitterly, trying not to think of those who'd come before) and reached for his clothes. After that first moment Ron didn't even try to call him back as he wrangled himself back into his clothing – Ron's shirt... oh, when he got home he was burning that – feeling the heat of embarrassment in every square inch of exposed skin, and headed for the door. Carwood was just glad that no one else knew about anything that had happened between him and Ron in the past 24 hours – no matter how shifty Lewis and Harry might have sounded, he knew they couldn't know.

Jesus, what a giant fool he'd been. Naïve and easy Carwood Lipton, with his little experience with women and even less with men, played to perfection. He jammed his arms into his jacket as the elevator clanked down, his anger burning through the last of his embarrassment.

How could he have been so stupid?

As soon as he got out onto the street he dialled Dick at work. "Look," he said, "something – something's come up and I won't be back in today—"

Dick's concern was palpable even through the tinny handset. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, I, uh... I just... I need a few days." Carwood scrubbed his hand over his face. "And Dick, look, R- Speirs has E Company well in hand now and I was wondering if, maybe, when I came back it was to a different department?" He winced. There was probably a more delicate way of making the request, but all he could think of was cutting free of this completely. He was such a fool.

There was a pause on the other end of the phone before Dick said, sounding surprised, "Uh, yeah. Yeah, sure, that shouldn't be a problem. You were coming up on it anyway. Listen, take the rest of the week off and I'll see you Monday." One of the great things about Dick Winters was how he knew exactly when questions were the least welcome, and Carwood could almost hear his brain working, turned straight to the problem Carwood presented. "Look, I know of a few things we've got coming up, so I'll give you a call later in the week when I've had a chance to check over what we've got. Hey, Carwood?"

"Mm?"

"You take care of yourself."

"Yeah. Thanks, Dick."

 

---

 

For all that Speirs hadn't been interested in calling Carwood back at his apartment, over the next three days Carwood fielded increasingly irritated calls from the man, sending them straight through to message bank and deleting emails unanswered when it was clear he was more interested in making excuses than giving reasons. He said he wanted to talk, face to face, but Carwood was pretty sure he meant 'tell exactly how it is' and that was the last thing Carwood wanted. He was pretty sure at this point in time if he saw Ron Speirs he would force feed him a knuckle sandwich and Carwood didn't fancy an assault change in addition to heartbreak.

And then everything changed when a brief email came through from George, a clear thread of hysteria running through it.

‹Hey Lip don't know why youre not in to work these past couple of days but THE BOSS HAS GONE MENTAL. Like EVERYTHING from the gossip that was going round before he started type MENTAL. He was SO FUCKING MAD when he came back to work on tues and has been AN ABSOLUTE HELLBEAST SINCE. Oh and he accidentally let drOP TO VEST THAT THERE MIGHT BE A ROUND OF "READJUSTMENTS" COMING UP & ALL THE GUYS ARE FREAKING OUT. lIP IF YOU GET THIS CAN YOU PLZ CONTACT ME, PLUS WE'RE ALL REALLY WORried about you. And bill says if anythings going on and you need a hand let him know coz him and Joe will help you out if you need it. I mean we don't know why youre not here but if its something bad we're all here for you. I hear shifty is a dab hand with a gun??! Plz let me know you got this.
from G.Luz.›

If there was anything Carwood knew Speirs knew about him that would get his back up, it was messing with his boys. He ground his teeth, sudden anger replacing the humiliation that had been simmering in him for two days now. How dare Speirs take it out on the boys. They had nothing to do with it at all.

This was between Carwood and Speirs, and if Speirs couldn't be adult enough to speak with him about this personally (ignoring the fact he'd been the one denying all Speirs' requests to meet)...

In the way of furious people worldwide, he bashed out an angry email to Speirs and hit send without thinking. He received a reply within thirty seconds, but it took him a minute of staring at Speirs' response to realise he was the one who had proposed and committed to meeting with Speirs face to face. "Fuck," he swore softly, thumping his fist down on the table.

He quickly shot an email off to George. ‹Don't worry, I'll look after it. I promise.› He only hoped he could.

At least he'd organised a neutral place to meet with Speirs. There was no way known he was going to go into the office to have this out with the man, and he certainly wasn't going to go by Speirs' hook up pad or any of the other places they'd gone together. Instead he'd picked a place that was easy for him to get to and inconvenient for Speirs. It was petty, Carwood knew, but at the same time when he pictured how irritated it would make Speirs he felt a lot better about initiating this meeting; it wasn't a side of him that he was proud of, but he couldn't help but feel justified.

After all, he was the one who'd had his heart stomped all over. It was only fair.

Vindictive, but fair.

Carwood took special care in dressing. Yeah, his work suits might not be expensive designer couture like Speirs' and his casual clothes even less so, but he'd rather be comfortable, and besides, he wasn't going to give Speirs the pleasure in knowing that he'd gotten to him any more than he already had.

But that would involve shaving first. Crap.

 

---

 

The first thing Carwood noticed when Speirs entered the café was how awful he looked. Oh, he was still immaculately dressed (except for his tie, the knot wasn't as neat as usual and Carwood hated that he knew that) but he was as unshaven as Carwood had been and looked equally as exhausted. And yet he was still the most handsome man Carwood had ever seen.

Christ. What the hell was wrong with Carwood?

Speirs ordered a coffee in a tired tone and now he was here he seemed completely reluctant to talk. He'd been at Carwood for three days that they needed to talk, that Speirs wanted to explain, that he had his reasons, but now he had the chance to speak he just stared out the window.

"I want you to lay off my boys," Carwood eventually said after the waiter had delivered the coffee, when it was clear nothing was going to be said if he didn't speak first.

"They're not 'your boys'," Speirs said. "You quit, remember?"

The anger in his eyes left Carwood taken aback a little. What right did Speirs have to be angry? Carwood frowned. "I'm still part of the company and they're my boys regardless. Lay off them, sir—" and Speirs flinched, like he still expected Carwood to call him Ron after all this, "—and don't punish them for – for what happened."

"Between us?"

It was Carwood's turn to snap. "There never was an 'us'." It was sophistry, he knew it, but Speirs needed to know why, even if Carwood couldn't say the words. "You just wanted... well, you know what you just wanted." He wanted to rail at Speirs – he knew he wasn't experienced and that he trusted far too easily, but he wasn't the one to blame here, he wasn't the one who'd chosen to lie and manipulate to – shit, just to get laid.

Speirs looked confused for a moment, before his eyes widened and expressions flashed across his face too quick for Carwood to read. "Oh god," he said softly, his voice laced with realisation. "You really didn't understand what it was. What it was meant to be. I thought – I thought you knew, that's why I—you thought that—"

It wasn't comforting to see Speirs lost for words. Even after everything Carwood found he still relied on Speirs' confidence, his ability to know what was going on at every moment.

Speirs stared at his coffee for a long moment and Carwood shifted uneasily. There was a brittleness in Speirs he'd not noticed before, like the man had lost faith in himself. "It was too much. Too fast. I know that now. I didn't – I didn't realise. I'd... forgotten about the – the things I had, but I thought you'd understand. Because I thought you were just..." His gaze flicked up to Carwood's a moment. "I went by your place. I wanted to explain, but Fick wouldn't let me in to talk to you."

Carwood gaped. This was news to him. Nate hadn't said a single thing about it.

"I tried to explain but he said I'd have to talk to you, but only when you were ready to hear it. He... laid out a few things in no uncertain terms and told me he should kick my ass for hurting you. Then his... Viking invited me to leave so I thought it best if I did."

His gaze flicked up again, this time holding Carwood's for a longer moment before dropping. He really did look tired, the skin under his eyes dark as bruises. And were there lines at the corner of his eyes Carwood had never noticed before? "You're lucky you have people who care so much about you." His tone was wistful. "I know now I went around it all wrong, but I'd thought after our date, maybe what we wanted from each other was... different. Basic. Physical."

Date? What date? He didn't remember any date. They'd just gotten cosy at the office that first time and went home to Speirs' place and—no, wait. They'd gone out to dinner after work the Friday before. The night when he'd realised Speirs could actually be a decent person and that he even liked the man... Oh god. That was a date? Carwood had no idea what he was meant to say to that.

Speirs soldiered on.

"I thought I knew what you wanted, but I wanted to show you that maybe you should want more. I'm not good at people or feelings – talking about them, I mean, so I just... I took you home. You, Carwood," he said in a soft, emphatic tone. "I took you home first. Before anything else. And you're the only one."

Carwood stared at him. He was quietly defiant and proud now, as if whatever Carwood thought of him, he believed what he was saying one hundred percent. By now Carwood had heard all the stories about Ron Speirs and he'd thought he knew the man well enough to gauge what was truth and what was gossip, but this? This he didn't even know where to place in the scheme of things. He tried to wrap his mind around it. Was Speirs saying that he'd never taken anyone else home before? Is that...? No, surely that couldn't be what he meant.

"I don't... I'm not entirely sure what you mean."

The look that flittered over Speirs' face was almost comfortingly familiar; a flicker of faint irritation when the person he's speaking with wasn't 100% on the same level. He reached out for a moment as if he wanted to touch Carwood's hand where it rested on the table (and Carwood inhaled sharply, because he wanted Speirs to touch him, god, he desperately wanted Speirs to touch him), but withdrew just as quickly. "You're the only one, Carwood, who I've ever let into my home. That I've ever wanted to. And then I went and fucked that up good, didn't I?" He snorted a bitter laugh, pressing his fingertips against the bridge of his nose. He took a deep breath, and when he looked at Carwood there was a fierce intentness, sincerity and almost a tinge of hope in his eyes. "I never lied to you when I said I liked you. Everything I did was because of that and how much I wanted you to like me back." He pulled a face. "God, it all sounds so high school, Carwood, but I just wanted you to feel about me the way I feel about you. You – you do, don't you?"

Oh Christ, how could Speirs – Ron – look so vulnerable? Carwood wasn't ready for that and not trusting his voice, he nodded.

"And that's why I want you to give me a second chance to make it work. I want to do it right this time. I want to do everything right for you. I want to – I want to earn this."

Okay that? That was like Ron was speaking a whole different language. He understood the words, but the sentences Ron strung them seemed completely foreign. He had a pretty good idea what he thought Ron was saying to him, but with the grace they they'd been given getting them this far in civility on the back of what seemed to be a complete misunderstanding, Carwood wasn't going to risk more confusion. If Ron was saying what Carwood thought he was saying... Carwood's heart flipped in his chest.

"Earn what?" Damn, was that him who sounded so breathless?

This time Ron did reach out and touch him, just the faintest pressure of his fingertips against the back of Carwood's fingers. Time seemed to stutter a moment and all Carwood could focus on was the feel of Ron's skin against his. "I want to earn your heart back. And to do that I want to woo you, of course."

Oh. Of course.

...Wait, what?

He jerked his gaze up from their hands to Ron's face. "Uh, I don't – I mean – what?"

"I know it's old fashioned, but I've never done this before. I want to do it right. You're not just – I never wanted you to think you were just some hook up, Carwood, that's the last thing I ever wanted. So if you're willing," and Ron's tone dipped huskily, "I'd like to be able to show you what you really mean to me."

Carwood swallowed. He would never have pictured Ron Speirs as the romantic type. Ever. In a million years.

Suddenly any anger he'd felt was completely gone. "I think... I think I'd like that," he said, finally, once he thought he could manage speaking again. "I think I'd like that a lot."

The smile that Ron gave him was a sudden flash of sunshine. His fingers slid against Carwood's hand, curling around it. He checked his watch and reluctantly pushed aside his barely-touched cup of coffee. "I don't want to rush, but I have to get back to work. Carwood, just... thank you." He stood and then leant over to press a fleeting kiss against Carwood's cheek. "I'll call you?" There was still an uncertain thread winding through Ron's tone, like he couldn't quite believe it. Carwood knew he couldn't quite believe it himself as he nodded.

Once Ron had left, Carwood sank back in his seat with a gusty sigh, trying to process what had just happened. He'd got it wrong. They'd both gotten it wrong. He hadn't realised what Ron was doing, and Ron had misread his response. God, Ron wanted to woo him and had liked him, really liked him all along. He'd wanted more from Carwood than just sex, but somehow Carwood had lead him to believe that all he wanted was sex. And Ron had even faced up to Nate and Brad to explain.

Carwood suddenly remembered something and dug out his cell, quickly sending George a text. ‹I think things should be better now. Let the others know.›

Two hours later, at home looking over the description of a new position Dick had emailed him – with things with Ron on the up and up, Carwood was sure it wouldn't be a good thing for them to still work together – his phone buzzed across the tabletop. It was George. "Yeah, boy?"

"Better? Better?" George said shrilly. "He's made me his PA! I have to spend all day with him! I've been writing his emails and running messages to Winters and the other companies all afternoon. You threw me into the lion's den, Lip. Oh god, he's gonna eat me alive, you gotta save me."

Carwood snorted and then grinned. "But no one's been fired yet, right?"

"Well... no." George hesitated. "And he does seem to be in a better mood."

It was a start, at least.