His friends stop laughing the second he slams into the lean body, sending it sprawling to the ground. "Oh, shit. Sorry." He reaches down and offers a hand, his grin widening as the body unfolds and stands at attention in front of him.

"My apologies, Sir." John darts his eyes to the name on the man's chest as he offers his salute. "I should have been watching where you were going."

"No need for apologies, Sergeant..." John darts another look at the name. "Hooten." John glances over the sergeant again, the silence of the other Lieutenants egging on his curiosity. Hooten's jacket is open, his army green t-shirt taut across his chest. His gun is slung across his shoulder and a quick glance at it brings John's eyebrows up. "Your safety's not on, Sergeant."

Hooten taps his head and smiles. "Wrong safety. Sir."

John nods, his mouth curving in a smile. "Carry on, Sergeant."

Hooten nods and salutes again. "Thank you, Sir."

As he leaves, John's friends all start laughing again, slapping him on the back and regaling him with tales of Norm "Hoot" Hooten. John barely hears as he watches until Hooten disappears around the Quonset hut and out of John's sight.

"So," John drawls the word from the door of the room before entering and shutting it behind him. It locks silently as Hooten slides the magazine easily into his gun and sets it aside, his rise to attention more a languid shift from sitting to standing, more insolence than insubordination, but it's still enough to make John's cock take notice and return Hooten's salute with one of its own. "The boys tell me I need to see Hoot."

"Do they, Sir?"

"At ease." Hooten relaxes, though there's not much of a change to his posture. John looks him over and nods. "Yeah. They say you're the one who knows this place and if I want to stay alive, I need to see you."

"You're going to trust a man who keeps his safety off, Sir?"

"I figure a man who does that and stays alive and, as far as I hear, hasn't killed a single one of his buddies has to be a pretty careful man."

"Or lucky."

John nods. "Or lucky."

"Or maybe I just don't have any buddies." Hooten smiles. "You ever think about that, Sir?"

"So you're saying I can't trust you? You're not the man to have watching my back?"

Hooten watches John for a long minute then smiles. "You want me at your back, Lieutenant?"

John nods and licks his suddenly dry lips. "You have a problem with that, Sergeant?"

Hooten moves closer, reaching around John to unlock and open the door, waiting with a cocked eyebrow and a grin until John steps out of his way. "No, Sir. No problem at all."

They don't talk when they meet, if you could call it that, and John doesn't. Meeting would imply that he has some idea when the half-crazy Sergeant First Class is going to haul his ass into a unused room or closet and pin him to the wall, rank forgotten as John sinks to his knees and strips away the jeans or pants or whatever else his current gig has Hoot wearing, tugs Hoot's skivvies down his thighs and swallows the hard length of his cock.

John moans, mouth and tongue moving along the shaft as Hoot's fingers run over John's shorn hair, applying firm pressure as he guides John's movements until they fall into rhythm of hips and mouth and tongue and cock and John's hands grasp Hoot's waist and he holds him back against whatever flat surface he can find and sucks hard and fast at the tip until Hoot is gasping for breath, fingers flexing against John's skull and then the hot rush fills John's mouth and he pulls away, gasping for breath.

John sags there on his knees for a moment until Hoot pulls him up, bodies flush together. Hoot finds John's mouth and his cock and works at both, his long, lean fingers pulling at John's shaft hard and fast and desperate as his tongue snakes into John's mouth and steals John's breath, both of them stumbling to the opposite wall or desk or whatever else happens to be handy so Hoot can hold John up or down or sideways, lean into him or over him or against him and suck and stroke and bite and lick and squeeze and call him Sir.

The first seizure hits after a successful run. Sampson ends up with a hole in his leg and Brady ends up dead, but they leave more dead bodies for the other guys to bury than they bring home. He's sitting next to Sampson, who's passed out and drugged under. He's fucking exhausted and the next thing he knows, he's on the floor and blood's running into his mouth from his nose. He groans and tilts his head back, grabbing the first thing he can find and stuffing it against his nose to stop the bleeding.

"I heard you made it out unscathed." Hoot is leaning against the door of his barracks, eyes taking everything in, missing nothing. "And yet here you are bleeding. You really are an officer, aren't you, Sir?"

John flips him off and pinches his nose, groaning in pain. His face throbs with every pulse and he wants to scream when Hoot closes the door behind him and locks it, shoving a regulation metal chair beneath the handle. It violates about 57 protocols, but John can't seem to give a shit as Hoot looks at him, snapping the light switch off so that the only thing illuminating the room is the green glow of the emergency lights.

Getting to his feet, John tosses the bloody towel away and straightens, pain blossoming in his head. "Lieutenant Sampson took a bullet. I'm just making sure everything's all right."

"Yeah?" Hoot advances on him until the cot digs into the back of John's knees. "Then why are you bleeding?"

"Why do you care?"

Hoot shakes his head and shoves John down onto the cot. John's breath catches as Hoot's fingers move over him, stripping away John's pants and skivvies before doing away with his own. He doesn't look at John as he urges him onto his stomach, grabbing something off the table between the cots and kneeing John's legs apart. "Don't."

John groans as heat and pressure send his head against the mattress, his body jerking at the sudden invasion of Hoot's fingers, the thick gel cold on his skin until Hoot's movements bled it into his skin, thrusting and pushing and guiding them deeper. John forced a handful of the sheets into his mouth to stop himself from making a sound, his nose throbbing in painful protest as he grits his teeth.

Hoot's fingers disappear and John groans out loud, the sound muffled through the sheet as it slips from between his teeth. He replaces it with his hand as Hoot's cock slides inside him, stretching the tight muscle until John sways forward for relief. Hoot's hands close on John's hips and jerk him back and John's head slams into the bed and he cries out in pain then pleasure then manages to forget about everything but the hard slide of Hoot's cock in his ass as he reaches down and grasps his cock, stroking himself in time to Hoot's thrusts.

"Fuck," Hoot breathes in John's ear. "Goddamn." His words start to melt together as he continues thrusting, rocking inside John hard and fast. John bites his lip and tastes blood again, pressure building hotter and hotter until he groans and jerks, spilling his orgasm across the cot, arms barely holding him as Hoot pushes deeper and comes, his fingers digging into John's hips, pressing the flesh painfully against the bone.

There's someone rattling the door by the time they're cleaned up and dressed again, though John's still sitting on the cot, the wet blanket stripped away and down at the foot. The Colonel glances at Hoot and then John and shakes his head. "Do I want to know, Lieutenant?"

"The Lieutenant passed out, Sir." Hoot salutes rigidly, his lips curved in the barest hint of a smile. "I just got him into bed."

"You all right, Lieutenant Beales?"

He nods. "Yes, Sir."

"I think that's all for now, Sergeant."

Hoot salutes again then turns to John and offers him one along with a nod of his head. "Hope you're all right, Sir."

"Thank you, Sergeant. I should be up and around in no time."

"Looking forward to it," Hoot nods again. "Sir."

The next time he sees Hoot, Captain Steele is giving him shit about his safety. John watches, something tight and hard in his chest as Hoot taps his head and walks away. John closes his eyes and finds himself shuffled out of line. He turns and dumps his plate in the trash and heads back to the barracks, his appetite gone.

He doesn't remember anything else until he wakes up in a cot in the medic's office. Eversmann's leaning over him and his buddies are outside the door, ignoring the protests of the Sergeant trying to keep them back.

"You all right?"

John looks away from Eversmann's gaze. The cot is cold and familiar against him and he knows if he turns his head, he'll see Sampson still lying there. "Yeah. I'm fine."

Eversmann leans in and grins. "Hey, you're going home."

John doesn't even respond to that, just turns his whole body toward the wall and closes his eyes, shutting everyone and everything out.

"Too bad you can't type. They'd give you a desk job."

John shoulders his duffel and turns, walking toward the door. The base seems almost deserted, everyone off on a mission or training or just anywhere but near him. Hoot falls in step with him, walking through the building toward the Black Hawk. Before they reach the door, he grabs John's shoulder and pushes him, holding him against the wall.

"This is all I get?"

John focuses on Hoot for a moment, his eyes scanning his drawn features. "What more is there? What more did you want?"

Hoot steps back, his hand falling away from John. Straightening, he pulls himself up into a salute. "Safe flight, Sir."

John nods. "Thank you, Sergeant." He returns the salute and heads to the door. "Don't get killed." He turns back, not surprise to see a door already swinging closed behind Hoot. Shaking his head, he pushes into the open and lets the noise and the air of the Black Hawk carry him away.