So, this is the product of too much wine, frequently being awake in the small hours of the morning, and no one taking away my computer when they really should have.
Also, it is my headcanon (for reasons which will be explained in-fic) that Scott prefers to go by his surname. Takes place just after series two, but ignores the ending to said series (It fucking sucked, okay? I'm fine with Grant having a dirty past, but killing off one of the few surprisingly decent portrayals of a woman in the military? Not cool).
Title from Lady Gaga's 'Electric Chapel', because I just didn't have enough cliches already.
. . .
After the whole Latif bullshit, Scott and Michael find themselves stood down for the next seventy-two hours.
"At least, gentlemen," Grant says, sternly, although Scott is willing to bet she's going fucking mental on the inside. "I don't want to see either of you for the next three days. Dismissed."
Michael rips off a perfect salute, while Scott manages a half-assed wave, and Grant unbends enough to smile at them. It's amazing how much of a difference it makes to her face.
Scott spends the next fourteen hours unconscious, in a sleep so deep he doesn't even dream, for which he's profoundly grateful. When he gets back to something resembling a normal life, he's going to have nightmares like a motherfucker, but for now he tries not to think about it.
When he wakes up, light-headed and with his stomach rumbling, he goes in search of Michael. It occurs to him that he could score some coke and half a dozen hookers and have himself a party and no one would bat an eyelid. He did just save the world, after all. Grant wouldn't dare refuse him anything right now. And while hookers and blow sound totally awesome – he mentally tables that idea for tomorrow – Scott thinks chilling with a buddy and a few drinks is kind of what he needs instead.
Michael answers the door of his hotel room – five-star, all expenses paid, courtesy of the British military, God save the Queen etc. etc. – in a t-shirt and boxers, rubbing sleep from his eyes and squinting against the light from the hallway. It's fuckin' adorable, Scott thinks, grinning.
"Scott, what are you –" Michael breaks off to yawn, "– doing here?"
"I was on my way to a party when I realised I needed a wingman," Scott says, deadpan. "Would you like to volunteer your services to a man in need, Sergeant Stonebridge?"
Michael stares at him. He's still half asleep, Scott realises.
"What?" Michael says, after a few moments.
"It was a joke, man. Never mind. Can I come in?"
"Yeah, 'course," Michael says, another yawn bubbling out of him as he stands aside to let Scott in. "Not like I'm doing anything else."
"Way to make a guy feel welcome," Scott says, feigning hurt. "And here I thought we were pals, Mikey."
Michael shakes his head bemusedly, gesturing at Scott to take a seat. "You talk too much, have I told you that yet?" he says, with a kind of tired amusement.
"You're not the first to suggest it. Hasn't gotten me killed yet, so I'm gonna go ahead and call it a win." Scott wanders over to the minibar and starts taking everything out, snagging the room service menu on the way back to his seat. "What're you having?" he asks, tossing Michael a bottle of vodka and twisting the cap off a bottle of Jack for himself. "I'm thinking steak, the biggest one they got."
"I don't think we should be abusing our privileges like this –" Michael starts to say, and Scott laughs.
"It's cute how you think I give a shit," he says, popping open a can of peanuts. "Don't be such a fucking Boy Scout, Stonebridge, and order some goddamn room service!"
"Yes, sir," Michael says wryly, taking the proffered menu. "A steak sounds good, actually."
"See, you're learning," Scott grins, chugging back the last of the Jack. "We'll get us a couple bottles of champagne, too, really get in the party spirit, yeah?"
"There's only two of us," Michael points out. "Some party this'll be, mate."
"Always with the negative, you Brits gotta learn to look on the bright side." Scott grins again, and gestures to the collection of bottles from the minibar. "By the time we're done with these you won't even remember you're fucking name, I promise you."
. . .
"- Grant , now, Grant's got all the signs – woman in a position of authority, in the military, bigger balls than either of us –" Scott breaks off to snigger into his champagne bottle "- I'd be surprised if she wasn't a lesbian. And frankly, I'd be disappointed."
Michael laughs, swaying against the pillows at the head of the bed. Empty bottles and plates are arranged around them, Scott is sprawled on the other end of the bed, and they've both got a bottle of champagne apiece.
"What is it about blokes and lesbians?" Michael asks, and Scott wonders how in the hell anyone could be so innocent. How anyone in the military could be so innocent.
"Seriously?" Scott says, incredulous.
"Seriously," Michael says, wide-eyed. "I don't get it. I mean, I've watched lesbian porn, obviously, but I don't get why two women having sex is so interesting. It's not like a bloke would have a chance with either of them."
"It's … not about realism, Mike," Scott says. "It's about the fantasy. Two women fucking, it's hot, man."
"I don't get it," Michael says again. He takes a drink of champagne and slumps against the pillows. "I just don't," he adds as Scott scoffs at him. "Gay porn, though …"
"Whoa, hold up," Scott says, blinking in astonishment. "Are you telling me –?"
"What, you're telling me you haven't?" Michael says sceptically. "You've had sex with everything in existence, haven't you? I'm sure two men having it off –"
And, see, that's the thing. Scott isn't as ignorant as he should be about gay porn, but hearing Michael talk about it makes him wish he'd paid more attention.
"Not everything," he protests weakly. "Mostly women."
"Mostly?" Michael says quietly, suddenly interested.
"Yeah," Scott murmurs, swallowing against a dry mouth. He takes another drink. It doesn't help. "I mean, it's the army. You can go months without seeing another woman, a guy has needs, you know."
"Needs," Michael repeats, slowly turning the word over in his mouth.
"Oh, come on," Scott says, feeling a little bit nervous. "You're in the military too, you know what it's like."
"Kelly and I lived near the base," Michael admits. "I went home to her every night."
"You mean you've never –" Scott says, and falls back onto the bed, surprised. "Holy shit."
"Doesn't mean I haven't thought about it," Michael confesses in a rush, like he can't keep it to himself.
"Oh," Scott says. He can't think of anything else.
"Never had the balls to go through with it, though," Michael admits into the silence.
"Well, you've got a hot wife, so I don't blame you," Scott says, trying to lighten the weirdly tense atmosphere. "Getting involved with a guy would only have caused problems anyway, take it from someone who knows."
"I thought they'd got rid of DADT. It can't be that bad anymore, surely?"
"I've spent the past five years working for you guys, so I wouldn't know." Scott empties his bottle in one mouthful and puts it to one side. He turns back to find Michael staring at him, flushed and glassy-eyed. It's ridiculously hard to tear his eyes away. "And anyway, once you get past the orgasms, sex is just sex, doesn't matter who it's with. Never could understand why people made such a fuss."
Michael smiles slightly and leans back against the pillows. "I agree," he says, and then sighs. "An orgasm sounds really good right now."
"Is that a proposition?" Scott jokes, without really knowing why.
"If you want it to be," Michael says, without opening his eyes.
There's complete silence while Scott stares at Michael in silence, and Michael opens one eye and then the other and looks back, amused, and maybe kind of nervous.
"Don't fuck with me," Scott says eventually. "I'll give you the best orgasm of your life, but not if you're just fucking around."
"I'm being serious," Michael says quietly. "If I'm going to jump on the gay bandwagon, I'd rather it be with you than someone who won't look me in the eye afterwards."
"Motherfucker," Scott says hoarsely. "I was all set to tell you to sleep it off, but you – c'mere, you asshole."
He launches himself across the bed and on top of Michael, who laughs and says, "Jesus, you move fast for someone who's drunk."
"'m not that drunk," Scott says as he moves around, trying to get comfortable. Michael is all army-trained muscle and it's playing hell with his libido. "God, do you have any idea – what am I talking about, of course you don't, Mr Gay Virgin over there –"
"Best orgasm of my life, hmm?" Michael says archly, spreading his legs so that Scott lands between them, right where he wants to be. "Are you going to talk all the way through it?"
"I might," Scott says, pulling off his shirt with one hand. "I'm a chatty guy, gotta admit."
"I know," Michael grins. "Believe me, I know."
"Way I see it, you got two choices," Scott tells him, shucking out of his pants. "One, you can let me talk while I get you off. Or two, you can find some way of shutting me up." He smirks down at a stunned Michael and adds, "Now, personally, I got no problems with doors number one or two, but it's up to you."
Somehow, Michael has gotten naked in the time it's taken Scott to take his shirt and pants off. Scott admires that kind of efficiency in people he's planning to sleep with. He props himself up on his elbows and manages to get his boxers off, and then lowers himself onto Michael. They both suck in a startled breath at the slide of skin.
"I –" Michael starts, hands coming up to circle Scott's biceps. "Oh, hell, I can listen to you any old time, just – your mouth, please."
"Your wish," Scott says, pleased, and makes his way down Michael's body. His cock is at half-mast and Scott contemplates it for a few seconds, and then, hearing Michael's impatient hiss of, "Oh, now you're going to make me wait?" he curls a hand around it and starts jacking him off nice and easy.
Michael lets out a surprised groan and his hands open and close on the bed-sheets. Feeling ridiculously gratified, Scott keeps it up for a few minutes until Michael is fully hard and leaking a little bit onto his hand, and then he slowly slides his mouth onto Michael's cock and goes to town.
"Oh, fuck," Michael gasps. "Oh, god, you – shit, Scott, your – Damien –"
Hurriedly, Scott pulls off. "Nuh-uh, Mike. Damien is the name of the Anti-Christ and douchebags who put sharks in formaldehyde. I think we'll just stick with Scott, alright?"
Michael blinks hazily "What? Oh, oh, yeah, right. Whatever you want. Just keep doing –" he lets out a strangled yelp as Scott returns his attentions to Michael's cock, "- that, god, keep doing that."
Scott hums, happy to oblige, and Michael lets out another quickly stifled sound and crams his fist into his mouth to keep from making it a third time. Scott is vaguely offended by this and resolves to make Michael completely forget about being all British and military and shit. He relaxes his throat and breathes deeply, and then swallows around Michael's cock until it hits the back of his throat. Michael goes absolutely still at this, one hand coming to clutch at Scott's hair.
"Are you – do you –" he stammers, sounding wrecked. "God, Scott, you –"
Scott pinches the skin at his hip to get his attention and then makes an impatient, 'come on' gesture, and Michael groans helplessly and starts thrusting gently, getting progressively less careful as Scott just keeps taking it and lets him fuck his mouth.
His grip on Scott's hair is almost painful when he comes, although Scott ignores it in favour of swallowing back the bitter stickiness and trying not to hump the mattress. It's weird, but he'd managed to forget his own arousal while he'd been busy apparently sucking Michael's brains out through his cock. Now it hits him with a vengeance, like, hi, you're horny, do something about it, asshole.
Michael sort of lies there, panting and dazed, sweat breaking out in various places on his body. Scott debates licking it off, but decides against it and drags himself up until he's level with Michael.
"Pretty good, right?" he says smugly, and wipes a smear of come from his chin. Michael stares at him, slack-jawed, for a few seconds.
"Yeah," he manages weakly. "Pretty good. I can't feel my toes, that's a good sign, isn't it?"
"Honestly?" Scott says, and pushes his own rock hard dick against Michael's thigh pointedly. "I really don't know. But nobody likes being blue-balled, Michael, I think you should get on that."
"Oh," Michael says, blinking, and reaching down to curl a firm hand around Scott's cock. "Right, sorry. I'm new to this, is it –"
"You could be a blind monkey with fuckin' claws and I'd still come," Scott grits out, eyes screwed shut.
Michael laughs slightly, and then rolls them over, so that Scott is on his back with Michael hovering over him, watching his face. He changes the grip of his hand a little, in a way that has Scott swearing into the inside of his arm, his hips jerking off the bed of their own accord.
"You fucker, you're doing that on purpose," Scott mutters, glaring at Michael for a second, before another twist has his eyes practically rolling into the back of his head. "Oh, fuck, you motherfucking, cocksucking –"
"That was you, actually," Michael says softly. "And I can always stop." His hand loosens its hold slightly.
"Try it and I'll fucking kill you," Scott hisses, curling a hand around Michael's own and tightening his grip. "God, you bastard, you'd actually do it, too, Jesus. I just wanna come, please, just let me come, Michael –"
"Shit," Michael whispers, his head dropping to Scott's shoulder. His hand disappears for a second. Scott lets out an embarrassing whine (which he'll totally deny later), until he feels Michael turning him onto his side, his cock nudging against Scott's own and Michael's solid, warm hand wrapping around them both.
"Hey, no fair, you get two," Scott complains breathlessly, eyes flying open to stare into Michael's ridiculously blue ones.
"Of course you're keeping score," Michael says, sounding amused, and then groans when Scott slings a leg over his hips and gets his own hand between them. "Make it up to you later, promise," he breathes.
"Damn straight you will," Scott and then loses his fucking mind and leans in to press a kiss to Michael's mouth.
Michael starts and his hand falters, and then his mouth falls open and suddenly he's kissing Scott back, and what the fuck, this ain't right, Michael's got a goddamn wife, this is more than just – just stress relief, or whatever the hell they're going to call this later –
And, oh, hey, Michael's a really dirty kisser. It's kind of awesome.
"Where –" Scott starts to ask, in between kisses, Michael's barely-there stubble scratching at his mouth. "God, where did you learn –" Michael changes his grip again and Scott becomes temporarily speechless.
"My right hand," Michael says, and it takes a few seconds to realise he's taking the piss.
"Asshole," Scott says, and bites at Michael's bottom lip as punishment.
Michael lets out a stunned, high-pitched noise, and comes. Scott follows shortly after, the hot flood of Michael's come sending him over the edge.
"Really?" Scott says, when he's got his breath back.
"Shut up," Michael says, flushing.
"You're a kinky little bitch, aren't you, Stonebridge?" Scott says, grinning hugely.
"Oh, god, shut up," Michael says again, laughing, and tries to put come in Scott's hair.
"Fuck off!" Scott yells, trying to dodge out of his way without rolling off the bed. "Seriously, not cool, man, what are you, twelve?"
Michael wipes his hand on the bed-sheets, still chuckling. "Sorry, sorry. It's just – your face, Scott –" And he collapses back into laughter.
"It's gonna be on your face in a minute if you don't quit laughing," Scott says, waving his still come-streaked hand threateningly at Michael.
In the end, he grabs Michael's discarded t-shirt and wipes it on there and 'forgets' to mention it to Michael.
. . .
Three hours later, Scott wakes to find Michael glaring at him. He panics for a second, until Michael says, "My head feels like someone set off a claymore mine inside it and it's entirely your fault."
"Hey, if you can't handle your liquor, that's your weakness, not mine," Scott says, relaxing, and trying not to eye Michael up too obviously. He's up for another round if Michael is.
Then Michael says, "We should probably talk about this," and Scott quickly loses the urge to screw around.
He groans and stuffs his head under a pillow. "What's there to talk about?" he asks, voice muffled. "You finished, I finished, fun was had by all," he adds, and then emerges from beneath the pillow and fixes Michael with a pointed look. "Some of us had more than others, not that I'm bitter or anything, god no, but –"
"I believe I promised I'd do something about that," Michael says in a low voice.
Scott opens his mouth and completely fails to say a word.
"If you're still interested," Michael continues, still in that same quiet tone.
"Well, yeah," Scott admits, because he's always been a shitty liar and he's not about to start practicing now. "But what I want doesn't really matter at this point because, oh yeah, you're married."
Michael winces and rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably, and this is why Scott made a move when they were drunk off their asses. There's so much less guilt when you can blame it on consuming roughly your own weight in alcohol, although, actually, Scott still feels hella guilty.
Huh. Gonna have to work on that.
"Scott, I –" Michael starts to say, but Scott interrupts him.
"Look, man, I get it, you and Kelly are having problems, it sucks," he says. "But you talk to her about it, or go to marriage counselling, or whatever, you don't cheat on her with a guy you've only known for about five minutes. I was shit at being married, but I know that much."
"That reminds me," Michael says. "How come I never knew you were married?"
It's so obvious that he's trying to change the subject that Scott throws the pillow at him. "Nice try," he says. "But you wanted to talk about this, so we're gonna talk about it, and if that means talking about your wife, too, then – whoa, wait, what are you –"
Michael leans across the bed and cuts him off with a kiss that starts off tentative and ends up being more of a slow, filthy exploration of each other's mouths, and Scott can't even be pissed at Michael for trying to distract him a second time.
"Can we save the discussion for later?" he asks softly. "I promise, we'll talk about it 'til the cows come home, but just – later, yeah?"
Scott nods, but doesn't say anything. He knows without a doubt that he's going to regret this, but he also knows that's not going to stop him. Shitty life choices have always been his forte, god, haven't they just, and this is just going to be another one to add to the list.
And if that makes Scott's stomach sink with disappointment, well, he's just gonna have to work on that too.