THE ARAB QUARTER RAID
Title: THE ARAB QUARTER RAID
Author: Randi Leer
Summary: Troy and Moffitt each seek separate solace for their loneliness.
Note: Originally printed in FLANKING MANEUVERS 4.
Sergeant Sam Troy, leader of the infamous Allied desert commando team, the Rat Patrol, leaned back in his seat at the small Arab tea shop and gazed around the busy marketplace. It was a relief to sit still and watch a semblance of normalcy, even if it was a foreign culture and "normal" was relative.
He sipped at the sickly-sweet cup of tea, wincing slightly as the unaccustomed sugar hit his system. Arab tea was really more honey than anything else, but it sure beat stale water from a canteen.
A few hours earlier Troy had been sitting on his bunk, reading a letter from home, when a hesitant throat-clearing had alerted him to the presence of his drivers. Private Tully Pettigrew, a lanky Kentuckian, was rolling one of the ever-present matchsticks around his mouth as he peered over the shoulder of the youngest patrol member, Private Mark Hitchcock.
Both blond men were a little over six feet tall, and they were the best damned drivers in the entire African Theater. Beyond that, the only real similarity between them was a love of wine, women and song; that, and a deadly skill as soldiers and assassins.
Troy refocused on the closer man. Hitchcock, "Hitch" to the others, was barely out of his teens, giving Tully the advantage of some six or seven years. He was also a wealthy Ivy Leaguer, accustomed to the easy life and easy money, and the kid could charm females of all ages without trying.
"Well?" Troy demanded.
"Uhmmm… beer?" Hitch asked hopefully, turning to Tully for support. Two pairs of eyes, Hitch's blue and Tully's brown, gazed at Troy expectantly.
"Got things set up at the motor pool? Pulled supplies so we can go back out?" the sergeant asked.
"Sure. Drove every jeep out there, filled out all the forms in quintuplicate, reconnoitered a few... extras…" Hitch shrugged as he grinned. "We're all set, Sarge."
Troy looked at Pettigrew for confirmation. "Got that extra plastique Moffitt wanted? And the experimental camera?"
"Yep." Tully was a man of few words, a trait Troy appreciated. Hitch was still young enough to run at the mouth.
"Who was there, Sarge, you or us?" Hitch demanded, stung by Troy's implication that they might have shirked their duty.
The sergeant laughed. "You were, Hitch. Don't work up a lather over it. Have a good time, but steer clear of trouble. I don't want to be hauling your butts out of the stockade if we get an assignment." He jerked his head towards the door, giving them leave. "Drink a beer for me," he added as the duo dog-trotted out into the afternoon sun.
Shortly afterwards the fourth man in the team, Sergeant Jack Moffitt of the British Eighth Army's Scots Greys, made a brief appearance to apprise Troy of his plans for the rest of the day.
He appeared in flowing robes and burnoose that almost, but not quite, disguised his gangling form. Moffitt had been raised in the North African desert and would have fit easily into most Arab populations if not for the fact that he was a good six foot four, nearly a foot taller than the average Arab male.
"Going to visit a friend in the Arab quarter," he explained briefly. "No need to cause a disturbance by appearing in uniform."
"Female?" Troy needled with a glint in his blue eyes. The two men were rarely attached to a woman, though neither had any problem finding one when they wanted companionship. Both had classic good looks, with dark hair and lighter eyes. Troy, however, gave up a good half-foot in height to his second-in-command.
"No," Moffitt replied. "Idriys. He used to work with my father and me on our digs."
"Friend of your father's?"
"Friend of mine. He's a few years older, took his degree at the University of Cairo. His specialty is the agronomy of the Nile valley area."
"There's agronomy in the valley?" Troy asked with some amazement. He came from a farming background, and nothing he'd seen in the desert had indicated much arable land.
"Limited, but yes, there is. Always has been," came the reply. Moffitt picked up some small packages of fruit and cheese, then headed for the door. "Later, old man."
Troy sighed deeply. Everyone else had plans, and he felt a bit awash.
That was how he'd come to be at the tea shop. Unlike his fellow sergeant, he hadn't put on Arab garb, but he had chosen to divest himself of all insignia and rank. He was in desert khakis, but so was every other non-native who wasn't in full uniform.
Troy had taken the extra precaution of leaving his Aussie bush hat behind, preferring to be bareheaded. People tended to recognize the Rat Patrol by their distinctive headgear, and they'd all learned to leave it behind if they wanted to go incognito among their own.
He'd wound up here after taking a thorough but cautious tour of the Arab quarter. He knew just what to look for, just as he knew he'd have to wait for dark. It wouldn't do to be seen, especially there, even if he wasn't instantly identifiable.
It would be dark soon. Troy picked up one of the sweet cakes and nibbled thoughtfully. He tried not to think about what would happen if he got caught.
Moffitt made his way steadily but unhurriedly through the market crowds, stooping slightly to mask his height, keeping the burnoose close to his face and well over his forehead to mask his light eyes. He'd never had any problems visiting Idriys' home, and had no intention of having any now.
The further he got from the market, the narrower the streets became and the fewer people there were about. He worked his way deeper into the quarter, moving through crooked alleyways and mysteriously marked doorways until at last he was in front of the house he knew so well.
He paused to brush the dust from his robes before tugging the long cord of the doorpull. In moments Adnan, the houseman, opened the door and ushered Moffitt back into the private rooms where Idriys lived and worked.
The Englishman bowed slightly, salaaming his old friend, before the two men laughed and embraced one another cheerfully; Adnan made a graceful exit, taking the gifts with him to the kitchen to prepare a light repast for the two learned men.
"Well, Jack! Heard you were back in the area, but I didn't really expect to see you so soon," Idriys confessed as he helped Moffitt divest himself of unnecessary outer clothing and ushered him to the pile of pillows near a low table.
"Promised Father I'd call 'round, see how you're doing," was Moffitt's reply. "The mails don't go through like they used to, and Mum worries when they don't hear for a fair bit."
"Please assure them I am well... as well as can be expected in the midst of a war," Idriys said gravely, reverting to the formality generally found in the halls of higher learning.
Jack grinned. "So I see. Still have Adnan looking after you and the rest of the household, eh? Some things will never change!"
Idriys settled on the cushions beside Jack and rang a small bell, signaling that they were ready to be served. Within moments they could hear Adnan shuffling down the hallway with the tray.
As always darkness fell quickly, seemingly in the brief pause between breaths. One moment Troy was watching the merchants close their stalls, the next it was too dark to see past the doorway of the shop. He settled back into the shadows, willing himself to wait just a while longer. He knew it would be worth it.
Twenty minutes later the streets had cleared and he was able to make his way in relative obscurity to a house he had located earlier in the afternoon. The markings were subtle, all but invisible unless one knew what to look for, but Troy had been in Africa long enough to both spot and translate them.
He stepped up to the darkened doorway and scratched lightly on the wood. A small portal slid open halfway up the door and a guttural question was asked in Arabic. Troy held a hand in front of the opening and quickly made a sign. The door opened.
A small Arab silently led him through the hallway to a beaded archway, then ushered him through and down another hallway to a wooden door. With gestures, Troy was told to stay there and wait.
Less than a minute later the door swung wide and another man invited him into the room. He was taken across to another door; that portal gave him a private view, through the ornate latticework, of the next room.
Lined up directly opposite were five young Arabs dressed only in loincloths. Each stepped forward, pronounced his name, turned slowly in a full circle, and stepped back to his place in the line.
When they finished Troy turned to the proprietor. "Zayd," he said, indicating the second youth. He looked to be in his early twenties and had a smooth, muscular build.
The proprietor smiled approvingly and called through the opening. Then he closed and latched the small door and left the room.
Troy settled cross-legged on the lushly carpeted floor, looking up as Zayd entered the room with a tray and some towels. Leaving the tray in front of Troy he took the towels over to the sleeping area and set them neatly by the pillows, pulling two off the top and taking them back to the center of the room.
Zayd smiled at the American, then lifted a small pot and poured a cup of rich, dark coffee. Troy waved away the proffered cream and sugar, preferring to sip the strong brew black. When he finished his coffee he began unbuttoning his shirt.
He quickly had help as Zayd came behind him to remove the shirt and fold it neatly. The rest of his clothing followed and soon he was lying face-down on one of the towels, with the other laid lightly across his hips.
Troy moaned with anticipation as he closed his eyes; Zayd lifted a small glass vial and poured a lavish pool of perfumed oil over the sergeant's bare back. He commenced to give Troy a thorough massage, head to toe, front and back. Then, noticing some residual tension, he began the process all over again.
"It feels as if we've never been apart, as if the last few years never existed," Moffitt observed as he reached for a fig.
"Well, I feel just a bit older," Idriys chuckled. "Not much!" he hastened to add as Moffitt cast him a diffident look.
The two men had spent several satisfying hours catching up on old times, friends, research, and all the things that two old friends find to talk about after a long separation.
They had spent quite some time poring over maps of the desert, while Moffitt pointed out promising archaeological sites he and the other Patrol members had come across in their wandering. He hoped they could go back and excavate when the war was over, and Idriys eagerly marked and noted each location for future reference.
It was late, and the rest of the household had come alive around them as time passed. Adnan entered several times to fortify the dishes and teapot while keeping Idriys updated on the outside activity.
The later it got the more nocturnal activity began, and their conversations were often interrupted by shouts and cries in nearby rooms. It had become particularly noticeable in the room behind them, and Moffitt struggled to maintain his composure as the sounds of intensely gratifying sex grew steadily.
He'd been raised in the Arab culture and had learned early to ignore such utterances, but he'd spent a preponderance of time lately among Europeans and Americans, and had been affected by the Western discomfiture such blatant pleasure produced.
As the Englishman grew even more uncomfortable he closed his eyes briefly, reminding himself that this culture was centuries old and was in no way similar to that in which he'd been most recently immersed.
With great force of will, he blocked the sounds and went back to his conversation with Idriys, who promptly regaled him with ribald observations on how "English" he'd become. They both laughed and Moffitt finally relaxed again, only to bolt to his feet with the next wild shout from the adjacent room.
Troy sank into a stupor as the deep, steady stroking worked the tension and strain out of his body. Zayd was truly gifted in his work, and the sergeant thoroughly enjoyed every moment of his massage.
When it was over he was left in a state of lassitude as Zayd cleared away the tray of cold coffee and returned with a small tray of sweets, cheese and fruit. And, of course, the omnipresent pot of sweet tea.
He gently shook Troy awake and gestured toward the pillows, then helped him to his feet and carefully conducted him there. Troy settled back down with a sigh, dropping immediately into a light doze.
When he awoke a few minutes later it was to find Zayd waiting patiently beside the pillows. Troy smiled up at him, prompting the youth to pour a cup of tea and proffer it with a dried fig for a light repast.
"Thanks," the sergeant offered gruffly. It was the first he'd spoken since he'd indicated the youth through the grille. He grimaced through a quick sip of tea, then satisfied himself with nibbling at the fig.
Zayd watched him for a moment, the gestured with his hands. Troy studied him thoughtfully and nodded his agreement. After all, it was why he'd come to this particular house.
The young man stood and carefully unwound his loincloth, handing the free end to Troy, who just as carefully wound the cloth into a ball and set it aside. The view was all he'd hoped it would be, and he was even more pleased to see that their dimensions were approximately the same.
The sergeant looked around for a moment before he spotted the vial of oil. He held it up for Zayd's approval, then poured a pool of the scented liquid into the palm of his hand. Finally, he rubbed his hands together to spread the oil evenly across his palms, and motioned for the young Arab to lie down. It was his turn to provide a massage.
Zayd lay on his belly, arms folded under his head as he turned to watch Troy over his left shoulder. Troy smoothed the oil generously over the youth's shoulders and back, proceeding to stroke and knead the firm flesh with growing pleasure. After several minutes he added more oil and moved lower, bestowing lavish attention upon the full buttocks and thighs.
Troy was in his element now, eyes growing heavy-lidded with the sensual rocking motion as he worked his hands over the youth's pliant body. Zayd's hips were being pressed into the pillows and released with a distinctly erotic motion, and he moaned with contentment. The American was making him half mad with desire, a condition that was shared if Troy's growing erection was any evidence.
Zayd gingerly lifted the vial, pouring a small amount of oil into his own hand, then reaching back to stroke Troy's erect cock and furry balls. Troy gasped, then hissed as he sucked air between clenched teeth. Damn but it felt good...
The youth firmly grasped the turgid organ and gently but inexorably drew the sergeant up between his spread legs. Troy didn't need any further urging to guide his oil-slicked cock to the willing opening. He carefully directed the glistening head against the tight pucker, using one hand to rub the slick cockhead against the opening to spread the oil around.
While Troy continued to stroke his cock across the younger man's anus, Zayd reached back again with vial in hand, carefully pouring oil down his crack so it spread between his ass cheeks and across Troy's thickening rod… Troy groaned and flexed his hips, thrusting his cockhead into the welcoming hole.
The men rocked gently for a few moments while Zayd adjusted to the invader; then he relaxed and Troy plunged in, up to his pubis, sighing with satisfaction. He gripped the youth's hips firmly, holding them still as he savored the heat spreading through his belly. It had been a long time, a damned long time, since he'd been with anyone but a woman.
Not that Troy didn't like women. They were soft, and sweet-smelling, and infinitely delightful; but there were times when he needed to be harder, rougher, and he respected women far too much for the rough stuff.
He moved to drape himself over Zayd's back, wrapping his arms around the slender waist and reaching underneath to stroke and fondle the stiff cock and tightening balls. He began thrusting rhythmically, pausing occasionally to grind his hips sensuously against the firm butt as he worked to bring them both to completion.
Troy built up to a hard-driving crescendo, then buried his face in Zayd's nape as he went rigid and fell over the edge, muffling his cries in the thick hair. Moments later his pumping fist brought the youth after him, bleating his pleasure into the thick, tassled pillows.
Both men collapsed, slick with oil and sweat, to pant and moan until the post-orgasmic hypersensitivity wore off and they could clean up.
Some time later, Zayd entertained himself with lightly drawing his fingers through the brown hair on Troy's forearms, then moved on to the thickly-furred chest and belly, swirling and smoothing as his hand moved steadily lower towards the dark, curly thatch at Troy's groin.
He eyed the flaccid cock, then bent to take it delicately between his lips, sucking lightly. His tongue flicked rapidly under the head, focusing on the bulging vein behind it, while a hand rolled the thick balls gently back and forth. Troy arched sharply, shoving the back of his fist into his mouth to muffle his shouts. He writhed and groaned, eagerly thrusting his hips, watching his cock bury itself deep in the younger man's throat.
The situation was rapidly reaching the point of no return, and the sergeant had pretty much decided he was going to take the plunge. Wholeheartedly. As the pace mounted Troy found it hard to keep his eyes open. Zayd was sucking eagerly, fondling and stroking Troy's balls and belly; waves of pleasure led the American to squeeze his eyes shut and give himself over to a timeworn, much-loved fantasy.
It wasn't Zayd he saw in his mind's eye…
"What is it, Jack?" Idriys' voice was concerned, with a touch of amusement. His old friend had certainly been imbued with a strong sense of British propriety in the ensuing years.
Moffitt flushed; it was deucedly embarrassing, looking down at Idriys and his genuine but amused concern. When he was younger, nothing flustered him like this. Was he becoming a rigid Westerner, unable to flow with the differences in culture surrounding him? Or was it... something else? Something even more awkward?
He grinned ruefully, then sat back down next to Idriys. Closing his eyes he took a deep breath, blew it out, then cocked a cheeky grin at his old friend. "Too much Church of England, I guess," he chuckled. Idriys had the good grace to let it go, instead reaching out to clap a hand lightly on Jack's knee.
"You are a bit over-tense and excitable," he deadpanned, cocking an eyebrow jauntily in Moffitt's direction. "Anything I can do to help?"
Moffitt snorted lightly, flushing with memories of his vaguely misspent youth and its accompanying indiscretions. Idriys, of course, was party to most of it. Had, in fact, instigated most of it. Not that Jack wasn't perfectly happy to follow along.
Hazel eyes met brown in a long moment of indecision. Finally, slowly, Jack leaned forward and brushed his cheek against Idriys', eyes closing as memories swept away the present. "Yes," he murmured, "Help me, old friend."
Idriys smiled, rubbing his jaw carefully against Jack's, feeling the stubble from the younger man's heavier five o'clock shadow scratching him slightly. Jack always had needed to shave at least twice daily…
The two men fell sideways onto the floor pillows, hands roaming one another in practiced moves, mouths dueling, chests heaving for air. Moffitt moaned throatily as Idriys lavishly tongued his cheekbones, ears, the veins pulsing in his throat… he was fourteen again, and his older and wiser friend had promised to show him the ways of a man's world. It had been everything he'd ever dreamed it would be.
Hands tangled deep in thick black hair, both men were already sweating with exertion, bodies thrashing in tandem as they wrestled for the most satisfying position possible while struggling to discard unwelcome clothing.
Cried from the other room brought Jack's eyes open wide; he listened unashamedly, using the passion he could hear to help build his own, finally adding his own voice to those coming from the strangers on the other side of the wall.
Idriys was beyond listening or caring. He was yanking at Jack's clothing with one hand while trying to remove his own with the other. Obviously his English friend had been without gratification for quite some time, and wasn't capable of helping him at the moment. That lack would be rectified immediately, if not sooner.
Once he got the shirt unbuttoned, and the trousers opened, Idriys pulled away from Jack's frantically grasping hands and dove into the opened trousers, eagerly drawing the already straining cock into his mouth and down his welcoming throat. It had been years, too many years, and it was a taste he'd missed greatly.
It was also more than the Englishman could withstand and he bucked mightily, shouting aloud with each pulse of semen as it streamed down Idriys' throat. Finally spent, he dropped back onto the pillows and sucked greedily for air while his hands fumbled for Idriys' needy erection and began pumping steadily. The denouement was quick and gratifying, leaving the older man wheezing beside him as their heads spun and limbs twitched in the aftermath of long-denied release.
Moffitt sighed deeply with contentment and turned to his oldest and dearest friend. "Thanks, old chap," he whispered, crooked smile in place as his eyes danced. The night was still young, and he had plenty of ideas for filling most of that time with Idriys…
Zayd was pleasuring Troy with everything he had to offer. Hands, mouth, body, moans and sighs and whispers that brought the sergeant's blood to a quick boil and built on his fantasies.
Suddenly the youth disengaged and gently prompted Troy to roll over, keeping one hand on his hard cock while gently caressing the firmly-muscled butt the sergeant presented. Troy sighed and continued thrusting into the tight fist while Zayd's other hand began a cautious invasion of his hole.
When the younger man had Troy stretched and relaxed, he reached again for the vial, pouring a liberal amount of oil onto his own fully restored erection. Troy didn't need any encouragement to pull a pillow under his hips, lifting and opening himself to further exploration.
Zayd positioned himself and mounted the sergeant, firmly burying his stiff tool in the warm ass. Troy met each thrust eagerly, rising to take the boy's cock to the hilt each time.
He abandoned himself to the pleasure as Zayd combined the steady fucking with equally steady pumping of Troy's needy cock.
Overload came with the staccato pistoning of Zayd's groin against Troy's ass; Troy felt the churning in his lower belly that signaled orgasm and threw his head back to shout his pleasure to his fantasy lover.
"AAAAaaaaaaaahhhhhhh… Jaaaack!"
Moffitt was floating in the sweet lassitude following orgasm, working his way up to starting another mutual assault on underutilized libidos, when the bellow from the next room brought him crashing back to earth.
"AAAAaaaaaaaahhhhhhh… Jaaaack!"
It was Troy. He'd know that voice anywhere, and it was definitely Troy. Good Lord! Was he hurt? How did he know Jack was in the house, never mind the next room? Or did he know anything at all? Was it just a general cry of pain, of desperation, of... no. Nonononononono. Sam Troy would not be here partaking of the pleasures. Never. Not in this lifetime, this universe. No!! Would he??!
He turned startled hazel eyes to Idriys, who was staring back at him as if he'd seen an apparition. Was the Englishman all right? What on earth had him so pale, had his heart pounding like a freight train going uphill? What had been that cry from the other room? Had the man called Jack's name, or had he heard it because it was on his own lips?
They gaped at one another for several moments before Jack surged to his feet, frantically buttoning trousers, yanking his shirt closed as he bolted for the door. He had to know.
Was it Troy? Had he really heard his commander call his name at the peak of pleasure? Was his mind playing tricks on him, taking his fondest daydreams and turning them against him in mockery? He must know, now, before he lost his nerve and convinced himself it was all his imagination.
Troy's face was buried in the cushion and Zayd was carefully lifting himself away from the sergeant when the heavy door suddenly swung open to reveal a disheveled Moffitt. Close behind him were Idriys, the house master, and a clearly flustered Adnan, panting from his hasty trip down the hall.
Zayd quickly moved away from Troy and knelt, head down, awaiting whatever correction was coming. Surely all the commotion meant he was in trouble; perhaps the soldier's cry had been one seeking aid, rather than one of pleasure as Zayd had believed.
Idriys dropped a hand on Moffitt's shoulder. "Jack, what is it? Do you know this man?" He was concerned; the Englishman had paled further when the door opened, and now stood shocked and frozen in the doorway. "Jack?"
Moffitt turned stunned eyes to his old friend, then turned back to the scene before him without answering. It was Troy, he knew that back, the scars from injuries he himself had treated in the field. It was Troy, damn it all, and he'd been partaking of the pleasures of the house with Jack right there in the next room.
Life had just gotten incredibly... what? Frightening? Interesting? Hopeful? All of them, he supposed. His fondest dream played out, albeit with a slightly different setting than he'd ever imagined. Good Lord, all the months of fantasizing about Troy, being incredibly certain that the American sergeant would never look at a man twice, never look at him as anything but a team member and mate, and all that had flown out the proverbial window.
Troy's breathing was settling. He was aware of Zayd moving quickly away as unfamiliar sounds and voices intruded into the idyllic haze they had shared; he recognized the feel of air currents changing in the room. The door. Someone had opened the door...
Quickly but cautiously Troy lifted his head and slid his eyes toward the door. A tall, slender figure filled the doorway, with two other figures dressed in robes flitting erratically behind him, voices filled with growing alarm; peripherally he could see Zayd kneeling, head down, chest heaving.
As the blood cleared his head, both his vision and hearing cleared with it. It was Moffitt standing in the doorway, and the man behind him was repeating his name in a quiet, questioning tone. Jack. Jack was here.
He'd just been making love with Jack. But Moffitt was standing in the door, clothed. Rumpled, but clothed. The look on his face was... no, it hadn't been Jack, it had been the Arab boy. His name. What? Oh, Zayd. Right, it had been Zayd giving him pleasure, and Jack in his mind's eye. But now it was Jack in the doorway.
Breath shuddered through Troy's chest as he tried to gather both his wits and his dignity. He was lying on floor cushions, naked as a babe, sweaty and sticky with body fluids, still flushed from incredible sex with an attractive young man, and his second-in-command was looking down on him from the doorway. No, looking down at him, with an expression of stunned disbelief. Troy prayed the floor would open and swallow him whole.
Idriys gently tugged Moffitt back out of the doorway, pulled him around and backed him against the wall. "What is it?" he asked kindly. "Tell me, old friend. Who is he? A friend? Enemy?" He paused to consider for a moment. "Is he your lover, Jack?"
Moffitt laughed brokenly, shaking his head. "My commander," he whispered. "He's the patrol leader. Sam. I told you about him not two hours ago." He closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to clear his mind. " I've wanted him ever so long, and never thought he'd be one to partake of the pleasures…"
Suddenly it all came clear to Idriys. Jack had wanted Sam, but thought Sam was interested in women exclusively. Sam clearly had other tastes, but never let on. Through a great act of Allah they had wound up in the same house of pleasures; Jack to visit an old friend and relive youthful joys, Sam to find what he needed and could not find in the usual places traveled by soldiers.
He beckoned to Adnan. "Assure Zayd there is no displeasure. Take him back to the boys' quarters to bathe and rest. I will deal with this." He waved a generally inclusive arm and smiled wryly.
With that, he carefully guided Moffitt to sit on the hallway floor, then stepped through the doorway to smile at Zayd as the youth was led away to his bath. That left the American soldier flushed and building to a fury of embarrassment as he fumbled for his clothing.
Idriys raised his hands in a placating gesture. "The boy pleased you?" he asked, head tilted slightly as he considered his next move. The soldier reared back as if struck, flushing scarlet, then turned his attention again to his clothing. He was trembling, barely able to make his hands hold the cloth.
"You called a name as you found the peak," he continued, stepping forward to squat comfortably in front of Troy. "You called for Jack. I heard. Jack heard. Do you take that back, now, or do you truly desire him, as Zayd pulled from your soul?"
Troy squeezed his eyes shut and shuddered. It was his worst nightmare come true. He'd been found out, discovered, his most base needs and desires laid bare. And by Jack Moffitt, of all people.
He'd been so damned careful, never looking, never making any kind of ill-thought move towards the Englishman, no matter how strong his desire. He'd watched Moffitt share smiles and confidences with women, beautiful women, and known he'd never stand a chance. And now here he was, in a house of men's pleasure, and Jack was there. It was enough to chill him to the bone.
"What's he doing here?" he ground out, deciding this was definitely the time to go on the offensive. "Why is Moffitt in this house?" He lifted his head to glare defiantly at the Arab squatting in front of him.
"He is my friend," Idriys shrugged. "An old friend of long standing. We've known one another since boyhood."
"Known or known?" Troy spat.
Idriys smiled again. Good, the other man was regaining his equilibrium. "Yes," he said simply, and waited.
Troy took a deep breath, and then another, as he considered the one-word reply. Yes. Oh. It opened the doors to a world of possibility.
"Yes," he repeated softly. Idriys nodded. "Is that why he's here?" Idriys nodded again. "Oh."
Troy pulled the shirt over his shoulders, tugged up his skivvies, and reached for his khaki pants. "Oh," he repeated as he pulled the pants on and stood to pull them up.
It was a lot to take in. He cocked an eyebrow as Idriys flowed easily to his feet. "He heard me?"
Idriys sighed. "Yes. We both heard. He recognized your voice and flew here like he was chased by desert demons."
"Oh," Troy mumbled, considering, as he fastened his pants. He tugged at his shirt, pausing to scratch at the oil drying on his chest hairs. "Where is he now?" he finally asked.
Idriys motioned to the hallways. "Should I bring him in?"
Troy licked dry lips. Okay, Moffitt was in the hallway. He knew about the men, the boys. He knew. And he knew the Arab. He knew the man and had in the past, and probably would in the future...
"What's your name?" Troy asked suddenly.
"Idriys," came the reply. He watched as the American sergeant struggled with the onslaught of thoughts and emotions. He could see why Jack was attracted to the man. Strong. Powerful. Oddly boyish in the moment. A puzzle to be wrested apart? like the ancient puzzle-boxes he and Jack had worked as teenagers. He smiled as the man heaved another sigh.
"Yeah, go get him. May as well get this over with." Troy shook his head and reached up to rake a shaking hand over his hair. He watched as Idriys moved quietly to the door and beckoned.
Moffitt sat stunned in the hallway. He could hear the murmur of voices coming from the room, but the blood roaring in his ears wouldn't let him hear the actual words. What were they saying? What were they doing?
His fondest dreams and desires were close enough to touch, to smell, perhaps to taste, and he sat like a chastened schoolboy in the hallway. He closed his eyes and let his chin drop to his chest. Idriys would take care of matters. He would. He always had, and Jack trusted him implicitly.
A rustle at the door made him look up. There was a moment of disappointment when he saw Idriys there, but then he was beckoning, inviting Jack into the room. The expression on Idriys' face was reassuring, so Moffitt stood and made his unsteady way to the door.
He looked past Idriys to see Troy standing clothed in the middle of the room. The man was still flushed scarlet, rumpled, sweaty, and looked as off-kilter as Jack felt. So, at least they were starting on an even footing. He ducked slightly to clear the doorframe and then stepped towards the American.
Idriys slipped quietly behind Moffitt and pulled the door shut. The two men would have to make their own way from here. He hoped the path would be smooth. He moved down the hallway, back to the room he and Jack had left just minutes before.
The two soldiers stood in the center of the room, facing all that had gone before and all that would come in the future. The question was, would they face that future together, as the two halves of a whole, or separately, as they had in the past?
Moffitt's hands were clenched tightly at his sides. The decision wasn't his to make, much as he wanted to take the lead. He was the second in command, and it was his wont to follow his leader, wherever the path might go, whether he would agree or disagree with the choice.
Troy closed his eyes, breath shuddering through his chest as he struggled to make the all-important decision facing him. He could pretend this had all been a dream, that his second hadn't found him under the most awkward of circumstances in a house of illicit pleasure... or he could accept what the fates had decreed and move forward, with his best friend at his side in more ways than he had ever dared to hope.
He stared at Moffitt's hands, the fingers spasming in clenching fists, and wondered what it would feel like to have those hands touching him intimately. He wondered if they would ever touch him at all, in any but the most basic manner; things like patting backs and bandaging wounds. He felt he would suffocate if that were all the future held.
It wasn't even a conscious decision, when it came. Troy simply stepped forward, into Moffitt's personal space, and reached out to take those tight fists in his own hands. He turned them over gently, caressing with his thumbs to encourage the fingers to uncurl, to relax. And when they did, he lifted them and placed a kiss in each palm, before looking up into the hazel eyes of his best friend, crinkling at the corners with the brilliance of Jack Moffitt's smile.
THE END
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