“I think I like you more than the local food.” Bacon grinned up at Spencer, clearly enjoying their half-dressed picnic on the bed, despite his lack of enthusiasm for the cuisine.
“I like you too, Del.” Spencer tested the nickname out, seeing how it felt on his tongue. Weird how his brain still thought of him as Bacon, even with the man’s guarded permission to call him Del. Delbert Lawrence Bacon, Junior. Man, the poor guy really had lost the name lottery, that was for sure.
Bacon seemed to like his use of the name, growling and rolling Spencer beneath him.
“Need you again. Fuck. Don’t like being this crazed.” Del panted against Spencer’s lips, already hard against him again.
“Me either. Let’s be crazy together, Del.”
And they were, sharing a slow, lazy round two as promised, this time jerking each other off as they made out, building up to an utterly devastating climax. It wrung Spencer out, leaving him to sleep long hours, dreaming of Bacon, almost missing the time to go. He had a vague memory of Bacon saying he needed to leave and kissing his head.
* * *
Skin heating with memories of the night before, Spencer threw off the covers before forcing himself out of bed. He couldn’t be rolling around with memories all morning. He had a flight to catch. He was flying back to San Diego because his car was there, and he also had a meeting with Naval PR, one he was sure he wasn’t going to enjoy.
But first he was breaking up the long flight to check on his parents in Hawaii. He’d told the LT that was his plan, so he felt somewhat obligated to stick to it. And okay, part of it was delaying that meeting, trying to find an angle that wouldn’t have the navy shutting him down. He had a strong feeling he wasn’t going to be offered the chance to embed with another team, but he still felt obligated to dig deeper, honor who Harry had been, honor both his memory and all the possibilities that had died with him.
They don’t see us. How could Spencer make people see the sacrifices and trials of the spec ops warriors? If this profile got killed, he’d still keep working to fulfill the silent promise he’d made Harry at his funeral. Hell, he still kept that text in his message history. Writing this story, doing this project, was the only way of outrunning his guilt over not seeing the text, not realizing Harry might need him on some human level. He’d been so intent on reporting, on keeping to the ethics he’d told Bacon he valued so much, he hadn’t realized until too late that maybe he could have made a difference. Maybe he could have saved Harry. And that thought had dogged him the better part of the year, only getting louder as he left the island, feeling like he might be letting his best chance at his own personal mission slip away.
He spent the flight to Hawaii trying not to relive the encounter with Bacon and failing miserably. He swore his skin still smelled like the man. Despite their tentative plans to keep in touch, Spencer wasn’t going to be the one to make the first move—if Bacon’s offer had been a heat-of-the-moment sort of thing, he didn’t want to force his attentions on him, and quite honestly, Spencer wasn’t sure what to say. Bacon had shaken him to his core, caused him to doubt himself as a journalist, rattled his very sense of who he was and what he stood for.
And it wasn’t until he was stretched out on a lounger at his parents’ condo complex pool, laptop in front of him, attempting to write, an early morning breeze licking his skin, when his email account dinged and he realized exactly how much he’d been kidding himself, how desperately he wanted to hear from Bacon.
Bacon’s email address contained the fanciful scorpion_bait handle that was also his chat ID. His avatar was a picture of his scorpion tattoo, and Spencer swore he could almost taste the man’s skin as he clicked open on the email.
Hey,
Another down day here in sunny paradise. Thought I’d drop you a line while I had internet access. There was talk of us going back to the States, but that’s not going to happen anytime soon, for reasons I wish I could say but can’t. But I wanted to tell you that the guys I told you about lived. Double miracle if you believe in those.
I know you well enough to figure that you’re drowning yourself in regrets over what happened—both out there in the field and with us. Don’t. I wish the mission had gone different of course, but I don’t regret a thing. And I definitely don’t regret anything between us. Hell, those memories are keeping me sane, no joke. My room is still too quiet, and waiting to be called back out has me all antsy. Is it bad form to admit jerking off to someone via email? I guess I’ll keep quiet, but just...thank you. For everything.
Oh and because I know you’ll be curious even if you don’t wanna admit it—my ankle is fine and finger is doing lots better. Told you it was just tweaks. Take care of yourself and maybe write me back if you get a chance.
Bacon (or Del, if you’re wanting something to moan later ;) )
A splash yanked Spencer back to the present.
“You’re grinning,” his father said as he hefted himself from the pool. “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile that wide.”
“Me? Really?” Spencer didn’t blush. He was forty-three years old. He had no reason for his cheeks to heat and yet they totally did. “Just an email from a friend. Nothing special,” he lied, even though he knew he’d read the email a dozen more times that day.
“You know, sometimes I miss that ex-husband of yours. All work-work-work doesn’t suit you, Spencer.” His father toweled off next to him.
“Ha. Says the workaholic who raised me.” Spencer had long ago made his peace with his father’s busy schedule and distant affections, but it was almost funny now, listening to him be the one to lecture about slowing down, visiting more often, bringing a friend or partner around. “I’m not looking for a relationship right now. I don’t think I’m cut out for them, honestly.”
His father sighed, eyes going heavy and sad. “I hope you don’t regret that later.”
“I won’t,” Spencer assured him, but inside, he couldn’t help but wonder. Was he lonely? Was that why he’d been so drawn to Bacon? He absolutely could not go craving a future with the man. In fact, he should probably do the kind thing and not reply to the email, let this...whatever it was fizzle out. Screw his father’s advice—getting involved with Bacon was only going to cause them both heartache.
“I’ll leave you to the writing while I go change for breakfast.” His father’s tone was resigned, but Spencer knew him well enough to say that the matter was dropped. Whatever brief happiness his father had had for him would be forgotten. And why that made Spencer suddenly unspeakably sad, he couldn’t say.
All he knew was that moments after his father left, he was typing out a response he probably shouldn’t send.
Good to hear from you. You’re right that I do have a certain amount of regrets, but I can’t deny that I was happy to hear from you and relieved to know that you’re safe for now. That’s excellent news about your friends. I know you can’t tell me much, but I’m wishing them both fast healing. I’d tell you to stay safe when you go back out there, but I know that’s neither realistic nor helpful. Is it weird to say I hope you’re successful? I know I’m not embedded anymore and I probably won’t get to use many details, but I really hope you guys complete your mission.
I hear you on the quiet, but I’ve got both my parents peppering me with questions. Does your mother do that? It’s like the older they get, the more hovering they do, almost like they’re trying to make up for what they didn’t do earlier. I’m looking forward to being back in my condo by myself and decompressing a bit. I guess that’s a way we’re different—I enjoy being social a lot, but I do like having my quiet and alone time to recover afterward.
And as a guy, not a reporter, I enjoyed your email. Drop me another when your schedule allows.
Spencer
P.S. Yes, it’s fine to admit the jerking off part. I like knowing that, far more than I should.
Spencer knew he shouldn’t click Send, shouldn’t allow this friendship to develop, and yet he was already anticipating the response before he even hit the button. He was so very, very screwed, and yet he found himself grinning on his way into breakfast, steps far lighter than they’d been earlier.
* * *
Spencer resisted the urge to fan himself in the stuffy conference room on base in Coronado. He already knew what was coming, so he worked to keep his face neutral.
“I’m sure you understand why we can no longer sanction the article you had planned,” said Lieutenant Mears, she of the highly competent attitude who had delivered him to Bacon’s SEAL team what felt like a hundred years ago. “Rear Admiral Loveless is adamant about that. This is an ongoing mission situation now, and you reporting on it could compromise mission integrity, put the personnel at risk.”
“Maybe embedding with a different team—”
The lieutenant sighed. “That was suggested. But Naval PR has thought about the matter and has decided that further access is no longer in the navy’s best interest—and that the risks to you and the spec ops community are both simply too great. We can’t put you at risk again. You’re lucky to have survived that mission as it is.”
“So I can write an article about that—my personal experiences surviving, leave all mission details very fuzzy...”
Spencer owed such a debt to Bacon that a story that highlighted his bravery seemed like the least he could do, even if he had to keep the specifics out of it. But he was trying hard not to think of Bacon while at this meeting, not to feel guilty for continuing to email back and forth with the man. Naval PR couldn’t forbid a friendship, but still, Spencer didn’t want them getting even a hint that he was personally invested in Bacon.
“That’s a risk we simply can’t take.” She shook her blond head. “Rear Admiral Loveless has already spoken with the paper that contracted your story. They’re in agreement that running a story based on your embedded experience simply isn’t prudent.”
“What? F—That’s rather heavy handed, don’t you think?” Spencer thumped his hand against the scarred wooden table. He’d expected to be told not to write about the mission, but this, going behind his back to make sure the story was good and dead, took him past frustrated and disappointed, straight to angry.
“Naval PR decided this was the best course of action,” she said firmly.
“You can’t keep me from writing about the military.” His unspoken promise to Harry’s memory weighed him down, made his words that much more defiant. He wasn’t giving up. Wasn’t going to prove Harry’s desperate conclusion right.
“No, we can’t. But in terms of this story—the inner workings of the SEAL team—the navy will no longer be cooperating.”
This story. The seed of a plan sprouted in Spencer’s brain.
“What if we wait a bit, and I write about the recovery of the men injured on the mission?”
“I can ask, but I doubt the higher-ups will want that. That’s the sort of negative story Naval PR seeks to avoid, you know?”
And that’s exactly the sort of story I have to write. Spencer saw it clearly now, saw past the lieutenant’s resistance to the heart of the story he’d been searching so hard to find. Sure, the paper wouldn’t go against the rear admiral, but that was fine. He had the credibility from his book on amputees to lean on, and his agent would be more than happy to hear from him. Controversy sold, and Spencer could provide that in spades. He’d thought he needed to embed to find a story worthy of Harry’s memory, but maybe Harry had been the key to the story all along. Spencer was going to do a deep dive, find the other Harrys out there, bring their stories to life. And Naval PR could just deal.
What about Bacon? A little niggle at the back of his brain made him shift in his chair. Bacon would hate this idea, that much Spencer was sure of. But at this point it was all hypothetical, right? Doing a proposal was no guarantee the book would actually sell, and emailing back and forth with Bacon wasn’t the same as making a lifetime commitment to the man. Maybe there would be a way to keep his...friendship with Bacon and pursue the story he couldn’t give up on. Maybe.
* * *
Bacon usually used the long, lonely hours of waiting in position with his sniper rifle to recall song lyrics in his head, sometimes coming up with his own riffs that he’d write down later. He hadn’t been lying to Spencer—he really couldn’t carry a tune to save his life, but that didn’t stop him from messing around, trying to write songs. Spencer was the first person he’d confessed to about the lyrics in a long, long time. And he hadn’t teased or made light of it. That was something Bacon really liked—how seriously Spencer treated even the little details. And now, in the chilly, predawn hours on yet another godforsaken island, he had all the snippets of emails he’d memorized over the last few weeks to keep him company.
Hey Del (see it’s easier to type that than Bacon even if my brain still thinks of you that way unless I’m...otherwise engaged), anyway, I’m back in Los Angeles now, nursing my wounds from a contentious meeting with Naval PR. But I don’t need to unload on you about that. Your last email mentioned being hungry. I know you’re not a fan of South Pacific cuisine. If someone wanted to cook you a nice meal, maybe open a bottle of wine with dinner, what would you ask for?
Oh how Bacon had agonized over his reply. He wasn’t sure whether Spencer was asking just to be polite or whether it was part of this extended dance they were doing about whether—or rather, when—they would get together when Bacon got back to the States.
I’m more of a beer guy, truth be told. But I’m game to try any wine that’s not too dry. I’m pretty easy to please, honestly. I like meat, and lots of it, and no, that’s not a dirty double meaning. But ever since coming to California, I’ve had a thing for Mexican food done right. There’s a place near base that does the most amazing enchiladas. Margaritas aren’t bad either, if you’re into that. If you’re in the area sometime, you should let me take you. But it sounds like maybe you won’t be having as many reasons to visit Coronado?
But you don’t wanna talk about your story, and I don’t blame you. Back to food. My mom, bless her, can’t cook Mexican to save her life. All good old-fashioned Midwestern food. And, it’s a total cliché, but I love her casseroles. She does this one with chicken and pasta and lots of cheese... Man, it’s so good. Even her tuna casserole is amazing, especially when she puts crushed potato chips on it. And I can pretty much hear you cringing from here, but don’t knock it unless you try it. Not everything needs a wine list to be tasty! But what do you like to cook? I’d ask if you have a favorite wine, but I have feeling you’ve probably got a whole rack of favorites, and I don’t wanna look dumb. Tell me about a favorite meal of yours, though, and what you like to drink with it. Impress me.
It had a taken a few days before he’d gotten to read the reply, what with training and meetings, and limited internet time, but it had warmed him all the way through, and it was what he recalled now while shifting his weight from side to side, waiting for the go signal. He was back on Team Alpha, and never had hurry-up-and-wait felt so damn good. Or important. But still, it was hours of waiting, hours to think about Spencer and his replies.
Okay, beer guy. I could make you some nice fajitas, but you want to be impressed... So let me think, I always get new wine drinkers this amazing French Sauv Blanc, and it goes really good with a cream sauce, which since you like casseroles, you’d probably manage to choke down, right? There’s a gourmet grocery near my condo, and I get fresh pasta there. They do an amazing ravioli with a salmon mousse inside. I like to serve it with some vegetable sides, but since apparently the quantity of the protein matters to you, a seared salmon or tuna fillet with an herb butter would make a nice accompaniment too. For dessert, I like fruit more than chocolate. Last year, I finally mastered a raspberry tart I was willing to serve to company. It has a shortbread crust. It’s amazing what a motivator writer’s block on a deadline is for learning to cook new dishes! I’d ask when I could expect you for dinner, but I have a feeling you’re still not Stateside. Don’t worry, I know you can’t tell me exactly. But for what it’s worth I’ve got a few nice Sauv Blancs in the wine rack (you were right on with your guess that I’ve got a...collection of sorts) that I’d love to share with you. Drop me a line when you’re headed my way.
That was as close as Spencer came to outright telling Bacon he wanted to see him again, and it made Bacon smile, made his finger fumble as he’d typed out a fast reply before they got this callout.
I guess I’d try your cooking. JK. Only fish we had growing up was catfish, but salmon isn’t terrible. The tart sounds amazing. I’m not much for chocolate either. My favorite dessert, because I’m usually lazy like this, is cherry-vanilla ice cream left to get half-melted. So seriously, your cooking sounds like something from a magazine. Wish I was Stateside. Can’t tell you where or when, but soon, I hope. I’ll be in touch, promise.
And now here he was, dreaming about ravioli of all things, and a wine he’d never tasted but craved all the same, just like he craved Spencer’s touch. These last few weeks of emails had let them get to know each other better, but it was frustrating because each communication only made him miss the man more.
“Bacon. Get ready.” His headset crackled to life, the XO’s voice calm and steady.
“In position. Ready.” He got a lock on the target. He’d had a bead on the mark for a while now, but everything needed to be in place. No more surprises. Just a plan carried out to fruition, the leader of the terrorist cell that had attacked their team and wounded Curly and Donaldson brought down and their compound searched for evidence of biological weapons. The team ready to search had respirators on just in case.
For his part, Bacon modulated his own breathing, focused on waiting for the signal, honing everything in on the shots he was about to take.
“Bacon. Go.”
His aim was never surer, and from his vantage point, he was able to watch the rest of the team move in, hear the mission unfold.
Hours later, when the senior chief said, “We did good today, men. I think we’re ready to head home,” he smiled. Yeah, he was beyond ready to head home, and for the first time in a long time, he had something worth looking forward to waiting for him on the other side. Maybe. At least, he certainly hoped so.