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Maxwell’s hands clasped around Garrett’s, and Garrett tensed every muscle in his body to hold himself still.
“Garrett.”
Not a threat.
The man below him sobbed, limp and fightless.
Not anymore.
Garrett blinked away the haze of fear and let Maxwell gently pry his fingers off the gun. He stumbled to his feet and shook his head, and a small figure rushed past his hip and threw itself on the sobbing man.
“Hey, hey, look at me.” Maxwell grabbed Garrett’s shoulders and turned him to face Maxwell. His eyes searched urgently across Garrett’s face. “Are you alright?”
Garrett stared at him for a few moments; his intense eyes, his frowning brows, his pinched lips, and whatever had taken over his mind cleared away.
“Garrett?”
“Yeah, yeah, I think so.” Garrett managed a nod, and Maxwell searched his face for a few more seconds before trying to release him. But Garrett caught his wrists and pushed him back to get a good look up and down his body, remembering with a pang of horror the image of him being slammed through the doorway. “Are you? Are you hurt?”
“I’m alright.” Maxwell flipped his hands down to grasp Garrett’s wrists and squeezed reassuringly. “I’m fine. I think they are too.”
Garrett looked down to see the man sitting up with a little dark-haired girl in his arms. A woman with matching dark hair and red puffy eyes stood in the doorway. She looked at Garrett with hope so bright it hurt.
“You’ll get us out of here?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Garrett reached his hand out to her, and she grabbed it tightly. “Yes, we will.”
* * *
Ages after taking that woman’s hand and promising to get her and her family out, Garrett stumbled into a hot shower.
He felt as though he had lived three lifetimes since he’d last gotten a chance to clean himself, and he was pretty sure he smelled like it too.
Other than the terrifying few moments in which Garrett thought he might lose Maxwell, was exposed to gas, and almost killed a civilian, the rescue operation went off without a hitch. They’d shepherded everyone out of the building, Maxwell in front with the gun confidently held in his hands and Garrett pulling up the rear with the little qeshian girl in his arms. They hadn’t run into anyone, and the ship sat unmolested where they’d left it. They’d had a few more moments of excitement as Garrett took off on the same short, bumpy stretch of tarmac he’d landed on, a feat made more difficult with a ship full of people, but they’d managed that too.
And then, as much as it pained Garrett to admit, he’d been happy to have the Klah’Eel running interference on the pirates as they’d fled through the debris field. He’d had Patrick in his ear constantly, keeping him informed of how many pirate ships they’d spotted and how many escort ships they had around him at any given moment. It had all been very professional and seamless and so effective none of the civilians in the passenger cabin with Maxwell had even been aware they were under attack.
Garrett massaged the shampoo into his scalp and then tipped his head back into the hot water with a sigh. When he saw the brown suds floating into the drain, he wrinkled his nose and sudsed his hair again. Three lifetimes worth of grime was going to require three showers, it seemed. But the one thing Carta didn’t lack was water.
And he had the time. Once they’d landed and passed off the civilians to the people gathered to aid them, Garrett had trudged off to the clinic with Maxwell. Maxwell didn’t object or ask him why, but when they’d arrived to take over from Turner and Mal’ik, and Turner had casually mentioned that a group of the old prisoners—including Kurt—had been sent on some supply run to the other side of Carta, Maxwell had immediately turned around and sent Garrett packing. He’d fixed him with a stern doctor’s stare over his glasses and told him to take care of himself, and Garrett couldn’t object.
He’d visited Rhast just as he’d promised, found him happily chattering away to his mother, and then dragged himself to the nearest shower hut.
He was exhausted and disgusting, and goddammit, the water was still brown and he needed to wash his hair again. Or maybe that was just all the grime caked onto his body. He left his hair alone and started scrubbing. He’d get to shave after this too. That would be nice. His face felt like one big itch with all the stubble that had come in over the days.
When he began to clean his groin and the V of his hips, his mind split. One side remained properly disgusted with all the dried cum he had to wash off himself, but the other inevitably returned to that cockpit and the feel of Maxwell on his lap and the sound of his breathy moans. His cock perked up at the memory, and after a moment of warring with himself, Garrett wrapped his hand around it.
Fuck it. A hot shower, a hot meal, a few beers, a few pool games, and an orgasm. Everything he needed to be ready to hit the ground running tomorrow to help people and fight pirates.
It wasn’t like Maxwell had never figured into his shower fantasies before. Garrett leaned back against the metal wall and turned his face into the hot water. But now he had memories to add to them. Hot, amazing memories. God, the man was sweet. Timid but desperate. Afraid, but he’d wanted Garrett so badly. It wasn’t Maxwell’s fear that made Garrett squeeze his cock with a moan. It was that Garrett could take it away. Maxwell knew he’d take care of him. He let Garrett take care of him.
And that was all Garrett fucking wanted to do. He slicked his hand against the bar of soap to ease his way, then gripped his cock again and sped up. He wanted to see those pretty eyes light up. He wanted to taste those soft, slack lips and feel Maxwell’s small, tightly wound body writhe and go limp against him.
Maxwell was so brilliant and so kind and so hardworking and everything a man should be, and he’d let Garrett wrap him up and pleasure him until he—
The door to the small bathroom closed shut loud enough for Garrett to hear over the shower spray, and then a cheery voice made his cock shrivel. “Hey, Garrett.”
Garrett growled and left off his softening cock, his balls a little sore after being so close. “Hey, Joan.”
