Eugene Bates is a good soldier. He's dedicated, conscientious, intelligent (at least for a Marine), courageous, strong, deferential, and he knows how to follow orders (even ones that weren't given - explicitly). But most of all, Gene takes the initiative. That's what made him a sergeant in the most prestigious military expedition in two galaxies at the age of twenty-nine. That's why he was the great Colonel Marshall Sumner's most trusted right hand man. That's why he's head of base security.

That's why he's on his knees with a thick leaking cock plunging into his very obedient mouth.

It's moments like these that make him think back to basic. He remembers struggling through mud, thick and disgusting and so real. He remembers the sound of machine gun fire, so different from the shots he was used too every once and a while filtering in from the street, without the rush of cars flying down the 110 to mete out the beat. He remembers shouts, derisive and sometimes awful, but giving him a sense of pride now in retrospect – a sense of entitlement. But most of all he remembers the end of training when Sergeant Pyle (ironically) called him into his office, the one Gene doubted existed, it was so antithetical to the image of this pock-marked perpetually scowling Vietnam-Era hardass.

He remembers the words. 'You're not half bad, Bates. You know you shit and you follow orders. You're going to do well in this fine Corps, soldier. In fact, I have you recommended for a special training program. But, there's one thing you need to remember. You're going to be in charge someday, Private, and if you only remember one thing from basic, it sure as hell'd better be this.' Then without even skipping a beat, 'Why'd you enlist, Private Bates?'

'To serve and protect this great nation, Sir!' He shouted it, like the naïve young thing he was. He didn't understand the gravity and reverence those words deserved.

'So you say, Private. But I don't want you to tell me what you think I want to hear. I want a real answer, you hear?'

Gene didn't know what to say. He was good at anticipating what the Sergeants wanted, talking the talk and walking to walk, but he wasn't aware they were even supposed to think about deeper questions like this. 'I dunno, Sir.'

'Bullshit, Private. You didn't enlist cause your Mama told ya too; that much I'm sure. What is the purpose of the military forces, regardless of country, enemy, limited objective?'

'To protect people, Sir.'

'Bingo. That's what I'm talkin' 'bout. I knew you was a bright one. Now, Private, there're gonna be a lot of people telling you that it's a Marine's job to follow orders, first and foremost. And those people would be correct. You always follow orders, but that's not your most important duty. Your most important duty is to protect people, most specifically to protect your men. Ya understand?'

'Yes, Sir.'

'Good. Now, what's the officer's duty in this Corps?'

'To protect people, Sir.'

'Wrong, Private. The Officer's duty is to protect the interests of those in charge. It's the Officer's duty to order you and your men to fight, regardless of whether or not it's gonna kill you and the rest of your Platoon. It's the Officer's duty to make the tough decisions, soldier. Sometimes those decisions are made in Washington by paper-pushing mother-fuckers who couldn't find their own dicks with a flashlight and one of them fancy microscopes. Ideally the dickless REMFs are doing what's best to protect people, and though it seems senseless, your orders are for the best. And that's why you don't question. You never question. But, if it is another Nam, another Tet, another fucking Last Stand, you do your damdest to protect your men because, what, Private, is your first and only duty in these Armed Forces?'

'To protect people, Sir.'

"And that includes your CO, Private. You're his right hand. You're his link to the men. He's always going to be a bit of a bad guy, no matter how hard he tries. It's your job to make the men loyal to you, because they'll listen to you even if they don't trust him. And it's your job to make sure he doesn't put them in unnecessary danger. It's a sacred trust, Private. You don't let the CO get too crazy out there. Now, you might get stuck with a cowboy, or some guy who couldn't pay his full tuition to Iowa State so joined the reserves for cash, or some nut at the bottom of the class at Annapolis, looking for vengeance or to prove himself or some bullshit, and you protect him too, because that's more than your job. It's your duty.'

But his CO isn't trying to prove himself. He's far from the bottom of his class. And he certainly never would've made it at Iowa State. Good old Sergeant Pyle never could have anticipated John Sheppard, though the man does sometimes fit the mold of the cowboy. He's more like Top Gun, on the best of days: cocky, righteous, disobedient, naïve. Sheppard doesn't want the glory - Gene'll give him that. No, Sheppard's problem is much more serious: he wants to be the savior. He doesn't understand that it's the Officer's job to say 'no.' It's the Officer's job to be the bad guy, to get the fucking job done. Sheppard's more like an unruly child with his non-regulation length hair and his flippant little smirks and sarcastic remarks. He belongs in a spread of the bleeding-hearts version of Playgirl, not in the USAF.

But, as the fates would have it, the guy can fly. Gene admires him for that – watching as the Jumper dived and swooped, as drones fired, swirling off in perfect coordination, he couldn't help but grin. Watching Sheppard, eyes focused and intense, wearing a tight-lipped expression that shows his intensity, if it only implies his passion . . . it's a sight. And Sheppard has the gene, stronger than anyone, as Gene'd endured McKay bitching about infinitely.

And Sheppard comes through in a crunch. It's always by the smallest margin, a hair's breadth, like flying down the narrow chasm of some desert valley, like that famous scene in Star Wars, using his own crazy Force. But Sheppard's saved their asses from the Genii. He's bested a 10,000 year-old Wraith with limited armaments and a good deal of creative thinking. He saved the city from a disastrous disease just last month and he personally rescued Gene from the clutches of the Wraith practically the day they met.

And those were things a guy didn't forget. Even if Sheppard was the reason their asses needed saving more often then not, he was an impressive fighter, if not a good soldier.

A good soldier, Gene knows, never lets his personal life get in the way of his first duty. And, in that, Sheppard has always failed spectacularly.

But it doesn't matter that Sheppard didn't do his duty. It doesn't matter that Sheppard doesn't deserve this. It doesn't matter that Gene hates every second he has to spend on his knees pleasing a superior that already puts too much stake in personal pleasure and not enough in fighting the good fight, because doing this will protect the men.

Sheppard grunts, long fingers attempting to find purchase in Gene's regulation-cut hair as he helps him along. Sheppard isn't violent or pushy. He's not gentle, either . . . not by a long shot. But he's not doing this as a power thing, though sometimes Gene sees that look in his eyes, when they're arguing about security or rations or personnel allocation, the look that says 'how can you say that when fifteen minutes ago you were sucking my brain out through my dick?'

But they're neither friends nor lovers, nor enemies even – there's not enough passion in this for that. This is about duty. This is about what it's always been about – getting the things out of the way you need to get out of the way to do your job.

Gene remembers quiet little Dr. Lin flushed and stuttering trying to explain to him a temple of ruins entirely devoted to man-on-man loving. Back in ancient times there was no such thing as gay or straight. In fact, homosexual sex was the norm of the army, away on long campaigns. It was a teaching tool for prominent academics. It was all part of the virile worship of the perfection of manhood or some bullshit like that.

Not much has changed. You still need to get your rocks off and sometimes your hand just don't cut it. If you're not in Nam or Cambodia or some other place where exotic Asian girls (old enough to understand, you hope) will fuck your brains out for a couple dollars, then you make due. It's been a while since Vietnam, and Gene got most of his experience in Iraq and Afghanistan, where you've got sand and if you're lucky a glimpse of skin when a woman's hand snakes out of her robes. You can't even see her mouth and imagine how it would feel on your cock. War has become both less glorified and less luxurious.

Gene isn't gay. Not that he has a problem with it . . . if they let women in the service he doesn't see what's wrong with letting homosexuals, they probably fight the same. It doesn't interfere with duty any more than close relationships do and it's a stupid fucking waste of good resources. And Gene can't imagine a single piece of tail fine enough to go against orders for, but he can think of the scant few times he's been tempted – to help out a buddy. They train you to go to hell and back for the guys you serve with. They teach you to never leave a man behind. What do they expect?

But not being gay and not being willing to bring a fellow serviceman off are too completely different things. This is the way things work. You don't talk about it, but it's true, which is why all the rampant homophobia and DADT seem foolishly hypocritical. Gene's been on both the receiving end and the giving end more times than he can count – in a storage locker, in a dark alley, in a handy bathroom stall. He's done it for need, for reciprocation, for friendship, so his fellow officers could serve better, so he could. But when he does it for Sheppard, he does it to save lives.

Sheppard has two problems and they're flip sides of the same coin. The first is his tendency to think with his dick, as the whole incident with beautiful untrustworthy space-babe proved (one of the few times Gene found himself respecting Dr. McKay for something other than the fact that he's smarter than Gene can even comprehend). And the second is tendency to put personal loyalties to people above rational security considerations, before his duty.

Sheppard proves this on a daily basis with the way he handles the busty Athosian warrior princess. Gene knows she's a security threat, even if he doesn't think that it's necessarily intentional. The point is that she's not from Earth. She's not familiar with their methods, their protocol, their code of honor. She might have the best of intentions, but being raised in a completely different galaxy is a fucking huge difference in context. The woman can't even read English. Computers baffle her. And she wouldn't know the first thing about surveillance technology or interrogation techniques. Gene doesn't blame her. She certainly tries hard. But trying hard just isn't enough. And Sheppard, brainwashed by the touchy-feely diplomatic babble of civilians and academics, can't seem to see that.

Or maybe Gene's giving the man too much credit. Maybe he just wants in her pants.

Either way, Gene's doing them all a favor by giving Sheppard's dick a place to settle so it doesn't have to keep searching for places offworld. Gene knows that the whole Chaya incident was really damn close - that Sheppard got through it with the same blind luck that he gets through everything. And though he's pissed that McKay didn't speak to him about the perceived security threat before he spoke to Weir, he's glad that someone else is looking out for base security at least.

Not that McKay can be trusted. He's part of the problem too. He's too easily brainwashed by Sheppard, and too likely to do the brainwashing. Together they're like too little boys, each feeding the fire of the other's recklessness in a vicious cycle that Weir's motherly authority has no chance in hell of stopping.

And Gene's seen the looks they give each other. He's listened to the playful banter and the snide remarks (Gene's good at listening). He knows that they're too close, that if Sheppard wasn't fucking Gene's mouth every spare second he got, that they'd probably be fucking each other – except it's worse than that because it wouldn't be fucking. It'd be making love, and there's nothing more dangerous than that.

So this is a small price really, because Sheppard's biases have already gotten them into so much trouble. Gene's glad to do it. Because a Marine should always be proud to do his duty.

Sheppard's cock is long, not particularly thick, protruding for a thick forest of dark hair that gets in Gene's mouth and makes him want to gag worse than the tip brushing hard against the back of Gene's throat and his cum is always bitter. But this isn't supposed to be enjoyable, so Gene doesn't really care. Sheppard doesn't hit him. Sheppard does his best not to choke him to death and Sheppard says, 'thank you' afterwards, which is more than Gene can hope for, really.

Sheppard's quiet. He'll grunt just slightly, but that's all. Gene thinks that he must have had a lot of practice at this. With an overactive libido like Sheppard's, he's gotta. And Gene's willing to bet that there were some bona fide homosexuals who would've loved to go down on Sheppard, just on the off chance that he might get used to it – that he might want to be with them. He looks at the boyish smile and the flirtatious banter and wonders if Sheppard isn't a faggot after all. Gene knows that Sheppard must have done what Gene's doing now before. He climbed the ranks far too quickly for just good piloting (it sure as hell wasn't his ability to follow orders) and his lips look like they were made for cocksucking. Sheppard's one of those men who, if it's dark enough and you ignore the hardness pressing against your thigh, you could almost convince yourself was a woman.

But this time . . . this time as he thrusts increasingly faster, as the tension builds like its been building for months now, because the goddamn Wraith are coming and there's nothing they can do about it, Sheppard can't be quiet. He's breaking like they all are breaking, except he's the one person that cannot afford to break.

So as he shoots his load into Gene's expectant mouth –still bitter as ever- he pants out in a whisper, "Rodney."

And Gene is vindicated because now, more than ever, Sheppard can't go down that particular path.

That's why he's smiling as he pushes himself to his feet, knees creaking. He wipes the remainders of Sheppard's bitter cum off his lips – after all this time he still hasn't quite mastered the art of catching it all. And he stands at attention, like any good marine should.

"Thanks," Sheppard pants. But this time, he doesn't meet Gene's eyes. He doesn't give him that look of gratitude or the implicit threat of what will happen if this ever gets out. Instead, Sheppard looks defeated. Good. He could use that – he could do well to know that it's not always going to work out for him. He can do well to realize there are mistakes and there are limitations.

Gene has almost made his way out of the storage room when he feels Sheppard's hands on his arm. He can feel how cold they are even through the faberic of his shirt. "Sergeant . . ." Gene thinks he might apologize, or try to explain, or make promises, or something, but instead Sheppard gives a sad little half-smile and asks, "Would you like me to return the favor?"

"No, thank you, Sir."

Gene turns and walks out, leaving Sheppard alone in a room stinking of sex and guilt, a forlorn look in eyes you could almost fool yourself were a woman's. He smiles and thinks that maybe this is about power after all, that maybe Sheppard has been defeated, that maybe he has won.

But there are no winners and losers in war – that's another thing years of experience have taught him. Sometimes you win, but you always lose. As he hears Sheppard sigh when the door closes, he knows that there are things you always have to lose.