Work Text:
When Stormy grabs the doctor at the elbow, Smokey instinctively leans toward him. A questioning hum rumbles low in his throat, but his eyes stay fixed on the bustle of the base in front of them.
“There’s a cold front moving in tonight, you know what that means?” Its a genuine question, because Stormy never asks things like that with expectations. The pilots tend to know, but still default to his knowledge.
“Robbie, you know that I don’t.” Smokey replies, grumbling around his pipe.
“It means,” Stormy continues, somewhere between excited and informative, “that there’ll be a rainstorm tonight. The boys will be hiding out in the officers' club, so we’ll have some time to ourselves.”
A bolt goes up Smokey’s spine. He turns on the balls of his feet and pulls the pipe from his mouth, looking down at Stormy with carefully casualness. “The boys you bunk with?”
“Know that I like watching the storms, and that I tend to end up in the mess trying to ward off a cold.”
“I do wish you’d stop getting sick.”
“And stop visiting you when they’re all out flying? You’d hate that more than me.”
This is painfully true. There’s something about Stormy’s - Robbie’s - presence that makes the anxieties about the boys going up to fly go quiet. He knows he does it for his own benefit too, worried that he missed something that’ll throw off their flights.
“And you, Doc, will anyone notice when you’re missing?”
“The off-duty will think I’m on, and the on will think I’m at the club.” He replies with a shrug, putting the pipe back in his mouth, enjoying the curl of tobacco smoke in his lungs. He glances at his watch and groans. “I’ve got to go, 2100? I’ll pick you up.”
“You know where to find me.” Stormy replies, a soft smile on his face.
Smokey forces himself to step away from the warmth of Stormy’s hand, toward the medical bay and its sisyphean list of complaints.
The rain starts its persistence at 8:13pm - cleanly marked in Stormy’s records, and only a few minutes late from his prediction of a clean 2000 hours.
Stormy watches out the windows as the downpour soaks the groundcrews caught out at work - he had said to the crew chiefs that there’d be rain after dinner, but avoiding any and all inclement weather doesn’t fix the planes, as they always tell him - as they run for cover. He sees one slip in a puddle and his friends wretch him off the ground and pull him toward medical, and chuckles to himself at the knowledge that he’s going to hear Wen’s usual slips-trips-and-falls rant at some point in the evening.
By 2045, the lights in medical haven’t dimmed as they usually do in the evenings, and Stormy grimaces, knowing that Smokey is going to be bone tired when they meet up later. And they are not going to meet up on time. Smokey always tries to collect him, a proper midwestern man through and through, but their circumstances rarely allow it. Still, Stormy waits until 2115 until he ventures out into the rain with no Smokey in sight.
The officer’s club is alive with loud music and chatter even through the loud pattering of rain, and Stormy grins with the knowledge that most of the men are inside and warm. The rain soaks through his jacket as he wanders towards medical, and he feels refreshed for it. The rain is cool against the somewhat stifling heat of the offices, and takes the dry ink from his fingers in dark droplets.
He waits under the awning outside medical, leaning up against the building with a cigarette idly in his mouth.
He’s burnt it most of the way down when Smokey finally emerges, pipe in hand, free of his white coat, and worry lines carving ridges into his face.
He softens as soon as he seen Stormy, “Robbie, come here.” He says, quiet and tired.
Stormy has never heard such a pretty request and steps forward to let Smokey curl an arm around him. There’s nobody around to see them but it still feels achingly exposed, and Stormy knows in that moment how hard of a day Smokey’s had.
He feels Smokey’s chin press against the back of his head, the warm surge of tobacco smoke curling through his hair.
“C’mon,” he says, half-pressed against Smokey’s lapels, “put your pipe away and lets go have some fun.”
“Robbie, your idea of fun-”
“Ain’t your style, I know, I know. I’ll make you coffee after.” he offers, sweetening the deal.
Stormy feels the chuckle more than hears it, and knows he’s won. Wen loves the coffee that Stormy makes for him.
He pulls himself away regretfully, wincing slightly as Smokey’s next exhale gets smoke in his eyes. He dismisses Smokey’s grumbling apology, batting away concerned hands. He throws the stub of his cigarette to the ground and crushes it underfoot, walking backwards out into the downpour once again.
He misses Smokey’s soft smile at the way he turns his face up toward the rain, letting it cascade as his shoulders drop, tension dripping off him with the rain.
Smokey’s pipe carefully disappears into his pocket and he follows Stormy out into the rain.
The things he deals with for his sweetheart.
They end up outside Smokey’s hut, hair stuck to their foreheads and sodden to their skin.
“Robbie, we’re going to catch a cold.”
“Wen, come on, when do we get to dance together? The closest we get in the club is you swinging around a nurse and me with Meatball.”
This is a very compelling argument. Its been a few weeks since they’ve had much time together, especially in private. And here, between the treeline and Smokey’s hut? It’d be criminal to waste the opitunity.
Smokey slides a hand down Stormy’s side and hooks it around his waist, pulling him in close. Stormy puts his hand against Smokey’s shoulder to stop from crashing into his chest.
“You know, Wen, one of these days you’re gonna be the death of me.” Stormy grins, pressing his forehead against Smokey’s neck.
“Oh,” Wendell says, gravelly and low into Stormy’s ear, “but what a way to go.”
Stormy’s breath catches and he loops his arms round Wen’s neck, pulling him closer until he can feel Wen’s pulse against his cheek. Wendell reciprocates, hands spanning Stormy’s waist to touch fingertips over his spine, pulling Stormy into a slow rocking dance.
And god, they might get colds, but it really is a beautiful moment.
The rain isolates them into their own little universe, spinning around the joint beats of their hearts and their slow rocking. The distant noises of the officer’s club and the other bunks are white noise, background radiation as their love blooms between them, quiet and demonstrative and oh so gentle.
Smokey’s hand dances up Robbie’s spine, catching his attention. “Robbie, darlin’, we need to get you inside.” The moment fractures, expanding to let some of the real world in.
Robbie keeps his head buried in Smokey’s neck, wet hair pressing against his jaw. He hums agreeably but he keeps his head in place.
“Come on then darlin’, let’s get you inside and dry.” He says, pulling Robbie along with his as he makes his way inside.
Robbie only lifts his head when he’s out of the rain, dripping water onto Smokey’s floor. Smokey pries himself out of Robbie’s hold, gentle but firm, and pulls away to step toward the hut’s bathroom, clicking his reading light on as he passes it.
He throws a towel to Robbie and finds a set of pajamas for himself, closing the door to the bathroom behind him as he changes and takes care of his business. He changes out of his uniform and into a plain pair of dark trousers and a cotton shirt. He hears the faint noises of Robbie moving around in his kitchenette - a single gas burner and enough counter space to be able to make a coffee - and steps out of the bathroom, unlit and miraculously dry pipe in his hand.
Smokey’s greeted by a fine sight. Robbie’s forgone a shirt entirely, leaning back against the counter with his eyes closed, hair mussed from the towel that rests around his neck. A pair of navy blue cotton trousers - Smokey’s, by the way he’s tied them up so much around his waist - that almost looks black in the dim light of Smokey’s lamp.
Robbie’s head snaps to Smokey when he hears the door open, and Smokey remembers all too well why he fell for the meteorologist. He smiles at Smokey, and the fact he’d spent 10 minutes earlier scrubbing Winks’ blood from under his fingernails - the broken nose had bled through far too many tissues, the kid needed to eat more - disappears from Smokey’s mind as he looks out at Robbie.
He crosses the small room in a few strides, throwing his pipe in the direction of the bed. As soon as he reaches the counter he’s grabbing the towel and uses it to pull Robbie close.
“Look at you.” He rumbles in Robbie’s ear, pausing to tug on Robbie’s helix with his teeth - he feels the hitch in Robbie’s chest - and delights. “Making me coffee, wearing my clothes, you’re divine.”
Robbie slips the towel out of Smokey’s hands and flings it in the direction of the door.
“And you… are going to make me overbrew your coffee.”
Its Smokey’s turn to turn his face into Robbie’s neck, a delighted noise bubbling out of him. “Go on then, darlin’, make me your coffee.”
He retreats to the bed and grabs his pipe, lighting the tobacco with a match from his bedside table. He beckons Robbie over with a whistle the moment before he takes his first inhale, eyes fluttering closed.
Robbie’s in front of him again when he opens his eyes, and he pulls Robbie down to him, kissing him and pushing the first breath of smoke between their lips. He can feel Robbie smile against him. The smoke passes back and forth as they kiss, Robbie’s hands curled around Smokey’s ribs while Smokey’s hands rest either on Robbie’s neck or the bed behind him for balance.
Smokey breaks for a breath first, Robbie chasing him to press kisses along his cheekbones and nose while he catches his breath.
Robbie pulls away all too soon, pushing off the bed and turning back toward the counter to finish his coffee.
Smokey’s eyebrows fly up at the sight of Robbie’s bare back.
“Robert.”
He watches Robbie’s spine straighten, and he turns just enough to see Smokey from the corner of his eye, a concerned furrow on his brow.
“Where the hell did you get that bruise?” His tone, steady and still. Doc Stover.
Robbie frowned, craning his neck to try and look at his own back. He spots the purpling mark, no larger than the bottom of a beer bottle, resting just above his oblique. His right hand reaches back to find it, fumbling for a moment before finding the mark.
“Some supply sergeant from another base,” he says, the concerned look completely evaporated from his face, “bustled right by me on the way to Red, knocked me into my table while I was talking to Crosby. Doesn’t even hurt, Wen, don’t worry about it.”
“Someone left a bruise on you.” Smokey replies, smoke curling out of his nose.
“Not intentionally. He’s a kid. Besides, I finished the coffee, come on over here.” He beckons with a nod of his head for Smokey to join him.
That is just about the most effective distraction Robbie has. Because he makes damn good coffee, and he refuses point blank to tell Smokey how to make it for when he’s not there.
They end up curled around each other on the bed, Robbie’s head on Wen’s chest, quietly telling each other about their days as they sip their coffees.
The rain patters against the roof of Smokey’s hut, but for now, they’re in their own quiet world, safe and in devoted, darling love together.