--------------------------------------------------
Aftermath of Victory
by Lianne Burwell
September 1998
--------------------------------------------------

//Tell my children I love them very much.//

It was all so impersonal. He'd snuck into the command center, wanting to 
see *something* of the air battle raging overhead. All there was to see 
was the green on black of the radar screens, and the voices of the pilots 
coming from the speakers. He had listened in horror as the death toll 
had climbed, even after the alien shield had been eliminated by whatever 
they had done.

He had shuddered, while reports of failure came in. Even without the 
shields, nothing seemed to be working against the alien ship. It had 
settled in the sky above the underground base, and the power had 
flickered as it prepared to fire the weapon that had already destroyed so 
many cities. Listened as the president called for someone, *anyone*, who 
still had missiles.

When his father had answered, he'd felt a mix of pride and hope and fear. 
Pride that his father was still fighting. Hope that he might actually 
succeed. Fear, because he was sure that he wouldn't.

The hope died when his father's missile refused to fire.

//Tell my children I love them very much.//

He never would have expected it of his father. For most of his life, he'd 
been ashamed of the man. A drunkard, willing to tell anyone who would 
listen about how he'd been kidnapped by aliens. Miguel had wanted a 
*normal* father, a normal life. But now...

His father... *his* father had chosen to die. With one missile, and no 
way to fire it, he had aimed his jet at the alien weapon, taking it out 
in a kamikaze attack.

He was dead. They were all alive because of him, but he was dead.

And Miguel grieved his father, in ways that  he'd never expected to.

//Tell my children I love them very much.//

* * * * *

//"What your father did was very brave. You should be proud of him."
  "I am."//

His brother and sister were out there, with the rest of the refugees. He 
should be with them. He should be figuring out how he was going to look 
after them. Everything they'd owned was gone. The world they *knew* was 
gone. And they were grieving too. He should be there to comfort them.

He didn't move.

After the cheering had started to die down, and focus returned to the 
battle still raging around the world, he'd found a small room to hide in, 
one of the few unoccupied areas left in the base. He'd slumped down 
against the wall, arms wrapped around his knees, and let the tears 
finally flow.

He hadn't noticed the door open, or the man come in. He hadn't realized 
that he wasn't alone until an arm came around his shoulders.

He looked up into the face of the man who had told him that he should be 
proud of his father. He saw concern in the warm eyes, and the tears became 
sobs. Strong arms pulled him into a tight hug, and he took the comfort 
offered.

* * * * *

Minutes, hours, days later, the tears finally stopped, and he pulled away 
a little. Finally he had the chance to look at the man who'd taken the 
time to comfort him not once, but twice.

The name on the shirt was Mitchell. He was clean-cut and movie-star 
handsome. The sort of man that they put on the recruiting posters.

Miguel ran fingers through his hair. It felt greasy. He hadn't been able 
to bathe since the aliens had attacked. He felt grimy, his nose was 
running and his eyes were puffy. In the face of military perfection, he 
felt woefully inadequate.

"Thanks," was all he could say. He gave a small sniff. The other man gave 
a small smile, and reached out to brush tears off of his cheek. The 
warmth of the touch felt so good that he found himself closing his eyes 
and leaning into it.

The soft brush of lips against his forehead made his eyes fly open. The 
other man's face was only inches from his own. For long moments, their 
eyes met, both of them surprised. Then Miguel surprised himself even more 
by leaning forward and brushing his lips against the military man's. He 
pulled back and waited for the reaction, wondering if he would be hit, or 
just abandoned.

Instead, solemn blue eyes bored into him. Then Mitchell brushed his 
fingers against Miguel's lips before bending his head to reinitiate the 
kiss.

Miguel's eyes fluttered shut as he leaned into the kiss. In the back of 
his mind, he could hear every priest that he had ever known telling him 
that this was wrong, but he didn't care. All he cared was that he was 
feeling alive, something he hadn't in days. He'd just been operating on 
auto-pilot. He was no longer wondering why he was alive, when so many 
others were dead. He was no longer worrying about how he was going to 
support two siblings in this suddenly changed world. He was no longer 
regretting that he hadn't told his father that he loved him in years.

All he was thinking was how good those lips felt against his. How good 
the tongue caressing his own felt. Then he wasn't thinking anymore. He 
was feeling.

Gentle kisses brushed against his cheekbones, getting rid of the last 
traces of tears. Miguel reached up, and ran fingers across the other 
man's cheekbones. When the kisses moved to his neck, he leaned back, 
pulling the other man with him, until they were both lying down on the 
floor. The small room was barely large enough for them to lie down, 
stretched out. He started to pull at Mitchell's shirt, still hesitant at 
what the reaction would be.

The other man pulled away. Miguel bit his lip, wondering if he had pushed 
to far. But no, instead Mitchell started to undo the buttons of his 
shirt. Miguel gulped, then pulled off his own shirt.

Separately, they discarded their clothing, then came back together again. 
Neither of them made a sound as bare flesh touched bare flesh, For a 
moment, Miguel wished that he could just climb inside Mitchell's skin and 
never come out, but then the other man started to move.

Flesh against flash, with only sweat to ease the friction. He was 
gasping, as Mitchell rolled over on top of him, and their hips started 
moving in a rhythm that was as old as the species. Then a hand slid 
between them, grasping both their erections in a single grip, and Miguel 
arched up so hard that he thought his spine might snap. Dimly, he heard 
Mitchell cry out, and felt a warm wetness spread across his belly.

* * * * *

In the aftermath, they clung to each other, content to just breathe, but 
finally Mitchell started to pull away.

"They're going to be looking for me," he said in a soft voice.

Miguel nodded. Even though the ship up above had been destroyed, the 
battle wasn't over yet.

He watched as the other man pulled on his uniform, and tidied himself up, 
not moving to do the same. Mitchell stopped, then dropped into a crouch 
next Miguel. Cupping his face with both hands, Mitchell bent down and 
kissed him, slow and gentle. When he pulled away, Miguel smiled.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

Then he was gone. Miguel started getting dressed as well. He had to find 
his brother and sister. They had plans to make.

They were going to be just fine. He knew that, now.

THE END