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Johnny drops down onto the pile of hay Bull’s claimed for the two of them with a sigh, finally letting his muscles unwind after this absolute clusterfuck of an operation.  

They hadn’t gone far after Nuenen, stopping for the night in another small town nearby. Most of the residents had been displaced by the Germans, and Lieutenant Winters made the executive decision to leave the ones who still had their houses alone. And because nothing is sacred in war, First Platoon had drawn the short stick for sleeping in the barn.  

There’d been some grumbling about it- mostly from Cobb, but there’d been some are you seeing this looks from the replacements. Guarnere immediately started ragging on a couple of them, the Heffron kid included, a shit-eating grin on his face. Johnny interjected every so often until he had to walk around for check-ins while Bull chewed on his cigar and watched, that twinkle in his tired eyes that said he found the whole thing hilarious.  

Johnny’s been watching him from basically the second he found his way back to Easy. This isn’t hard- he’s an observant guy. It’s been like that since he was tasked with looking after his little brothers back in Columbus, nine years old and keeping an eye out so Jack wouldn’t fall off the swing, or Henry wouldn’t get into scraps with other kids in the neighborhood. He took them out and wore them out playing baseball while Mama and Papa fought in the house, even the girls, and tucked them into bed afterward.  

(He’s been the eldest son for as long as he can remember. Maybe that’s why they made him a non-com. 

It’s not a duty he’s ever resented. He loves his siblings and his mama to death, and maybe he won’t ever forgive his papa for up and leaving, but it’s not because of the way Johnny had to step into his boots after he was gone. He’d pick it up again in a heartbeat. He just can’t stand guys who duck out on their responsibilities, who leave others to shoulder the burden without a second thought.  

Some officers understand that, like Winters, and Nixon too, in his own strange, detached way. Some- Dike- don’t, and it drives Johnny up the fucking wall. But Easy wouldn’t be a damn thing at all if it wasn’t for its NCOs, and he’ll argue that ‘til the day he dies. That’s the kind of steady dependability that drew Johnny to Bull back in Toccoa. It’s the kind of camaraderie Johnny had hated so badly to lose, even if it hadn’t even been for a full day. He sure as shit doesn’t want to have to fight the war without Bull. Shit, he’s starting to get nervous whenever Bull’s out of his sight.) 

The rounds go by quickly enough, once he tiredly puts on his I’m your fuckin’ sergeant voice and tells Webster and Perconte to quit bickering over pomade and get some shut-eye. Soon enough, he’s back to the hay bale Bull’s sprawled out on. It’s partially shielded from the rest of the barn, giving them at least the illusion of privacy, which Johnny finds himself pretty damned grateful for.  

Now, as he shucks his musette bag and makes himself as comfortable as possible, all the men in view and Bull’s warm bulk beside him, he feels almost settled for the first time since before D-Day. He’s definitely not all the way there- can’t be in the middle of a warzone. But the last twelve hours have felt like an entire lifetime, and things are maybe starting to look up now that they have Bull again.  

“Hey, Johnny,” Bull rumbles from beside him, and he finds himself having to swallow back the bubble of warmth inflating in his chest.  

He sighs and sinks into the hay. “Hiya, Bull.” There’s a comfortable silence for a moment, and then he says, “The boys were worried about you, you know. All of ‘em volunteered to go looking soon as Bill said it was okay.”  

There’s a quiet pride in Bull’s voice when he says, “They’re good kids.”  

“Sure are.”  

Bull’s good with the replacements. He’s patient, helps them along instead of making them figure things out the hard way, cares about them in the way only a non-com can because he’s not deciding where they go, or who lives or dies. Johnny’s tougher on them, but that’s just the way he cares- by not letting them live under illusions of what war’s really like. Between himself and Bull, he thinks the kids are going to be decently well-rounded- if they make it out. And isn’t that a fuckin’ sobering thought.  

“Here,” Johnny says to distract himself, and digs around in one of his pockets for his emergency supply of Bull’s White Owls. “Figured you might’a smoked all yours while you were taking that vacation with the Krauts.”  

The crow’s feet wrinkles at Bull’s eyes crease, a tiny smile curving his lips as he takes the box. “Thanks, Johnny,” he says, and the quiet fondness in his voice makes Johnny’s heart squeeze.  

“Yeah, well, don’t go wandering off again any time soon, huh? Dealing with the replacements by myself was givin’ me a headache.” He pauses there for a second, then- “How are you, anyway? You feeling okay?”  

Bull rolls his shoulder experimentally. “Yeah, it’s alright. Bullet’s out, got a bandage- about as good as it’s gonna get.” He looks over, cornflower blue eyes taking Johnny in like he can see right down to the knot of fearangerdisbelief still weighing heavily in Johnny’s stomach. Shit, he probably can. “How’re you?”  

Johnny lets his head fall back against the hay. The twelve hours they’d all spent thinking Bull was dead had been a fucking disaster. He’d had to keep his distance from Guarnere and his “if there ain’t no body, he ain’t dead” optimism, because as much as he’d wanted to hope, he knew that if he got optimistic and then it turned out Bull really was dead, he’d be pretty fuckin’ compromised.  

And then Bull came back. Johnny doesn’t think he’s ever been so relieved to see anybody in his life. He’d practically glued himself to Bull’s side, sat beside him on the truck while Doc Roe patched him up and distracted him from the pain by bickering with Bill. He couldn’t do a whole fuck of a lot, which he hated, but he could needle at Bull until he laughed. That much had to be something.  

“Better now,” is what he settles on. “Shit, Bull. Hate to say it, but I’d have missed your stupid ass if you died.”  

Bull gives a quiet chuckle. “Can’t talk to Bill?”  

“‘Johnny, don’t irrigate me?’” he quotes, and listens to Bull laugh again, warm and low. “You two are top of the list of idiots in this company. How you made Sergeant, I’ll never know.”  

“Somebody’s gotta keep that temper in check.”  

“Oh, yeah, you’re just my punching bag,” Johnny drawls. “Poor, helpless Bull.” He snorts, and listens to Bull laugh beside him. “Like you couldn’t fuckin’ flatten just about everybody in the company.”  

As soon as it comes out of his mouth, he knows he’s let too much slip. And for all that he rags on Bull for being an idiot, he’s always been the most observant person Johnny knows, aside from his mother. He looks away quickly in favor of digging through his pack for nothing in particular; anything to get away from the feeling of Bull watching him boring into the side of his head.  

“You think so?” is what Bull says, something in his voice real casual. Too casual. Fuck.   

“Maybe not Winters. I heard he broke somebody’s back in Toccoa.”  

“I got you once,” he muses, taking a puff on his cigar. Johnny holds in a wince. He remembers that entirely too well, the first and last time he’d ever challenged Bull to a fight. He’d put up a decent defense, having scrapped with guys bigger than him before. Bull had just hooked a heel behind Johnny’s ankle and pulled his legs out from under him, pushing him down at the same time. He was close enough that Johnny could smell the mix of his cigars and sweat, just for a moment, and then he’d gone crashing to the ground to the soundtrack of raucous laughter. He whipped his head up to deliver a retort- except the sight of Bull above him shut him up fast.  

He’s always known, logically, that Bull is- well, that he’s big, and so does anybody who’s not blind, but it’s one thing to know that and another to know it. Bull was there, offering him a hand up, but all Johnny had been able to think of was how broad he’d looked standing there. How small he felt in comparison.  

It hadn’t taken more than a second to process. Still, when he looked up, he could’ve sworn he saw Bull’s eyes drop down to his mouth. Just for a second.  

They’ve never brought it up again, except for when Luz wants comedy fodder. Johnny’s been doing his damndest to forget it happened, honestly. (If he’s ever thought about it in extremely private moments, he’ll take that secret to the grave. Bad enough that it’s another man, worse that it’s Bull.)  

“Never gonna let me forget about that, are you?”  

Bull takes another puff on his cigar. A little smile- or is that a smirk?- makes his lips twitch up. “Nope. I’m real proud of that.”  

He sits up a little straighter and shoots him an incredulous look. “You’re proud of that? You wrestled Joe Toye to the ground and that’s what you’re celebrating?”  

“Takes a lot to turn you speechless, Johnny,” he says, a little lower, a little rumble to his voice that makes Johnny shiver. “Reckon that’s something to be proud of.”  

Jesus Christ. His mouth goes dry.  

“See?” Bull murmurs. “There it is.”  

Somewhere in the last few minutes, they’ve gotten closer, and Johnny’s never been more grateful for the cover their corner provides. He’s tired and he’s missed Bull. There’s only so much of this a guy can take.  

His voice is husky when he says, “You tryin’ to shut me up, Bull?”  

“Stop you from runnin’ your mouth? Never.”  

“You like when I talk, huh?”  

“Like a lot of things about you.”  

That’s it. Johnny takes a quick glance around to confirm that they’re out of sight and then lets himself surge forward to press their mouths together, hot and hard. There’s no hesitation from Bull. He’s kissing back, one heavy hand coming up to the nape of Johnny’s neck to keep him close.  

And then he’s pulling back, and they’re not close at all.  

“No?” Johnny pants, fingers spasming on Bull’s forearm. Bull’s mouth is shiny with spit, and he can’t stop staring at it.  

“’S a bad idea,” Bull says. Quiet. Apologetic. He looks like he’s struggling very hard not to touch Johnny again, which is the sole thing that saves Johnny’s wounded pride.  

“Why?”  

“I get into something with you, Johnny, I’m not gonna be able to take it back.”  

The timbre of his voice is low like rolling thunder, the line of his body relaxed, but his eyes are hungry; they linger on Johnny’s hands, his mouth, the divot of skin exposed just above his collarbone.  

“So fuckin’ what?” Johnny says, thankful that he sounds braver than he feels. “Don’t take it back, then.”  

“That something you want?”  

“Yeah, Bull,” he says, real quiet, heart in his throat. “Yeah, it is.”  

Then there’s a heavy hand at the nape of his neck and Bull’s pulling him in, kissing him hot and hard on the mouth. Johnny doesn’t even take a second to think about it, just opens his mouth and gives as good as he gets, tangling his fingers into short blond curls. He’s lightheaded already, heart skipping a beat as Bull presses him down into the hay and licks into his mouth. And he does it with only one hand, fuck.  

He can feel Bull above him, feels the muscle in his shoulders shift as he moves the hand on Johnny’s chest down to ruck up his shirt. The heat and weight of it sends an uncontrollable tremor down his spine, and he has to pull away to hiss, “Shit,” against Bull’s mouth.  

Bull murmurs, “Shh,” in his ear and then ducks his head to press messy, stubbled kisses to Johnny’s neck. He has to clench his teeth hard to keep back a moan because Jesus Christ, it’s so fucking good, all his nerves lighting up like he’s stuck his finger in a socket and the pleasure going right to his cock. He wishes, a little deliriously, that Bull could leave marks, because if this is how little stings of teeth feel- fuck, he can’t even think like this.  

“Bull,” he pants, clutching at his shoulders like a lifeline. His hips twitch upward, searching desperately for friction any way he can get it. “C’mon, you gotta-”  

Bull looks at him then, eyes dark, grinning like a maniac. “Gotta what?”  

He’d have a good retort to that under any other circumstance, but his whole world’s narrowed down to this, to Bull’s hand up his shirt, to the scant space between them. “Fucking- c’mon, Bull, you know what.”  

“I’m just a country boy, Johnny. Can’t expect me to keep up with your city slicker ways.”  

“Fuck you,” he says with his best glare, entirely belied by how he’s panting and flushing to the tips of his ears. Bull all but snickers. “Bull. Please.”  

He expects Bull to laugh, to make some quip that Johnny hates he’s so able to make at a moment like this. Except that’s not what happens. Instead, Bull’s eyes go even darker than before, the air between them heavy and charged, and he surges up to crush their mouths together again. It’s all tongue and teeth for a few hazy seconds before he draws back again, this time to get a good look at Johnny’s face as he reaches down and undoes the fastenings of his ODs.  And Jesus, he’s big. It doesn’t help that he’s hard as a rock, thick and a little longer than Johnny, bobbing tip already leaking pre-cum.  

“Christ, Bull,” he pants, “Nobody told me you were hung like one.”  

Bull snorts, breathless. “Actin’ like you ain’t seen it before.”  

“Yeah, no shit-” just glances in the showers- “But not like this.” He’s reaching out before he knows what he’s doing, and shit, Bull’s so thick that his hand barely closes around him. There are a couple seconds where he’s not even thinking about getting off, caught just taking in the sight of it.  

Bull lets out a breathy laugh. “You just gonna stare at it all night?”  

Just for that, Johnny glares and delivers a slightly too rough stroke, twisting his wrist near the head so his thumb catches the drop of precum beading there. Bull groans, head tipping back, so he does it again, then over and over until he’s shivering and panting.  

Johnny briefly gets the idea to keep him there, drag this out until Bull starts begging, but his own cock is straining against his ODs, and he’s not interested in being that mean for their first time. Instead, he acts completely on a sudden, insane urge and ducks his head to take the head of Bull’s cock into his mouth.  

Bull jerks like he’s been electrified. One big hand tangles in Johnny’s short hair before falling away, and Johnny pulls off just long enough to say, “You can,” still stroking him all the while, adjusting his grip to the way he likes to touch himself. Jesus, what he must look like right now. He can feel heat flaring in his cheeks and the tips of his ears, knows he’s rock hard in his pants.  

“You sure?” Bull asks, voice strained. “I won’t pull or nothin’-”  

“Can do that too,” he says impulsively, and it surprises him how easy it comes out. Some of the girls who’d sucked him on leave at Toccoa had liked it when he’d tugged on their hair a little. The idea of Bull doing it makes his blood roar in his ears, and that’s all it takes to get his mouth back on him.  

It’s not like anything else Johnny’s ever done before, but sucking cock isn’t some earth-shattering thing. He doesn’t suddenly lose the ability to be a good soldier or a good son. It just means that- he’s not sure what it means. Maybe it’s that he cares enough about Bull to want to do this for him (and he shoves that thought away quick, because he really doesn’t want to do any soul-searching about it right now).  

It helps that Bull’s just so into it. They can’t make noise, but Johnny can tell what he likes. He experimentally licks at the head and Bull’s grip tightens in his hair; a tiny swallow around it makes Bull hiss through his teeth. That alone has Johnny lit up like a livewire, eager to take a little more just to get to hear it again.  

“Shit, Johnny,” Bull breathes. He runs the pad of his thumb over where Johnny’s mouth is stretched over his dick. And stretched it certainly fucking is- he can barely get more than a quarter in his mouth at once without gagging. “Look at you, you’re gettin’ me all wet.”  

He gives a quiet moan around the thick weight of Bull’s cock, because fuck, he is. Spit’s dripping down his chin, jaw straining. He can hardly fucking breathe, can feel himself going lightheaded and stupid, and it should be humiliating but Bull doesn’t seem to give a shit. In fact, the look on his face is something akin to awe, lips parted and eyes going wide.  

That thought has Johnny pulling off with a gasp, ignoring the strand of saliva that connects his lower lip and the head of Bull’s cock for a second in favor of fumbling to get his own zipper down. He’s so hard it hurts. He might actually combust if Bull doesn’t touch him right fucking now.  

Bull seems to understand this immediately, and tugs Johnny closer until he’s practically in his lap. “C’mere,” he rasps, voice wrecked, and slots their dicks together in one big, calloused hand. 

“Jesus,” Johnny hisses, hips arching into the touch. Bull strokes them firmly, the friction making heat pool heavy in his groin, and he cannot fucking look away from that hand and how it practically swallows his cock on every upstroke. “Fuck, Bull-”  

“Uh-huh,” he breathes, pressing their foreheads together. “I got you. I got you, come on.” He squeezes ever so slightly- and that’s all it takes. Johnny’s thighs shake and his breath catches, and Bull kisses him to swallow the moan he almost lets loose as the heat within him flares and shoots through him like a lightning strike. Bull’s not far behind him, hips twitching, and he hides his face in Johnny’s neck as he comes all over his own knuckles with a shudder.  

He stays there for a moment afterward, and Johnny lets him, turning his nose into Bull’s blond curls. Faint noises from the men trickle back into his awareness, though still quiet enough to ignore for now. Even Bull withdrawing just enough to lean over and wipe his hand on the hay doesn’t break the spell- Johnny just watches him, unable to tear himself away.  

Bull quirks an eyebrow. “Alright?” he asks. His tone is deceptively casual. An out, if Johnny wants one.  

He doesn’t. Instead, he just gives a tiny grin and says, “Alright.”