Chapter Text
Kandahar, Afghanistan, August 2007
Stacker shows up to the briefing early, as usual. He waits quietly in the back of the tent for the commander to start. It doesn't take long before all the pilots are present.
"We're getting some reinforcement today." the commander announces from his vantage point at the end of the tent. "There's a unit of Royal Australian Air Force chopper pilots joining us for the next three weeks. We'll be training together, and we'll fly missions together, so get to know them."
That's about it. Stacker goes about his duties until two hours later the choppers set down and the British unit meet their Australian counterparts. They're an easy-going bunch, and it's natural to banter already over lunch. Stacker is quiet and only joins in when he's directly spoken to. There's one guy who sticks out of the group. Not because he's trying to, he just caught Stacker's eye. The guy's all sunshine and big grins, his hair a bright ginger and his skin covered in freckles. For a moment Stacker wonders how far down they stretch before he pushes that thought resolutely away.
His name tag says that he's called H. Hansen. He's five years Stacker's senior and has a voice like dark, velvety sandpaper. He's all clean shaven, his hair in a perfect crew cut, and he stood perfectly at attention when Stacker first set eyes on him outside on the tarmac. A born soldier. But there's also another side to him, Stacker feels it, but he can't put his finger on what exactly it is.
Hercules Hansen - "please don't ever call me that, it's just Herc" - has a kid that he proudly tells everybody about, a boy named Charlie who's just four years old and, according to the picture Herc carries in his wallet, resembles his father not only in the colour of his hair. Stacker finds himself talking to Herc quite often over the next weeks. Somehow they just click, and Stacker feels surprisingly comfortable and at ease around the Australian. He doesn't give it too much thought.
About halfway through the three weeks of joint assignment some of the guys get the great idea to have a fighting match, Australia against the UK. The units get to vote who is supposed to fight who, and Stacker is not too surprised that they want him and Herc to prove their worth against each other. The guys picked up on how well they got along - another factor might be that Stacker and Herc are the tallest men out of their respective units. He hears it being titled 'The Death Match of the Giants'. Of course there are bets.
When Stacker steps into the makeshift ring - it's more a cleared out space in one of the supply tents - he is greeted by Herc who's in the opposite corner, getting cheers and last minute pep talks from his mates. There's several days worth of stubble covering his cheeks, and Stacker can't help noticing that it's ginger, too. If nothing else, it tells him that Herc Hansen is a true redhead. Stacker also notices that he likes the rough look it gives Herc, how he feels more real now than he did when he looked all neat and shiny. It makes him damn attractive, not that Stacker would ever admit that aloud.
The guys are shouting around them, cheering and making bets. There have been several fights already and the score is 3:2 for the UK. Herc and Stacker meet in the middle and bump their fists, and it's then that a spark of excitement courses through Stacker when he was pure calm before. He returns Herc's grin that speaks of pleasant anticipation.
They start slowly, watching each other for a minute or two. Once Stacker has a feeling for his opponent, he starts for real, punch here, kick there, duck, parry, attack. It's an amazing feeling. It's as if he is in sync with Herc, as if he knows what he's going to do, where he's going to move, what attack he's going to carry out. It seems to be a two way street judging by the way Herc is able to counter all of Stacker's moves. For a moment Stacker wonders how long they can keep going before one of them wins.
Turns out they can keep at it for quite a while. The tension of their audience rises along with the volume of their cheering. Stacker is panting, the sweat has long since stopped pooling at the waistband of his PT short and is running down his body freely. He's relieved to see that Herc is faring no better. He lost track of time, but the burn in his muscles tells him that they must have been at it for quite a while.
The end comes quicker than expected. Stacker makes a move to get Herc's arm in a joint lock at the same time that Herc goes for a headlock with his legs around Stacker's neck. They end up in a heap of tangled limbs on the ground, and there's nowhere to go from there. Pete, their referee for the evening, calls it a draw. Herc eases the headlock and Stacker loosens the tension on Herc's arm until they're both relaxed, their chests rising and falling with heavy breathing.
"I'd say we're pretty evenly matched." Herc pants and grins at him. He doesn't seem upset about the way their fight ended, more amused and high on adrenaline.
"I'd have to agree." Stacker replies and returns the grin, his head resting against Herc's thigh since he hasn't bothered moving when he was released from the headlock. "Haven't experienced anything like that before."
"Me neither." There's a pause before Stacker hears the Australian chuckle. "But it sure as hell was fun."
With those words Herc untangles and gets up, holding his hand out to pull Stacker up as well. Stacker can't fight the grin on his face. It was a good fight. No, it was a great fight. "We should do it again sometime."
"I'll hold you to that, mate." Herc replies when they're leaving the ring, his smirk lopsided but sincere. They make their way to the bathroom tent to get cleaned up, then they return to the match. In the end Australia wins by just one point.
The little tournament somehow changes the dynamics between the Australian and the British pilots. There's an ease that wasn't there before, as if they're finally becoming one team instead of two units working together. The missions they fly together go off without a hitch and command is very satisfied with the results of the joint assignment. Before he's ready, Stacker finds himself standing on the tarmac again with his fellow pilots and it's time to say their goodbyes. All around him men are hugging and slapping backs. He's not the only one who found a new friend during the past three weeks.
Herc comes to him last, stands in front of him for a moment, then he pulls Stacker to him. They hug, tight and strong because they both mean it, then the moment is gone. Stacker steps back, so does Herc, and they clasp hands in a warrior's handshake. Stacker catches the blue gaze and holds it, giving a real smile. "It was a pleasure, Herc."
"It sure was, mate." The smile on the Australian's face is a bit lopsided. It always is when he really means it, Stacker has learned over the past few weeks. "Until we meet again, Stacks."
Stacker nods and watches how the Australian unit spreads out to head to their choppers. Last minute boxes are loaded, pre-flight checks carried out and then they lift off in perfect formation. When he watches the choppers disappear Stacker feels almost sad that he will most likely never see Herc Hansen again.
It's only in the privacy of his own thoughts that he admits to himself that he has maybe fallen a little bit in love with an Australian chopper pilot he's only known for three weeks.