#calderon

US Vogue August 15, 1971

Samantha Jones wears a wool-and-angora cardigan, Halston International. Halston Limited jersey pants (Jasco) knitted in America. Silver, Elsa Peretti for Halston. Belt, Anne Klein for Calderon. Kayser gloves. Blazer, of Emba natural "Jasmine" mink dyed forest green (not shown) antelope suede gauchos cuffed in mink, by Christian Dior Furs. Blazer, of Emba natural "Jasmine" mink dyed forest green (not shown) antelope suede gauchos cuffed in mink, by Christian Dior Furs. Ara Gallant coiffure.

Samantha Jones porte un cardigan en laine et angora, Halston International. Pantalon en jersey Halston Limited (Jasco) tricoté en Amérique. Argent, Elsa Peretti pour Halston. Ceinture, Anne Klein pour Calderon. Gants Kayser. Blazer, de gauchos en daim d'antilope Emba naturel "Jasmine" teint vert forêt (non représenté) avec revers en vison, par Christian Dior Furs. Blazer, de gauchos en daim d'antilope Emba naturel "Jasmine" teint vert forêt (non représenté) avec revers en vison, par Christian Dior Furs. Ara Gallant coiffure.

Calderon was never a man known to fool around.

Since his upbringing in Goldis and the very beginning of his hatred for the system of his planet, Calderon took his convictions to heart and he stood by them relentlessly.

It's an admirable quality in a soldier; it was the very foundation of Calderon's pride. He would not involve himself in something if he wasn't certain of it, if he wasn't sure he'd see it to the end.

The only mistake he has ever made, the only living example that tears and claws at his values and foundations, is Damon.

Cold, calculating, irresistible Damon.

Calderon was never one for romance. But if he were to think of his type, he'd imagine an headstrong woman with her own set of convictions, goals, who isn't afraid to rival his own thoughts, who fights for what she sees as just.

He would not have even thought of dreaming of his type coming in the form of a ruthless mercenary from Cursa with a kink for pressing his buttons.

It wasn't love at first sight with Damon, God forbid. Yet, in some twisted, unfathomable way, Damon checked all his boxes.

He's headstrong, with strong convictions, who matches Calderon's every move with his own counter. And fuck, as soon as he opened that mouth of his, Calderon couldn't stop thinking about him.

Every snarky remark, every teasing nickname, every cheshire grin, it stuck to him and never let go. And Calderon would rather die than admit how he'd spent multiple sleepless nights overwhelmed by thoughts of the mercenary.

And lack of sleep makes you irrational, Calderon tells himself. You don't think straight when you're tired, he likes to think. That must be why he did what he did that night.

That must be why he stormed into the cockpit where he knew Damon lingered at the late hours of night. That must be why he pressed Damon up against a wall and smashed his own lips against the assassin's. That must be why Damon didn't hesitate to kiss back.

They were both sleepy. Both irrational.

Except Damon was at his most rational past midnight.

Damon kissed him back knowing damn well what he was doing.

Damon wrapped his arms around Calderon's neck and tugged at his hair knowing damn well what he was doing.

Damon thrashed and lapped at the captain's lips with a fiery passion only rivaled by Calderon knowing damn well what he was doing.

Damon kept Calderon up for days that turned to weeks knowing damn well what he was doing.

You couldn't make out with Damon and call it mutual. Damon loved it when people kissed him, because it meant they were the vulnerable one in the situation. And Damon loved using people's vulnerability against them, to push and pull and play them like a fiddle.

And Damon leaped at the opportunity to finally, truly get under the commander's skin.

There was no pleasure that matched what he felt when Calderon burned up under the slightest of prods, the slightest of touches.

Damon's teasing nicknames, Damon's veiny palm on his thigh, Damon's breaths over his face, Damon's eyes burning through his, Damon's knowing cheshire grins, Damon, Damon, Damon.

Everything Damon did that was met with a disdainful look or a dismissive glance before was replaced with the most utterly satisfying stammer, or a blush on a lucky day.

The assassin was reeling with amusement at the embarrassment of the captain, and before he knew it, he couldn't get enough. Damon got ahead of himself.

Looks and touches during missions turned to pecks and kisses behind turned heads which turned to passionate make-outs late at night.

Damon couldn't stop pushing Calderon bit by bit, seeing how flustered, how embarrassed he could get Calderon using his words, his mouth, his tongue, his touch.

For a captain, Calderon could never tower over Damon at night like he always did by day. He could never put on that stoic, stick-up-his-ass demeanor and walk all over his second in command.

At night, tucked away in the hidden crevices of the ship, in the darkened spaces and rooms no one walked into, Damon saw Calderon in completely different lights, took in sights of the captain he couldn't begin to dream of.

Calderon never went down without a fight, and that riled Damon on even further.

Every week turned to almost every day, and amidst the swirling sensations of passion and desire, another emotion weaved between them, a feeling that was beginning to swallow them from the bottom up, a feeling neither of the men wanted, or were ready to label.

Until Calderon was just sleep deprived enough to think irrationally again.

"Damon."

"Oh, here earlier than I was expecting, commander. Something tells me you're enjoying these little late night escapades more than you'll admi-"

"Be serious for one fucking second, dammit."

"Who says I wasn't being serious? I see something's on your mind, babe. I know you just as well on the outside as I do the inside now."

Calderon clenches his jaw. Damon grins at the reaction.

"Have you ever felt serious about this? About us? What we're doing?"

Damon falls silent this time. Calderon doesn't enjoy the lack of response.

"How serious can we get with this? Do you really think that this- that we- could be more?"

"I know you feel the same way I do, Damon. About us."

"You don't know shit, Cal. You never have."

"Shut up for once." Calderon throws him against the wall.

Damon's surprisingly shocked, and unsurprisingly a little turned on.

"You're the one who's been chasing after me every damn night. You're the one who took it this far. Don't you dare back out of this now, Reznor."

"Wasn't planning on it."

Damon runs his hand through the captain's hair with his typical stoic expression, and Calderon softens slightly.

"We won't last, Cal. I'm not about being serious. Don't even bother."

"Who the fuck says we won't last?"

"Cal, for fucks sake. You're not fucking thinking straight."

"I can't fucking go another sleepless night thinking about this, Damon."

Damon softens, which is not something he does.

"You serious?"

"More than anything."

The lack of hesitation, the conviction in Calderon's voice, it wells a large heap of emotion within Damon, none of which he's going to let out of his mouth.

He just stares at Calderon incomprehensibly, his hands loosely playing with the blond hair strands.

"It's not like you to be so emotional, Calderon."

"It's not like you to be so hesitant, Damon."

The assassin heaved a tired but uncharacteristically sincere sigh. Damon pulled the older man against his lips, giving the captain a strangely chaste, affectionate kiss, yet Calderon returned it as naturally as he did every other one.

"Fine. You got me. You got your way like you always do. Happy?"

Calderon smiles, and Damon smiles back.