Lay of the Land

BY : pronker
Category: +M through R > Penguins of Madagascar
Dragon prints: 77
Disclaimer: I make no profit from this fanfiction using Dreamworks' Penguins of Madagascar franchise and I do not own Dreamworks or the franchise.

Title: Lay of the Land

Author: pronker

Rating: M

Era: At the tail end of the early mission in Guatemala in which agent Xochi met her fate.

Warning: Darkfic.

Summary: Kowalski and Skipper discover the lay of the land on a perilous mission to Central America.

IOIOIOIOIO

Kowalski was never sure that it was rain and not tears that dampened his commander's face as the two of them tramped down that Guatemalan street. "Shit, Kowalski, the way this rain is falling, I'm not getting my rocks off tonight," Skipper griped. "Nobody would come out in this. I'll need to jack off and I am sick of that. There's prolly no bokbier in this joint, either, only some shit like Bud or Miller Lite - "

"Steady as she goes, sir. Lucky for us there are bars close to the ship. Let's try this one and think positive because it may carry something tasty like a Ginger Shandy from the Carib Brewery. Oh, and say no to any Humboldt penguin ladies."

"Crud biscuits, any port in a storm is just one of my mottos, Kowalski."

"Trust me on this one, sir."

"Why?"

"Because Humboldt penguins eat wiggly fish."

"So do we!"

"Oh all right, I'll just come out and say it - their tongues have spines to secure a fish before they swallow it."

"Shit."

"Indeed. We don't want that, do we?"

"Correctamundo. Ouch."

The skipper of a beaten down squad of commando penguins thrust open the door of the Pajarito Dulce bar. He gestured another, taller penguin into a dimly lit interior that was filled with smelly smoke. Music frazzled fuzzily through the antiquated sound system. The light was brightest at the long bar. Two blue herons were sitting at this windowed end of the bar and a gaggle of three B-girls of the ashy-headed goose species plus one other - was that a poc? - held down the farther end. The taller penguin guided his skipper by the elbow to a table when the commander stumbled in his weariness. It was a near thing which of the two looked the most traumatized.

Kowalski beheld tables to the right in more darkness, which were occupied by a mixed flock of birds leading watery lives. Penguins took up the center, with the cranes, egrets and eider down ducks in the front corner of the room nearest the window. Canvasback ducks squatted in the deeper corners. B-girls were working the floor. One Humboldt penguin was leading a grebe through a beaded-curtain door at the back of the room, and two Humboldts draped on guys — one sporting a naval uniform cap — on the small dance floor.

This was probably as busy as this bar got. It was a Saturday night near the docks where a ship repair facility was located. In years to come, Skipper would not remember the actual name of the port city, which was Champerico, but only the more populous city of Retalhuleu twenty-seven miles up the Samalá River that they swam down earlier in the day; at times he confused it with Sonsonate, which was in a whole nother country. Kowalski never corrected him because he himself avoided thinking of their circumstances and why they came to seek solace in sex.

More waterbirds than usual populated the bar, as they rested during their spring migration up and down the Pacific Flyway. The commando squad departed from Los Estados Unidos six in number; Kowalski knew that Skipper reviewed the team's membership of six of two weeks ago and how it had swelled to seven upon meeting Xochi and then shrunk once more to six. That had to hurt. Getting his rocks off on this last night ashore before their departure tomorrow could only be a good thing. Their repaired freighter departed at dawn after typhoon damage, an out of season typhoon that cost them time because when they dried themselves off from their river swim, each of them yearned to leave Guatemala far, far astern.

Kowalski did not care if he got his own rocks off; he did care about Skipper.

Skipper and Kowalski were bosom buddies—but not in the sense, they insisted to each other, of some penguin commandos who were young, virile, and randy but stuck on missions for long periods of time with no one to hook up with but each other. Skipper had yet to become a grizzled veteran teaching at his old OCS yet Kowalski just knew it was in his future. As for himself, Kowalski boasted that he could provide options for anything.

The two of them had never been tested to their full potential until now.

They'd been together from on-the-job commando training to covert assignments after Skipper's stint in OCS and went everywhere as a subset inside their team, each watching the back of the other.

They were so close that there had been speculation about them from the other units, but if they'd heard it, Skipper and Kowalski had pretended they didn't. And it never prevented them from sharing a female when it came to getting relief, although, in these rare instances, it was pretty much sloppy seconds for one or the other. Neither kept count of who followed who.

Both were fine looking, trimmed out, and muscular. Vigorous exercise and perilous missions ensured the trimmed out and muscular aspects.

Both were randy as hell and made it only as far as the Pajarito Dulce, nearly within sight of their ship. They had waited with the rest of their team, observing covertly the ship's repair that competent workers completed just before dark. The six penguins decamped near the empty crate selected for their own disguised conveyance back to the States until Skipper couldn't stand the inactivity any longer. Private watched over a shellshocked Rico who watched over a griefstricken Private and an uncharacteristically silent Manfredi and Johnson watched over them both. After a terse "Hold position," Skipper staggered away from his command with a look that Kowalski had never seen before. Kowalski hollered, "Hey, wait up!" and then followed.

Twenty minutes later, here they were.

Skipper and Kowalski bellied up to the bar and ordered brews from the hefty emperor penguin who tended. He had a friendly look for them but obviously was capable of a mean look because he doubled as the bar's bouncer. He had an anchor etched on the steel that comprised one third of his left flipper. The three fell into a comfortable chat comparing service records.

"Speaking of service," Skipper said. "Any action around here tonight?"



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