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Thompson was feverish, his jaw clenched and teeth grit tight, as he sat in the interrogation room--the place locked from the outside for everyone’s safety.
“Agent Thompson, just breathe. Let it happen. The research team is already trying to--”
“Can someone get her out of here?” he called to the mirror in the room, the one he knew was one-way glass, glaring where he assumed Peggy was standing.
“We can’t leave you unsupervised after what happened,” came her reply through the speaker in the room, and he hated the sympathy laced in her words, hated that a dame had to see him like this at all. Sure, Peggy insisted she could handle whatever the men could, but this was--this was a different kind of thing than their usual work, and—
“They say the sooner you let it happen, the sooner it’ll be out of your system, Agent,” she said gently, voice careful, but he was already upset; there was no beast in the room that her voice could soothe.
“Christ, Carter, this ain’t a broad’s area of expertise, alright? Can we just--can I get a little privacy?”
The silence dragged on, but Jack sat at the table, hunched over it, fists clenched and knuckles white as he refused to engage in this. Until he knew she was gone, he was going to ignore the awful pain as best he could, despite the fact that his body ached to be touched, his dick straining impossibly in his pants. He loosened his tie, tossed it off with a growl of frustration, and slid his fingers through his hair, gripping tight to keep them busy, to keep them from undoing his fly and taking himself out right here, where anyone could see.
“She’s gone,” came a voice, finally, from the speakers in the room. Sousa.
“Great,” he huffed, head still down against the table. “Now leave me alone to… to do what I gotta do.”
The silence was grating on his nerves. Every second people hesitated was time away from his hand finally on his cock, and his breath was already short, his body already flushed; there was only so much patience a man like Jack Thompson had. He wasn’t going to lose face, not in front of co-workers, not in front of anyone, but honestly, there were limits to what his body could handle, and as his arousal throbbed painfully in his pants, he could feel himself fast approaching it.
“Chief says someone’s gotta stay,” Sousa finally said, but Jack didn’t give two licks about the embarrassment behind the quiet finality of his tone. He let out a growl of frustration, pressing his forehead more firmly against the wood of the interrogation table. “We don’t know the full extent of what you got hit with. If it goes south--”
“It’s already gone Goddamned south, Sousa!” Thompson cried, standing up so abruptly that the chair got knocked back. He glared at the glass, stalking toward it, pulling himself to his full height, a snarl at his lips to hide the whimper that threatened to escape his lungs. “You best leave and tell the chief I can handle this on my own,” he whispered fiercely. Anger was the emotion he knew best, though usually it was stoic and cold and unmoving, nothing like the flames that licked at him now, spurred by the fact that he was forced into this position--forced into being vulnerable and aching and watched, all because the case had gone wrong and some mad scientist had injected him with whatever-the-Hell this was.
“We don’t know that taking care of it makes it better,” Sousa said, and Jack slammed his fist against the one-way glass in frustration. But the other kept talking, and he hated how he didn’t sound phased one bit. “It’s the theory, and a good one, and one the lab-rats are sure about, but we can’t take any chances. So just… do what you have to do. Pretend I’m not here.”
Jack laughed, derisive and void of any actual humour, as he crumpled down to sit on his heels, fingers digging painfully into his scalp again. “S’fine,” he said, despite the fact that it was taking everything not to just touch himself, to relieve the ache between his legs. “I can handle this. Just… wait it out ‘till it’s out of my system.”
“Jack…”
Jack let out a noise that was barely human, a sound born of frustration and pain more intimate than he’d ever known. He let his head fall back and shook it, eyes shut tight, as if denying himself a sense might mute the rest of what he was feeling.
But it didn’t. His pulse was still too quick, a sweat clinging to him as he tried to ignore the fire in his blood pooling between his legs, his cock throbbing painfully with each heartbeat.
“You don’t have to take your clothes off,” Sousa said quietly. “Just… just relieve the pressure a bit, alright? Just unbutton your pants and let yourself breathe while you… figure this out.” Pause. “We’re gonna figure this out, Jack.”
He hated it. Hated that Sousa was here, would have to watch, was telling him what to do--but worse than that, Jack hated how his hands obeyed. He popped the buttons of his pants open, eyes clenched shut and head shaking the whole time, muttering obscenities about this damned situation under his breath as finally, finally, he pulled himself free.
His cock was an angry red, swollen and thick with need as it bounced up to rest against his stomach, fully hard and desperate to be touched. With his eyes still shut, Jack tried to imagine that like this, sitting on his haunches against the wall, Sousa’s view would be obscured.
The illusion was barely there, but it was just tangible enough that Jack decided to end his misery and curl his fist around his aching length. There were already dribbles of slick, a droplet more with each heartbeat that made his cock throb, and he used his hand to slide it down his dick, hissing at the friction. He kept his fingers loose, pumping his cock slowly, groaning low and guttural and desperate, but it wasn’t enough. His eyes burned at the realisation, his throat tight. Jesus, was he going to die this way? Sexually frustrated, burning up, hand tighter on his dick, fucking his hand more fervently now, feeling his peak so close yet impossible to attain?
“Just fuckin’--come on already,” he growled, eyes fluttering open as he fisted his dick with abandon, a moan hitched with each breath, but the frustration only built, his heartrate spiking to dangerous levels, the anger climbing his throat and fueling his desire.
“Jack?”
“Shut up, Sousa, I just--”
His lower lip quivered and his throat tightened, but he snarled through it, refusing to let his eyes water, as if that was in his control at all. But it became too painful, his hand twisting the way he usually liked, tugging the way he knew his body usually enjoyed, but his balls were tight and release felt like an impossible dream, but he was close, so close, if he could just--
The door to the interrogation room opened and Sousa stepped in, the red staining his cheeks at odds with the decisive firmness of his gaze.
It was a testament to the burning in his stomach, to the desperation in his veins, that Jack ignored the other, that he kept trying to rub himself raw until a sound too close to a whimper escaped him, the slickness dribbling out of his cock no longer enough to soothe the roughness of his calloused hands or the desperate pace he’d set.
“Come on, you’re gonna hurt yourself,” Sousa said, and despite the fact that Jack could acknowledge it was difficult for the other to set his crutch down, to try and help Jack up from the ground, it didn’t change that he shoved the other back with an animalistic shout, a thing born not of words but of crashing anger, boiling frustration, a desperate, misplaced attempt to keep control in this uncontrollable situation.
But seeing the other stumble back, gripping the wall for support, sobered him, just slightly. Sousa stood taller after that, straightening his tie and slicking his hair back, composing himself as if Jack wasn’t a complete asshole. “Get up,” Sousa ordered, a no-nonsense finality to his tone. “Get up, Thompson, swallow your pride, and sit in that chair.”
Jack’s hand slowed, but he couldn’t find it in himself to remove it from his dick entirely, even with Sousa’s gaze challenging his own. But he obeyed, huffing his indignation the whole time. He had to pull his eyes away, ashamed of how he stumbled to the table at the center of the room, ashamed of the vulnerability that came with him falling into the chair, legs spread out, squeezing his cock for any sort of relief.
“There. Thank you,” Sousa sighed, rolling his eyes, which made it easier for Jack to ignore the softness there, to ignore the pity there, to ignore the strange staccato of Sousa’s breath as the other came closer. “Now you’re gonna shut your mouth and let me help you before this kills you.”
It was unclear what Sousa meant, even as he set his crutch against the table and got to his knees, even as he spread Jack’s legs wider and turned away to spit into his own palm before curling his fingers against Jack’s dick. There were things you didn’t assume about other men, thoughts that didn’t cross, so the confusion added to the fog in his mind despite the moan, deep and rough and far too drawn out, when the other started stroking his cock.
“Just close your eyes and ride this out. Pretend I’m your favourite dame.”
And then there was heat, perfect and tentative and nowhere near enough but so much better than before, as Sousa dragged his tongue against Jack’s dick. It took some coaxing for the other to get Jack’s hand away, but soon there was only Sousa’s mouth, only Sousa’s fingers, his breath and tongue and lips against the powerful throbbing of Jack’s desperation.
Jack clutched at the desk, hunched over it, as his hips thrust upward, spurred on by the glorious relief between his legs. But Sousa gripped his hips, pushed them against the chair to keep Jack still, before getting back to work.
He wrapped his lips around the head and suckled, and Jack moaned, broken and weak, at the thought of that thick slick coating Sousa’s tongue, making it easier, maybe, for the other to swallow more of him. He slammed his fist on the table, groaning and whimpering, as Sousa sunk lower, took him more deeply, careful and slow and perfect, before he pulled away once more, though he kept his tongue, his hand, on Jack’s burning cock even while he caught his breath.
Again and again, Sousa went down on him, swallowed deeper, pumping Jack’s dick where his mouth couldn’t reach, but Christ was he taking it well, so well, better than Jack’s hand could ever be, and he could feel it building in him, finally, that sweet, perfect release--
“Fucking yes,” Jack hissed, unable to keep himself still, and though his hips were trapped, his hands weren’t, and he curled them into Sousa’s hair, fisting strands carefully, as gently as he could manage, but he needed to hold on, needed some kind of anchor. He felt a vibration against his cock, a low hum that soothed him, fueled him, made him impossibly more desperate. And Sousa took him again and again, fucking his mouth against Jack’s cock, sucking him down with swollen lips. “Christ--what a goddamned mouth. Fucking meant for my dick, yes, that’s it--so close, Doll, almost there--Fuck, Daniel--”
Jack’s fists in Sousa’s hair tightened, his whole body tensing, release crashing over him with a desperate cry, his cock so deep in the warm tightness of Sousa’s mouth, and it was such perfection, such sweet release, such--
Sousa pushed himself away, coughing and wiping at his mouth with his sleeve, choking on cum but still with the decency to have a hand on Jack’s dick, milking the rest of his release as Jack turned boneless, slunk in the chair, too spent for a thanks or an apology.
It was a while before Jack could compose himself--long enough for Sousa to tuck him back into his pants, to stand up and fix his hair, to wipe the streaks of white on the ground with his shoe as if that might hide the evidence of what they’d done.
“Feel better?” Sousa finally asked, voice rough in a way that made Jack’s cock twitch--a residual effect from whatever he’d been infected with, he told himself.
His eyes fluttered open and he sat up tall in his hair, following Sousa’s lead and trying to get a grip on his composure: slicked his hair back with trembling hands, smoothed out the creases of his clothing, tried to hide the giddiness of his grin or the relief of each breath with the stoic professionalism he was known for.
“I… I think it’s out of my system, yeah,” he finally whispered, voice raw from his groans and cries and pleas earlier. “I owe you one.”
Their eyes met, and there was a flash of something in Sousa’s gaze, his brows lifted in surprise, but just for a moment, before he shrugged and shook his head.
“Nothing you wouldn’t do for anyone else on the team.”
Jack scoffed and rolled his eyes, his usual cocky smile tainted with the dopiness that came from release. “Wouldn’t be caught dead touchin’ Krzeminski.”
Sousa let out a startled laugh, caught off guard by the comment, and Jack followed suit.
And graciously, Jack didn’t make a comment about Sousa waiting in the room until his lips weren’t so swollen and the colour wasn’t so high on his cheeks. And, just as graciously, Sousa made no comment on the fact that his name had been on Jack’s lips as he’d come undone.
Yeah. Jack owed him one.