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Jack gets called into Ava’s office.
It’s small, sparse, and tidy, but he’s having trouble appreciating the way she maintains her station when she dumps information on him like this.
“You put his blood in me?!” He’s horrified.
Ava looks away. “His blood is repairing and fixing cells faster than any meds we have on hand. In the interest of scientific advancement, we need to keep him alive.” She’s not meeting his eyes.
Christ alive, she cares about the convict.
“He gave me cancer. He gave you cancer.”
“And he’s fixing it!” Ava snaps. There’s a brief moment of hesitation before she regains her composure. “In the interest of incredible scientific advancement,” She says again, like she’s rehearsed. “In saving humanity, I’m asking for your help.”
Jack is beginning to get a bad feeling about this. “What do you want me to do? What do you need my skills for?”
“I need you to fuck him.”
His eyebrows raise. “You’re asking me to fuck him. The Butcher. In the interest of humanity.”
“I don’t know!” Ava throws her hands up. “His body is maintaining an aroused state against his will, and it’s hurting him. His vitals started dropping until we —” Her face flushes. “— applied moderate sexual stimulation,” she says delicately.
Jack considers it. He really, genuinely considers it. How the convict’s body would look, if his whines would sound appealing — Jack lets himself consider it for about two seconds before he slams the hatch shut on that train of thought. “I’m good,” he tells Ava, somewhat warily.
“I’m sure you are,” Ava hums, a certain levity in her tone. All of a sudden, Jack feels caught out. Like Ava can see into his brain and knows what he was just thinking about. That he thinks the convict is hot. That he thought, however briefly, about getting the man off.
It doesn’t mean anything. He hasn’t had a good wank in a while, and it’s not like anyone’s throwing themselves at him — so what, the terrorist the C.O.I. picked up is attractive. It’s not a crime to look (although it should be criminal to look as good as the convict does). (Maybe it’s one of his charges).
“I can hear you thinking,” Ava says, like she’s pleased. It makes something in Jack twist unpleasantly and his hackles rise.
“No you can’t,” he shoots back, because he’s feeling defensive right now.
Ava gets up from her chair, grimacing at the squeak that follows her as she moves. She motions for him to follow her.
“What, now?” He can’t believe this. None of this was in the job description.
He watches the back of Ava’s braid swish as she marches down the hallway. He pivots, jogging after her to catch up. “How is this gonna work?” He can’t believe he’s giving in this easily. She stops suddenly, at a doorway that had its hinges ripped clean off and cannibalized for parts, and he almost runs into her. A thought occurs to him. “Are you — you’re not gonna watch, right?” He’s not sure how many more curve balls he can survive.
Jack glances at the ceiling of the room, the corners. “Cameras?”
“No cameras.” Ava shakes her head. “We’ll be monitoring his vitals from another room.” She taps the wall, indicating the room next door.
“Okay.” Jack accepts this, because he loves and respects his captain, but also because he’s bracing himself for the truly uncomfortable questions. “Why me?”
He looks at Ava, who has perfectly functioning hands, and knows she gets the unspoken “why not you?”
Ava looks like she’d rather be anywhere else. “I can’t,” she says, making an aborted motion towards her back brace. The metal exoskeleton awarded to her after years of giving everything to the C.O.I., even her natural-given mobility. “I wouldn’t be able to maintain stimulation long enough without immense strain.”
Something like warning bells ring inside Jack’s head. “Your back? You don’t need that to —” Jack stops. “You want me to fuck him?!” He doesn’t yelp, but his voice goes a whole octave higher.
Ava looks at him like he’s grown a second head. “What did you think we wanted you to do?”
At this, his mind draws a blank. “I don’t know,” Jack sputters. “A handjob, or… something.”
His captain claps a strong hand on his shoulder. She bears a grimace, but an edge of amusement begins to peek through. “Well, this is something.”
“Surely there’s other people that can fuck him,” Jack pleads.
“Everyone else is working on the blackbox.”
“Shit,” Jack says, wondering what kind of bullshit situation he’s gotten himself into.
“He’s also more likely to be responsive to someone who’s not a total stranger.”
“We met once. That doesn’t count.” He levels a glare over at Ava. He’s certain she’s just pulling shit out of nowhere with that one, but he can’t prove it.
Ava shrugs. “You’re the best shot.”
Jack stares at her. “Can I ask—”
“No more questions.”
“One more question,” Jack argues. “Why isn’t he responding to anything else?”
“He’s semi-aware, but in too much pain to articulate much.” She flicks her eyes over to Jack. “So far, he’s responded the best to fingering,” she adds, just to watch him choke.
Ava motions for him to follow her into the room. “He’s in here. No audio feed either, unless one of you starts screaming loud as fuck.”
The section that the conv- Simon is being monitored in is cordoned off by a single sheet strung up haphazardly. The first thing that hits Jack’s brain is the sound of soft, pained noises coming from behind thin fabric. Ava tugs the curtain back, revealing Simon.
“Jesus,” he mutters. Simon’s dark hair splays against the pillow, stark in contrast with his pallid, sheen covered skin. The fingers of his one remaining arm flex against the sheets as he squirms and shakes.
The edges of Jack’s vision are fuzzy, thanks to the turbo blast of radiation, but he can see well enough. Well enough for his eyes to immediately travel down to the hard line of — Okay, that’s enough.
He’s so used to justifying all the reasons that he should let this man die an agonizing death, for all the people the Butcher has killed, all those that never came back from the ocean. But he looks down and sees the convict, sweaty and ill looking, down an arm, and panting and shaking like a dog. Jack is running out of reasons to hate him.
Simon twitches and moans, blinking open bleary, glazed over eyes. He takes a second to respond, opening and closing his mouth like he’s forgotten how to speak. “Jack?”
His voice is hoarse, whether from disuse or screaming, Jack isn’t sure.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m here.” Jack turns to look at Ava, to see what she thinks of all this, but she’s already gone. The door closes with a click.
“Okay,” Jack breathes, speaking just to fill the room with something other than Simon’s panting. “I’m gonna touch you now,” he says, laying a careful hand on Simon’s forehead.
“You’re burning up,” Jack says dumbly, as Simon presses into his touch. He’s arching his back, and Jack’s eyes follow the dip and curve of his sides to where they disappear beneath a blanket. Most likely someone placed it there as a way to foray an attempt at modesty. Jack has to squash the inexplicable bolt of jealousy that runs through him.
He’s responded the best to fingering, Ava had said. Next to Simon’s bed is a small table, with a half-empty bottle of lube sitting neatly on top. Something inside him clenches, and he really doesn’t know what that’s about, nor does he want to, so he removes his hand from Simon’s feverish skin. He has a vested interest in keeping this as clinical as possible.
Simon lets out a loud, broken whine.
Jack tries to shush him immediately. “Shh, it’s okay. It’s okay. Look, just— give me a second, Simon, okay?”
Simon twists, his face flushing. “Please,” he gasps. “Hurts.”
Okay, slow and steady does not do it for Simon’s blood fever. Jack really has no option but to just go for it, unless he wants Simon’s vitals to tank or Ava to tear into him. He reaches over and snags the lube. There’s not much of it, but there’s enough to use where it really counts.
“Jack,” Simon whines. “Jack.”
God, Jack thinks. He sounds like he’s getting fucked. And then Jack realizes that he will be getting fucked. By him. The thought burns straight through his core.
Simon whimpers when Jack moves to pull away the blanket, twisting up to get even a hint of skin to skin contact.
“Slow down,” Jack orders. He’s not going to get anything done if Simon moves his big strong stupid body like a touch-starved heat seeking missile.
Simon stills. It’s fractional, barely takes, but Jack can see how his body untenses for just a moment. Interesting. And then he’s back to clinging to Jack’s arm, which he has intercepted at an alarming speed for a man in danger of dropping dead.
One of the monitors beeps, steadying out at the touch. Jack tries to switch tactics.
“I need you to hold still. Can you do that for me?”
Simon shudders, his body tense with anticipation, or maybe just pain, but he relaxes his death grip on Jack’s arm.
“Good,” Jack soothes, and runs his hand down Simon’s abs as a reward. Positive reinforcement, he thinks, almost hysterically.
Simon reacts well, at least, a somewhat-pained-somewhat-pleased rumbling noise starting low in his throat. Jack experimentally rubs a few circles into Simon’s hip, and then mentally kicks himself, because God, this is the exact opposite of clinical and detached.
His hand drifts lower, not leaving Simon’s overheated skin, until his hand wraps around Simon’s cock.
He gives in and gives it a few gentle tugs, just to satisfy his own curiosities about what kind of noises the ex-con would make. And oh, that might’ve been a bad move on his part.
Simon keens. Loudly. If Jack thought the noises Simon made before were arousing, this is worse. He sounds like he’s having the best sex in his entire life, not just a half-hearted handy by a guy he gave radiation poisoning to — although Jack supposes that’s not all they are to each other anymore. He firms his grip, making sure the pads of his fingers catch on the underside of the head. He doesn’t even need lube for this part. Simon’s leaking like a damn faucet.
Simon sucks in a few sharp gasps, throwing his arm over his face like he’s embarrassed, like he has any wherewithal to care about how he looks or sounds right now. Jack idly wonders if he got a lot of action, back on his home station. Maybe he did if he looked and sounded like this.
He draws his hand lower, past Simon’s balls, to the tight ring of muscle nestled below. The other hand grips the lube bottle tighter.
“Open your thighs wider, Sy,” he instructs.
Jack flips the cap open and lets some drip out onto his fingers. Simon does as he’s told, settling back onto the mattress with small, barely repressed shudders. He peeks at Jack through his fingers.
“G’na… Put it in?” Simon slurs. Jack doesn’t know when he started to get hard, but his pants are uncomfortably tight.
“Not yet,” Jack hedges. “Gotta open you up first, babe.” He winces, unsure where the hell the pet name came from, and prays to God that Simon’s too out of it to notice. God must love him, because Simon just grunts and nestles back into the sheets.
He’s been absentmindedly warming the lube in his hand. Jack wonders when he became so thoughtful.
He stops wondering about anything else at the first press against Simon’s entrance. He’s not as tight as Jack had expected, he’d clearly been opened up not that long ago. Sliding in a single digit, however, has Simon clenching down and arching up.
“Unh,” Simon squeaks.
“Easy,” Jack murmurs. “I know what I’m doing.” Privately, he thinks, how many times did Ava fingerbang you?
Simon just keeps moaning, and Jack starts to add another finger. He pistons his fingers in and out a few times, curling deep inside Simon, absentmindedly stroking.
He hears a garbled noise, and looks up to see Simon biting his fist. He curls his fingers, sweeping them over the wet velvet walls, watching Simon for a reaction.
Simon arches even further and— Gotcha, Jack thinks, pressing down again on Simon’s prostate. He’s making all these muffled noises, hidden behind the barrier of his own hand, which moves just a little, giving Jack a clear view of his nose and cheek. His very *wet* cheek.
Oh, Jack thinks. He even cries pretty.
He twists his fingers out, adding a third, and slides them back in. Simon takes them well, jolting reflexively whenever Jack brushes by his prostate. He sees what Ava meant by ‘responsive’.
He tries not to think about Ava doing exactly what he’s doing now, and decides to focus on what he can do that’s new, which is getting his dick into Simon immediately.
As soon as he takes his fingers out of Simon, however, the man starts whining like he’s in the worst pain of his life. The monitors start spiking, in a way that Jack assumes is bad, and he tries to hurry up with the zipper of his trousers.
“Fuck,” Jack hisses, managing to pull down the fabric enough to get his dick out. It occurs to him, belatedly, that he didn’t look for a condom. He’s going in raw.
“Jesus fuck,” he swears aimlessly, feeling his tip press against Simon’s overheated skin. “You ready?”
Simon doesn’t answer with words, just moans, shivering with need, which Jack figures is as good an answer as any.
The first inch is the hottest thing he’s ever felt in his life. Simon is scorching around him, mewling and gasping as Jack pushes in deeper. Even though he’s loose and prepped, Simon keeps clenching down hard, a vice grip on Jack’s cock.
When he finally bottoms out, he tugs on one of Simon’s thighs, pulling it up. Simon lets himself be manhandled, only letting out quiet whimpers every time Jack shifts.
Jack presses a hand down on Simon’s abdomen, slippery with precum. Simon gazes up at him, brown eyes wet and distant.
Jack begins to move.
Simon shakes, pushing back into Jack’s solid form as he unravels. He’s making these little wordless gasps, and when Jack collapses into Simon’s chest, he can feel the vibrations of all those bitten off noises. He rolls his hips, pressing his face into one of Simon’s pecs, and Simon lets out another keening noise.
“Fuck,” Jack is babbling. “Fuck you’re so— you feel so—“ He begins fucking Simon harder.
Simon’s whole body is a live wire, sparking under Jack’s hands, and he feels drunk on it.
“Ah, ah, ah,” Simon cries, little punched out moans that are punctuated with a full body shudder. Jack can feel— Jack can feel everything.
“M’ close,” he says into Simon’s pec, taking one of his hands from where it was firmly situated on his hip. He brings it up to feel the ribs under Simon’s skin, the way the muscles jump every time Jack thrusts in.
Simon’s sobbing, taking him so beautifully, being so good.
“You’re so good,” Jack slurs, scraping the edge of his teeth along Simon’s tit, and Simon comes.
He’s quiet as he comes, hard, back bowing as his thighs clench around Jack’s waist, squeezing like they want to close but he’s not in control of his body right now. All of a sudden, he shudders and goes limp, like all his strings have been cut.
It’s certainly easier to fuck him when he’s not tense and ready to throw a blood clot, and Jack thrusts deep inside two, five, seven times before coming. Simon is still panting underneath him.
Fuck, Jack thinks, a little sex-stupid. My come is inside him.
Jack goes stiff. Fuck. My come is inside Simon.
He pulls out, a bit fast, despite Simon’s mewling protests.
He clambers off the bed, snagging his trousers from the floor, and tries to put them on as quickly as he can. He makes the mistake of looking up, at Simon, all fucked out and quiet. The monitors are maintaining a steady rhythm, one Jack assumes means Simon isn’t dying, and the flush on his face is certainly preferred to the way he looked earlier.
His big wet eyes are fixed on Jack, an expression on his face that Jack can’t quite parse, but his eyes look more lucid and clear than they have all night. Jack takes one last, long look at Simon.
And then Jack flees.