[untitled]

storm_petrel

The CIA safehouse in Recife’s an old, narrow building on a side street off Sao Pedro Square. Years of dirt grime the walls where the linoleum peels at the corners, because it’s just a place for sleeping a few hours and waiting for the cargo plane, the black flights that land in the half-light of dawn and take off again without clearance. Jensen’s perched on the thin mattress of the old metal-frame bed in the third-floor bedroom, breaking the new encryptions for one of the peripheral CIA databases, because it’s just good practice to know how to jimmy his own back door, and because Daniel Kowalski in Network Security pitches a fucking shitfit every time. It’s sort of soothing and mostly mindless and Jensen doesn’t have to think about how his fingers are trembling against the keypad.

It’s going to be a bad fucking night, he can tell already, so he holed up early—went to ground, really—and he knows Clay can see right through him when he gets like this, knows Clay looks right past the non-stop talk, the increasingly erratic gestures, the not-smile that doesn’t get anywhere near his eyes. But Clay’s a good boss, a better commander than Jensen’s had in a long time, and he knows when to back off, let him get his game face back on—

A scrolling white line of guardian code pops up, and Jensen chases it across two windows, lets his fingers fly along and sneak them around the firewalls, because the alternative is thinking about Cougar, the sudden bright splash of blood at his temple, and the way he’d dropped back through the window of the truck, too heavy and too still.

Jensen abruptly shoves the laptop away, slams down the lid.

And it’s like Cougar has some terrifying secret government-issue psychic powers, because there’s a quiet tap at the door and he’s standing framed in the hall light for just a moment, like a target. Jensen is suddenly, abruptly glad that the room’s dark, except for the sulphur-yellow glow of the streetlights outside.

This thing between them’s not new, hasn’t been for a while now, but Jensen’s not sure how it’ll hold up on a night like tonight, when all his edges are too sharp, too close to the surface of his skin. But he can front like the best of them, works up a cocky-asshole smile for Cougar, because really, bad shit happens to them every other week, and another near-miss isn’t going to break him.

Cougar moves through the room with that same prowling grace he always has, nearly-shot or no. Whoever gave him the nickname way-back-whenever was an obvious fucking bastard—and Jensen’s never gotten that story out of Cougar, not even during that endless drunken night in Amsterdam with the four Canadian girls when they’d all ended up on the roof of the Van Gogh Museum in the —

--and this is why he has to pay attention to Cougar, because he’s suddenly in Jensen’s space, and Jensen’s up against the wall, and okay, maybe this is okay. Maybe this is what he needs tonight.

So he fists Cougar’s shirt, pulls him in close and kisses him hard, biting at Cougar’s jaw, and it seems, for a half-second or so, that he’s actually surprised him. Cougar doesn’t do surprised. Doesn’t do unprepared or vulnerable either, except to small-calibre bullet grazes—lucky shot, and an inch and quarter to the left, brain matter would’ve been all over Jensen, Roque and Pooch’s weird-ass little dashboard dog—

His hands are shaking again, and Jensen shoves it down, covers it by gripping Cougar’s shirt tighter and kissing him harder. He pulls back, tries to grin, doesn’t look at the tidy line of stitches on Cougar’s temple—Pooch’s work, he always has much cleaner lines that Roque or Clay, who stitch like they’re sewing burlap sacks together and also like they’ve got no thumbs.

Jensen shakes himself out of his head, and shoves away from the wall, pushing Cougar towards the bed, because fuck, no. He’s fine. Cougar’s fine. In a couple of months, it’ll hardly even be a scar.

Jensen hits the bed, drops and rolls on his back. Cougar, who’d never pass up such an obvious invitation, follows him down, and Jensen spreads his legs to make space. He kisses him hard, and Cougar pulls back, bites at his jaw, moving down his throat and this how they usually start, rough and jockeying for position. Cougar usually comes out on top, and he’s not afraid to use his teeth. Jensen never comes out of this without bruises.

And this is great, usually, a fantastic way to spend a slow evening and remember it for a day or three, but Cougar’s always been more important than that, long before they started fucking around. Necessary, even, in a way Jensen can’t examine too closely because there’s the shape of something huge and terrifying there, something that can’t hurt him if he doesn’t give it a name.

Jensen knows that’s bullshit, though. Like that’s helped at all tonight, like it’s provided one single miserable half-hearted defence. He’s flat on his back, Cougar pinning his wrists, and Jensen has to close his eyes, throw his head back so Cougar won’t see the naked emotion there. Jensen knows he sounds all wrong, too rough, too desperate, but he can’t fucking help it. Can’t pull this mess back under his skin, can’t shove it away, so he wraps his legs around Cougar tight and buries his face in his chest. He can get through this, and he’ll be okay tomorrow if he can get through this.

“Do it,” he pants. “Cougar, come on, just—fuck, come on, please—”

And fuck, fuck –something in his tone must have tipped Cougar off, because he goes suddenly, abruptly still. Jensen clenches his eyes shut, because this is so stupid, he’s twenty-six years old and he’s been in the army for nearly a third of his life now and he still can’t fucking deal with this shit.

The fine, involuntary tremor is back, and as hard as he tries, Jensen can’t suppress it, and fuck he should have locked the door and climbed out onto the roof before he let Cougar see him tonight.

“Hey,” says Cougar, his voice low and rough. He smacks Jensen’s cheekbone, lightly. “Look at me.” Cougar’s dark eyes are severe with concern, but it pulls out into something almost unhappy when Jensen finally does look up. “Hey,” he says again, and one big hand comes up to cradle Jensen’s jaw.

“Fuck,” says Jensen, and his voice is too raspy, he tries to dial it back to something approaching normal. “Fuck, Cougar, I’m sorry, man, maybe you should just go, I’m kind of a fucking mess tonight, and it’s fine, it’ll be fine tomorrow—”

“No,” says Cougar softly, and kisses him.

And it’s so strange, to be lying on this ratty mattress in a dirty old firetrap safehouse in his least-favourite city in Pernambuco, with Cougar crouched over him, kissing him softly, over and over. Jensen tries to pull back, tries to get some space, but Cougar shifts his weight and pins him. Nothing like earlier, though, when it was half-fight, half-fuck. This is more like a suggestion. Jensen could get out of it, if he wanted to.

So he goes still, stares up at Cougar with wide eyes. In the dark, Cougar smiles a little.

Later, moonlight’s coming in through the narrow gap in the curtains, and Cougar’s stroking along his back, slow and steady, more touch than Jensen’s had in a long time. The house is still and quiet, and each dragging stroke of Cougar’s palm and fingers feels like it’s pulling shrapnel out through his skin, milimeter by milimeter. It’s not much, but it’s getting better. Like every touch is grounding him a little, bringing him down a little more each time.

Cougar’s still here, which is maybe the strangest thing. This thing between them’s never been about anything more than sex, and Jensen closes his eyes, tries not to let the pathetic gratitude overwhelm him. He’s fucking exhausted, and Cougar’s still here. He’s not sure what that means. Jensen doesn’t have a lot of experience with people sticking around.

Cougar’s propped up on one elbow, his hand curved around the bony jut of Jensen’s shoulder blade. Jensen’s lying belly-down on the bed, but he turns his head at a soft sound from Cougar’s direction. His profile is lit from the bright side spill of moonlight, so it’s easy to see his jaw come up, his expression get a little thoughtful. From this angle, he can’t see the line of stitches on Cougar’s temple.

“What do you want?” says Cougar softly, leaning close enough to Jensen’s ear that he can feel the warm brush of Cougar’s breath. “Tell me?”

It’s a question Jensen's known the answer to for months already, but even here, in the dark with Cougar’s fingers tracing a line between the freckles on his shoulder, it’s hard to make himself admit it.

“I want the new F9-series Toughbook with the custom photovoltaic panels I saw in Tokyo last month,” says Jensen, propping his chin on his fists and not looking at Cougar, like that might make this easier. “I want to read my sister’s new book. I want to send my niece soccer cleats for her birthday, but I don’t know what size she wears right now.” He takes a steadying breath, turns to face Cougar, but ducks his eyes a little at the last second. “I want you to not get shot again.”

I don’t want you to leave, he doesn’t say, because he’s not quite ready for those words. Not quite ready to admit that he’s caught in a narrowing orbit, with a force more implacable than gravity reeling him in.

Cougar tips his head to the side, speculative. Like maybe he can hear the words Jensen’s not saying. Like maybe Cougar’s stillness could swallow up this whole mess, like Jensen could just drift and half-sleep until the sun comes up. Maybe he’ll even still be here, in the morning. He hasn’t left yet, after all.

Cougar huffs a quiet sound, half-laughter, half something else entirely. “Okay,” he says, and his hand resumes its slow, tracing path along Jensen’s spine.