He did give it some thought. You don't start fucking around with a guy like Jack on a lark. He'd seen people try to fuck with Jack. NSA goons. Senior agents transferring in from other branches who'd gotten used to having the other dogs cower at their every bark. Terrorists.
Once this hotdog middle manager, Friesen, whose father was rumored to golf with the President, had come in from D.C. He'd swaggered around, gladhanding everyone like he was running for Congress and talking about how they were going to optimize process now that he was "on board." Weiss loathed him and made surreptitious jerk-off motions during meetings whenever the guy droned on. Vaughn had to visualize terrorist victims just to keep a straight face. Jack had been on an op during Friesen's first week, and met him on return at a briefing. Friesen greeted Jack like a casual pal and held out his hand. Jack stared back as if he suspected Friesen of being a walking delivery system for Ebola, but shook it.
In the meeting Friesen made a transparent power-play with Kendall by offering to take a project off Jack's plate.
"If I want to share scraps off my plate," Jack said in his politest, most cutting tone, "I'll get a dog." And then the eyebrow lift and light voice: "You're not a dog, are you, Mister Friesen?"
"You're my hero," Vaughn said to Jack after the meeting.
Friesen had disappeared into obscurity within a month, relegated to some upper-story corner office to figurehead a useless efficiency project that everyone ignored. "The guy's lucky he didn't wind up in a shallow grave," Weiss had said to Vaughn over beers.
Now Vaughn lay next to Jack on an opulent bed, staring into the shadows of the ceiling and trying do decide whether it was a wise career move to go through with his plan. Jack was dead silent next to him. It was impossible to tell whether he was asleep or not. He didn't snore, he didn't move, he barely breathed. How the hell had Sydney grown up even close to normal, he wondered. It must have been like having an android for a father.
He wasn't completely invulnerable, though. This was Vaughn's reasoning. The guy had a dick. And pride assured him that if he could get a hard-on for Jack Bristow, Jack could get one for him. Anything else was unthinkable. He couldn't let Jack have the upper hand. The man would never respect him if he did, and he'd spend the rest of his career burning from Jack's knowing looks and cryptic, suggestive remarks. Jack wouldn't stoop to sexual harassment, wouldn't even get his digs in often, but when he did they'd be so subtle that Vaughn wouldn't be able to call him on it. It would be hell.
Listening to Jack's even, quiet breathing lulled him from heated thoughts of revenge into sleep. It was a miracle that he woke first, and for several disorienting moments, he didn't trust the evidence. Jack still lay next to him though, on his back. He looked tense even asleep. It occurred to Vaughn that Jack was probably just the kind of guy to snap awake with violent reflexes if touched, but decided it was worth the risk. He levered himself onto one arm, slid a few inches across the mattress, then brought a hand to rest on Jack's hip, above the sheet. He kept his movements almost absurdly careful. He felt as if he were petting a sleeping cobra.
You are going to get in so much trouble, the angel on his shoulder muttered. But the devil was driving. After all, Vaughn thought, even if Jack caught him, he couldn't say shit about it--how was it any different from his own actions?
Just holding up my end of the mission, Jack.
He brought his palm to rest between Jack's legs and left it there. It took all his nerve not to jerk his hand away as the seconds ticked by. After a minute, when Jack didn't wake, Vaughn began to brush his thumb lightly back and forth across the sheet, and then to move his hand. Nothing much happened right away, but just as he'd decided this was pointless, Jack twitched in his sleep and sighed and began to get hard. Nice, thought Vaughn, feeling an unkind curl of triumph in his gut. He kept stroking, settling in on his side, even closer to Jack.
Jack's breath hitched irregularly, then grew more ragged. Vaughn could his eyes flickering rapidly under their lids and wondered what--who--he was dreaming of. In this stage of sleep, Jack could wake at any moment, and Vaughn debated whether to get even more aggressive, or stop things while he could still maintain plausible deniability. As he was about to pull his hand away, Jack drew in a sharp breath, opened his eyes, and grabbed Vaughn's wrist.
"What...are you doing?" Between the first and second words, he'd apparently come fully awake.
"Something I thought you'd like, Mr. Boros." In the drape-filtered dimness, he watched Jack absorb his response. "I could have killed you while you slept, you know."
Jack blinked. "As I've told you, keeping me alive is in your best interest."
"And keeping you happy."
"At the moment, Adam, I am not happy. You don't get to choose when to touch me. You'll please me only when I say so."
"So let me please you," Vaughn said in a willing tone. He might have been pushing his luck, but the look on Jack's face at that moment was worth almost any price. He seemed stunned and angry, but mostly stunned.
"I don't think--" Jack caught himself, eyes lowering a moment in a way that Vaughn recognized, to hide the working of his thoughts when faced with an impossible set of options, and then his expression shifted to a false calm. "All right."
Okay, thought Vaughn. Miscalculation. Big, big, *insane* miscalculation. His throat closed up on all his bravado. Jack released his wrist and waited, eyes unsympathetic. And Vaughn realized that his stunned look before hadn't been a form of crying uncle. It had been a look saying: I can't believe you're this stupid.
"I, um." His hand was between Jack's legs. Hello, Sydney's father. Right now would be a great time for someone to knock on the door. He waited a few seconds, frozen with urgent hope, but that didn't happen.
"You were doing so well before," Jack said. His voice was low and harder than usual to read. "Would you like some help?"
"Please," Vaughn whispered, ashamed, hating himself with a deep sick self-loathing. He'd never get over this. He tried to keep his face blank, to prove that he could be as dispassionate as Jack, but he could feel the resisting twist of muscles around his jaw and brow knew he must look like a basket case. Every inch of his skin was hot with humiliation.
Jack caught his wrist again and pushed him onto his back and moved alongside him, half resting on his body. "This will be easier if you keep in mind just how precious life is."
Right, Vaughn thought, as Jack's mouth came down on his. Bioweapons. We have to prevent bioweapons from falling into the wrong hands. We're having sex to keep the terrorists from winning. Freedom, democracy. We're doing this to safeguard the lives of--people. Lots of people. Lots of hungry people who don't give a shit about us.
Jack was a practiced kisser. Who had he practiced on? No, forget it. He didn't want to know. The other man tasted like toothpaste and smelled like soap, and he was strong. A big guy. His skin was warm and Vaughn could smell the Mediterranean through the open window and between one moment and the next, like a counter reaching zero before the wire could be cut, he blew apart, humiliation giving way to frantic need, his body twisting against Jack's, angling to get Jack's thigh between his legs.
Jack held his head to steady him, and the kiss went deeper. Their legs were rubbing together cricket-like, heels digging for leverage against the mattress. Jack was hard, thank god. Vaughn wasn't in this alone. He arched and offered himself, and it didn't matter that he'd never exactly done this before. If you were certified for field ops, it meant you had the right psychological make-up. He was psychologically flexible. This was just proof of his field competence.
These self-serving thoughts didn't assuage his anxiety, and maybe Jack sensed it. He wasn't making Vaughn do any of the work, wasn't giving him time to think or lose his shit. His mouth and hands went from gentle to violent to gentle again in a capricious cycle that was making Vaughn crazy.
"Oh my god, please," he choked out when Jack's teeth grazed his chest. He bit his lip and Jack did something teasing with his tongue that stole his breath, made him seize up and tremble, afraid to move in case it made him stop. Jack's mouth worried at his flesh as Vaughn's climax began to build, but moved on before it could spill. "No," he protested.
He was naked, given nothing to wear to bed, and when the sheet was pulled away, he winced at being revealed. He was so fucking hard. Jack grasped his dick and ran his thumb up and down its length.
"You're very responsive, Adam."
Vaughn thrashed, wired to come, but Jack's hand stopped his climax. "Please," he said, not caring if it was Jack Bristow or Laszlo Boros, Sydney's father or a psycho terrorist. He couldn't stop fucking the other man's hand, it was just too good, and he was too ready. "I can't--"
"You can come," Jack said, giving permission with authority.
Vaughn bucked and choked back things he didn't want to say, and let himself fly loose in a white-out of pleasure.