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Broken Wing (Need Something to Mend Me)

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Cougar watches Jensen from four floors up, squatting on a paint can behind the ledge of the half-open window, his rifle resting easily on the sill. His eyes may flicker away momentarily when he adjusts his trajectory or rubs his nose (tickled by ambient plaster dust and the smell of fresh latex paint), but his attention never wavers. He waits, alert for any of the half-dozen signals Jensen concocted to request his intervention.

The meeting looks like it's been going smoothly so far, Jensen gesturing animatedly yet with no signs of distress, but time is getting tight. If the pattern established by last week's recon holds, they have between six and nine minutes before the crew renovating this apartment building finish lunch at the deli around the corner (today's special: Reuben sandwich with borscht and coleslaw; someone obviously doesn't believe in too much cabbage) and pass the alley mouth on their way back to work. If they don't spot Jensen and the contacts, they will trap Cougar, so the team really ought to wrap up and exfiltrate in five.

Cougar tenses when he sees Jensen step back, away from the shorter men over-dressed for the weather in clothes from the most expensive store at the outlet mall. He raises a let-me-explain hand and Cougar inhales, drawing a bead on the guy on the left, the one half an arm's length farther away from Jensen. Scattered syllables float up from the alley below to penetrate Cougar's ear protection, but even unmuffled by distance and ear protection he wouldn't know what they were saying. Jensen's in the alley because no one else on the team speaks any Tagalog except for Aisha, and she has reason to prefer that word of her continued existence not get back to these boys' criminal families. She's behind cover at the far end of the alley, cutting off escape in case things get ugly—an outcome that's looking likelier by the second.

Jensen clenches his upraised right hand into a fist and Cougar drops the guy on the left at the same moment that the guy on the right pulls a Chief's Special from the back of his pants. Jensen launches himself into his assailant before he gets the gun up, twisting his arm around, and then there's a crash from closer to Clay's end of the alley and suddenly there's a third gangster making a run for it and how the hell did he get there? Cougar swept the alley himself before the meet and there was no one hiding in that doorway then. Jensen's still grappling the kid with the handgun; Cougar's eyes flick away long enough to watch Clay clothesline the would-be escapee, then back in time to see the force of the shot quake through Jensen and his gangster before the report reaches his ears. His blood freezes and he can't move until he sees Jensen's foot lash out, sweeping his attacker off balance.

Cougar disassembles and stows his gear as quickly as he can, erasing all trace of his presence in the apartment, then heads for the fire escape. He glances over the railing and sees Aisha kneeling over one of the fallen gangsters, Clay hauling the third one back up the alley by the scruff of his neck, and Jensen between them, leaning against the graffiti'd wall with his arms wrapped left over right around his ribcage. Cougar almost wishes he wasn't wearing that black wool surplus sweater so he could see how badly he was bleeding.

When he reaches the ground Aisha and Clay are up in each other's faces, each blaming the other for the meeting going south and probably seconds away from either a schoolyard shoving match or an Xtube video. Cougar marches right past them and up to Jensen, pressing in close. His skin is ashen and when he lifts his head to look at Cougar there are tears in the corners of his eyes.

“Shot?” Cougar asks.

“Worse,” Jensen says, releasing his arms from around his torso and holding out his right hand for Cougar's inspection. His wrist is noticeably swollen. “I think he broke my fucking hand.”

*

“It's not broken,” Pooch pronounces once they've finally got everybody into the van and back to the safehouse and tied their captive teenage Filipino gang member to a concrete pillar.

“You sure?” Jensen says, flinching as Pooch keeps prodding and manipulating his puffed-up hand.

Pooch raises an eyebrow, looking from Jensen to Cougar and back. “Are you questioning my expertise?”

Cougar shakes his head, still disoriented with his own relief that Jensen was not more seriously injured. It's true that while Cougar's the top choice in the team for cutting things up and sewing them back together, Pooch has the edge at sports medicine and other non–blood-gushing ailments.

“You sprained your thumb. Twisted it around too far in the socket? I'm sure it hurts like hell but the bones are all intact. Doesn't look like the ligament's completely torn so it should heal up on its own in a few weeks. Take some anti-inflammatories and I'll find you something to use as an ice pack.” He starts rifling around in their no longer remotely standard issue med kit.

Jensen sighs and starts to push away from the card table they're all sitting around, then yelps when Pooch grabs his injured hand and starts wrapping it with surgical tape. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Taping your hand so you don't make things worse by flapping it around.”

“Pooch, I need my hand. I can't do my job with no hands. A handless hacker is hardly helpful.”

“You still have the other one.”

“Yeah, but—” He manages to yank his hand away, and loses his argument to a soundless grimace.

“This is your dominant hand, right?” The way Jensen blushes at that makes Cougar feel like he suddenly knows far more than he really needs to about a colleague's masturbatory habits. Pooch continues, “Look, it'll heal faster if it's immobilized, at least for the first while.”

“How long's a while?” Jensen reluctantly offers his hand back to Pooch, allowing him to unwrap his first interrupted attempt at splinting and to lay the tape back on smooth and even, pressing thumb into palm with a steady compression that won't pinch or hinder circulation.

“I dunno, maybe a week. Until it stops hurting so much. After that you can take off the wrappings and do some stretches to keep the joint mobile, but you shouldn't try anything strenuous for at least a couple weeks.”

“Weeks, are you joking? You're joking. Pooch, tell me you're joking. Please?”

“I'm not joking. Now hold on while I go see if we got any more frozen peas.” Pooch shuts the latch on the first aid case and heads off towards their ad hoc kitchen in the warehouse's former break room.

Cougar looks at Jensen, slumped in his camp chair pouting and picking at the lint already catching at the edge of the tape wrapping. “Still worse?” he asks.

“Worse than what?”

“Being shot.”

Jensen holds up his bandaged hand, bound wrist to knuckles with dull white Micropore, smooth-contoured like a seal flipper. He rolls his head onto his shoulder to look at Cougar dolefully, long eyelashes brushing the insides of his smudged lenses. He doesn't need to say, 'what do you think?'

*

Approximately two hours after the bandage went on, Jensen walks into the centre of the warehouse floor. He takes a deep breath. “This is flipping ridiculous!” he announces to the room at large.

Cougar turns his head to look at him but does not stop cleaning plaster dust out of his guns. Pooch doesn't bother to slide out from under the van he's tinkering with the undercarriage of. Their juvenile prisoner, still gagged and sitting on the floor with his head tilted back against the pillar he's tied to, looks like he agrees. This is probably not the reaction Jensen was hoping for.

“I can't do my work!” He pauses again to wait for a response, and pushes on when he doesn't get one. “I've been trying, okay? Turns out one out of ten fingers injured does not decimate my productivity, in the original sense of the word. It doesn't even halve it, having one hand all taped up and stupid. This one messed up thumb has thrown off my whole game; my speed and accuracy are both so shot . . . it's like with Rightie taking a holiday old Leftie don't know where he's supposed to be!” He stares at his hands like Lady MacBeth, confounded by their betrayal, then glances around the warehouse frantically looking for some sign of sympathy from his audience. “Aren't any of you the least bit concerned about this?”

Cougar shrugs his condolences—it's a tough break, sure, but there's nothing any of them can do about it. Jensen looks like he's about to launch into another volley when Clay storms out of the upstairs office, wiping blood from his split lip and slamming the door so hard behind him that it bounces.

Aisha appears on the threshold, catching the door with a slap of her palm, and screams after him, “No one ever said revenge was pretty, Clay!”

Clay waves a hand over his shoulder as he stomps down the stairs with a series of evenly-spaced clangs. He stalks into the kitchen without a word, and Aisha shuts herself back into the office.

Cougar glances back at Jensen to see how he's handling being upstaged, and knows by the way he's curling in on himself that he's flashing back to childhood. Jensen must be able to feel Cougar's eyes on him because he looks up at him and quirks a bitter grin. “Do you ever feel like a 'B' story in your own life?”

Cougar doesn't answer, of course, just watches Jensen scuff his boot on the floor and go back to the corner where he's set up his computers.

*

One positive outcome of Clay and Aisha's fighting: it seems to have frightened their captive into breaking his silence because he immediately starts begging Cougar and Pooch for leniency. It turns out too that he's the grandkid of one of the few people in this city's Filipino diaspora community who actually likes Aisha, which is something of a blessing. When she comes to the warehouse to retrieve the boy she smacks him upside the head for running around with gangs and promises to do what she can to spin the story of what happened in that alley, which is probably about as salvaged as they can hope for on this operation, and more of a happy ending than they've come to expect. Still, it means it's time to move on. They've burned this lead on Max, now it's on to the next one.

*

Jensen mostly keeps to himself for the rest of the day, pecking away at his keyboards petulantly with his index fingers while Clay and Aisha plan the next move. Cougar doesn't hear him speak again until he happens to pass the jakes on his way back from packing the first loads of gear in the vans in preparation for their departure, when Jensen pokes his head around the door and says, red-faced, “Help.”

Cougar turns around to look at him. Jensen cringes and repeats himself, louder.

“Help. Please.”

Cougar isn't sure he wants to ask 'with what?' but Jensen beckons him closer and he leans in obediently. “I can't button up my fly.”

“¿Qué?”

“I came in here to take a piss, okay, and I managed to get my pants off and do my business with only one hand, but now I can't . . . will you please do up my fly for me? I'm already, y'know, it's all tucked in, you don't have to touch anything except my pants, I just. Can't do it without my other thumb.” He looks so embarrassed by the request but worse than that he's curling in again, wincing like it's physically hurting him to have to ask for help. Cougar nods and nudges him back into the bathroom.

He reaches for the open edges of Jensen's jeans, but realizes he has no experience closing somebody else's button fly, so lowers himself to his knees so he can get a better look at what he's doing. Jensen sucks a breath through his nose and fixes his eyes on the wall above Cougar's head as Cougar starts slipping the buttons through the holes one at a time, bottom to top. “You okay?” he asks from the ground.

“Oh, sure. Apart from the gut-wrenching certainty that someone is about to walk in here and get the wrongest of wrong ideas.”

Cougar takes his point and doesn't dawdle. Doesn't leer or suggest that they forestall that possibility by either locking the door or making that wrong idea a right one, either, because he's not sure he could make it sound like a joke, right now. Instead he glides to his feet as soon as the top button's closed and gives Jensen a friendly pat on the arm, and avoids looking him in the eye as he leaves the bathroom.

*

They get the vans packed up by nightfall, Cougar and Pooch and Aisha and Clay. Jensen tries to help as much as he can, but that mostly boils down to standing around protectively while Aisha packs up his precious machines.

Shortly before they're ready to leave Cougar catches Jensen in the kitchen eating leftover take-out with a plastic fork gripped awkwardly in his left hand. His progress is slow but he seems to be managing until Cougar shuts off the tap and raises his freshly filled water bottle to his lips, at which point Jensen misses his mouth with the fork and drops tortellini down his shirtfront. Jensen curses and grabs a handful of paper napkins with which to scrub at his sweater, while Cougar quietly crosses the room and picks up one of the napkins left lonely on the table and uses it to wipe up the smear of sauce on Jensen's cheek. Jensen stares at him, wide-eyed, for a long moment before he says “thank you.”

Cougar nods and sits down next to him, picking pasta out of the foil dish and eating it with his fingers.

*

It gets easier over the next few days, as Jensen and Cougar both figure out what Jensen can and cannot do with his bandaged hand. It's mostly little things, like buttons and bottle caps, that give him trouble, but Cougar is always there to step in and do what he can't or just to make things easier, quietly, discreetly, when no one else is watching. It's blatantly obvious how much Jensen hates asking for help, so Cougar does his best not to give him the chance, tries to anticipate his need and take care of it without prompting. And Jensen lets him, for the most part, but there's a tension in his eyes whenever he does, and more than once he opens his mouth to say something serious and important, but all that ever comes out is 'thank you.' And Cougar always just nods, never tells Jensen 'no thanks required,' it's his pleasure, his privilege.

*

Eight days after the fight in the alley, in a motel in another city, Jensen comes to Cougar's room to get his shirt off. He'd spent the day poking around a courthouse, pretending to be a lawyer. His hand has healed enough that a couple of nights ago he started unwrapping the tape in the evenings and doing some gentle stretches before bed, but suits are still beyond his current self-dressing abilities so that morning Cougar had buttoned his shirt and tied his tie, straightening the knot and giving the silk a smoothing stroke before pronouncing him (despite his week's growth of new beard and the increasingly feral condition of his existing facial hair, but Jensen insisted on handling that sort of personal grooming on his own) suitably litigious looking. Jensen made a face like he'd accidentally put salt in his coffee again and left without even his usual muttered gratitude.

Now Jensen's standing in the middle of the room, spine straight but fingers twitching for something to fidget with, his back to the closed door as Cougar unwinds the knot of his tie.

“I, um.” Jensen clears his throat. “We need to talk.”

Cougar glances up at him as he drapes the tie over the back of a chair and returns to Jensen's collar button. Jensen blinks. He takes off his glasses with his left hand and passes them to his right, pinching the bridge between his index and middle fingers while he fishes in his pocket for a cloth.

“It's been hard for me, this past week. Not being able to do things. You know that, right?”

Cougar nods.

“Having you do stuff for me . . . it's helped and it's made it worse, if you know what I mean.”

Cougar's not sure that he does.

“What I mean is, I'm grateful for your help and I don't know how I'd get by without you, but I'm having a hard time accepting it—it just feels really weird to me.” Jensen decides his lenses are clean enough and puts his glasses back on his face, just in time for Cougar to finish with the buttons on his shirt and step around him to pull it off his shoulders from behind. Jensen whirls on Cougar neatly folding his shirt. “See, like that. That's the kind of thing that weirds me out.”

Cougar hands the shirt to Jensen, who throws it on the chair with the tie. Cougar's eyes follow its flight, then flick back to Jensen's, partially obscured by his still-smudgy lenses. “Why does that weird you out?”

Jensen looks up at the ceiling, rubbing the outsides of his bare arms. “You know I'm not used to being taken care of.”

“You don't like feeling helpless.”

Jensen scrunches up his face. “Not exactly. It's—I wear my keys on the right, okay?”

“I noticed,” Cougar says, because he has. Jensen's keys are always in his right pocket or clipped to a belt loop on his right side, except for a very few occasions, rare enough to stand out in Cougar's memory, when Jensen was pretending to be someone powerful and important. He'd connected the act immediately with 'getting into character,' not being Jensen, but hadn't thought about what else it might mean besides breaking habit.

“Do you know what that means?”

He shakes his head.

“It's flagging, right, like the hanky code. You know about that one?”

Cougar starts to shake his head again, then stops. He does too know about flagging and hankies, non-verbal ways of signalling sexual proclivities. He just doesn't know why Jensen is talking about this now. “So keys on the right means . . .”

“Keys on the right means looking to bottom, but for me it's more than that. It's who I am, I'm a submissive. I want my partner to be in control. A lot of my submission is about service: doing things for people, for tops, people who are dominating me. Things likes some of what you've been doing for me.” Jensen pauses, licks his lips. “Do you get what I'm saying?”

“It makes you uncomfortable, seeing these things outside your sexual context?”

Jensen waggles his head from side to side, then looks down at the carpet, pulling up bits of fluff with his socks. “Sort of? That's part of it, maybe, except it feels like—I'm not sure this isn't a sexual context, sometimes.”

Cougar frowns, processing. “These people who dominate you . . . are they men?”

Jensen gets very still. Cougar can see some of the fear go out of him as he remembers they're no longer in the Army, and that it wouldn't matter anymore if they were, but he still looks edgy. “Sometimes? Yeah, I like men. Mostly, these days . . . I like you.”

Cougar blinks, then feels his face slowly blossom into a smile as Jensen keeps babbling to the floor. It's like his stomach is full of butterflies and they're swirling up towards his head and the breath of their wings is drowning out all sound, so he has to concentrate on what Jensen's saying.

“So that's part of the problem, I guess, is that you keep touching me, and watching me, and I'm so, I don't know, ecstatic about the attention but I don't want to, like, take advantage, or make you feel—what?” Jensen looks up and frowns at his idiot grin.

“I like you too.”

“You—what?”

“I like you too,” Cougar repeats, and puts his hands on the sides of Jensen's neck.

“Oh, well, um, I, that's—” Jensen's eyes widen as he finally digests what Cougar's saying. “That's great! That's better than great, it—that's splendiferous!”

Jensen grabs hold of his shoulders and steps in closer. He tilts his head and leans in like he's going to kiss him, and Cougar stretches to meet him, but he pulls back to giggle and stare at Cougar's face. He does it again and then a third time before Cougar tightens his grip on the back of Jensen's neck and mashes their mouths together. They kiss on their feet, twirling around and around the motel room floor, until the backs of Jensen's knees bump into the edge of the bed and he sits down hard. Cougar climbs up on top of him, knees on either side of his hips, and they keep kissing.

“Wait,” Jensen eventually says between kisses. “I had something important to say.”

Cougar makes a noise of encouragement.

“I—what were we talking about?”

“Liking each other.”

“No, before that.”

“You feeling funny because I didn't know you were submissive.”

“Right! So,” Jensen says, and punctuates it with another kiss, “I hope you don't think I'm looking a gift Cougar in the mouth, hehe, 'cause I can already tell you have a really great mouth.”

He grins and nuzzles Jensen's forehead.

“I just want to make sure you know that if we're getting together, you know, for real, you're going to have to be a bit toppier.”

Cougar laughs over Jensen's head, scraggly beard-growth scratching and tickling as Jensen lips his throat. “You think I'm not toppy?” He rolls the new word around his mouth, testing out the feel of it.

“Well, I know you can be,” Jensen says, “I just mean, the stuff you've been doing, tying my shoes and cutting up my food . . . you're not exactly earning your Top Scout badges.”

He frowns. Something's off, here. It sounds like what Jensen's calling 'topping' now is a completely different issue from what he heard in the term, but what does he know? All he has is his own experience, while Jensen talks like he belongs to a culture. “I should leave.”

Jensen's head snaps up. “What? What did I say?”

Cougar shakes his head and gestures around the room. “Too fast. I need to think.”

“No, I said something. What did I say? Did I insult you?”

He stands up off the bed. “We'll talk tomorrow, 'kay?”

“But this is your room,” Jensen protests.

“I'll sleep in the hall.”

“Okay, that's just stupid.” He sighs and scrubs at his eyes with his good hand, pushing his glasses up onto his forehead. “I'll go, you can have your room back.”

Jensen leaves looking worried. He forgets his shirt and tie. Cougar waits until the door is closed to lie down on the bed, hat on his chest, and ask the ceiling what he's supposed to do next. Does Jensen think because he 'serves' him that he's trying to do his job, undermine his role? Cougar can understand how that might make him insecure, but what he's been doing hasn't felt like submission. It feels . . . protective. Nurturing. Possessive . . . dominant. Is that wrong? Or is it just looking at things from a different vantage than Jensen is used to?

*

There's shaving cream on Jensen's bandaged hand when he opens the door to Cougar's knock the next morning, and more in the sink and on the mirror when he silently allows Cougar to follow him to the bathroom. Cougar's already dressed in jeans and a t-shirt but Jensen's still topless, in his pajama bottoms.

“I decided it was time for the scruff to go,” he explains, gesturing at the shaving kit spread out over the counter. “Unfortunately, getting lather out of the can using only my sinister hand has proven more complicated than previously suspected.”

Cougar stays on the threshold, keeping even his toes on the carpet and off the linoleum.

Jensen wipes the foam from his tape onto a towel. He keeps his back to the real Cougar, locking eyes with his reflection. “What happened last night?”

Cougar licks his lips, marshalling his thoughts. Jensen continues before he figures out how to start.

“I freaked you out, didn't I? The submissive thing, it was too much for you. I turned you off.”

“Not at all,” Cougar says. “I just need to make sure we agree on what it means.”

Jensen exhales, shoulders slumping with relief, but his face is still wary. “I'm listening.”

“You want to be controlled by someone powerful, yes? Yet you complain about me taking care of you. Are these exclusive?” He raises a hand to forestall Jensen's reply, showing off the key ring hanging from his middle finger. “You can tell me if I am wrong or if this does not make sense to you, but this is how it makes sense to me. It seems dominance is about attitude, no? About motivation. When you serve as a submissive, you offer yourself and you obey, but when I have 'served' you, I have not offered and you have not commanded. My 'service', what compelled me to do it, was not submission to you, it was the opposite. When I take care, I have power. When I make things easier for you, this is a kind of control, just as much as if I made them harder. I do things for you, I do them to you, this is my will, not yours. I protect you, you depend on me, I am in control. I cut your food. I tie your shoes. I am in control.”

In the mirror, Jensen's mouth has fallen open. He follows with his eyes as Cougar takes the key ring and clips it onto his left front belt loop.

“You say you want me to top you. I say I am already doing it.”

Jensen shivers, struck speechless once again.

“Perhaps you would like a demonstration?”

“Okay,” Jensen says, croaking slightly as Cougar finally steps into the bathroom, pressing in close behind him and reaching around his body to lay a hand on the handle of his razor.

“You trust me with your life, with a gun. Do you trust me with a blade?”

Jensen finally turns his head to look over his shoulder at Cougar. “Yes.”

“Sit.”

Cougar points toward the toilet as he moves Jensen's shaving supplies over to the edge of the counter where he'll be able to reach them. Jensen lowers the lid and sits down on it. Cougar straddles his thighs, like he did the night before. He drapes one hand towel across both their laps and hangs the other around Jensen's neck, puts Jensen's glasses aside on the counter, then picks up the tiny scissors from Jensen's grooming kit.

“Same as before?” he asks as he starts to snip away the overgrowth of Jensen's goatee.

“If you don't mind.” Jensen tries to speak without moving his chin, then blows the effort by smirking. “It was rather a work of art.”

Cougar rolls his eyes but obliges him, pruning his beard and sideburns into about the same shape as they were in last week before setting down the scissors and shaking the cream canister for lather. He takes his time spreading the thick, slick foam over Jensen's cheeks, under his jaw and down his neck, and across his face below his nose. He uses the clean knuckle of his own right thumb to clear the excess off of Jensen's pink-tinged lips, which push out to press a kiss on the heel of Cougar's hand before it draws away out of reach. Then he picks up the razor.

Jensen gasps when Cougar uses two fingers pressed to his forehead to turn his face to the right, then draws the razor smoothly down his left cheek. Cougar wipes the foam and hair off on the towel on his thigh, then repeats the gesture until that cheek is clean and smooth, and once it is he kisses it. Jensen tries to turn in to the kiss and return it, but Cougar leans out of the way and controls him the same way as before, pushing him the other direction. He goes through the whole ritual of stroke, clean, stroke, clean, kiss on this side, then twists Jensen's head back to centre. He mimes the face he wants Jensen to make, stretching out his upper lip so he can get rid of the moustache so far left behind, and when that's done he gives Jensen the kiss he was asking for before, and ten more for good measure.

He nearly forgets what he was doing, apart from kissing Jensen, until flecks of drying shaving cream start falling down Jensen's shirt. He growls contentedly and grabs a handful of Jensen's hair, using it to pull his head back. Jensen's exposed throat vibrates when he moans, and Cougar notices the next time he looks down to clear the razor Jensen's hard-on tenting the towel though his pajama pants. He chuckles and drags the razor's blades agonizingly slowly up his throat. He does it again, even slower this time, keeping Jensen teetering on the edge of wanting to squirm and knowing that now would not be a good time.

Cougar is grateful for all the training and predisposition that keep his sniper hands steady under pressure, as he bares more and more skin on Jensen's throat and the hunger in the pit of his stomach grows more and more intense, squirming up his spine and out toward his fingertips. Going this slowly is becoming a sweet torture for him, too.

Finally the last patch of stubble is scraped away, and Cougar can throw the razor away from them into the sink. The soiled towel from his lap follows after it, and then Cougar is lunging forward, slamming Jensen back into the water tank as he licks at the clean, aloe-tingling skin of his throat and sinks his teeth into the thick muscle of his shoulder. Jensen yelps and grabs his ass, keeping him close and grinding up against him.

“¿Te gusta?” Cougar asks, curling lower to bite at Jensen's pectoral while he works a hand between him, noting the damp spot on Jensen's pajama pants as he reaches inside to wrap his fingers around his burning cock. Jensen groans and thrusts up into his fist.

“Fuck yes,” Jensen says, then adds, almost like an excuse, like he's apologizing for his eagerness, like this is some temporary deviation from his usually sedate demeanour, “you know it's been over a week.”

Cougar's not sure if he believes that, knows that if it were him he'd have found a way to get off in spite of his injury; he'd rather suppose that his actions have Jensen so flustered that he's embarrassed by the intensity of his own response. Not that he can blame him, exactly—it feels so good to be here, letting the side of himself that he's only just learned to call 'dominant' out on Jensen, who writhes and moans under the attention . . . Cougar's not feeling all that patient either. Anyway, if Jensen has waited this long, a few more minutes won't kill him.

Grabbing hold of Jensen's hair again, Cougar withdraws his right hand from Jensen's pants and starts unfastening his own, standing up off of Jensen's lap to do so. He can feel the resistance in Jensen's scalp, his desire to lunge forward, to get his face right in there before Cougar even finishes getting his cock out, but he holds him back, makes him wait while tucks his underwear out of the way and gives himself a couple of nice slow strokes before he lets him go. When he does Jensen immediately slides forward on the toilet seat, laying his intact and injured hands on either side of Cougar's hips and kissing the base of his dick. He drags his flat tongue up the underside before gulping the shaft into his mouth, and damn if that clever pouting little mouth isn't just as good at sucking cock as he imagined it would be.

He keeps his grip on Jensen's hair, not really pulling, just letting him feel that control still there, and Jensen moans every time those fingers tighten. Jensen moaning like that makes Cougar want to fuck his throat until he gags and chokes, but Cougar's not sure how Jensen'd react to that. They haven't talked much about what's allowed, or welcome, Cougar realizes, besides drawing a rough chalk line around their roles. Better to play it safe for now, make sure Jensen is okay with what they've already done, before he tries to push it any farther.

Cougar pulls Jensen back off his cock, kissing him on the forehead for his bewildered pout, and sits back down on his lap. He gets his hand around both their cocks and starts pumping, feeling the slide of skin on skin slick with Jensen's spit and pre-cum. Jensen grunts and grits his teeth and Cougar loosens his hold on his hair enough that he can rest his weight against Cougar's chest. His bandaged hand pushes up under Cougar's shirt to rest at the small of his back.

“Promise me one thing, please?” Jensen asks, his forehead tucked in to Cougar's shoulder. “When I can, when my hand is better, will you let me return all the favours?”

Cougar answers by gripping the scruff of Jensen's neck so tightly it pulls taut on the skin of his throat, purring as Jensen moans and comes in his hand. The added rush of lubrication, not to mention the smell of it and the weight of Jensen sagging against his chest, is all Cougar needs to bring him to the edge too, and he adds his load to the spatter on Jensen's belly and pants.

When his heartbeat starts to slow he nuzzles Jensen's temple and traces a question mark on his forehead with a sticky finger. Jensen grunts and sits up but stays close enough that he can watch Cougar's face clearly without needing to reach for his glasses.

“Two questions chasing each other round in my head right now,” he says. “First, what would have happened if I hurt my hand any earlier than now? Second, and with more bearing on reality, what happens next?”

Cougar purses his lips as Jensen blinks up at him warily. He nods gravely, reaching behind his back to clasp Jensen's injured hand and bring it around in front so he can kiss his bare knuckles at the edge of the tape. “Next, we shower.”