Dude, of course Jensen has fantasized about his team. Anyone who's seen the gorgeous motherfuckers he works with would not blame him at all. His team will never, ever, pain-of-death-by-1000-papercuts EVER know that a lot of the random babbling shit that falls from his lips is a last-ditch effort to keep the internal monologue ("Goddamn you're all hot – let's have a contest on who can get naked and hard the fastest") from going shoot-himself-in-the-head external.
Jensen knows lots of guys who have a thing for their commanding officers, the daddy issues snarled up with the desperate desire to please, taking care of someone who takes care of them. Jensen had never been one of them, mainly because his former "superiors" had treated him and his mad skills like a double-A battery, to use up and throw away and not even recycle responsibly. Then the first time Jensen pulled off one of his technological miracles for Clay, the colonel had actually taken a second to smile at him before yelling at the squad to move out. After that, Jensen had some food for thought.
Jensen knows Clay is essentially straight. Beyond the fact that Clay cannot pick a low-drama woman to save his life (almost too close to literally), he's too career military and reverent to that structure to ever start something up with someone under his command. Given that they've been in the field for approximately forever, that means he hasn't had much, if any, chance to bump uglies with anyone but the occasional waitress or other random spitfire. (Though Jensen has caught the occasional edge of a glare from Roque that must have carried some weight with Clay, who shut down mid-flirtation. Jensen thought it was Roque trying to spare them all the inevitable clusterfuck, but…)
Sometimes, though, when Jensen is bunking down and can see Clay burning the midnight oil, trying to figure out the next step in whatever crazy scheme they've been handed by their higher-ups, assholes that Jensen could swear are trying to kill the Losers or turn them into the next entry in some top secret military Candid Camera show, Jensen wants.
He wants to slink into Clay's tent, guilty that he hasn't been able to bend the electronic world to his whim and make it go all smooth, yellow brick road right to the wizard's door. He wants to ease some of the tension out of Clay's shoulders, tell him a joke, play the court jester and caper until Clay smiles. Clay puts up with his bullshit for about the first line of a limerick, though, and then snarls his name. Jensen freezes, go/no-go scenarios flashing through his head as he fumbles for the tent opening.
"Shut up and come here," Clay growls. Jensen may act like a brainless golden retriever, but he hasn't made it this long in the military without being able to read people, a least a little bit. What he's picking up from Clay is frustration, tinged with something…different. Jensen's heartbeat is revving up, and he can start to feel his pulse checking in from around his body. He takes a step towards Clay, then another.
Clay is watching him; Jensen feels like he's coming closer and closer to a bonfire. Any minute now, his clothes are going to singe right off his body from the heat.
"Yes, Colonel?" he gulps, as he tries to figure out the best place to put his hands. In front of his dick is too obvious, while jamming them in his pockets will only emphasize the problem. He settles for loose fists at his sides.
"You really wanna help out, finally put that mouth to good use?" Clay's eyes flick from Jensen's face, flushed and sweating, to his crotch, and back up again. The low rumble of Clay's voice is a sonic wave vibrating up and down Jensen's spine.
"Sir, yes sir," Jensen rasps.
Clay pushes his seat back from the table and sprawls with his legs wide. "Then let's see those pretty lips open wide." He undoes his belt, and –
Jensen comes all over his hand, cursing as quietly as he can at not making it to the end of his mental movie. Again. He's getting tired of his goddamn libido overtaking his imagination in this particular race.
Jensen appreciates and respects Clay like no other officer. The only fear in that department is letting him and the squad down. But if Jensen's being honest, Roque on occasion can scare the fuck out of him. (He wants to know what pocket dimension Roque's got that he keeps all his knives in, because one of those would come in damn handy for toting around all Jensen's favorite tech toys. He knows that whipping a laptop out of nowhere just doesn't have the same impact as the steely ring of a foot-long blade suddenly reflecting your own shocked face back at you, but that doesn't mean he doesn't want to try it sometime.)
If Jensen treasured the integrity of his own skin a little less, he might crack a joke about Roque's fondness for bloodletting and therefore possible vampiric tendencies. As it is, there's a tiny part of his brain, one that he only lets out every once in a long while, that has a picture.
Well, truth be told, it's more of an animated gif, a few frames flickering in sequence. Jensen lying back on the table and holding his hands and feet out wide for Roque's restraints. Jensen tied down, with Roque looming over him as his blade glitters in the light. Jensen tied down, with Roque carefully slitting open his clothes to lay Jensen bare. Jensen tied down, his fatigues cut away, his skin prickling and him barely breathing as the point of Roque's blade traces over his arms, his abs, his thighs. Slow careful scratches, the smallest beads of blood left in the wake, on the way to his…
Jensen shuts that thought down hard before it gets to any kind of conclusion and substitutes images of Maru farting rainbows and other boner-killers. The fascination scares him, and vice versa, but he's mostly afraid of what would happen if the fear went away.
Pooch! Pooch is the dudest of dudes, the broest of bros. Pooch is their anchor, their reminder that there's a life waiting for them outside of the endless missions and MREs and mine fields and other military M things. Pooch can go right on referring to himself in the third person, because Pooch is The Man, dawg. (Jensen's doofusness sometimes cannot be contained.)
Jensen thinks it would be so easy to get drunk and start a round of gay chicken with Pooch that would end in manly laughter (fine, giggles, whatever, he's not proud) and tumbling into bed, or whatever vaguely horizontal surface was available. Except, of course, that Pooch is a family man, and Jensen respects family. He also respects the power of Jolene to stop his heart from thousands of miles away for encroaching on her territory.
So the only way he can make it work in his head is for it to be with both of them involved. Pooch is gorgeous, Jolene is a goddess, and Jensen would be the luckiest bastard alive.
Then Jolene gets pregnant, and Pooch is deliriously happy and proud. Jensen is all smiles and congratulations for him, and internally the shittiest shithead ever, because a baby always makes him think of his niece, and how he misses her so fiercely (he recites the Petunia's line-up to himself to fend off that twang of guilt) so how can he even think about his friend's knocked-up wife in That Way? He knows, has had drilled into him, that pregnant women have sex. That pregnant women even enjoy sex, and are more responsive, and their tits are out of sight – damn, Jolene already had an impressive rack, what must it be like now!
But that baby in her belly is a bond between her and Pooch, a trio with no room for Jensen. (Not that there was ever an actual trio of him and them, give him some credit. He still sheds an imaginary little emo tear for what could have been, if only in his fevered mind. Spending all his stupidity points on soul-searching crap like that frees up his brain to be brilliant in so many other ways.)
Then he sees one of the satellite images of Jolene cradling her belly in a less than happy-glowy-maternal way. She looks downright cranky about being knocked up and hugely uncomfortable. Bam! It hits him – Jolene snuggled up nice and comfy in a chair, directing him and Pooch on the bed for her own private porn show. Jensen doing all the things to Pooch that she couldn't, and Pooch doing all the things to Jensen that he couldn't for her. It helps that mental-Jensen is double-jointed and has no gag reflex, because mental-Pooch is hung like a moose.
Jensen comes really hard that night. If he has a stupid grin on his face when he greets Pooch the next morning, nobody notices anything different. Sometimes, it's good that everyone already thinks he's a genius-level idiot.
Does it count as water sports or necrophilia, that it puts a big smile on Jensen's face to dream of pissing on Max's corpse? Whatever. That fucker needs to die already.
When Aisha joins the Losers, there's something freeing about being able to announce a pant-busting crush out loud. And crush it would be – she'd squash him like a bug. Jensen didn't miss the bruises and abrasions on Clay to go along with his post-coital grin. It confirms that the man is batshit crazy when it comes to women, but damn, what a ride it would be.
Aisha is obviously a woman who would rather set the Pina Colada song on fire or use it for target practice than take a long, romantic walk on a moonlit beach. Then again, maybe she would like it as a refreshing change from burning down motel rooms, but Jensen would rather err on the side of silence and keep all his external parts attached, so it takes him a while to come up with a scenario that feels right. (Jensen knows that some people regard their fantasies as a place to run wild, but he figures that even placing his partners in the same sexual situation as him is a big enough stretch.)
It's the umpteenth iteration of Aisha cleaning her guns, stroking and fondling each piece, that inspires him. Aisha would look absolutely, fucking amazing with a harness sporting a jaw-dropping dildo. In those tight pants of hers, every ridge and bump would stand out in exquisite detail. Jensen is self-aware enough to know that when it comes to the pack hierarchy of the Losers, he is the beta-est of them all. Who else would she turn to when it came to bending over? Double-jointed mental-Jensen would totally be all over, or under, that business.
It's bad enough that Jensen has to auto-correct his gaze up from checking out her ass. After that fantasy pops into rotation, he also has to avoid pondering her non-existent package as well. Sometimes, Jensen would gladly give up his impressive imagination to not have to spend so much brain-power keeping things in check. It's a relief to hide behind a computer when the thoughts get out of hand.
Jensen has been cataloging Cougar's silences for years. If the natives of the Arctic have a thousand words for snow, Cougar has a thousand different quiets in his vocabulary. This one is a familiar blend of "Jensen is such an idiot" and irritation.
So maybe Jensen was trying to orchestrate something, buying a bottle of expensive tequila to keep him and Cougar company in the motel room as they waited for the rest of the team to fly in over the next couple of days. So maybe playing a one-sided game of "Truth or Dare" was about as smooth as fake-sneezing and putting your arm around your date's shoulders at the movies. Jensen resigned himself long ago to being a dork. He's bored and horny, and if Cougar kills him for making a move, at least it would make the time go faster.
"What? I sit here and confess all of my best jerk-off material to you, and you're looking at me like I set your hat on fire or something. You've never had a passing thought, the vaguest desire for a comrade in arms?"
Jensen is getting nervous as Cougar's irritation rapidly shapes into anger. Maybe it was time to start back-pedaling.
"Look, you could have said 'Shut up, Jensen' at any time. That would hardly have dipped into your daily ration of words at all. Or even 'Stop'. That works. You know, sometimes."
The silence is practically quivering between them, like the shimmering heat waves rising over asphalt.
Cougar finally speaks. "All those words, those names. There is one I do not hear."
"Cougar?" Jensen's mind races, but panic has turned his train of thought into a tight circle. What did he do, or what didn't he do, and how badly has he fucked up this time?
"Yes, that one."
With that, enlightenment finally dawns in Jensen's brain, and the relief makes him want to sprawl back on the bed. One look at Cougar's face, though, and Jensen knows he's still in the middle of a mine field without a map.
Jensen gets his hands up into a defensive position. "Please don't hurt me too badly if I'm wrong, but let me work this one out. You're pissed."
Cougar gives a sharp nod.
"Because I didn't mention you in my list of fantasies."
"And…you're mad that I evidently don't think of you, um, in that kind of carnal way?"
A flaring of nostrils and a deep breath in and out is all Jensen gets for that. It's part of Cougar's sniper ritual, to calm himself down. Jensen takes that as a sign that he's closing in on the target.
"Cougar, I'm going to say something here, and I really hope I get it right, because I will save you the trouble and effort of shooting me and jump out this window myself if I fuck this up, but…"
Jensen takes a deep breath himself and glances down. He's surprised that his heart only feels like it's pulling a cartoonish, Roger Rabbit attempt to beat right out of his chest.
"All those fantasies, all those thoughts were for the people I never thought I could have. The people it was, fuck, safe to want like that, because I never really wanted any of them as badly as I wanted you."
There's a beat. Then another. Jensen puts his hands down on the bed and resigns himself to the window option. Just when he's pushing up to stand, Cougar blurs into action.
After a tense moment, Jensen realizes he's not dead, or maimed, or even bruised. What he is, is pinned down on the bed by a whole lot of Cougar. Cougar, plus…Jensen dares to wiggle his hips. Extra Cougar. He smiles.
"So, I guess you're not killing me right away?"
Cougar leans down with a glacial slowness and purrs (oh, Jensen is totally going to pun Hell for that one) right into Jensen's ear, "If you are very lucky, it will be the little death for us both tonight."
Jensen, as it turns out, is the luckiest fucking bastard in this galaxy or any other.