Jack understands the chain of command. He's been a part of it almost all his life, from his days as a bootlicking grunt to today, now, when he does his damnedest to drive people in the SERE program either out of the program altogether or to a level of endurance and performance they never knew they could reach.
He also understands the ins and outs of administration and bureaucracy, and he's in one of those strange jobs where his boss's boss's boss is going to be a new guy every eight years, sometimes every four years. Sometimes the guy's got a good head on his shoulders and he knows what he's doing; sometimes Jack's really fucking glad he doesn't have to go toe-to-toe with the Commander in Chief. It kind of rankles him that most Presidents don't get the job because they know what the fuck they're doing with the nation's armed forces, but that's the way it is--no point in crying about it.
The new guy, though. The new guy's good. And when Jack meets him for the first time, when he takes President Redfield's hand and shakes it, there's a little jolt that goes right up his spine, one that makes him want to stand up a little straighter, work a little harder, make sure the President gets everything he wants out of Jack and his men.
Or, later, when they have fifteen minutes alone, everything he wants out of Jack.
He's not thinking of Redfield as the President during that fifteen minutes. Not mostly. He's not thinking about the fact that, outside this office, there are forty-five Secret Service men who'd take Jack out for even breathing at Redfield the wrong way. He feels Redfield's hand on his shoulder and his breath hot against his ear, Redfield's chest up against his back, and he thinks yes, sir, and he goes down on his knees when Redfield puts just a little gentle pressure on his shoulder.
He drops his pants, bends over at the waist, braces himself on the floor; Redfield runs a hand over his ass and slips a thumb between his cheeks, holding him open. Jack's not surprised when he gets spit for lube, and he's only a little surprised that the President's hiding a condom somewhere, that the next thing Jack feels is cool latex over hot skin pressing at his asshole. He pushes back, and Redfield grabs his hips and pushes forward, and neither one of them makes a sound.
Redfield fucks like a man who knows how to be in charge; Jack would recognize it anywhere. It's the way he fucks when he's on top, the way he's been fucked by men who made it clear they were worth letting in. It's been a while; it can be lonely at the top. There are a half-dozen men Jack could let fuck him nowadays, and Redfield's at the top of the list.
When Redfield reaches around and gets his hand on Jack's dick, Jack grits his teeth together to keep from making any noise. He nods, though, and Redfield squeezes in response to that. There's a language to this, words that play out in silence, and the cant of Jack's hips means harder while the grip Redfield's got on his dick means you're gonna take it how I feel like giving it to you.
And he does; he holds on for the ride and takes it, lets Redfield work his dick and fuck him deep and steady, until finally Redfield lets his dick go to get both hands on Jack's shoulders and tug back hard. Jack balances on one hand and works his own dick as Redfield pounds into him, as Redfield's fingernails bite through Jack's uniform shirt, as the impact when their bodies come together gets louder and louder in the room.
And then Redfield shoves in one last time, and Jack feels him coming, breath hissed out between his teeth. Jack doesn't have a lot of time to appreciate the sensation, though, because Redfield pulls out and rolls him over, and this, this Jack wasn't expecting, Redfield kneeling between Jack's legs, licking one fast swipe up Jack's cock and then swallowing it down. Jack grunts, comes up on one elbow, and gets a hand into Redfield's hair. It's broad daylight; he can see this, can see the determination and strength in Redfield's expression as he sucks Jack's cock.
It's hard not thinking of him as the President now; Jack's seen that look too many times. It's going to get him hard every goddamned time he sees it now, and he knows Redfield's not going to care about that. He's just doing something he's really fucking good at, and he's not going to stop until Jack gives him what he wants.
Jack closes his eyes, tightens his grip on Redfield's hair, and sets his teeth together. When he comes, it's with long, hot pulses into Redfield's throat, and Redfield rides them out, swallows down every last jet of Jack's come, and Jack opens his eyes to see Redfield pulling back, licking his lips, gently taking Jack's hand out of his hair.
They straighten up in silence, both of them getting their clothes back in order, Redfield running his hands through his hair to set it back to rights. Jack slips back into his uniform jacket and straightens his tie.
"Next time you're in Washington," Redfield says--and there's nothing in his voice, not the slightest hint that anything just happened here--"I'll want to see you again."
Jack nods. "Yes, sir."