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Nathan spends the two days after first having Jack Carter, naked and needy, beneath him tamping down the gnawing panic that it will inevitably turn out to be a misunderstanding, a fluke, a failed experiment .
He has no excuse for this, a fact he admits to himself even at the time. Jack had been a little clumsy, but undeniably enthusiastic – greedy, even – reaching for Nathan even as the aftershocks of his own orgasm were still shuddering through his abdomen, uncoordinated and incoherent but determined to push his way into Nathan's slacks, into his briefs, wrap his hand around Nathan's erection. It takes them a moment or two of re-arrangement – Nathan doing most of the heavy lifting, since Jack still can't seem to negotiate the edges of his own skin – but Jack's soon pillowed against Nathan's shoulder, post-coital heat burning a line down Nathan's right side, humming contentedly as he works his fingers around Nathan's cock, taking measure of him, murmuring sleepy encouragement as Nathan jerks up into his hand, grasps ineffectually at the tangled blankets, shifts his hips and jerks again –
“Yeah, yeah, that's it,” he feels Jack's words against his own skin, too far gone to articulate a response, and somewhat to his own amazement he's over the edge almost before he realizes he's there at the precipice, with a groan pushed up from his toes, a burst of heat, and the wash of release through his muscles, erasing tension he hadn't known was there, unknotting tangles that probably haven't been undone in years.
So, in short: it had been good. More than good. And they'd fallen asleep after mopping up and slept right through Zoe's return and nearly through the six o'clock wake-up call from S.A.R.A.H. They didn't quite have the co-sleeping thing worked out yet and Nathan woke with a stiff neck, but the hot shower worked out the kinks, and Jack's borrowed sweatpants and sweatshirt – smelling of Jack's detergent helped keep it real, helped him screw up enough courage to go down to the kitchen where Jack (well, S.A.R.A.H.) had coffee ready and where Jack (not S.A.R.A.H.) offered kisses that tasted of peaberry and hot buttered croissant.
“Zoe?” Nathan had managed – they hadn't talked about this the night before, how Zoe might react to –
“Still asleep,” Jack had mumbled through his pastry. Then, grasping the unasked question: “It's okay. She knows. I mean, not about us because we haven't – but about--” he'd gestured in a way that took in Nathan's, well, undeniable maleness, then, “-- you do know she's bi, right?”
To be perfectly honest, Nathan hadn't (thank God) given Zoe's love life one millesecond of thought until now, but even without coffee grasps how this might change the picture: “I – no, I hadn't realized, but – I see.” He blinks, taking the coffee Jack offers – “how long?”
He'd meant how long have you known or how long has she known or – he's not even sure. Mostly he'd been making small talk to fill the silence, feeling the twanging in his nerve endings that he knew from experience wouldn't bring anything good once he's had silence and space to give them time and attention.
“Since seventh grade,” Jack had shrugged. “I mean, we kinda – suspected before then, Abby and I, but Abby didn't want to push her to tell us. And my experiences were – I'd had crushes, but never any relationships serious enough, before Abby, where they ever came up.” Nathan had realized, of course, that it was Carter's way of offering him an opening to ask: So tell me, how much experience with men do you have, exactly? But Nathan hadn't been ready for that conversation; he wasn't sure he wanted to know.
The night before had been – well, unexpected. Jack had surprised him, in a way he's beginning to think he could get used to, but – it all feels too new, too fragile, as if he could exhale in the wrong direction and the filaments might shatter.
Which is why he's sitting at his desk at GD at eleven o'clock on Monday morning staring at page three of a thirty page report he'd started looking through an hour before, following a 9am conference call that he could now remember in only the vaguest of terms.
The door chirps, announcing an authorized visitor, then slides open. He looks up in time to see Allison's shoulder retreating stage left and Jack Carter standing there in his usual workday khakis with a look on his face that Nathan has learned usually precedes reckless self-endangerment.
Nathan is not proud of the fact that he has the urge to hide under his desk.
“Here's the thing,” Jack says, stepping through the doorway and letting the panel slide shut behind him. “Here's the thing. It's been, oh, roughly thirty-two hours since I drove you home from my place, and while I initially believed that my behavior made clear that I have no regrets – 'I want to see you again,' and 'Let's get dinner, are you free on Tuesday?' and all – Allison informs me that, brilliant egghead that you are, you may – just may – be in the process of convincing yourself that it was all a fuck-up and I don't swing your way after all and Zoe will hate you and maybe if we do it again the sky will fall?”
“I – the sky will not fall. Why would the sky fall?!” Nathan is aware he sounds defensive, and that he's not denying the essential point.
“Why the fuck anything in this town?” Jack retorts. His stance is casual, but he's clearly not going anywhere, so Nathan lays down the sheaf of papers he's been pretending to read.
He sighs. “I'm bad at this, Jack,” he says. “There's a reason Allison had me sign those divorce papers.”
Jack runs a hand through his hair, making it stand up awkwardly, and makes an endearing (Oh, fuck, is Nathan screwed) sound of frustration in the back of his throat.
There's a moment's pause.
“Look.” Jack begins. Then stops. “Are you working on anything of earth-shattering importance here?” He gestures at the disorganization on Nathan's desk.
Nathan could pretend he is, of course – and it wouldn't technically be a lie since most of what he oversees at GD on a daily basis is, more or less, potentially earth-shattering. But he's acutely aware that he spent the first hour of his workday trying (and failing) to write Jack an email, and the second hour of his day folding origami sloths while talking with the DOD, and the third hour re-reading page three of Projected Variables in Thermodynamic Hydropropulsion at Subatomic Levels while thinking about Jack's ass.
“Not – not immediately, no.” He clears his throat, since he didn't mean that to come out quite so, so cowed sounding.
“Good.” Jack shucks off his coat and unbuckles his gear belt. “You've got a way to close these windows, right?” He nods to the plate glass looking out over first floor atrium. “Because I think--”
“Carter, what--?” Nathan's half out of his seat, feeling distinctly that despite the fact this is his office, his town, the situation has spiraled out of his control.
Which is, come to think of it, something that's happened repeatedly since Jack and Zoe Carter washed up at their doorstep.
“We're having sex.”
“Now?” Not that Nathan Stark is categorically opposed to mixing sex and work. Jordi had been his lab supervisor, after all, and there'd been more than one “coffee break” that ended up taking place in a storage closet or Jordi's airless cubicle of an office or even, once, in the emergency shower facility at the end of the hall. But –
“Yes. Now.” Jack has bent down to unlace his shoes, already has his shirt rucked up out of his pants. Nathan glances behind himself and a little frantically hits the “shutter” button under the edge of his desk. The shades slide across and the lights flicker on, automatically, to compensate.
“Jack – Jack – ” his brain is sprinting to catch up with his body here, which is definitely on board with the mid-morning sex break scheme, particularly since – what the hell – Jack is methodically divesting himself of his shoes and shirt and belt and – fuck – pants, and it's not like he hasn't spent the last forty-eight hours obsessively cataloging every scrap of memory, every detail of sensation, gathered from their night together, not like he hasn't been hungry for another chance to have Jack naked and pleading, he just hadn't anticipated –
“Allison's got our back for the next –” (Jack glances at his watch as he undoes the clasp and sets is on Nathan's desk) “ – forty-five minutes? She has a thing at noon. But I told her I thought that would be a long enough window to convince you I'm not having some sort of crisis of masculinity or drowning in parental guilt or whatever the hell else you've convinced yourself is going to doom this thing – fuck, Nathan, didn't I make it clear how amazing Saturday night was?”
– and then Jack's in Nathan's space, crowding him up against the edge of Nathan's desk, man-handling (Christ, so hot) Nathan's ass up onto the mahogany desktop, where Nathan feels stacks of paper slide out of the way, hears at least one heavy object roll to the floor.
“I – ” he raises his hands to cup Jack's face in his palms, feeling the spot beneath his thumb where Carter was hasty with the razor that morning, trying to assess the look in Carter's eyes: determined, slightly hectic, definitely hungry.
He'd imagined he was past the point in his life where this sort of behavior was really acceptable; okay, he and Alli had made out pretty heavily once or twice – he'd even made her come once up against this same desk, though in their defense she'd had a close call with an electromagnetic randomizer that day and they'd both thought for a handful of endless moments she wouldn't make it (it was after that she'd drawn up the paperwork to make him Kevin's second custodial parent). It had been frantic and messy, a desperate thank you for survival.
This, with Carter, this was different: this was both offer and challenge, Jack bringing himself here and putting himself, nearly naked, into Nathan's hands. He was pushing Nathan not to run away, insisting Nathan pay attention to him rather than the derisive voices in his own head, the ones that said you'll never be enough and he'll walk away, they always do and what would he see in you?
“Pretty clear,” he admits, hoarsely. “You did. I'm sorry. I, I may have some – it's never been easy for me to – Alli did warn you?” He tries to crack a smile.
“Why do you think I'm here? Not gonna lose you this quickly.” Jack turns his head to place a kiss at the center of Nathan's left palm. His lips are warm and dry, and the flicker of tongue Nathan feels on his skin sends a shiver up his arm, blooms hot deep in his belly.
Jack climbs into his lap, straddles his hips, knees on either side of Nathan's thighs (another something heavy drops to the floor; Nathan tries to recall if he has anything vital and breakable on his desk this morning – and where the hell had he put his latest cup of coffee?). Nathan steadies him, hands cupping Jack's ass, pulling him in, feeling the heat of Jack's dick against his belly. Jack's in just his boxers now, and his undershirt, and it suddenly seems like a travesty he's even that clothed – it's unfair, Nathan thinks, befuddled with lust, that Jack should ever be clothed. He should just stay naked and close to hand, and then Nathan would be able to reach out whenever he needed to – and he's starting to believe he'll always need to – reach out and lay hands upon him.
He slides to the floor, kneeling, with Jack settled in his lap, pushes Jack's t-shirt up over his head and bends to place a line of kisses along Jack's collarbone. Jack combs his fingers through Nathan's hair, encouraging, smooths his palms across Nathan's shoulders, blunt fingernails digging slightly into the fabric of Nathan's shirt.
They've only done this once before, but that doesn't stop Nathan from thinking ah yes and this, again and there's the spot, as he lifts Jack up a few inches, leans back, and pushes at Jack's boxers, impatiently, rolling Jack to the floor so he can yank the worn cotton down, then kiss his way up the inside of Jack's thigh, Jack's hips skittering beneath Nathan's hands as he tries to still, slow, savor the moments.
“Nathan, Nathan, Nathan, God – ” Jack is clearly not one of those people who retains coherence in the midst of sex, though he's a surprisingly demanding bastard even wordless, hands gripping, muscles jumping, pushy, without apparent hesitation that he'll be too much or miss the mark, come too fast or not at all: he's simply there with an abandon that Nathan feels he will only ever hunger for.
Jack smells incredible: that heavy musk of sweat and need, and a tang all his own, but Nathan veers at the last minute away from Jack's cock, losing nerve – it's been awhile – and kissing up along the jut of Jack's hipbone, toward the sandy scatter of hair at the base of Jack's bellybutton. Thankfully, Jack seems to take the evasion as an intentional tease rather than the chickenshit behavior it is, and writhes under Nathan's hands.
Nathan thinks he will never, ever be able to work effectively in this office again. He'll probably just come, spontaneously, whenever he walks in the door: the memory of Jack naked and splayed out on polished floor burned like the sun into the back of his retinas.
“Clear, so clear,” he hears himself muttering as he lifts and settles himself alongside Jack's prostrate form, “I'm sorry, I'm sorry – I don't, I do, I do want – ”
Jack opens his eyes, looks straight at him, piercing, says: “Hush.”
So Nathan does, tucking his face in against Jack's shoulder, his own cock – straining uncomfortably in his pants – flush against Jack's hip, reaching down and drawing his palm in a long, slow stroke up Jack's shameless dick, full and flushed, curving out against the thatch of sandy hair at his groin. Someday – someday soon – Nathan's going to take Jack in his mouth and swallow him down (Jack's small enough that he might actually manage it without choking, he thinks with a spike of relief).
For now, though, he's going to savor this: the chill of the floor seeping through his clothes, the heat of Jack's skin, the taste of salt in the back of his throat from the sweat springing up across Jack's chest and shoulders, on the inside of his thighs and the soft inside of his elbows; the panting, half-choking moans he's pulling from Jack's throat with every stroke of his hand, the way Jack's bare feet are pushing, sliding, against the slick floor, seeking purchase, something to push against, the gift Allison's given them both, the growing awareness that this isn't all, that there's more and there's time.
He feels the beginning of Jack's orgasm against the base of his thumb, keeps his hand going steady, and kisses the words against Jack's ear: “So, so clear.”