Beta thanks to Iulia!
Tom came in about a day and a half later than Nathan expected, but that didn't mean much. Nothing in the jungle ran to the kind of schedule they'd been used to keeping, working in Germany, and Tom might be good, but he wasn't immune to local conditions.
He came to the safehouse--a shack in the middle of nowhere, a couple of miles from town--after dark. Nathan was sitting at the table, preparing a coded report, and looked up when Tom walked in, betraying no surprise, as though he hadn't just been trying to decide how to report him missing, when the time came. Tom was wearing the same jungle greens he'd left in three days before. He was barefoot, carrying his boots in one hand, and they were dripping slowly. Tom was dirty everywhere Nathan could see, but moving easily, unhurt. The weapons he'd used for the op would be long gone by now; he had a sheathed knife at his waist, maybe a sidearm tucked into the back of his pants.
Tom shut the door and then just stood there, squinting at Nathan in the light of the battery-operated lantern. There was no sound but the insect hum of the jungle; he could almost hear Tom's breathing, his own heart beating. Nathan leaned back in his seat and waited it out; Tom went quiet after a job sometimes. There was nothing to say this was any different, that anything had gone wrong, except the way Tom looked at him, like he was a stranger, and that might have meant anything. After a while, Tom shook himself and turned away, tossing his boots into the corner and taking the knife from his hip and the gun from the small of his back.
They were signs of trust, but Tom still wasn't talking, and the motion of his hands as he checked the gun before laying it down was tense and quick. Nathan tapped his pen against his lower lip and said to Tom's back, "Run into any trouble?"
Tom shook his head, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. It was too long to be comfortable in the jungle, but they couldn't have Tom looking too much like organized military. "Nah," Tom said, turning in Nathan's direction. Tom met his eyes like he knew he had to, like it cost him something. Nathan let Tom see a hint of his frown at that, and then Tom did look away, over Nathan's head, as he reported in a clipped, steady voice. "I took out Gilberto two days ago, nice and neat. No compromise to the op, no one saw me or had any reason to connect me to it. The balance of power among the other drug families is unbalanced as anticipated; Marquez and one of his lieutenants are dead already."
Nathan nodded slowly, and Tom took that for dismissal and turned away, crouching to untie the laces of his boots and yank them out, draping his socks over them to dry.
It was rotten job--dirty, disheartening work, and what they were accomplishing here wasn't nearly as clear as it had been in Berlin, or even in Nam. That was one reason he'd stuck so close to Tom through a relatively simple shooting op; Nathan trusted his agent, but there was no reason to test him to the breaking point. Breaking points were funny, though. They could sneak up on you, and Tom had been gone for three days.
Tom shrugged out of his fatigue shirt and hung it on a wall peg near his boots. Then he stood still a moment, looking around the single room like it was strange to him. He walked over to the bed in the corner, past it to check a window screen, then over to another window, never standing still for more than a second.
Nathan kept watching. This restlessness was unusual. Tom was given to explosive bursts of emotion and otherwise almost preternaturally calm; it made him good at his work. This halfway agitation was a problem, but then Tom's problems were Nathan's job. Tom knew that as well as Nathan did, so Nathan just waited for him to work himself out far enough to be helped. He'd been in the jungle for days; it could take time to put words to things when you first returned to human contact. It might not be anything serious.
Tom walked from his boots to the bed in the corner and back again, running his hands through his hair and wiping them on his pants, stealing sideways glances at Nathan on every third stride. Sweat darkened the back of his undershirt in a stripe that narrowed from shoulders to waist, widened asymmetrically where the butt of the gun had pressed. Nathan could see, by the banding of grime, that Tom had sometimes worn his sleeves rolled up, but not taken the shirt off before this. It was better protection against mosquitoes than repellant, at least where it actually covered the skin; Nathan looked closely as Tom made another pass in front of him, and spotted three telltale pink bumps at the inside of one elbow. Tom's pacing didn't particularly look like fever, but it was something, and this much Nathan could ask him about. "You feeling all right, Tom?"
Tom paused in mid-step, looked over at Nathan and then down at his arm. When he scratched lightly at the bites, he left a dirty smear on the pale clean skin. "Yeah," he said, "it's nothing, there was no sickness anywhere I was."
That didn't mean anything, and they both knew it; Tom didn't like to take the antimalarial drugs unless he absolutely had to, and Nathan hadn't forced them on him yet. Another few days and they'd be out of country anyway. They were due some time Stateside. Tom would have access to a decent hospital by the time he got really sick, if he was going to.
Tom ground to a halt by the bed and stood running his hands up and down his bare arms, turned half-toward Nathan but staring down at the bed. Nathan could see that Tom was still sweating, his palms sliding quickly on damp skin; if he felt cold, he was feverish. Nathan said, "Tom--" at the same moment Tom said, "I need--"
Nathan stopped, waiting for it, and Tom shook his head, turning his face away for a second. "I want," he corrected, and then he just stood there, wiping his palms on his pants, drumming his fingers against his thighs. He smiled, still not looking at Nathan, and it was a working smile--here, in private, half-undressed. Nathan braced himself. "I want you to fuck me," Tom said, and then went perfectly still, smile fading back into an uncertain but honest expression.
Nathan held still too, torn between the immediate desire to take him up on that and the necessity of working out what the hell was going on in Tom's head.
He was all for calling a spade a spade, in the absence of security concerns that required it to be called a tuning fork. He'd never particularly pretended that he and Tom didn't have sex from time to time--generally of the mostly-clothed, up-against-a-wall variety, and even on such occasions as they happened to be naked or horizontal, they'd never gotten so serious about it as to do anything they couldn't have done the other way.
Tom seemed to be very, very serious now.
Nathan squinted, looking more closely at Tom--but he didn't seem hurt, his clothes were all in order--
"It's not that," Tom said, turning away completely, shoulders hunching. It might not be that, but something had happened out there, and Tom was going to tell him what, but he wanted this from Nathan first. Tom ducked his head, and his hair slid away, slow and wet, from the back of his neck. "Nothing happened, I would've told you that. I said we're not compromised."
Nathan nodded, provisionally accepting the truth of that, and shifted in his seat, spreading his knees wider as Tom padded over to the plastic water jug and tin basin that served as a sink out here. Tom peeled off his undershirt, and Nathan had to smile. He might have gone quiet again, but Tom was still stating his case, and Nathan's dick was certainly finding the arguments compelling: the play of muscle in Tom's shoulders as he bent over the basin, the curve of his ass under the worn fatigue pants. I need, he'd said, before he thought better of it. He obviously needed something, and it sure as hell wouldn't hurt to give him what he'd asked for. Not quite a standard debriefing technique, but not what you'd call unheard of, either.
Nathan glanced down at the table, but the papers in front of him were just so much gibberish now. He tapped them into a neat stack and set them aside, then took off his own boots and socks, keeping his eyes on Tom, who'd started washing his hands and face over the basin with a rag and a bit of soap. Cleanliness was right in the Boy Scout motto, after all.
Nathan walked over to him, stepping heavily enough to be heard, and set his hand on Tom's side, just above his pants. He felt Tom's stomach muscles tighten, but Tom kept moving without pause, rinsing his face and wringing out the cloth. Nathan stepped closer, pressing his hips against Tom's ass, his erection fitting just so against the firm muscle. Tom straightened up, pressing back against him, and Nathan leaned in, sliding his hand forward across Tom's belly, pressing his lips to the back of Tom's neck. His skin was warm, damp with sweat but not fever-hot. He really was all right.
Nathan flicked his tongue against Tom's skin, tasting salt as Tom shuddered against him. Tom's hand came back and caught Nathan's hip, holding on tight, pulling him closer, and Nathan couldn't resist thrusting against him, hot even with the layers of clothes between, the humid heat of their bodies already multiplying everywhere they touched. When Nathan inhaled, his nose against Tom's hair, he smelled sweat and river water, rich earth and cheap soap. Nathan slid his hand down across Tom's stomach to the front of his pants. Tom's erection was hard under his palm, hot through the sturdy fabric. Nathan gave him a fast firm stroke, and Tom's breath stuttered and caught, his hand tightening on Nathan's hip. Nathan ran his tongue over the bump of vertebrae at the nape of Tom's neck, keeping his hand on Tom's dick still, and Tom shuddered and thrust against him. "Fine," Nathan murmured, "Have it your way."
Tom choked out a breathless laugh, and Nathan found himself smiling. Now he had his agent back. He shifted his hand from Tom's pants to grab Tom's wrist, detaching himself before he could think about what he was doing. Tom set both hands on the wash basin and held still, waiting, as Nathan backed up another step.
"Bed," Nathan said, because there was no point forming sentences when Tom was only going to catch the key words anyway. Tom nodded and reached for the towel that hung on a nail by the basin, and Nathan forced himself to turn away, unbuttoning his own shirt as he went, his erection throbbing with every beat of his heart. He checked the door latch and the shutters, and hung his own shirt over Tom's. He turned, unbuckling his belt as he went. The medical kit ought--and then he stopped short, standing in the middle of the room.
Tom was lying naked on the bed, one leg bent, foot twisted sideways so that the grimy sole didn't touch the more-or-less clean blanket, the other leg splayed out, foot on the floor. He had one arm tucked behind his head, and was stroking his dick slowly with his other hand. His eyes were on Nathan, and when Nathan looked at him, he smiled. Nathan smiled back and pulled off his belt, holding Tom's gaze and resisting the impulse to mirror the motion of Tom's hand. He saw Tom's gaze flick down to his pants, where his dick showed just what he thought of Tom's little show, no matter how much he controlled his hands. So Tom would know he wanted this; well, he did, and Tom wanted it even more.
When Tom's eyes slipped shut and his lips parted, Nathan turned away, forcing himself to walk, forcing himself to concentrate for just another minute. He grabbed the papers off the table--it wasn't likely that local guerillas or drug family thugs would choose the next half-hour or so to find this place and come bursting through the door, but that was no reason to be sloppy--and stuffed them into the medical kit behind the row of boxed chloroquine vials, then grabbed the little plastic jar of Vaseline.
Nathan carried that in one hand and his revolver in the other, laying them both down on the little crate that served as a bedside table. Tom's eyes opened at that, and he glanced up at Nathan. "Not going to get those confused, right?"
Nathan grinned and said, "You can trust me on this. Turn over."
Tom didn't move, his hand stilling on his dick, one eyebrow arching as he dropped his gaze to Nathan's pants. Nathan snorted and unzipped, stepping out of them and tossing them on top of Tom's, already draped over the end of the bed. Tom licked his lip, and Nathan grabbed Tom's stroking hand and pulled it up over his head. The motion twisted Tom onto his side, and Nathan pushed him onto his stomach with a knee in the back. Tom went easily enough, tucking one knee under himself and folding his arms under his head when Nathan released his wrist, settling down with a wriggle of hips like he'd done this before or knew enough to fake it.
Nathan stood a moment, enjoying the view, and then lowered himself over Tom, skin to skin, letting Tom take some of his weight, enough to hold him down, press him to the bed. He could feel the quickness of Tom's breath beneath him, and Tom arched up, rocking his hips so that Nathan's dick fit the cleft of his ass, hot and sweat-slicked, and Nathan thrust against him. Tom flexed, inviting--Christ, the kid would let him do it just like this if he wanted to. Nathan shut his eyes and clenched his teeth, forcing himself under control.
He shifted his weight back onto his knees and one hand, reaching for the jar. He pressed it into the crook of Tom's elbow, and Tom obligingly tightened his arm around it. Tom was moving beneath him, writhing slowly on the bed, and Nathan could feel every movement through the sticky inch of air between them as if they still touched. Nathan unscrewed the lid--it released with a satisfying vacuum-sealed pop--and set it aside before plunging one finger into the Vaseline, getting it well coated.
When his hand settled on Tom's ass, Tom went still, only shifting his legs minutely wider as Nathan worked his fingertip back and forth against him, not quite pushing in. Tom pressed his forehead down, arching up under Nathan's hand, and gasped, "Jesus, please," and Nathan grinned and let his forehead rest against Tom's shoulder as his finger slid in smoothly. His hips and his wrist fell into the same rhythm, thrusting his finger in and out, thrusting his dick against Tom's thigh. He added a twisting motion that made Tom shake, and--he could do it just like this, too, tease the kid till he broke. But when Nathan lifted his head, Tom's face was turned toward him, eyes shut, mouth open, and he needed this.
Nathan slipped his finger free of the grasping heat of Tom's body, reaching up for another fingerful of Vaseline. He meant to prepare him more, but Tom gasped, "Yes," and Nathan's dick jumped in answer, and he didn't want to wait anymore. He pushed up onto his knees again, slicking himself quickly, and braced the heel of his hand against Tom's ass, lining himself up.
"Breathe," he gasped, surprised at how breathless he sounded; a reminder for both of them. Tom inhaled, and Nathan pushed on the exhale, sliding slow into him, hot and tight and when he remembered to breathe himself, he couldn't smell anything but Tom and sex. Tom's breathing was quick and ragged, and Nathan tried to go slow, but he couldn't stop until he was all the way in, sunk deep, stretched over Tom's back. His slicked hand slid under Tom's hip and circled his dick, holding him tight, so it was Tom who moved, Tom's hips snapping forward and back until Nathan matched the rhythm, thrusting roughly into him. He drove Tom down into the bed, into his hand; he had Tom surrounded and it didn't matter which way he moved, he was always moving toward Nathan.
Tom squirmed under him, shifting the angle, and Nathan moved with him, rode it out, his mouth against the salt-wet skin of Tom's back, his tongue tracing the groove of Tom's spine as he gasped for breath. He felt Tom's breath catch, felt the first betraying clench of muscle around his dick, and then Tom's "Oh god oh--" was cut off as he buried his face in the pillow, and Tom's dick jerked in his hand. Nathan kept stroking him, kept moving--he couldn't stop now, every squeeze of Tom's orgasm pushing him toward his own.
Tom went still and pliant under him, Tom's hips moving lazily against him now; whatever he needed, he had it. Nathan closed his eyes, thrust in deep one last time and let go, pleasure washing through him as he came.
When he could pick up his head again, and differentiate the sound of Tom's heart pounding under his ear from the slowly easing race of his own, Nathan peeled himself away. The night was starting to cool, and even the slight movement of the air felt cool against his skin, everywhere he suddenly wasn't touching Tom. Tom lay motionless, face down, one leg hanging off the bed, looking thoroughly debauched, and Nathan laid still beside him--still touching, on the narrow bed--his eyes traveling idly across Tom to the gun beside the bed and the sink a few strides away. He'd need to wash. He'd need to finish that report.
Tom raised his head then, turning his face toward Nathan. His eyes weren't quite shut, but turned down almost shyly, as if Nathan didn't know every secret he had, and he kept his arms folded. "Somebody tried to hire me to kill you," he said quietly.
Ah. "And?" Nathan said, as if there were only one question to be asked. "You going to?"
Tom's eyes met his, then, steadily, expressionless for a moment before a tentative smile crept in. "Nah," he said. "Money wasn't good enough."
Nathan nodded, and waited for it. Tom had said the op wasn't compromised.
The smile faded, and Tom's eyelids slid shut as he said, "I took it, though. The money. I told him it would take a few days. I pretended to leave, circled back. Followed him back to his boss, and killed them both. Marquez," Tom added, his eyes flashing open, as though Nathan couldn't have deduced that point.
Nathan nodded slowly, holding Tom's gaze. Tom had never liked killing people, but he'd never sought absolution, either. This wasn't just about killing a drug lord and his goon; Marquez wasn't their dog in this fight, and Tom knew as well as he did that the situation was simplified with him dead. Marquez wasn't what was bothering Tom, because Tom hadn't come back and said anything about Marquez. "You took the money," he repeated, his voice even.
Tom's face went still. "Yeah," he said, "Yeah, I--" Tom closed his eyes, clenched them shut, his face drawing up as if in pain, and he pushed up on one elbow to scrub a hand across it, looking away from a moment to pick up the jar of Vaseline and set it beside its lid. Beside the gun. "Yeah," Tom repeated, without settling back, without looking at Nathan. "I--I was playing my part. He said he had a job, and I just--for a minute I just saw the job and I thought about it, like it was just a job. But then I--by the time I took his money I meant to kill him."
Nathan nodded slowly. It was easy to get lost in a job, and unsettling afterward. "Well, it was delicate situation and you handled it. Good work."
Tom eased onto the pillow and gave him a searching look, and Nathan watched him, waiting it out. This wasn't about a job, wasn't about killing, wasn't about any of that. Nathan could hazard a damn solid guess as to why Tom had reacted the way he had--why he'd killed those men, why it had shaken him so badly to have taken the money, to have considered the job, why he'd come back here and asked for what he'd asked for. But they didn't have time for that, didn't have room for that. Better to call this spade a tuning fork, and let the kid get some sleep.
Tom nodded slowly. "It's--I know there had to be other options--"
Nathan shook his head. "Don't second guess yourself, you know better than that. You handled it. It's over."
Nathan saw him accept it, saw the relief creep into his eyes, his whole body going subtly still as he took in Nathan's reassurance. "Thanks," he murmured, and Nathan squeezed his shoulder as Tom closed his eyes.
"Get some rest," he said quietly, for once certain of being obeyed without question. "I've got a report to write." Nathan leaned across Tom and picked up his revolver, then rolled out of bed, grabbing his pants as he walked over to the wash basin. When he looked back, Tom was sound asleep, one foot still on the floor.
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