Iron Man, Rhodey/Nick Fury, training exercise (2/2)
They don't talk much this time. Early on, the first few times Fury seduced Jim (and there, okay, he can admit it; the man's been seducing him since day one), Jim wondered if Fury ever mixed talking with fucking at all. It was kind of nice at first, a real change from the kind of guy who won't shut the fuck up unless your dick's in his mouth, but somewhere along the way he stopped needing silence.
Still, this time Fury's slippery as a goddamn eel and intent on pinning Jim's legs to his chest. It's easier to go with it and soak up all the pleasure he can get than try to talk about anything. They're both sticky and exhausted by the time they're through, Fury braced on his arms, biceps tight--Jim's too high on that post-coital euphoria to beat himself up too much for squeezing them. The man's strong.
And he's smart. God, he's smart; it's taken Jim nine days and eight nights to catch up to him.
"This is bullshit," Jim says softly. "Am I right?"
"Be more specific," Fury says, levering himself up and over to the left. He stretches out, then seems to decide that felt good enough to do right; he stretches some more, head-to-toe, the lean dark line of him almost enough to knock Jim's thoughts off-course. Again.
"This mission," he says instead.
"Yeah?"
"There isn't one. Not really."
Fury rolls on his back and grins up at the ceiling, his one eye closing. "No."
"Son of a bitch."
Jim gets up, picks his clothes up off the floor, makes his way toward the bathroom. He stops when he gets to the door, looking over his shoulder at Fury. Fury's up on one elbow, and he's got his eyebrow raised, but he isn't smiling anymore. Too bad. If he were, Jim could step into the shower and walk out of here without another word--but Fury probably knows that, and that's why he's playing it this way.
He's got to be the smoothest motherfucker Jim knows when it comes to playing him. Six months ago Jim would've said the second smoothest, but the first motherfucker who could play him like this has lost his touch to the company of Jim Beam and Johnnie Walker, so he's out of the running for now.
"There's no target," Jim says quietly. "No extraction."
"Oh, there's a target. Lt. Col. James Rhodes, USAF."
"Funny."
"You're shit at saying no to him when he takes a dive. You need the practice."
"Fuck you." Jim drops his clothes and stalks back over to the bed, leaning down and putting his fists on the edge of the bed. "I should be home right now. People could be getting hurt."
"People get hurt every day no matter who's wearing the suit. You can't save everybody."
"Yeah?"
"It's not your job to save everybody."
Jim just looks at him; Fury sighs. "You know the number one name on that list of people you can't save, right?"
"Fuck you," Jim says again, more quietly this time. "Don't set me up like this again."
"You want to promise me I won't have to?"
Jim's eyes drop; his head drops, too, and Fury reaches over and touches him, thumb sliding down over the curve of his ear. Jim's back in bed before he can really think about it, slipping into Fury's arms and feeling inch after inch of bare skin up against his own.