[fic] untitled, jack bauer/james bond, possibly nsfw
Here's an untitled ficlet piece, a snippet of a scene, and it's late (sorry!) birthday present for the ever wonderful kcountess!
Jack Bauer / James Bond, adult content (really just the mention of said content, nothing actually scandalous, but there is some language and themes!), in an established sort of AUverse we've written fics in before. 1142 words.
I LOVE YOU, KAREN.
He had known Jack would protest the choice of champagne over whiskey, but he'd made up for it (he hoped, anyhow) by not just choosing any old bottle off the rack. James had ordered up a bottle of Krug 1996 Clos du Mesnil to the room while Jack was busy showering off the grit and grime of their earlier escapades.
(They'd had to pay a visit to an old friend of his, and settle a debt.)
James glances at his fingernails as he listens to the sound of hissing water seeping through the closed -- and likely locked -- door a few feet from the table. He's half-tempted to pop the cork on the bottle before Jack gets out of the shower, but he knows that the other man rarely takes more than ten minutes to get clean.
Even after the longest days.
Or nights.
Seven and a half minutes into Jack's shower, James moves to the counter near the minifridge and busies himself with rinsing out the pair of tumblers he intends for them to drink out of, taking care to remove all the possible dust or soap residue from the glass.
(They had sent up two crystal flutes with the ice bucket and bottle; he won't touch the stemware the entire stay. It's not that he doesn't trust the staff here -- he'd just prefer to be careful, especially when Jack's already almost died once before in his presence.)
Tonight wasn't that bad, he thinks, drying the glasses and setting them aside. We didn't even have to shoot anyone.
He's pouring the first of the two glasses as the unofficial timer in his head rolls past ten minutes.
And as if on cue, the lock on the bathroom door turns as Jack emerges from the still-steamy room, clad in nothing more than a towel wrapped firmly around his waist.
James smirks. "I wasn't aware that I'd ordered the entertainment along with the beverage cart."
"One bottle of 'champagne'," Jack retorts, "Is not 'the beverage cart'." Even though he knows that Bond has impeccable taste when it comes to his alcohol, he can't help but give the other man hell for it as often as possible.
"Oh, shut up and have a drink," James passes over the second tumbler.
"Someone's cranky this evening." Jack smiles (smirks) as he accepts the glass, sniffing at the fizzy wine with a look of displeasure. "You're acting like you've had such a hard day at the office."
James doesn't bother to dignify that with an actual response, and merely flips his friend the 'bird' before retreating into the bathroom himself. He doesn't intend to shower, but as soon as he strips off his button-down and his undershirt, he realizes that he, quite frankly, stinks.
"I'll just be a moment," he calls, before nudging the door closed.
"Take your time," Jack responds, lifting the glass to his lips. "I've got plenty of champagne to keep me company."
Through the crack in the door, Jack can make out a muttered curse and a hint of laughter before the sound of the taps being turned on drowns out his ability to comprehend anything else James might be saying.
Six minutes later, James turns off the shower and leans himself against the wall, trying to ignore the headache that is threatening against the back of his closed eyelids.
"You gonna let me drink all of this by myself?" Jack asks, laughing under his breath as he pours himself a second glass.
"Absolutely not," James clucks his tongue under his breath as he steps out of the room. "If I didn't know better, Bauer, I'd be tempted to call you a lush."
"Fucker."
"Bastard."
Jack laughs as he hands James his glass -- his eyes dropping to the other man's waist. "I should have used both the towels."
"You certainly used all the hot water, so I don't see why you didn't," James retorts, accepting the glass and immediately drinking half the contents in a pair of swallows.
Jack lifts an eyebrow. He'd have thought James would savor the first sip, at least.
Noticing the look he's getting, Bond motions at his skull. "Headache."
"Getting hit in the face will do that to you. How's your chin feel, anyway," Jack cautiously reaches to brush his fingertips over the reddened skin on the right side of James' jawline, recalling the stiff right hook the man had taken just a few hours earlier.
"Better," James doesn't flinch away -- or make any effort to move, really.
"Good." Jack sips from his glass, then glances towards the couch, making an executive decision in the amount of time it takes him to pluck the bottle of champagne from the ice. "C'mere," he nods his head towards the piece of furniture. "If you're paying for the couch, you might as well sit on it."
"I'm likely to fall asleep in your lap," James warns.
Shrugging, Jack follows the other man to the couch and sits beside him. "There wouldn't be anything wrong with that."
"You'd bitch about my non-existent snoring come dawn and you know it."
"Well, you do."
"I do not." James flops down on the couch, carefully as to not spill his drink. "Much."
"Whatever, spyboy."
Groaning, James buries his head in Jack's shoulder. "I told you to never call me that again, Jack."
"Just like I told you not to call me...hmm...what was it? Oh, right," Jack narrows his eyes (he's not upset) and lifts his glass to his mouth. "Blondie."
Muffled: "Well, you are, you know."
Reaching over, Jack ruffles James' still-damp hair. "So're you."
"Yes," James glances up. "But I'm not a California beach-rat."
"I am not a beach-rat."
"You wanted to teach me how to surf!"
"And that makes me a beach rat?"
"Yes."
Jack huffs a laugh under his breath, before leaning to press his lips against the other man's mouth. "You are fucking ridiculous sometimes, you know that Bond?" He mutters, smirking a bit. "Fucking ridiculous."
"I am," James grins. "And a ridiculously good fuck, or so I'm told."
"Mmmm, you'll have to let me be the judge of that."
"Gladly," James returns the kiss. "But first, I intend to consume this entire bottle of vintage champagne," he pronounces the word with the earlier 'disgust' that Jack had. "And then I intend to celebrate not getting my head bashed in with a tire iron."
Jack laughs, this time louder. "Now that is something that I can toast to."
Jack Bauer / James Bond, adult content (really just the mention of said content, nothing actually scandalous, but there is some language and themes!), in an established sort of AUverse we've written fics in before. 1142 words.
I LOVE YOU, KAREN.
He had known Jack would protest the choice of champagne over whiskey, but he'd made up for it (he hoped, anyhow) by not just choosing any old bottle off the rack. James had ordered up a bottle of Krug 1996 Clos du Mesnil to the room while Jack was busy showering off the grit and grime of their earlier escapades.
(They'd had to pay a visit to an old friend of his, and settle a debt.)
James glances at his fingernails as he listens to the sound of hissing water seeping through the closed -- and likely locked -- door a few feet from the table. He's half-tempted to pop the cork on the bottle before Jack gets out of the shower, but he knows that the other man rarely takes more than ten minutes to get clean.
Even after the longest days.
Or nights.
Seven and a half minutes into Jack's shower, James moves to the counter near the minifridge and busies himself with rinsing out the pair of tumblers he intends for them to drink out of, taking care to remove all the possible dust or soap residue from the glass.
(They had sent up two crystal flutes with the ice bucket and bottle; he won't touch the stemware the entire stay. It's not that he doesn't trust the staff here -- he'd just prefer to be careful, especially when Jack's already almost died once before in his presence.)
Tonight wasn't that bad, he thinks, drying the glasses and setting them aside. We didn't even have to shoot anyone.
He's pouring the first of the two glasses as the unofficial timer in his head rolls past ten minutes.
And as if on cue, the lock on the bathroom door turns as Jack emerges from the still-steamy room, clad in nothing more than a towel wrapped firmly around his waist.
James smirks. "I wasn't aware that I'd ordered the entertainment along with the beverage cart."
"One bottle of 'champagne'," Jack retorts, "Is not 'the beverage cart'." Even though he knows that Bond has impeccable taste when it comes to his alcohol, he can't help but give the other man hell for it as often as possible.
"Oh, shut up and have a drink," James passes over the second tumbler.
"Someone's cranky this evening." Jack smiles (smirks) as he accepts the glass, sniffing at the fizzy wine with a look of displeasure. "You're acting like you've had such a hard day at the office."
James doesn't bother to dignify that with an actual response, and merely flips his friend the 'bird' before retreating into the bathroom himself. He doesn't intend to shower, but as soon as he strips off his button-down and his undershirt, he realizes that he, quite frankly, stinks.
"I'll just be a moment," he calls, before nudging the door closed.
"Take your time," Jack responds, lifting the glass to his lips. "I've got plenty of champagne to keep me company."
Through the crack in the door, Jack can make out a muttered curse and a hint of laughter before the sound of the taps being turned on drowns out his ability to comprehend anything else James might be saying.
Six minutes later, James turns off the shower and leans himself against the wall, trying to ignore the headache that is threatening against the back of his closed eyelids.
"You gonna let me drink all of this by myself?" Jack asks, laughing under his breath as he pours himself a second glass.
"Absolutely not," James clucks his tongue under his breath as he steps out of the room. "If I didn't know better, Bauer, I'd be tempted to call you a lush."
"Fucker."
"Bastard."
Jack laughs as he hands James his glass -- his eyes dropping to the other man's waist. "I should have used both the towels."
"You certainly used all the hot water, so I don't see why you didn't," James retorts, accepting the glass and immediately drinking half the contents in a pair of swallows.
Jack lifts an eyebrow. He'd have thought James would savor the first sip, at least.
Noticing the look he's getting, Bond motions at his skull. "Headache."
"Getting hit in the face will do that to you. How's your chin feel, anyway," Jack cautiously reaches to brush his fingertips over the reddened skin on the right side of James' jawline, recalling the stiff right hook the man had taken just a few hours earlier.
"Better," James doesn't flinch away -- or make any effort to move, really.
"Good." Jack sips from his glass, then glances towards the couch, making an executive decision in the amount of time it takes him to pluck the bottle of champagne from the ice. "C'mere," he nods his head towards the piece of furniture. "If you're paying for the couch, you might as well sit on it."
"I'm likely to fall asleep in your lap," James warns.
Shrugging, Jack follows the other man to the couch and sits beside him. "There wouldn't be anything wrong with that."
"You'd bitch about my non-existent snoring come dawn and you know it."
"Well, you do."
"I do not." James flops down on the couch, carefully as to not spill his drink. "Much."
"Whatever, spyboy."
Groaning, James buries his head in Jack's shoulder. "I told you to never call me that again, Jack."
"Just like I told you not to call me...hmm...what was it? Oh, right," Jack narrows his eyes (he's not upset) and lifts his glass to his mouth. "Blondie."
Muffled: "Well, you are, you know."
Reaching over, Jack ruffles James' still-damp hair. "So're you."
"Yes," James glances up. "But I'm not a California beach-rat."
"I am not a beach-rat."
"You wanted to teach me how to surf!"
"And that makes me a beach rat?"
"Yes."
Jack huffs a laugh under his breath, before leaning to press his lips against the other man's mouth. "You are fucking ridiculous sometimes, you know that Bond?" He mutters, smirking a bit. "Fucking ridiculous."
"I am," James grins. "And a ridiculously good fuck, or so I'm told."
"Mmmm, you'll have to let me be the judge of that."
"Gladly," James returns the kiss. "But first, I intend to consume this entire bottle of vintage champagne," he pronounces the word with the earlier 'disgust' that Jack had. "And then I intend to celebrate not getting my head bashed in with a tire iron."
Jack laughs, this time louder. "Now that is something that I can toast to."