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It's a ten hour flight from Boston to the Ukraine. Too long to be in a confined space next to James Sterling.
It had to be Nate. Parker and Hardison less-than-politely refused. Tara wasn't "touching this with a ten foot pole." Eliot volunteered, but they needed Sterling to live through the flight. It had to be Nate. Unfortunately.
James is pretending to read How to Master the Business of Being You. He hasn't stopped smirking since they sat down. It's been four hours. Nate grimaces behind his Styrofoam cup.
James is also wearing his best damn suit, blanket draped over his lap. Nate is about to lose it. James senses this, of course. "No one believes that's just coffee, Nate." He speaks without lifting his eyes from the book.
James was never a chatty traveler. Back in the day, they would book aisle seats across from each other. Nate passed the time flipping through case notes and insurance forms. James usually slept. Always in a suit, always with a blanket tucked around his waist. No one bitched more when domestic flights stopped making them complimentary.
Nate swishes coffee and bourbon around his mouth. James glances at him. "We've got some catching up to do."
"Don't see why," Nate says. "I've got a pretty good idea what you've been up to. Top floor office now with Ian out?"
James smiles. "Corner. Rather spacious. Didn't think anything would beat your old office. I was wrong."
"You? Wrong?" Nate drains the rest of his cup. Too much coffee. Not enough bourbon.
James shrugs. "I suppose you're right, though. Not much to tell. I've continued catching criminals. You've continued being one."
Nate takes the bait. "You've been catching criminals, and hiring them! That's new for you-"
"Keep your voice down," James chides. His parental tone is like nails down a chalkboard. Nate grunts his disapproval. "Besides, the second you found out dear Maggie was in danger, you were off to the Kiev with your rag-tag operation. I can only imagine the mess your merry thieves would have made-"
"Don't pretend you care about Maggie," Nate grumbles. He wonders if it's too late to switch seats with Spencer.
"I'm not sure where you cooked up this idea that I'm incapable of human decency-"
"You're a self-serving, utter bastard, Sterling." Nate smiles. "Your words."
James stretches in his seat. His sigh is half-yawn as he settles under his blanket. "I've always liked Maggie," he says. "She's smart. Resilient. Had to be, to put up with you."
Nate makes an irritated sound. "How the hell do you wear that on a plane?" He glares at James' suit. Black, impeccably tailored. Lavender tie knotted at the collar.
"Work appropriate," James breezes.
"Big fans of purple in Kiev?"
"Please." James snorts. "Look at you." He waves a hand at Nate's sweatpants and hoodie. "If you're trying to convince people you're not a disaster-"
"Maybe next time, I won't call Eliot off." Nate doesn't expect the threat to mean much. But it's still aggravating when James ignores him completely.
James hails a passing stewardess. "Scotch, neat."
"Another coffee for me," Nate adds, before she can leave. "With bourbon, yeah. Thanks."
The stewardess forces a smile. This is Nate's fourth bourbon. They still have six hours of flying time.
After she leaves, Nate lifts a brow at James' order; pot, kettle, and what not. James doesn't return the look. "I don't care what you do, Ford. You wrecked yourself a long time ago." It's a lie, Nate thinks. James always cared, in his own jerk way. But he doesn't feel like calling the bluff.
He empties the bourbon mini-bottle. It turns the coffee a watery brown, Styrofoam cup filled to the brim. Nate sips off the top. He's starting to reach a comfortable state of buzzed.
James, for his part, looks reasonably disappointed in him. "You could have been so much," he says. The creased brow tells Nate that James believes what he's saying. He wanted Nate to succeed, oddly. James wanted him at I.Y.S. Scamming people in the name of 'justice.' Whatever that means.
"You care more about my reputation than I do," Nate goads.
James scoffs. "I remember what you were." It's more than he usually admits.
Nate grips his cup to keep from sloshing coffee everywhere. "A shill," he declares.
James rolls his eyes. "We did our jobs, Nate. We were honorable."
The coffee soothes the liquor burn down Nate's throat. Redness warms the high points of his cheeks. Might distract James from the sleepless circles under his eyes, at least.
Speaking of, James looks...less-rested than usual. Still coiffed. Obnoxiously so. But, by James' standards, frazzled. The bruise from Eliot's fist is still visible on his face, as are the pink finger marks on his neck.
"Were we ever honorable, Jim?" Nate asks. He doesn't mean the work.
James closes his eyes and sets the scotch on his tray table. Nate looks between his face, the tray, and the blanket in his lap. He pauses to drink, then shifts over.
Nate's hand is under the blanket before James can protest. He only manages a startled "nngh" when Nate's fingers fit between his legs. The heel of Nate's palm grinds against his zipper. James snorts. "More honorable than this, surely." Nate squeezes. James' teeth catch a corner of his lips.
But trying the zipper of James' pants is one step too far. James shoves him off. "That's enough," he mutters.
"Yeah?"
James turns a sour look on him. "You never did tell me where your art thief ran off to."
In Nate's bourbon-induced fog, there are few things even James Sterling can say to raise his ire. This is one of them. "Don't talk about Sophie," Nate mutters. "I know where Maggie is now. We don't need you to get this done." It's true, maybe, but far-fetched. James' I.Y.S. connections to the American Embassy will be invaluable.
James doesn't even flinch. "And the egg?"
"Your company's problem." Nate lies.
"Bull." James calls him on it. "I know you."
He does. Too well. But Nate knows James too. Enough to return his hand between James' legs. Sure enough, he feels the start of arousal. "Discretion, Ford," James mumbles. Doesn't sound like 'no.'
"You're a champ, Sterling," Nate counters. "You'll be fine." His squeeze is rewarded by a grimace. James' back stays arched off the seat. It's a good look for him. Even with the damn suit.
Nate works his fingers to James' zipper again. A hiss whistles between James' teeth. Nate drops his cheek on the back of his seat, watching. His fingers meet the cotton of James' shorts. He traces the open seam.
"Don't," James grits. Nate stops immediately, fingertips grazing bare skin. He's hot under Nate's hand. Nate bites his cheek to avoid responding.
"Are you saying no?" he asks instead.
"I'm saying, this isn't smart," James responds. It isn't 'no.' It's a negotiation. No one beats James Sterling in this arena.
Except maybe Nathan Ford. "Don't trust me?" he asks.
James barks a laugh. "Really?"
"Don't trust yourself with me?" Nate amends.
It's a bad question, and they both know it. "Christ," James mutters, "you are drunk."
Tipsy, Nate wants to amend. But he lets his hand do the talking. One finger moves down the seam in James' shorts. James' waist jumps. "Been awhile, huh?" Nate chuckles. "Still married to the job, Jim?"
He expects a glare, or James' trademark scowl. He doesn't expect the murderous look James gives him. Surprised, angry, and...hurt? James shoves Nate's hand away.
Nate's struck a nerve. Problems at home? Bad sex life? Did he finally find a woman, or man? James has always been a career bachelor, too busy to settle on family life. Maybe that's changed, or maybe it never was. It's not like they were friends. Nate's never really known him, or wanted to.
"Guess I'm not the only one with secrets," he observes.
"You should have told me about Sam."
"Told you what?" It's Nate's turn to be angry. "I couldn't tell Maggie, how the hell would I tell you or anyone else?"
James frowns. "Maggie didn't know?"
"She knows now," Nate grumbles. It's not good enough. He drains his cold coffee in a gulp.
"Right," James snorts. "Now." It's crass and dismissive, even by Sterling's illustrious standards.
Nate's glare says it all. James is an asshole. Nate has been just fine without him. Without Sophie. Without Maggie. Nate will work with James this one time. After Kiev, they're done. Whatever they were, or whatever they are.
James sees, and he smirks like the prick he'll always be. He closes his eyes. It's a dare. Nate isn't sober enough to turn him down.
When he works his hand under the blanket, James is ready. His legs open wider for the fingers that descend into his slacks. Nate eases him out, peeling back the edges of his zipper to accommodate. James' eyes are still closed, feigning disinterest.
He looks good like this. But he would look better with his eyes open, acknowledging everything Nate is capable of doing to him. Nate pulls his hand back. He succeeds in getting a sliver of James' eyes, peering between his lashes.
Nate licks his fingers. Probably best not to do this on a plane. Germs and what not. Worth it though.
He moves his damp hand back under the blanket. "Watch the pants," James mumbles. Nate wouldn't mind smearing saliva all over his damn suit. But he refrains, choosing James' cock instead. He's thick and hot.
Nate jerks him hard to the tip. James grits his teeth. "Easy!" he hisses.
Nate plays dumb, repeating the motion. And again. Borderline painful, like James used to like it. They both liked it, half-grappling, half-humping. Biting grips, bruising kicks, and rough, dirty hand jobs.
It's something Nate can admit James is great at. So great, Nate is tempted to take his own blanket and demand return service.
But he's also near-drunk and determined. James jolting off his seat is satisfying enough. For now, anyway.
James doesn't agree. "Nate, damn it," he rasps. He glowers, but Nate doesn't buy it. James has always been a challenge. A challenge with a good-sized dick and a respectable amount of self-control.
Self-control exists to be broken. Nate likes breaking things. "Faster is better, Sterling," he reasons in his best boardroom voice. "Discretion, like you said."
"You're pushing it - Christ." James' neck is all tendon, drawn tight and tempting. The finger-bruises on his throat are especially enticing. Nate wonders if he should thank Eliot again. Fruit basket or something.
Nate is in a good rhythm, tight fisted and quick. Each thrust squishes just loud enough for his ears. The blanket barely moves, activity hidden under James' tray table. Lucky for Nate, he's at the right angle to see as much as possible. The only thing that would be better is moving the damn blanket. It's been years since he's seen James' cock. He remembers it well though - the fatness of it, plump cockhead and thick curls around the base.
If touch is any indication, it's as good as Nate remembers. Nate is also as good at this as he remembers. At least, James seems to think so. His expression clenches with reproach. But his waist rocks forward, thrusting between Nate's fingers in short, eager bursts.
This reciprocation is what convinces Nate to go a little easier. He loosens his hand enough that James can exhale. A tint of color has added to the bruise swollen a dull purple on James' cheek. His Adam's apple bobs past the finger-bruises on his neck.
James has always been attractive in a self-righteous dick way. Just another thing to hate him for.
"Come on," James grumbles. "Let me do you."
Nate feels a 'yes' in the pit of his stomach. But he won't say it. "Call it payment for services rendered."
James arches a brow. "Payment?" Nate doesn't succeed in confusing him often. He takes a moment to revel.
"I can hear those wheels turning. Wondering how you can manipulate this to your benefit."
James scoffs, but the accusation seems to amuse him. He tips his head back. "Like you're such a martyr in the self-serving - ah!" Nate's thumb grinds into the sensitive fold of his cockhead.
"Careful, Jim," he murmurs. "I'd hate to disturb the neighbors."
"You're a complete bastard." James breathes the words. "Can't believe we were ever friends." Nate chuckles. His thumb skims the crown of James' erection.
James' hands move to his arm rests. His white-knuckled grip reminds Nate how damn good he always was at reciprocating this. Nate should get a receipt down the road. Even though it's a bad idea. Hell, doing this now is a bad idea. Anything involving Sterling: bad idea.
"So, what's the play?" Nate asks. "When we land?"
James attempts a menacing look, but it's too dazed to be effective. "Like you would ever follow-"
"We're hired guns for your operation," Nate lays on the sugar. "I assume you have a plan."
"I have several, you ass," James grits.
"Such as?"
For a second, James loses focus, hips bucking under the blanket.
Then it's back. A groan is muted behind pursed lips. "We meet with the architect. He-" James' words break, head bowing to his chest. He's getting close, Nate can tell. His breathing pattern is completely off, hips beginning to thrust on their own.
Admirably, James recovers, straining for the sentence he lost. "-he'll tip his hand. I'd bet on it."
Nate hums. "You a betting man, Sterling?"
James manages a smirk. "Only when it's legal." His next breath is sharper. James teeth plant in his lip, eyes completely glassing over.
Nate enjoys his success; the sudden, spasmed lack of control. It's amazing how much Nate can still get out of this. Five seconds of vulnerability from Sterling might as well be five hours of porn. The good kind.
Nate is nice to him. Lets the blanket gather up the wetness. "Our stewardess will hate us," he says.
"Already does," James mumbles. "Thanks to you." He sounds awfully satisfied for someone who was just bested. James was never concerned, Nate realizes. He knew Nate would get him off. Knew he would keep it discreet. Not the slightest incriminating spot on his suit pants. "I'll toss it before we land."
James tucks himself back in with a lethargic grin. His brow is a touch sweaty, but he doesn't seem to mind. When James is decent, he dumps the used blanket into his seat back compartment.
"You wearing that tie to our big Embassy meeting?" Nate asks, because it's easier than asking anything else.
"I like my tie just fine," James purrs. Nate grumbles and shakes out the final drops of his coffee. That he doesn't gag betrays how buzzed he still is. "Did you bring anything presentable, Nate? Or will you be wearing your gym clothes?"
"I've got a few options," Nate replies. "But you're the expert."
Suggestion hangs on every word. James' mouth twitches. "Will that be payment for services also?"
Nate reaches for the Assistance button, to fix his empty cup situation. "Something like that," he says.
*The End*