They waited until late in the night, when Chuck promised the tower would be deserted. He explained something about day shifts and skeleton crews, but all that Jim really cared about was that no one would catch him sneaking around areas that he wasn’t supposed to have access to, again.

It wasn’t Eye-Eye that got them in, but rather something complicated that Chuck did with the access panel, his deft hands flitting about while the large bulk of his shoulders blocked Jim from seeing exactly what it was that he was doing. No matter. He could always figure it out at a later date. 

Bless Chuck’s nimble fingers, he thought. Professionally!, he then felt compelled to clarify to himself. Bless Chuck’s nimble fingers — professionally — and his ability to get into any last corner of this facility. 

The man stepped away from the panel, his hands falling back down to his side, fingers flexing. Jim looked away, cleared his throat, tugged at the cuffs of his uniform. The floor rattled under their feet as the elevator set in motion. 

The air was too warm in here. Jim stood ramrod-straight, arms clasped neatly behind his back, and realized too late that he should have considered more carefully the implications of being alone in an enclosed space with Chuck before he had agreed to it. The sergeant was simply too tall, for one. And his shoulders were too broad. And his noticeable middle section looked invitingly soft, what with the cushioning curve of his stomach jutting out over his narrow hips. 

Jim looked up at the ceiling and counted to ten. One did not think of one’s subordinates in such terms, he reminded himself. One did not look at their body parts and think of words like ‘cushioning’, as that might only invite further inappropriate reflection. Such as; in an hypothetical scenario where the word applied, then what exactly might Chuck’s stomach be cushioning? Jim’s chin, perhaps, as he looked up at the man? His cheek, in rest? Or perhaps, more suggestively, his forehead, as he turned his attention elsewhere?

Interesting. As the elevator did not seem to be in any hurry to arrive at their destination, Jim tapped his fingers to his forearm and considered the scenario further. He turned it in his mind this way and that with an almost clinical level of detachment, as if he were choreographing the staging of a play and needed to try out different variations before he could commit to the scene.

His forehead leaning on Sergeant Quillback’s stomach, his hips within easy reach. Mouth — or perhaps hands — busy. Now what would that entail? Would they be laying down? Or would Jim be on his knees?

He didn’t have the guilt, nor the shame, nor the proper self-control not to shoot a speculative glance at Chuck out of the corner of his eyes and then look away just as fast. Food for thoughts. It wasn’t quite so bad, as far as he was concerned, to be on his knees. One could direct proceedings quite efficiently from down there, without having to contend with anyone else’s idea of helping.

Although it was also intriguing to consider: what would be Chuck’s idea of helping? Would it involve his hands? Nimble fingers tugging at his hair, or the demanding press of a warm palm to the back of his head? Urging him, perhaps, or holding him steady while he took over the work?

That last possibility unfurled vividly in his mind’s eye. A jolt of alarm shot through Jim as if his brain had somehow managed to touch a live wire. An electrifying mix of desire and quite a lot of panic scorched its way ruthlessly down his spine, leaving him both buzzing with adrenalin and helplessly aroused. His breathing hitched. Only several long years of posture training prevented him from giving himself away with a disgraceful full-body shudder. Something about that last musing had felt… different. Novel. Dangerous. That had never happened before. 

Jim had never before thought about somebody else being in charge and actually wanted it. Preposterous. Clearly, this was but the lapse of a moment — a temporary misfire in his mind — and it wouldn’t happen again. It meant nothing. 

He felt his skin heating up, the tell-tale sign of an horrible, blotchy flush crawling down his neck. Jim cursed internally and hoped that it wouldn’t be too noticeable. Hopefully his collar would conceal the worst of it, and the bad lighting might provide further deniability. This was bad. He couldn’t even remember the last time that he’d let himself slip so badly. He cleared his throat again. 

This isn’t a game, Jim, he scolded himself. Remember that you’re a Major. Act like it. Chin up, shoulders back, focus. There’s a job to do. 

“And what, exactly, is so special about the tower that it’s worth coming all the way up here after dark?,” he asked awkwardly, hoping to fill the silence. Hoping for any sort of distraction.

“Wait and see,” Chuck shrugged, the sort of bashful little movement that one makes when they’ve done something entirely on purpose and they’re happy that it’s been noticed. It managed to involve almost no shoulder and was mostly a flick of the head, which had no business being this cute on a grown man. 

It was his curls that were to blame, Jim decided. Too many of them, bouncing around Chuck’s face, amplifying all of his expressions like some sort of organic punctuation. Hideous. He was possessed by the urge to card his fingers through them. (As this was what one did to hideous things. Obviously.)

Now that he thought about it — rest assured that Jim had not given one single iota of thought to Chuck’s curls previously and was only just now noticing them — was that haircut even regulation? Just because the sergeant shaved the sides of his head, that didn’t mean that he could go around with soft floppy curls spilling out all over his forehead. Drawing Jim’s eyes. Mocking him. He should write up Chuck for this. He might have, if finding the correct form didn’t require asking the man himself about it.

Another truth about Archibald “Jim” Montgomery, one might notice, was that he didn’t actually like being attracted to other people. What was attraction but an abhorrent loss of control, after all? His body reacting in unpredictable ways to random stimuli or — even worse — no immediately evident stimuli at all! His mind being filled with thoughts that he hadn’t asked for, and certainly didn’t put in there himself! All of it potentially leading up to situations where he might have to put his guard down. The very idea of it made his throat close up in near-panic. Trust? In this galaxy? Anyone who thought that letting their guard down wasn’t a death sentence was naive at best. Jim had never had the luxury of being naive before, and he certainly wasn’t about to start now so that he could have a fling. 

With a mark. Talk about a career-ender. Might as well just turn himself in now.

To make matters worse, Chuck had started humming. He had a decent voice for humming, and now Jim knew that about him. The sound was charming. Clearly, this situation was becoming intolerable.

The elevator shook to a halt. The doors made a series of alarming noises then reluctantly parted open. Jim stifled a sigh of relief and resisted the urge to loosen his collar. He could feel sweat gathering at the nape of his neck and under his arms. Gross. And he’d only just gotten this shirt back from the dry cleaner, too. Fortunately his jacket was long and his pants dark, a combination which could conceal quite a host of crimes, such as excessive sweating or indulging in a spot of slightly-too-vivid fantasies while standing in an enclosed metal box a mere hand’s breath away from the target of said fantasies. 

Or the shape of a sensible, reliable little stealth blaster, with an elegant black muzzle and more firepower than would ever be contained in a genuine service weapon, last seen in the hands of… oh, no one who was in any position to squeal on him now.

Jim cleared his throat (for the third time! How mortifying. He really needed to get it together) and finally took his first steps into CSS Trout’s communication tower. He swept the space with his eyes. Once for threats, twice for cameras, thrice for exits. Only then did he actually gave himself leave to look without the filter of paranoia, and — 

Windows.

The room was covered in windows.