The decontamination process isn't new to Ward, and it's not like he's got anything to be ashamed of, he thinks as he strips quickly, dumping his powder stained tuxedo into the red biohazard bag Simmons is holding open for him. She's in a biohazard suit, chattering away cheerfully about how it almost certainly isn't Anthrax, and besides, he's up to date on his vaccines, isn't he?
He thinks about pausing when he gets down to his briefs, but she's still holding the bag out expectantly, so off they go, and under the shower he goes, and fuck, the water is freezing. He doesn't wince, but his teeth are chattering by the time he finishes, or they would be, if his jaw weren't clenched.
Fitz is pacing on the other side of the glass, tapping away at his tablet tryptych, working on the piece of tech he managed to wrestle away from the badguy before they threw a handful of powder in Ward's face. Simmons is already peering into a microscope, talking a mile a minute to herself, and he listen to three '*fasc*inating's before he clears his throat.
She looks up, then down the length of his body, then up again. "Apologies. The decontamination shower is terribly cold, isn't it? Hot water opens the pores, counterproductive, of course."
"Of course," he grinds out.
"You really shouldn't feel self conscious."
"I don't. I feel *cold*."
"About your current size of your penis."
Ward breathes in and out slowly, through flared nostrils.
"The blankets are in that cabinet," she says, gesturing as she turns back to the microscope.
He tugs the itchy fire blanket around his shoulders and finds a stool to perch on while she works out whether he's been dosed with something deadly, something inert, or something with entirely ridiculous side effects. She grabs a dropper and after dripping something florescent blue into the dish, she steps back and reaches for her neck, then stops. And glances over at him. "You're flushed," she says. Her voice is calm enough to make him nervous.
"I'm fine," he says. "Just..." he pokes an arm out from his blanket bundle and looks it over. A pink flush is creeping down his skin, and as he watches, it creeps past his elbow, toward his wrist. As it crawls across his skin, it tingles and *almost* itches, but not quite. He starts to scratch, but at the last second, flattens out his palm and skims it over his forearm. The sensation is so intense, he hesitates to label it erotic.
His cock has no such reservations.
"I've got it!" Fitz crows. "It's a," he rattles off about eighteen syllables that Ward doesn't bother trying to track, ending with, "-ine compound. Brilliant, really, the delivery mechanism sidesteps the issues with--"
Simmons says, still in that eerily calm voice, "Fitz. Go update Coulson and let him know to keep the lab sealed for the next two hours."
Ward uses every self control technique he knows to resist the urge to stroke his arm. He closes his eyes and breathes slowly, ignoring the sensual slide of perspiration as it tickles cool little trails down his temples, from beneath his armpits. He doesn't catch what Simmons says, then Fitz is up against the glass, smacking it and angrily arguing that she's not contaminated and she's got about ten minutes before--something. "Go on," Ward slurs. That's weird. He feels fine, but his tongue doesn't want to work. "M'fine." Then he yawns. He's just very tired. He lays his head down on the lab table and enjoys the coolness against his prickly skin.
"You're *not* fine," Fitz barks. "You won't be. *She* won't be." He looks equal parts angry and scared and
"Stop, you're scaring him. Fitz, listen to me, if we break quarantine, there's a 40% chance it'll infect the rest of the crew." She takes a deep breath and smiles nervously. "If we don't, it'll run its course in a couple hours."
"I'm not going anywhere," Fitz scowls at Ward. "Not while you're in there with him."
"He'll be fine, Fitz. I'll be fine."
"He'll *hurt* you." Fitz's voice breaks on the second word. "I'm not leaving you alone with him."
"Fitz. Leo. Please. He's not a violent person."
Fitz laughs. "His *job* is beating people up."
"Fuck you. M'job is being *awesome*," Ward mutters.
"Are you a sexual sadist?" Simmons says, like she's asking about someone's blood type.
no subject
The decontamination process isn't new to Ward, and it's not like he's got anything to be ashamed of, he thinks as he strips quickly, dumping his powder stained tuxedo into the red biohazard bag Simmons is holding open for him. She's in a biohazard suit, chattering away cheerfully about how it almost certainly isn't Anthrax, and besides, he's up to date on his vaccines, isn't he?
He thinks about pausing when he gets down to his briefs, but she's still holding the bag out expectantly, so off they go, and under the shower he goes, and fuck, the water is freezing. He doesn't wince, but his teeth are chattering by the time he finishes, or they would be, if his jaw weren't clenched.
Fitz is pacing on the other side of the glass, tapping away at his tablet tryptych, working on the piece of tech he managed to wrestle away from the badguy before they threw a handful of powder in Ward's face. Simmons is already peering into a microscope, talking a mile a minute to herself, and he listen to three '*fasc*inating's before he clears his throat.
She looks up, then down the length of his body, then up again. "Apologies. The decontamination shower is terribly cold, isn't it? Hot water opens the pores, counterproductive, of course."
"Of course," he grinds out.
"You really shouldn't feel self conscious."
"I don't. I feel *cold*."
"About your current size of your penis."
Ward breathes in and out slowly, through flared nostrils.
"The blankets are in that cabinet," she says, gesturing as she turns back to the microscope.
He tugs the itchy fire blanket around his shoulders and finds a stool to perch on while she works out whether he's been dosed with something deadly, something inert, or something with entirely ridiculous side effects. She grabs a dropper and after dripping something florescent blue into the dish, she steps back and reaches for her neck, then stops. And glances over at him. "You're flushed," she says. Her voice is calm enough to make him nervous.
"I'm fine," he says. "Just..." he pokes an arm out from his blanket bundle and looks it over. A pink flush is creeping down his skin, and as he watches, it creeps past his elbow, toward his wrist. As it crawls across his skin, it tingles and *almost* itches, but not quite. He starts to scratch, but at the last second, flattens out his palm and skims it over his forearm. The sensation is so intense, he hesitates to label it erotic.
His cock has no such reservations.
"I've got it!" Fitz crows. "It's a," he rattles off about eighteen syllables that Ward doesn't bother trying to track, ending with, "-ine compound. Brilliant, really, the delivery mechanism sidesteps the issues with--"
Simmons says, still in that eerily calm voice, "Fitz. Go update Coulson and let him know to keep the lab sealed for the next two hours."
Ward uses every self control technique he knows to resist the urge to stroke his arm. He closes his eyes and breathes slowly, ignoring the sensual slide of perspiration as it tickles cool little trails down his temples, from beneath his armpits. He doesn't catch what Simmons says, then Fitz is up against the glass, smacking it and angrily arguing that she's not contaminated and she's got about ten minutes before--something. "Go on," Ward slurs. That's weird. He feels fine, but his tongue doesn't want to work. "M'fine." Then he yawns. He's just very tired. He lays his head down on the lab table and enjoys the coolness against his prickly skin.
"You're *not* fine," Fitz barks. "You won't be. *She* won't be." He looks equal parts angry and scared and
"Stop, you're scaring him. Fitz, listen to me, if we break quarantine, there's a 40% chance it'll infect the rest of the crew." She takes a deep breath and smiles nervously. "If we don't, it'll run its course in a couple hours."
"I'm not going anywhere," Fitz scowls at Ward. "Not while you're in there with him."
"He'll be fine, Fitz. I'll be fine."
"He'll *hurt* you." Fitz's voice breaks on the second word. "I'm not leaving you alone with him."
"Fitz. Leo. Please. He's not a violent person."
Fitz laughs. "His *job* is beating people up."
"Fuck you. M'job is being *awesome*," Ward mutters.
"Are you a sexual sadist?" Simmons says, like she's asking about someone's blood type.
(cont'd)