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Atlas doesn't have to ask nicely anymore.
"C'mere," he beckons, patting his thigh like Jack is his pet (he is, he is, he is, Jack is his pet, Jack is his property, Jack is his investment, Jack is his); he rocks back and forth slightly in the plush armchair, looks up at Jack who stands in the doorway to Fontaine's study. They're in his suite, Fontaine's suite, and Jack's been doing god-knows-what all day long--rescuing Sisters, probably, or cleaning the city of remaining Splicers.
(Euthanasia, he once quietly told Atlas, that's all it is. I'm saving them from further suffering. I can't save them like the Sisters but I can make their passing quick.)
Atlas doesn't particularly care what Jack does during the day, as long as he stays as safe as he can. Wherever he's been, he's here now, and Atlas--Fontaine?--Atlas is glad to see him.
Because it means he's safe, of course. Because it means the Vita-Chambers are still operational. Because it means Fontaine--Atlas's investment is protected.
Jack takes a step forward, then hesitates. His eyes dance, a smile plays across his lips. "Ask me nicely," he says, and it's more like a question, a plead, than an order.
For a second it feels like there's ice in Atlas's veins, but he quickly quells the feeling. Christ, the kid is asking, it's not like he hasn't asked for this before. There's nothing morally wrong with this game. Why should he care if it's morally wrong, anyhow?
That fucking ship sailed a long damn time ago.
That fucking ship sunk a long, long goddamn time ago.
There's a moment of hesitation where Atlas wonders, as he always does when Jack plays this game, if this is the right thing to be doing--but then he remembers that he is entitled to this. (What a good pet Jack is. Isn't that what Atlas wants?)
"Would you kindly c'mere," he repeats softly, and Jack grins before crossing the room and settling into Atlas's lap, straddling his thighs and pressing close. The sheer amount of affection that Jack always shows him is ridiculous, Atlas feels like he's drowning in it. (He never wants it to stop.)
Jack nearly purrs as his hands smooth coyly up Atlas's chest. "Ask me to kiss you," Jack says after a moment, and Atlas hums, running his own hands up the back of Jack's soft, bloodstained cable-knit sweater. It's clean, thanks to the washing machine in his suite; it smells like detergent and the lingering tang of iron. It smells like Jack.
"Kiss me?" he asks, and Jack smiles again, leans in close and brushes his nose alongside Atlas's.
"Ask me nicely," Jack orders, and they're so close that their lips just barely touch, feather-light and not nearly enough, when Jack speaks. They're sharing breath and Atlas can't refuse. This is a good thing. It's good that Jack likes taking orders from him. That he craves it.
Right?
"Kiss me, would you kindly," Atlas says, voice rough and barely above a whisper. Jack gives a delicious shiver and smiles as he kisses Atlas, slow and sweet like sugar, sweet like ADAM and just as damned addictive. Atlas gets lost in it, kisses back and loses time, clings to Jack like a splicer clings to their last EVE hypo. He kisses back and something burns, painful and raw and desperately needy, in the pit of his chest and the back of his skull.
Regret? Affection? Both?
Atlas goes still with the instant realization and the sheer horror of it, each awful puzzle piece clicking into place at once. He loves Jack. He went and fucking fell in love with Jack, his investment, his lab experiment; he's gone and fallen in love with the wretched boy whose life he destroyed from the very damn start.
Jack smiles against Atlas's still lips. Jack smiles like a wolf; he has Atlas at the end of a string, and he knows it. He's always known it.
Atlas may be the one giving orders, but Jack has won the game.