Jack folded his legs under him and smirked, exhaling smoke into the hot air.
"We should find better places for this," he remarked. "This place is cramped and a half."
He dodged his pants that were thrown at him with much malice. He ground his cigarette into the floor and laughed.
"You're a sick man, DeLancey," he said back. "How much do you enjoy picking on me in the morning? Get your kicks chasing me around the World building? Love tackling me?"
He rubbed his neck. "Not that you don't do that enough in here…"
"That's enough, Cowboy," Oscar bit out, glaring at him from the other side of the small storage room.
"That's not what you said five minutes ago," Jack grinned maliciously.
He was having enough of Jack's snark. Oscar rose and advanced towards him. Jack held his hands up in mock defense.
"Ooh," he cooed. "Don't hurt me!"
"Keep talkin', Cowboy," he seethed through gritted teeth.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Jack leaned back, splaying his legs. "You're just sick like that. Sick, sick sicko!"
Oscar growled and leapt for him, flattening Jack to the ground. Jack let his head drop back and he laughed almost maniacally at Oscar's attempts to defeat him.
"Are you finished?" he asked after a few minutes of thrashing.
"I said be quiet, Cowboy," he hissed.
"Thought so."
Jack reached up and yanked his head down so their mouths met. They rolled about best they could on the floor of the storage room, hitting the wall with almost every turn because—in Oscar's words—Jack's legs were too fucking long.
Once they were finished, Jack stretched languidly, sitting upright. He yawned and ruffled his hair before leaning his upper body against a wall for support and lazily closing his eyes.
"Like I said," he smirked. "You're a sick man, DeLancey."