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Jan. 1st, 2012 07:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rapacityinblueTitle: One Love, One Life
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean
Spoilers: None, but you'll probably get more out of this if you have an understanding of the series and characters.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Once a year, James and Jack have a reunion. Neither really knows why.
Pairing: Sparrington
Word Count: 5035
Notes: Written for Moony. 500 Themes Prompt 22: What lies beyond forever. Will Jen ever stop writing sloppy, unbeta'd NaNo porn fic? Probably not.
James waited in the bar as long as he possibly could. Until he’d sat there so long that he was beginning to attract attention. He finished the last of his scotch, neat, by throwing his head back and flicking his wrist. The last few swallows of liquid burned a sweet path down his throat, and he considered staying another half an hour, maybe having a water, but he didn’t want to risk drawing any any more attention to himself.
He stood to pay his tab, and the amount should have been enough to tell him just how long he’d been here. Just in case the way the room was spinning didn’t do it. He put it down to the last shot, and rested his hands casually on the polished mahogany bar top while he waited for his change, and prided himself on staying mostly steady as he threaded his way through the tables and out the door.
It was a shame, really. There had been a time not so long ago that a man could get thoroughly trashed, alone or not, in the safe and reassuring privacy of any dockside bar. A time when a man didn't have to worry if the military set of his shoulders was attracting too much attention. James tried to think back to a time when he hadn't felt self-conscious and under watch, and realized that he'd never experienced this time personally. He'd read about it, in noir novellas mostly, but he was quite sure it had existed. He also realized what a stupid path this was for his thoughts to be wandering down, but, he mused with grim amusement, it certainly beat the alternatives. He'd always been a bit of a maudlin drunk. He really had indulged a bit too much, it seemed. Easy enough to do, when you spent hours waiting for a ghost.
Why he'd actually expected the man to be there -- again, he tamped the thoughts down, hard and tight like black powder in one of those antique muskets his grandfather had kept in the study. Instead, he brought his attention back to the uneven cobblestones in his path, slick with all of London's usual damp, and that was when he first heard the shadow tread to his own steps.
He hadn't come that far from the pub. The wise thing to do would be to double back to the warmth of old fashioned gas lamps and richly stained wood and green felt billiard table tops. He had risen to the rank of Commodore in Her Majesty's Navy on wisdom. Of course, he hadn't risen there after nearly half a dozen scotches, and he wasn't so drunk as to miss the fact that he'd completely romanticized the pub in the two minutes he'd been gone.
He didn't turn back. Instead, he did what any self respecting man would do -- pushed his hands deeper into the pocket of his trench coat and kept walking. It was later than he'd realized, and the old and mostly abandoned public housing projects seemed to cast the streets into darker shadow. He'd walked this route before without trouble, and his feet followed it now, more on instinct, as his ears strained for any further noise of another being here with him.
Footsteps, definitely. The thick, rubber soles of work-boots slapping against wet pavement, a lower counterpoint to the polite click of his own polished loafers. James had never itched so much for the reassurance of his mostly-ceremonial side arm, but it was just that -- and out of uniform, he almost never carried it. Or perhaps, he thought, bringing a drunkenly tilted smile to his face, a sword. He'd held a sword once, another of his grandfather's relics, and marveled in the sleek, strong way it seemed to extend his arm.
Foolish thoughts for another time. Was it possible he'd been recognized and followed? He felt the familiar thrill along his spine and dismissed it as silly. It had been well over 10 years since homosexuality had been unacceptable in a Naval officer; over a century since it had been a hanging offense. If he had been recognized, was being followed, what was the worst that could happen?
A more perfect case of "famous last words" had never been spoken by another man, utterly alone in a deserted dockside ally, he mused, the crooked smile returning to his face, and at the first shout he turned to face his would-be attackers -- and found three half grown boys.
Forced to guess, he would put good money that they hadn't come from one of the luxury loft developments that were slowly taking over the docks. All three were underdressed for the night chill in plain white teeshirts and jeans, the hems and collars torn out of both. "Hey," they shouted, "hey, man," and when he slowed, they did too. They formed un uneasy circle around the ring cast by a street lamp, heavily weighted to the three of them, and the center boy, the leader, stepped forward. "Hey, you dropped your wallet."
It was a classic piece of strategy and he'd seen it played out before in battle simulations, on the open waters of the ocean. He saw himself stepping forward to meet the first boy just as the other two flanked him, and he knew what would happen next. He didn't need to search to feel the heavy weight of his wallet in his pocket and to spot the lure for what it was, even in the poor light of the room around them.
"You must be mistaken, that isn't mine," he said curtly, his tone even and stiff. "Sorry. Good evening."
And he turned smartly on one heel to leave.
Three of them to his one, and even though he was stronger and undoubtedly better trained than they, he didn't really feel the need to see who would come out on top in a common brawl. With any luck they would feel the same, and wander off in search of an easier mark.
Or there was the possibility that they would see through his ruse as quickly as he'd seen through theirs, and know that he had every intention of calling in a report as soon as they were out of earshot.
Whether they knew they'd been caught out or whether they just felt he was a worthwhile mark despite it -- well, it hardly mattered at this point. They followed behind him as he tried to move away, their catcalls pitched low enough to carry only as far as he was ahead of them. "Think you're too good for us?" they called. "Why're you running?"
"Awful lot of ruckus for this time of night," put in a new voice. It was enough to freeze James in his steps, and the boys stopped too. For the moment Jack was only a shadow just outside reach, and they didn't know which side he'd come down on if it came to a fight. James knew. At least, he hoped he did.
The leader of the miserable little gang stepped up again, defiance practically dripping from his posture. "Just trying to give the man his wallet back," he said, making it an accusation. Jack, answering the challenge for what it was, moved out of the shadow as well. James looked just long enough to see that he looked well. He couldn't not look, even though there were much more concerns (like that of their impending mugging) to occupy his brain.
Casually, Jack said, "I don't think he wants it."
Evidently, while three against one were comfortable odds for them, they didn't appreciate having the deck stacked this way. With a flurry of uncomplimentary insults -- ranging everywhere from his sexuality to his mother, from the little attention he paid --they dispersed, leaving just him and Jack, standing at opposite ends of the round of lamplight.
"Shouldn't talk about my mum that way." Jack affected a pout James had seen all too many times, his easy, lilting tone still an amalgamation of everywhere James had been and could ever hope to go. It was all James needed to hear -- he shoved his hands deeper into his pockets to warm them and pushed past the other man.
For all that he was the more broadly built and half a head again as tall, he didn't get far. Jack bobbed and wove like a champion boxer, always just outside his reach but directly in front of him. No matter which direction he veered, the man was there, until he finally gritted his teeth and muttered, "Get out of my way."
"I would," the other man answered much too seriously, "But I've been doing that for near ten years now. It's your own way you ought to learn to get out of." He paused, his eyes rolling to the side. "Out of which you ought to learn to get?"
"Good," James said. "Now close your eyes and say it ten times fast."
There was something too much like amusement that glittered in Jack's eyes. "What, and find you gone when I'd finished? You never stay around for the good part."
Green eyes met brown for a long moment, and then James jerked his own gaze away. He didn't need to say anything about which of them could and couldn't stay around. It was a cheap shot and he was too drunk for wordplay, anyway. Instead, he only tried to push past Jack again, and this time he succeeded.
"Come on!" Jack shouted at his back. "You don't need to go running off just when I've shown up!"
It was enough to make James turn. Tonight, it was enough. Another night he might have been sober, but then, he wouldn't have been here in the first place. Just speculating on the whats and hows of if they'd met any other time was enough to make his head ache and he didn't want that now. He was quite sure it would be aching plenty in a few hours.
"And why is that?" he demanded instead. He could bring his arms out to cross them, but it would look defensive at best, and he absolutely would not let himself look vulnerable. Not in front of Jack. "Please tell me, Sparrow, because I waited for hours and you're just here now."
"Here when you needed me, though, right?" Jack had a smile that could charm a snake out of its own skin and he turned the whole force of it on James now. When James showed no sign of weakening, the other man's shoulders dropped. Defeat wasn't a look he wore well, or often. James hardly recognized it on him. If he were any more prone to self flagellation he might have said something like, 'knew it was a bad idea,' but he wasn't, and he didn't. He just left it there for James to read.
Emotions warred with in him, which was enough to set James's teeth on edge. His life was supposed to be uncomplicated. It had been presented to him in a neat, tidy bundle at birth, all his decisions made for him, and there was no reason for him to feel conflicted now. Finally, he relented enough to ask, "Where were you?" It was even and measured. Just like Jack would never question himself, James couldn't find it in him to beg. He gave Jack this one chance to explain himself, and he would wait to hear if the answer was satisfactory. That was all he could do.
Jack answered, quite simply, "Because you told me not to, luv."
In the ten years they'd known eachother, James could think of a dozen or more times he'd told the other man to leave his life. This was, possibly, the first time Jack had almost listened. The last time they'd seen each other had been the first time James had almost meant it.
And yet he'd still shown up in the bar, exactly on time, as he had once a year for the last ten years. He'd told Jack to stay out of his life, but it could have been almost as easy as staying away himself. Hard to blame Jack when he was just as guilty, circling back to the bar on what was his first night back in port after months away. Regardless of what they'd said, if he hadn't shown up, well. Whenever they saw each other next, it would have been message sent and received, wouldn't it?
He was drunk, and he was dithering, and the what-ifs could pile up indefinitely. They'd said what they'd said, and he'd gone to the bar, and Jack hadn't. Now they were here. It was all a simple matter of where they went next.
Jack must have literally seen the fight leave him, because his shoulders slumped, and then Jack took first one, then another tentative step toward him. "Easy there," the darker-haired of them murmured, almost like James was a spooked horse he was trying to gentle. "See? Not so awful. Look at it in the grand scale and I'm barely just a tick late." There was that smile again, bright teeth shining against a goatee that was so messy it was almost offensive. At least he'd moved past the grunge state he'd been when they'd first met and kept the stubble to a reasonable length all around now. No more ridiculous braids.
Jack had moved into the light with those last few steps, and James was finally able to get a really good look at him. He realized that his initial impression of the man had been right. Jack did look well, a bit more filled out than he'd been this time last year. He dressed like he'd dressed the entire time James had known him, in a cream oxford with the sleeves rolled up and the collar spread much too wide. Over that was a waistcoat, the front undone and gaping open in a mockery of formality. Plain jeans, worn-through to just threads in too many places to count, and hemp sneakers on his feet. All in all, he'd left open almost every button society would let him get away with, and there wasn't a single collar or cuff to hold him. The only thing to weigh him down was the unruly tangle of chains around his neck. James, off duty and dressed casually, felt overdone in slacks, his own button-down, sweater, and tie.
James forced himself to swallow, forced himself to look Jack in the eye, and finally said, “What is it you want, Sparrow?” His voice came out tighter than he would have liked, as if he had to force out the words. Which he did, but he didn’t want Jack knowing it.
“Dunno.” The single word was more subdued than he was used to hearing from the other man. “Just felt unfinished, I s’ppose. Thought I’d come see you, sort things out.”
“And instead you thought you’d just dilly-dally around until I got myself almost mugged, and then just jump into save me?” That was better, sharper, more like the tone he wanted to use when addressing the pirate. Not that Jack ever had, at least as much as he knew, engaged in acts of piracy. But that was the epithet his brain seemed to assign to the other man whenever their paths crossed, and as Jack was certainly a thief, he’d never seen fit to quibble with it.
“Look.” Responding to the aggression in his tone, Jack’s grew harder, too. “You don’t have to like it that I pulled you out of the tar pits back there, but I did. If this is such an awful idea then why do you keep showing up?” His question followed the train of James’s thoughts so closely that, if he were superstitious, he might have suspected the supernatural at play. Even rooted in the world of reality, the coincidence was chilling. Sometimes -- often -- it seemed that Jack knew him far too well for only a couple dozen meetings over the last decade.
“I don’t know,” he answered frankly, too drunk and overwhelmed to really censor his answer before it came out.
“Neither do I,” Jack said, almost an offering, before he shrugged. “Well. Been three hundred and sixty-five whole days, we’ve done our thing. See you in another turn of the wheel, hey?” And with that, he turned to go, apparently satisfied with the duration of their meeting.
They did stumble into each other in between, on occasion, in ports or here at home. James didn’t ask what Jack was doing in Libya when they bumped into each other in a market in Tripoli, or ask where he’d gotten the finally woven bolts of silk when he’d returned with a raw tattoo from Singapore. But those meetings, they couldn’t control, and they usually ended like this one was set to -- a brief conversation and flippant parting that set James’s teeth and heart on edge for months after Jack had danced back out of his life.
This -- one day, every year, a day without any real significance or meaning other than simple repetition -- that they reliably ended up in the same place, at roughly the same time. “Jack, wait,” he called, before he could stop himself. The other man turned. “I’m too drunk to get home,” he said.
It was embarrassing to say and it was also an outright lie. But there was one night a year James didn’t need to worry about dignity, and he’d almost had it stolen from him time and again -- by his own stupidity, by Jack’s cavalier attitude, by a handful of stupid kids who thought they could beat him up and take his money.
Jack stopped to look at him, his nose wrinkling up. His eyes raked up and down and his lips pushed forward into a pout that James had seen before. “Are not,” he said finally.
“Am too,” James countered just as quickly, aware that his face was becoming equally petulant.
In the space between words, Jack moved the last few steps to him, closing the space between them. The argument was old, a throwback to their first conversation. Sometimes it seemed like they’d been having this conversation even longer, back through eternity. Jack was grinning at him, a free and easy smile that he usually only saw at sea, and his fingers hooked into James’s neatly buttoned and belted waistband.
Jack pulled him in the last few steps for their foreheads to rest together, and James gave in to the laugh that was building in his chest.
They stood that for a long time. He was nearly a full head taller than Jack, but their bodies seemed to fit together naturally as they laughed. There was nothing particularly funny about it, but they laughed, until his fingers were twisted in Jack’s shirt and Jack stopped laughing to push into him with a kiss.
It went from chaste to wet and open-mouthed in less then a heartbeat. In all their time, he’d never known Jack to kiss any other way, didn’t think he knew how. He let the other man batter down his defenses with lips and tongue until he was leaning too heavily on him, and only then did he try to use his grip in the other man’s shirt to leverage them apart. “Jack. Jack, what are we doing?”
Jack’s lips were wet and swollen already, shining under the scruff of his mustache. He looked up at James with pit-black eyes and dragged his tongue over them, and James knew it wasn’t because he couldn’t be subtle but because he was, in this at least, completely guileless. “I hope I don’t have to explain it to you, love.”
James tried not to let himself be sucked into the easy desire that made Jack who he was. The other man would never be innocent, but he almost seemed it like this, because the passion was so natural on him. Even as he spoke, his fingers were working into James’s waistband, tugging free his shirt and moving up under the sweater to undo the buttons. “You know exactly what I mean,” James snapped in a sharper tone, though he didn’t pull away from those fingers as they worked, one buttonhole at a time, up his chest. “How long are we supposed to keep going like this?”
“Until we’ve another option, it would seem,” Jack said carelessly. “Jamie, Jamie, how many times have I told you to stop thinking so hard?”
“At least as many as I’ve told you to actually try using your brain.” James knew the script they were on, could recite it rote, even with Jack doing his best to distract him with those plush lips at his neck. James knew, from the suck followed by the scrape of teeth, that he would leave a mark that would glow on his skin for days, but it was well below the collar of his shirt even without him scolding Jack. It was the final straw, the one that almost undid him, and he sagged against Jack in silent but perfectly understood consent.
“There you are,” Jack murmured into his skin, guiding their graceless stumble backward until James’s shoulders hit brick.
Jack had commented, almost all of their meetings, on the fine and sensitive texture of James’s skin, making it clear he thought the delicacy was ridiculous for a naval man. Back before engines and motorized rudders he’d have been as tanned and rough as Jack himself was. He sailed. It was one of the things James knew about him, though he’d never learned when or why. Just another singular piece that never seemed to fit quite right into the picture Jack projected.
The uneven wall bit into his shoulders now, leaving more marks across the clean skin that Jack loved to mark. Somewhere the man had stripped off his coat, sweater, and the oxford and left them in a messy pile at their side. he wasn’t surprised that Jack’s clothes were disappearing at the same rapid rate, though if this assignation ended as their others had, somehow his outfit would be ruined while Jack’s emerged more or less unscathed. Or maybe it was just that the other man’s clothing began in such a poor state that who could tell?
They’d never done this in an alley before. Never in either of their beds, either, not properly. James didn’t even know if Jack had a flat in London or if he lived somewhere else. The one time he’d tried to invite Jack back to his place had been the only time their evening hadn’t ended like this, bare skin and wrapped in each others’ arms as their tongues dueled for dominance.
Jack won. He always did, and James couldn’t bring himself to be bothered much as a rough grip closed around his wrists. Jack held his hands level with his hips, pushed flush against the wall as he kissed James again, covering the commodore’s body with his own and rocking in the cradle of James’s hips. Jack’s cock, already hard under the denim of his jeans, pressed into James’s matching need and he jerked against the brick, leaving stinging scratches across his whole back as he sought both to pull away and get more contact from Jack.
The man dropped one of his wrists to push his hand between them instead, starting first with James’s belt and trousers. Partially freed, James brought his hand up to a firm grip at the back of the other man’s head, dragging Jack back for another open-mouthed kiss that let him plunder the shorter man’s mouth. He pulled back only when he could feel Jack panting for air against his lips and tilted his head back, pulling the other man to his neck and letting Jack stroke the length of him with a callused grip instead. “We don’t have to,” he tried again, his eyes closing as the dual sensations made him arch off the wall again.
“Hush. ‘Course we do,” Jack said into his shoulder, leaving another dark bruise where his collarbone jutted out from the skin of his breast. At the same time, his thumbnail scraped over the head of James’s cock, smearing a pearl-white droplet across the tip and leaving behind a thin, fire hot line. James’s moan came out as more of a ragged gasp and his head fell back against brick, hitting hard.
“I mean we could change it.” His own fingers twisted in the fly of Jack’s leans, and he wasn’t surprised to find that the man had forgone underwear when he almost immediately passed denim and hit bare skin. He made a loose fist with his hand and pushed in a smooth motion that dragged Jack’s foreskin down, matching the rhythm the other man had set.
“Don’t start that now.” Jack’s voice, even twisted as he panted through arousal, was as close to a plea as he ever got, and James knew the unspoken corollary to the sentence. He clamped his lips together, and Jack pushed him into another kiss to help keep the words down.
They rocked together, hips so close that their knuckles dragged together as they jerked and their teeth clashing as their tongues fought from one mouth to another. Jack’s weight pushed him back further against the building, the rough brick digging deeper into the scrapes over his back.
“You’ll tear yourself up this way,” Jack whispered finally, almost tenderly and as much of an apology as he could give. James nodded, a mute understanding, and turned with relief to brace his forearms against the wall. He rested his cheek against his wrists and stared hard at the brick -- anything not to have to see the half-guilt and half-reproach in Jack’s eyes.
“Open up for me, luv.” Jack’s breath was hot and damp against his ears, his knees working inside James’s to push his legs apart. First was the rough tug as he pushed James’s slacks and briefs down his hips, and then his fingers pushed, one first, slick against James’s ass. “Always so tight. If I didn’t know better I’d think you were saving yourself for me.”
James turned enough to give him a perfectly clear glare. He didn’t need to tell Jack that when he was at sea, partners were hardly lining up to bed him. The other man only batted his eyelids sweetly, as if he couldn’t imagine what he’d said to annoy James, and slid a finger home to hit his prostate.
He groaned and rocked, taking a second finger and seating them deeper inside him as Jack continued to murmur soothing nonsense into the torn skin of his shoulders. He tongued the scrapes, making them sting until James’s body wracked with it, pushing him hard into those scissoring fingers.
When he was ready, he pulled the digits free and rolled a condom to cover his length. He seated himself inside James with one smooth thrust, his body rocking mercilessly against the sore skin of James’s back and his zipper leaving fresh red lines along the insides of James’s thighs. For a long time, they stayed like that, James taking Jack’s weight as the smaller man went almost limp atop him. Then he began to move with a sudden fury, ragged uneven thrusts that didn’t match the shaky pump of his hand on James’s cock, but nevertheless drove James higher until his fingers were curling on the wall, the mortar digging beneath his nails, as he sought every ounce of leverage to push himself back against Jack.
All of it was too much, almost from the beginning, and a dozen rough pumps later he was climaxing, splattering the wall and Jack’s hand with their cum. The other man followed him over the edge as he pulled back, leaving his seed pushed messily half-inside James and smeared between them as he fell forward, letting James and the wall take his weight once more.
James counted the handful of heartbeats until Jack, as he always did, pulled away -- slow at first as he withdrew from James’s sensitive body, but brisk and efficient afterwards. Many years ago, he had held James after they did this, resting against the temporary partitions of bathroom stalls or atop the scratchy comforter of a motel, but that had been a long time ago. James stayed precisely where he was and waited for Jack to clothe himself again, carefully not looking at him, barely breathing in case the words slipped out.
Even that wasn’t quite enough. Jack heard the judgement in the silence, and finally said, “You don’t have to give me that. It’s a compliment.”
That drew a long, bitter laugh from James. “How?” he asked, not that he’d expected anything else from the man when he’d come here this evening.
“I could lie if that would make you happier,” Jack said, an oblique way of getting at the point, but an answer all in itself. James, who lived his lives in so many different compartments, couldn’t pretend not to understand how many different ways there were to lie.
The whisper of cloth against his back let him know that Jack was fully clothed already, and there was a very brief press of lips, chapped and wet, to the back of his neck before the other man was gone. He closed his eyes and counted to a hundred breaths anyway, just in case for whatever reason Jack had decided to linger this time. By the time he opened his eyes, the alley was empty again, and he gathered his clothing again in the silence of it.
well it's too late tonight
to drag the past out into the light
we're one, but we're not the same
Fandom: Pirates of the Caribbean
Spoilers: None, but you'll probably get more out of this if you have an understanding of the series and characters.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Once a year, James and Jack have a reunion. Neither really knows why.
Pairing: Sparrington
Word Count: 5035
Notes: Written for Moony. 500 Themes Prompt 22: What lies beyond forever. Will Jen ever stop writing sloppy, unbeta'd NaNo porn fic? Probably not.
James waited in the bar as long as he possibly could. Until he’d sat there so long that he was beginning to attract attention. He finished the last of his scotch, neat, by throwing his head back and flicking his wrist. The last few swallows of liquid burned a sweet path down his throat, and he considered staying another half an hour, maybe having a water, but he didn’t want to risk drawing any any more attention to himself.
He stood to pay his tab, and the amount should have been enough to tell him just how long he’d been here. Just in case the way the room was spinning didn’t do it. He put it down to the last shot, and rested his hands casually on the polished mahogany bar top while he waited for his change, and prided himself on staying mostly steady as he threaded his way through the tables and out the door.
It was a shame, really. There had been a time not so long ago that a man could get thoroughly trashed, alone or not, in the safe and reassuring privacy of any dockside bar. A time when a man didn't have to worry if the military set of his shoulders was attracting too much attention. James tried to think back to a time when he hadn't felt self-conscious and under watch, and realized that he'd never experienced this time personally. He'd read about it, in noir novellas mostly, but he was quite sure it had existed. He also realized what a stupid path this was for his thoughts to be wandering down, but, he mused with grim amusement, it certainly beat the alternatives. He'd always been a bit of a maudlin drunk. He really had indulged a bit too much, it seemed. Easy enough to do, when you spent hours waiting for a ghost.
Why he'd actually expected the man to be there -- again, he tamped the thoughts down, hard and tight like black powder in one of those antique muskets his grandfather had kept in the study. Instead, he brought his attention back to the uneven cobblestones in his path, slick with all of London's usual damp, and that was when he first heard the shadow tread to his own steps.
He hadn't come that far from the pub. The wise thing to do would be to double back to the warmth of old fashioned gas lamps and richly stained wood and green felt billiard table tops. He had risen to the rank of Commodore in Her Majesty's Navy on wisdom. Of course, he hadn't risen there after nearly half a dozen scotches, and he wasn't so drunk as to miss the fact that he'd completely romanticized the pub in the two minutes he'd been gone.
He didn't turn back. Instead, he did what any self respecting man would do -- pushed his hands deeper into the pocket of his trench coat and kept walking. It was later than he'd realized, and the old and mostly abandoned public housing projects seemed to cast the streets into darker shadow. He'd walked this route before without trouble, and his feet followed it now, more on instinct, as his ears strained for any further noise of another being here with him.
Footsteps, definitely. The thick, rubber soles of work-boots slapping against wet pavement, a lower counterpoint to the polite click of his own polished loafers. James had never itched so much for the reassurance of his mostly-ceremonial side arm, but it was just that -- and out of uniform, he almost never carried it. Or perhaps, he thought, bringing a drunkenly tilted smile to his face, a sword. He'd held a sword once, another of his grandfather's relics, and marveled in the sleek, strong way it seemed to extend his arm.
Foolish thoughts for another time. Was it possible he'd been recognized and followed? He felt the familiar thrill along his spine and dismissed it as silly. It had been well over 10 years since homosexuality had been unacceptable in a Naval officer; over a century since it had been a hanging offense. If he had been recognized, was being followed, what was the worst that could happen?
A more perfect case of "famous last words" had never been spoken by another man, utterly alone in a deserted dockside ally, he mused, the crooked smile returning to his face, and at the first shout he turned to face his would-be attackers -- and found three half grown boys.
Forced to guess, he would put good money that they hadn't come from one of the luxury loft developments that were slowly taking over the docks. All three were underdressed for the night chill in plain white teeshirts and jeans, the hems and collars torn out of both. "Hey," they shouted, "hey, man," and when he slowed, they did too. They formed un uneasy circle around the ring cast by a street lamp, heavily weighted to the three of them, and the center boy, the leader, stepped forward. "Hey, you dropped your wallet."
It was a classic piece of strategy and he'd seen it played out before in battle simulations, on the open waters of the ocean. He saw himself stepping forward to meet the first boy just as the other two flanked him, and he knew what would happen next. He didn't need to search to feel the heavy weight of his wallet in his pocket and to spot the lure for what it was, even in the poor light of the room around them.
"You must be mistaken, that isn't mine," he said curtly, his tone even and stiff. "Sorry. Good evening."
And he turned smartly on one heel to leave.
Three of them to his one, and even though he was stronger and undoubtedly better trained than they, he didn't really feel the need to see who would come out on top in a common brawl. With any luck they would feel the same, and wander off in search of an easier mark.
Or there was the possibility that they would see through his ruse as quickly as he'd seen through theirs, and know that he had every intention of calling in a report as soon as they were out of earshot.
Whether they knew they'd been caught out or whether they just felt he was a worthwhile mark despite it -- well, it hardly mattered at this point. They followed behind him as he tried to move away, their catcalls pitched low enough to carry only as far as he was ahead of them. "Think you're too good for us?" they called. "Why're you running?"
"Awful lot of ruckus for this time of night," put in a new voice. It was enough to freeze James in his steps, and the boys stopped too. For the moment Jack was only a shadow just outside reach, and they didn't know which side he'd come down on if it came to a fight. James knew. At least, he hoped he did.
The leader of the miserable little gang stepped up again, defiance practically dripping from his posture. "Just trying to give the man his wallet back," he said, making it an accusation. Jack, answering the challenge for what it was, moved out of the shadow as well. James looked just long enough to see that he looked well. He couldn't not look, even though there were much more concerns (like that of their impending mugging) to occupy his brain.
Casually, Jack said, "I don't think he wants it."
Evidently, while three against one were comfortable odds for them, they didn't appreciate having the deck stacked this way. With a flurry of uncomplimentary insults -- ranging everywhere from his sexuality to his mother, from the little attention he paid --they dispersed, leaving just him and Jack, standing at opposite ends of the round of lamplight.
"Shouldn't talk about my mum that way." Jack affected a pout James had seen all too many times, his easy, lilting tone still an amalgamation of everywhere James had been and could ever hope to go. It was all James needed to hear -- he shoved his hands deeper into his pockets to warm them and pushed past the other man.
For all that he was the more broadly built and half a head again as tall, he didn't get far. Jack bobbed and wove like a champion boxer, always just outside his reach but directly in front of him. No matter which direction he veered, the man was there, until he finally gritted his teeth and muttered, "Get out of my way."
"I would," the other man answered much too seriously, "But I've been doing that for near ten years now. It's your own way you ought to learn to get out of." He paused, his eyes rolling to the side. "Out of which you ought to learn to get?"
"Good," James said. "Now close your eyes and say it ten times fast."
There was something too much like amusement that glittered in Jack's eyes. "What, and find you gone when I'd finished? You never stay around for the good part."
Green eyes met brown for a long moment, and then James jerked his own gaze away. He didn't need to say anything about which of them could and couldn't stay around. It was a cheap shot and he was too drunk for wordplay, anyway. Instead, he only tried to push past Jack again, and this time he succeeded.
"Come on!" Jack shouted at his back. "You don't need to go running off just when I've shown up!"
It was enough to make James turn. Tonight, it was enough. Another night he might have been sober, but then, he wouldn't have been here in the first place. Just speculating on the whats and hows of if they'd met any other time was enough to make his head ache and he didn't want that now. He was quite sure it would be aching plenty in a few hours.
"And why is that?" he demanded instead. He could bring his arms out to cross them, but it would look defensive at best, and he absolutely would not let himself look vulnerable. Not in front of Jack. "Please tell me, Sparrow, because I waited for hours and you're just here now."
"Here when you needed me, though, right?" Jack had a smile that could charm a snake out of its own skin and he turned the whole force of it on James now. When James showed no sign of weakening, the other man's shoulders dropped. Defeat wasn't a look he wore well, or often. James hardly recognized it on him. If he were any more prone to self flagellation he might have said something like, 'knew it was a bad idea,' but he wasn't, and he didn't. He just left it there for James to read.
Emotions warred with in him, which was enough to set James's teeth on edge. His life was supposed to be uncomplicated. It had been presented to him in a neat, tidy bundle at birth, all his decisions made for him, and there was no reason for him to feel conflicted now. Finally, he relented enough to ask, "Where were you?" It was even and measured. Just like Jack would never question himself, James couldn't find it in him to beg. He gave Jack this one chance to explain himself, and he would wait to hear if the answer was satisfactory. That was all he could do.
Jack answered, quite simply, "Because you told me not to, luv."
In the ten years they'd known eachother, James could think of a dozen or more times he'd told the other man to leave his life. This was, possibly, the first time Jack had almost listened. The last time they'd seen each other had been the first time James had almost meant it.
And yet he'd still shown up in the bar, exactly on time, as he had once a year for the last ten years. He'd told Jack to stay out of his life, but it could have been almost as easy as staying away himself. Hard to blame Jack when he was just as guilty, circling back to the bar on what was his first night back in port after months away. Regardless of what they'd said, if he hadn't shown up, well. Whenever they saw each other next, it would have been message sent and received, wouldn't it?
He was drunk, and he was dithering, and the what-ifs could pile up indefinitely. They'd said what they'd said, and he'd gone to the bar, and Jack hadn't. Now they were here. It was all a simple matter of where they went next.
Jack must have literally seen the fight leave him, because his shoulders slumped, and then Jack took first one, then another tentative step toward him. "Easy there," the darker-haired of them murmured, almost like James was a spooked horse he was trying to gentle. "See? Not so awful. Look at it in the grand scale and I'm barely just a tick late." There was that smile again, bright teeth shining against a goatee that was so messy it was almost offensive. At least he'd moved past the grunge state he'd been when they'd first met and kept the stubble to a reasonable length all around now. No more ridiculous braids.
Jack had moved into the light with those last few steps, and James was finally able to get a really good look at him. He realized that his initial impression of the man had been right. Jack did look well, a bit more filled out than he'd been this time last year. He dressed like he'd dressed the entire time James had known him, in a cream oxford with the sleeves rolled up and the collar spread much too wide. Over that was a waistcoat, the front undone and gaping open in a mockery of formality. Plain jeans, worn-through to just threads in too many places to count, and hemp sneakers on his feet. All in all, he'd left open almost every button society would let him get away with, and there wasn't a single collar or cuff to hold him. The only thing to weigh him down was the unruly tangle of chains around his neck. James, off duty and dressed casually, felt overdone in slacks, his own button-down, sweater, and tie.
James forced himself to swallow, forced himself to look Jack in the eye, and finally said, “What is it you want, Sparrow?” His voice came out tighter than he would have liked, as if he had to force out the words. Which he did, but he didn’t want Jack knowing it.
“Dunno.” The single word was more subdued than he was used to hearing from the other man. “Just felt unfinished, I s’ppose. Thought I’d come see you, sort things out.”
“And instead you thought you’d just dilly-dally around until I got myself almost mugged, and then just jump into save me?” That was better, sharper, more like the tone he wanted to use when addressing the pirate. Not that Jack ever had, at least as much as he knew, engaged in acts of piracy. But that was the epithet his brain seemed to assign to the other man whenever their paths crossed, and as Jack was certainly a thief, he’d never seen fit to quibble with it.
“Look.” Responding to the aggression in his tone, Jack’s grew harder, too. “You don’t have to like it that I pulled you out of the tar pits back there, but I did. If this is such an awful idea then why do you keep showing up?” His question followed the train of James’s thoughts so closely that, if he were superstitious, he might have suspected the supernatural at play. Even rooted in the world of reality, the coincidence was chilling. Sometimes -- often -- it seemed that Jack knew him far too well for only a couple dozen meetings over the last decade.
“I don’t know,” he answered frankly, too drunk and overwhelmed to really censor his answer before it came out.
“Neither do I,” Jack said, almost an offering, before he shrugged. “Well. Been three hundred and sixty-five whole days, we’ve done our thing. See you in another turn of the wheel, hey?” And with that, he turned to go, apparently satisfied with the duration of their meeting.
They did stumble into each other in between, on occasion, in ports or here at home. James didn’t ask what Jack was doing in Libya when they bumped into each other in a market in Tripoli, or ask where he’d gotten the finally woven bolts of silk when he’d returned with a raw tattoo from Singapore. But those meetings, they couldn’t control, and they usually ended like this one was set to -- a brief conversation and flippant parting that set James’s teeth and heart on edge for months after Jack had danced back out of his life.
This -- one day, every year, a day without any real significance or meaning other than simple repetition -- that they reliably ended up in the same place, at roughly the same time. “Jack, wait,” he called, before he could stop himself. The other man turned. “I’m too drunk to get home,” he said.
It was embarrassing to say and it was also an outright lie. But there was one night a year James didn’t need to worry about dignity, and he’d almost had it stolen from him time and again -- by his own stupidity, by Jack’s cavalier attitude, by a handful of stupid kids who thought they could beat him up and take his money.
Jack stopped to look at him, his nose wrinkling up. His eyes raked up and down and his lips pushed forward into a pout that James had seen before. “Are not,” he said finally.
“Am too,” James countered just as quickly, aware that his face was becoming equally petulant.
In the space between words, Jack moved the last few steps to him, closing the space between them. The argument was old, a throwback to their first conversation. Sometimes it seemed like they’d been having this conversation even longer, back through eternity. Jack was grinning at him, a free and easy smile that he usually only saw at sea, and his fingers hooked into James’s neatly buttoned and belted waistband.
Jack pulled him in the last few steps for their foreheads to rest together, and James gave in to the laugh that was building in his chest.
They stood that for a long time. He was nearly a full head taller than Jack, but their bodies seemed to fit together naturally as they laughed. There was nothing particularly funny about it, but they laughed, until his fingers were twisted in Jack’s shirt and Jack stopped laughing to push into him with a kiss.
It went from chaste to wet and open-mouthed in less then a heartbeat. In all their time, he’d never known Jack to kiss any other way, didn’t think he knew how. He let the other man batter down his defenses with lips and tongue until he was leaning too heavily on him, and only then did he try to use his grip in the other man’s shirt to leverage them apart. “Jack. Jack, what are we doing?”
Jack’s lips were wet and swollen already, shining under the scruff of his mustache. He looked up at James with pit-black eyes and dragged his tongue over them, and James knew it wasn’t because he couldn’t be subtle but because he was, in this at least, completely guileless. “I hope I don’t have to explain it to you, love.”
James tried not to let himself be sucked into the easy desire that made Jack who he was. The other man would never be innocent, but he almost seemed it like this, because the passion was so natural on him. Even as he spoke, his fingers were working into James’s waistband, tugging free his shirt and moving up under the sweater to undo the buttons. “You know exactly what I mean,” James snapped in a sharper tone, though he didn’t pull away from those fingers as they worked, one buttonhole at a time, up his chest. “How long are we supposed to keep going like this?”
“Until we’ve another option, it would seem,” Jack said carelessly. “Jamie, Jamie, how many times have I told you to stop thinking so hard?”
“At least as many as I’ve told you to actually try using your brain.” James knew the script they were on, could recite it rote, even with Jack doing his best to distract him with those plush lips at his neck. James knew, from the suck followed by the scrape of teeth, that he would leave a mark that would glow on his skin for days, but it was well below the collar of his shirt even without him scolding Jack. It was the final straw, the one that almost undid him, and he sagged against Jack in silent but perfectly understood consent.
“There you are,” Jack murmured into his skin, guiding their graceless stumble backward until James’s shoulders hit brick.
Jack had commented, almost all of their meetings, on the fine and sensitive texture of James’s skin, making it clear he thought the delicacy was ridiculous for a naval man. Back before engines and motorized rudders he’d have been as tanned and rough as Jack himself was. He sailed. It was one of the things James knew about him, though he’d never learned when or why. Just another singular piece that never seemed to fit quite right into the picture Jack projected.
The uneven wall bit into his shoulders now, leaving more marks across the clean skin that Jack loved to mark. Somewhere the man had stripped off his coat, sweater, and the oxford and left them in a messy pile at their side. he wasn’t surprised that Jack’s clothes were disappearing at the same rapid rate, though if this assignation ended as their others had, somehow his outfit would be ruined while Jack’s emerged more or less unscathed. Or maybe it was just that the other man’s clothing began in such a poor state that who could tell?
They’d never done this in an alley before. Never in either of their beds, either, not properly. James didn’t even know if Jack had a flat in London or if he lived somewhere else. The one time he’d tried to invite Jack back to his place had been the only time their evening hadn’t ended like this, bare skin and wrapped in each others’ arms as their tongues dueled for dominance.
Jack won. He always did, and James couldn’t bring himself to be bothered much as a rough grip closed around his wrists. Jack held his hands level with his hips, pushed flush against the wall as he kissed James again, covering the commodore’s body with his own and rocking in the cradle of James’s hips. Jack’s cock, already hard under the denim of his jeans, pressed into James’s matching need and he jerked against the brick, leaving stinging scratches across his whole back as he sought both to pull away and get more contact from Jack.
The man dropped one of his wrists to push his hand between them instead, starting first with James’s belt and trousers. Partially freed, James brought his hand up to a firm grip at the back of the other man’s head, dragging Jack back for another open-mouthed kiss that let him plunder the shorter man’s mouth. He pulled back only when he could feel Jack panting for air against his lips and tilted his head back, pulling the other man to his neck and letting Jack stroke the length of him with a callused grip instead. “We don’t have to,” he tried again, his eyes closing as the dual sensations made him arch off the wall again.
“Hush. ‘Course we do,” Jack said into his shoulder, leaving another dark bruise where his collarbone jutted out from the skin of his breast. At the same time, his thumbnail scraped over the head of James’s cock, smearing a pearl-white droplet across the tip and leaving behind a thin, fire hot line. James’s moan came out as more of a ragged gasp and his head fell back against brick, hitting hard.
“I mean we could change it.” His own fingers twisted in the fly of Jack’s leans, and he wasn’t surprised to find that the man had forgone underwear when he almost immediately passed denim and hit bare skin. He made a loose fist with his hand and pushed in a smooth motion that dragged Jack’s foreskin down, matching the rhythm the other man had set.
“Don’t start that now.” Jack’s voice, even twisted as he panted through arousal, was as close to a plea as he ever got, and James knew the unspoken corollary to the sentence. He clamped his lips together, and Jack pushed him into another kiss to help keep the words down.
They rocked together, hips so close that their knuckles dragged together as they jerked and their teeth clashing as their tongues fought from one mouth to another. Jack’s weight pushed him back further against the building, the rough brick digging deeper into the scrapes over his back.
“You’ll tear yourself up this way,” Jack whispered finally, almost tenderly and as much of an apology as he could give. James nodded, a mute understanding, and turned with relief to brace his forearms against the wall. He rested his cheek against his wrists and stared hard at the brick -- anything not to have to see the half-guilt and half-reproach in Jack’s eyes.
“Open up for me, luv.” Jack’s breath was hot and damp against his ears, his knees working inside James’s to push his legs apart. First was the rough tug as he pushed James’s slacks and briefs down his hips, and then his fingers pushed, one first, slick against James’s ass. “Always so tight. If I didn’t know better I’d think you were saving yourself for me.”
James turned enough to give him a perfectly clear glare. He didn’t need to tell Jack that when he was at sea, partners were hardly lining up to bed him. The other man only batted his eyelids sweetly, as if he couldn’t imagine what he’d said to annoy James, and slid a finger home to hit his prostate.
He groaned and rocked, taking a second finger and seating them deeper inside him as Jack continued to murmur soothing nonsense into the torn skin of his shoulders. He tongued the scrapes, making them sting until James’s body wracked with it, pushing him hard into those scissoring fingers.
When he was ready, he pulled the digits free and rolled a condom to cover his length. He seated himself inside James with one smooth thrust, his body rocking mercilessly against the sore skin of James’s back and his zipper leaving fresh red lines along the insides of James’s thighs. For a long time, they stayed like that, James taking Jack’s weight as the smaller man went almost limp atop him. Then he began to move with a sudden fury, ragged uneven thrusts that didn’t match the shaky pump of his hand on James’s cock, but nevertheless drove James higher until his fingers were curling on the wall, the mortar digging beneath his nails, as he sought every ounce of leverage to push himself back against Jack.
All of it was too much, almost from the beginning, and a dozen rough pumps later he was climaxing, splattering the wall and Jack’s hand with their cum. The other man followed him over the edge as he pulled back, leaving his seed pushed messily half-inside James and smeared between them as he fell forward, letting James and the wall take his weight once more.
James counted the handful of heartbeats until Jack, as he always did, pulled away -- slow at first as he withdrew from James’s sensitive body, but brisk and efficient afterwards. Many years ago, he had held James after they did this, resting against the temporary partitions of bathroom stalls or atop the scratchy comforter of a motel, but that had been a long time ago. James stayed precisely where he was and waited for Jack to clothe himself again, carefully not looking at him, barely breathing in case the words slipped out.
Even that wasn’t quite enough. Jack heard the judgement in the silence, and finally said, “You don’t have to give me that. It’s a compliment.”
That drew a long, bitter laugh from James. “How?” he asked, not that he’d expected anything else from the man when he’d come here this evening.
“I could lie if that would make you happier,” Jack said, an oblique way of getting at the point, but an answer all in itself. James, who lived his lives in so many different compartments, couldn’t pretend not to understand how many different ways there were to lie.
The whisper of cloth against his back let him know that Jack was fully clothed already, and there was a very brief press of lips, chapped and wet, to the back of his neck before the other man was gone. He closed his eyes and counted to a hundred breaths anyway, just in case for whatever reason Jack had decided to linger this time. By the time he opened his eyes, the alley was empty again, and he gathered his clothing again in the silence of it.
well it's too late tonight
to drag the past out into the light
we're one, but we're not the same