Fic: In Good Hands (Desmond/Jack)
Title: In Good Hands
Pairing: Desmond/Jack
Rating: Adults
Warnings: Romance and a shamelessly utopian view of the island, post-hatch; this is my unabashedly romantic streak coming out-you have been warned
Summary: Jack cuts Desmond's hair, and then there's kissing. 3900 words.
Note: This runs rough-shod over the backstory and I don't care. I got impatient. So sue me. Maybe I'll figure out a long, opus-y, and more realistic way to get these two together, but it ain't gonna be now.
For: eponine119, who wanted me to pair up chivalrous!Jack in particular with damn-difficult-to-slash!Desmond. Dear, you (and probably I) must suffer the consequences of asking for me to write Jack in a way that will likely irritate half my flist. And you must accept numerous smooches for such a lovely suggestion. (And thanks to the encouraging comments made by fosfomifira, who gave me permission to let Desmond be "all romantic and proper.")
In Good Hands
It is Jack's idea to cut his hair, and he goes along with it because he knows it will make him feel better: cleaner, healthier, more like a human being. Not that he hasn't been much more like a member of society again lately, but he still looks the same as he did when his boat came ashore, returning him back to the island. This time, however, he was not alone, and that has made all the difference.
If cutting his hair is a big step for him, and it is, he puts that out of his head and tells himself it's more about Jack having really wonderful hands. They do what his voice can't do. Jack often sounds impatient or exasperated-because he's sometimes inept at choosing the right words, especially when he doesn't even bother to try-but his impulses, however unconscious, are good. When Jack tended to him after the explosion in the hatch, he regularly voiced his lack of patience with Desmond's attitude and his desire to simply fade away, since leaving this world with a spectacular gesture hadn't worked; but every word Jack's hands said was calm and strength and you're not alone. Jack probably thought his tough love routine-taking away his liquor, forcing him to get out of the hatch or else sending people down to talk to him all the time-had been what finally made Desmond want to come back to the world. In reality, it was his hands.
But Jack's hands are different when he's self-conscious about what he's doing, like as Desmond perches on a fallen log in the jungle, beside one of his favorite pools of water and Jack pulls the tangles and knots out of his hair by hand first. Sometimes it's like Jack's whole body stammers, and it's distractingly attractive. Of course, at this point nearly everything about Jack is distractingly attractive to Desmond, more so because Jack is always hovering around him. They do most things together now, not that Desmond has a clue why other than Jack seems to need him and trust him as a sounding board, and Desmond finds his company better than most anyone's he's ever met, even when they're not talking. While they make Jack's rounds or gather fruit and plants or clean up from dinner, they're always in such close quarters that once Desmond was aware of a lingering attraction, it took root and bloomed quickly, and then he found it nearly impossible to sit beside him anymore without feeling the tension squeezing, lightly, at his chest. He assumed for a long time that Jack was simply oblivious to it. One doesn't assume a man is less than heterosexual unless he has proof. But the proof was in Jack's body, once Desmond paid attention to it, how it swayed toward his own as if he couldn't help it, how at a certain point, Jack began to take great pains to keep his hands off him.
Then yesterday it changed. Desmond still doesn’t know why, but suddenly Jack was letting his own tension come to the surface, and once it was there, it was impossible to hide. It radiated off of him, off both of them, and it threatened to stretch between them. Without saying anything about it, they decided to let it stretch. They leaned a little too close together and held each other's gaze a little too long. It made Jack instantly a bit clumsy and even more quiet, but it's charming. And maddeningly passive. Desmond has seen Jack angry-at himself, back in that other life, cradling an ankle he twisted trying to run that frustration away; and at Desmond, when he had stupidly held a gun to John's head because there were strange people in his hatch. Jack has fire, wild but bright. Desmond doesn’t need to see it every day, but he does need to see it.
This is why Desmond has offered up his head to Jack's unsteady hands. As much as he likes Jack as the calm compatriot, he wants to bring out something more, like he does when they run together. They've just finally got back into the groove with it, and it's nice to fly down the beach every morning, hoping to outpace Jack but knowing that Jack can push harder. He finds himself just behind Jack most of the time, but it makes him want to run faster. Despite the edge of competition there, Jack never draws attention to the fact that he's quicker, not even teasingly. Desmond suspects he's waiting until Desmond's full strength again, even though Jack's confusing ordeal with the others, however short, must've taken something out of him too. He's asserting himself, but at the same time, he's holding back just enough. That much is clear to Desmond, even if he doesn't know much of Jack beyond the man he is now. But this man Desmond likes very much. He still hasn't completely puzzled him out, and that's part of it. The other part is feeling like even if he hasn't figured it out, he understands him anyway. Jack longs to be understood, and by someone who can appreciate him, even if he fears it. Desmond thinks maybe he's that man.
Long after Jack has pulled out all the tangles, his hands move across his scalp, lightly swirling and making furrows in his hairline, and it's the most sensual thing Desmond can remember in a long time. Jack isn't saying anything, and Desmond is content in the silence, feeling Jack's stomach rest against his back. He sinks against him, praying that Jack will just move his hands onto his neck, press a thumb up and over the muscle just below his hairline. He's already shivering, but that would make him come undone. He longs to do the same for Jack, to run his hands over the soft buzz of his hair, but he thinks he wouldn't shave him clean. He likes the thought of feeling that stubble scraping his jaw and his upper lip. Even if it's a foreign idea to him, since he's never gone so far as to kiss a man, it's an exciting thought, a good sign.
Jack uses scissors, like a barber might, and he cuts Desmond's hair short, close to his head; it's maybe shorter than what Desmond would have wanted, but he trusts Jack's hands. The haircut leaves him feeling lighter and suddenly impatient to get his hair and his head clean. He jerks his shirt over his head, wondering if Jack is reacting to his skin with the desire to touch him, maybe run his hands over Desmond's tired, knotted back, smoothing away the hardness there. He can almost feel his hands already.
He dunks his hair in the cool water, scrubbing at his scalp until the skin there is tingling. When he pulls up his head and shakes off the water, he feels it land all over his torso, dotting him with coolness and running slowly down his chest. He holds his breath for a moment at the sensation before he smiles and says, "That is glorious water, brother. When was the last time you washed up?"
Jack's eyes, small and warm and brown, meet his and they ask something Desmond can only guess. The things that aren't in Jack's hands, because he's nervous or he's unwilling, are in always in his eyes. As he had watched Desmond pull off his shirt, they were wide and unable to hide his desire, but now that Desmond is finished washing his hair and has turned to face him again, Jack's face seems flat and cool. It would fool anyone who didn't know him, but Desmond does. Desmond smiles and turns away, nonchalant, hoping that Jack's looking at him, and he isn't surprised to see Jack's shirt fall into a pile with his own before he heads over to the water.
Desmond casually watches his body, as he has every day for weeks. He never used to pay any attention to how Jack moved, when he was helping him get to his feet again, when they stretched before a run, when they sat on the beach at night and talked, passing a bottle back and forth between them. Somewhere along the line, Desmond started paying attention, and now he feels as if he knows this body that's bending over the edge of the pool, back stretched taut. Jack stands up and Desmond traces the drops down his back, watching them disappear into the waistband of his jeans. He doesn't look at Jack for more than a few seconds after he turns back around to face him, only long enough to see the streams of water course down through the hair on his chest. Keeping himself under control, he sits back down, focuses on how he feels warm and clean, on the breeze on his skin, then the nearness of Jack's body as he steps back up behind him. He traces his fingers through Desmond's hair again, searching for unruly strands, and it feels good to have Jack's hands cradling his head as his stomach presses into Desmond's back again, almost hot to the touch.
Reluctantly, Desmond stands up to be shaved, so Jack doesn't have to crouch in front of him, but that leaves Jack standing in front of him, looking him in the eyes, and it was a lot easier when he wasn't. Desmond wants to kiss him now, just to break this tension and swallow down some of the careful determination that has set Jack's jaw. And because he really, really wants to see how he tastes.
Desmond instead tries to be disarming. "I'm in good hands, no?"
With a modest smile, Jack says, "Sure."
He thinks about what he's about to do, but not too much, because his fingers settle on Jack's chest anyway, over his ribs, then his thumb slips down until his hand is resting for a moment just above Jack's hip, in the soft spot of flesh there. Then he closes his eyes and Jack takes his face in his hands. Jack is going to kiss him, and it starts up his heart faster than he had expected. But then Jack simply begins rubbing the aloe into his stubble of beard, his hands steady and slow. This is what Jack is when he wants to be felt: no nerves but no throwing caution to the winds either. Desmond can appreciate that. He had been that man for a long time. It amazes him to see that there are things about Jack that the island hasn't destroyed, and one of those things is a patient tenderness that Desmond counts himself lucky to have seen so many times.
Jack's fingers trace the lines of his jaw, and he feels every touch. When his thumb brushes over his lip as he smoothes on the aloe, Desmond's eyes fly open to see Jack's looking so deep, that rich brown dark against the white of his eyes, under veiled lids. Their mouths are inches apart because Jack is standing much closer than he really needs to. He must know it, because when he comes back with the shaving knife, he's just a little farther away.
Now that it's actually time, Desmond doesn't know how he'll feel about being clean-shaven again. It had been the most visible sign of his faithfulness to himself and others, a badge of honor even when he was dishonorably in jail, even when he was only just existing underground and never saw a living soul but himself in the mirror. It made him who he was, once, but he has to wonder if he is that man anymore. There are so many things he's been weighed down with, struggled through, thrown off, moved beyond. There's nearly dying and wanting to die. There's the island and learning to live a semi-normal life when his life has never really been normal. There's never having the luxury of holding on to a person, because the only person he had ever wanted to hold like that has been taken away from him-and forever, he knows. He will carry a piece of her faith and love with him for the rest of his life, but that's all it can be now, a piece of the past. As he stands there so near Jack, he realizes that maybe he wants this again, real and present. He wants to care enough about someone to want to try to keep him, as much of a risk as it is and as much as it can hurt. He never thought he would, not after Penny, but when this feeling hits a person, it's never about a choice. He hasn't chosen Jack, but he's glad it's him, because of who he is and because Jack knows the man he is now as well as he knows himself.
Desmond focuses on Jack's face as he shaves him; with a thumping in his chest, he ponders the exact spots that need tasting and sucking. He's still getting used to the way the wind can blow over his scalp, how light his head feels without that hair weighing him down, and now it's the same for his face, except it makes him feel naked, somehow, in a way it never did before. His arms feel strange hanging limply at his sides, and if this was anyone else-anything else-he wanted, he wouldn't be so tentative. He would reach out and steady himself with hands on his hips, caressing and pulling him forward, forcing that sway they've been carrying on since the day before, making Jack forget to have so much propriety and just fucking kiss him already.
But this is Jack, and he has to finish, and Desmond admires that. He admires a hell of a lot about Jack, and he wouldn't want to change any of it, even his less-than-admirable qualities, including how he's just now very nearly a tease. Jack has brought a towel, and he gingerly swabs all the remnants of hair and aloe from his face, then he rinses the towel and uses it to wipe Desmond's face completely clean. Jack is suddenly nervous again. His hands shake almost imperceptibly, so Desmond smiles, warm and small, and Jack's head ducks for a moment before he looks up again. Rubbing a thumb over his newly shaven face, Jack says, "It looks good."
"Yeah?" Desmond inches closer.
Jack's lips brush over his tentatively, or so Desmond thinks, but then he realizes he's just indulging himself in the feel of their breath mingling. Desmond feels like that breath is being slowly drawn from his body, and he can't move. Then Jack answers him, finally: "Yeah."
As Jack kisses him, giving his bottom lip a gentle suck, Desmond's arms slide around him, pulling that warm skin closer until they're standing chest to chest. Desmond feels Jack's heart matching his, beat for beat, and he loves the way he has to tilt his head up, ever so slightly, to catch Jack's lips, and how it seems to make the kiss slide down the slope of his neck until he can feel it through his whole body, hot and wet and perfectly sensual, slow, the taste of Jack like salt, the slide of his lips like the knowing movements of his hands, sure and solid and right.
Desmond is hard, so hard, and stunned, forgetting stupidly how earnest Jack can be-serious about something once he's put his mind to it, and it's so intoxicating. He slides his tongue inside Jack's mouth, quick and testing first, then again, longer this time, playfully pulling back just as Jack responds. Before he knows it, Jack's taking full advantage of his welcoming lips, thrusting in his tongue and that's all it takes to open him up to it. This, he tells himself, is how to get Jack to forget to worry: a clear invitation.
Desmond forces their bodies together, and damn if Jack still doesn't kiss like they're in a movie, even when he's out of breath and grinding his hips into Desmond's in a way that's hungry and purposeful. By the time Jack pulls his lips across Desmond's now smooth jaw and down to his neck, Desmond has forgotten that Jack's hesitancy could even bother him. It's been a long time since he's felt it build up like this, such long, measured foreplay that makes him shake with need. He thinks Jack feels it to, because he's forgoing all previous sense of gallantry to dig his fingers into his neck and gasp into his mouth between kisses.
Desmond lets his hands drift down Jack's back until he's sliding them into his pants, under the waistband of his boxers, so he can squeeze his ass. Jack's mouth finds his neck again, and Desmond mumbles, "Ah, God, Jack, that's good." Desmond can feel him smiling into his neck. He wants to let Jack lead again, but he's too impatient for that now. Pushing Jack backward, maneuvering him until he's sitting astride the fallen log, Desmond then straddles him, letting his thighs sink into Jack's, feeling a hardness pressed tight against his own. Holding his neck with both hands, Desmond scrapes his tongue and then his teeth along the edge of his beard just to see what he will do. When Jack lets out a low growl, Desmond lets his lips rest against his cheek as he says, "You've been driving me fucking crazy. D'you know that?"
Jack's head falls back as he laughs with a moan. In the space before he can speak, Desmond's lips are on his neck, and he's kissing him like he'd been kissed, smoothing him down until he's no longer squirming underneath him but he's become something pliable, languidly thrusting against him, mumbling now, incoherent but lovely snatches of sentences. It calms Desmond too, enough that he knows he should ask, before he even thinks about popping the button on Jack's jeans. And he's stalling for himself, too. Maybe he's been stalling all day. This is something he's never done, and his hands aren't nearly as steady as Jack's.
Jack's eyes have become something magnetic, an energy that has the power to hold even Desmond's restless gaze. They always have had that power. Desmond asks, "Is this okay? What we're doing, Jack, is it okay?"
"God, yes," he says, emphasizing each word.
His dick is hot and thick in his grasp, and he can't believe the sounds coming from deep in Jack's throat. He takes things slowly, just enjoying the exploration, now that he has permission to learn Jack's body. Jack shudders, for a time just closing his eyes against the sensation, but when he opens his eyes again to seek out the fly of Desmond's jeans, it's clear that as much as he wants it, he's still unsure. So Desmond leans in closer, bending in such a way that he's sure he'll be sore tomorrow, just so he can override Jack's fear: with a firmer stroke and quick swipes of his thumb over the head, he says into his ear, "I cannot wait to feel your hands on me."
Those hands are so unlike his own as they pull him out of his jeans. They touch him in new ways and it's so damn good. Even if the position they're in is more than a little awkward, Desmond doesn't care. He's torn between watching their hands moving in the same rhythm and kissing Jack fiercely-possessively, he thinks. He will definitely be possessive of this, and he will crave it and he won't let him be so fucking afraid of it. Jack doesn’t seem afraid now, not as their hips settle into a rhythm and Jack's other hand comes around to pull their heads together again, to kiss him hard, fast, wet. "Oh, fuck," Desmond moans into Jack's mouth as he comes, and he has to really concentrate on his hand keeping its pace on Jack's cock. He presses his face into Jack's neck, damp with sweat and smelling so good, and he's mumbling now with a rush of breath: "You, my God, Jack, so fucking good. Would let go for me? Please, yeah?"
Jack's so wet, sliding through his hands, and it's all he can do to keep from being thrown off Jack's lap when he comes, thrusting into his hand with a gasp.
Jack's shallow breathing is almost as hot as his sex-dazed smile. Jack kisses him deeply, and they're both tentatively searching for what to do with sticky hands. Desmond finally stands up, feeling every muscle in his back and legs scream. He says, "Fancy a swim?"
He raises his eyebrows, and for a second, Jack looks at him like this is all too weird. But once they've stripped off all their clothes, Desmond pulls him into an embrace again and kisses him as they momentarily tangle themselves up in each other's arms, and it's suddenly fine. All of it. He waits for Desmond to slide into the water before he joins him, and now he's actually looking rather predatory. As Jack swims out toward him, Desmond says, "Now, brother, how am I going to get you to do this more often?"
Jack turns faintly pink, but he doesn’t stop moving and says, "I don't think it will be a problem." Then he bites his lip, shaking his head before he finally bridges the gap between them. "Of course, you can always make a move yourself."
With a groan, Desmond says, "Please don't tell me you were waiting for me to start things."
"Still waiting," he says with a smirk.
Desmond just laughs. "So, it's a race you want, is it? See who can get it up again first?"
Jack smirks even more broadly, mischievous more than cautious. "That might actually be a race you have a chance of winning."
Desmond laughs, then he obeys the sudden urge he has to pin Jack to the rock behind them, to sink into that thick body that already feels so familiar. When he speaks, his voice is low with promise: "As much as I'd like to prove you wrong, what d'you say we go for a draw?"
Jack smiles and Desmond kisses him slow and long, knowing he'll be perfectly content to do this until they both have time to recover. Then, he's not altogether sure he'll feel the need or have the willpower to be so careful with him.
Pairing: Desmond/Jack
Rating: Adults
Warnings: Romance and a shamelessly utopian view of the island, post-hatch; this is my unabashedly romantic streak coming out-you have been warned
Summary: Jack cuts Desmond's hair, and then there's kissing. 3900 words.
Note: This runs rough-shod over the backstory and I don't care. I got impatient. So sue me. Maybe I'll figure out a long, opus-y, and more realistic way to get these two together, but it ain't gonna be now.
For: eponine119, who wanted me to pair up chivalrous!Jack in particular with damn-difficult-to-slash!Desmond. Dear, you (and probably I) must suffer the consequences of asking for me to write Jack in a way that will likely irritate half my flist. And you must accept numerous smooches for such a lovely suggestion. (And thanks to the encouraging comments made by fosfomifira, who gave me permission to let Desmond be "all romantic and proper.")
In Good Hands
It is Jack's idea to cut his hair, and he goes along with it because he knows it will make him feel better: cleaner, healthier, more like a human being. Not that he hasn't been much more like a member of society again lately, but he still looks the same as he did when his boat came ashore, returning him back to the island. This time, however, he was not alone, and that has made all the difference.
If cutting his hair is a big step for him, and it is, he puts that out of his head and tells himself it's more about Jack having really wonderful hands. They do what his voice can't do. Jack often sounds impatient or exasperated-because he's sometimes inept at choosing the right words, especially when he doesn't even bother to try-but his impulses, however unconscious, are good. When Jack tended to him after the explosion in the hatch, he regularly voiced his lack of patience with Desmond's attitude and his desire to simply fade away, since leaving this world with a spectacular gesture hadn't worked; but every word Jack's hands said was calm and strength and you're not alone. Jack probably thought his tough love routine-taking away his liquor, forcing him to get out of the hatch or else sending people down to talk to him all the time-had been what finally made Desmond want to come back to the world. In reality, it was his hands.
But Jack's hands are different when he's self-conscious about what he's doing, like as Desmond perches on a fallen log in the jungle, beside one of his favorite pools of water and Jack pulls the tangles and knots out of his hair by hand first. Sometimes it's like Jack's whole body stammers, and it's distractingly attractive. Of course, at this point nearly everything about Jack is distractingly attractive to Desmond, more so because Jack is always hovering around him. They do most things together now, not that Desmond has a clue why other than Jack seems to need him and trust him as a sounding board, and Desmond finds his company better than most anyone's he's ever met, even when they're not talking. While they make Jack's rounds or gather fruit and plants or clean up from dinner, they're always in such close quarters that once Desmond was aware of a lingering attraction, it took root and bloomed quickly, and then he found it nearly impossible to sit beside him anymore without feeling the tension squeezing, lightly, at his chest. He assumed for a long time that Jack was simply oblivious to it. One doesn't assume a man is less than heterosexual unless he has proof. But the proof was in Jack's body, once Desmond paid attention to it, how it swayed toward his own as if he couldn't help it, how at a certain point, Jack began to take great pains to keep his hands off him.
Then yesterday it changed. Desmond still doesn’t know why, but suddenly Jack was letting his own tension come to the surface, and once it was there, it was impossible to hide. It radiated off of him, off both of them, and it threatened to stretch between them. Without saying anything about it, they decided to let it stretch. They leaned a little too close together and held each other's gaze a little too long. It made Jack instantly a bit clumsy and even more quiet, but it's charming. And maddeningly passive. Desmond has seen Jack angry-at himself, back in that other life, cradling an ankle he twisted trying to run that frustration away; and at Desmond, when he had stupidly held a gun to John's head because there were strange people in his hatch. Jack has fire, wild but bright. Desmond doesn’t need to see it every day, but he does need to see it.
This is why Desmond has offered up his head to Jack's unsteady hands. As much as he likes Jack as the calm compatriot, he wants to bring out something more, like he does when they run together. They've just finally got back into the groove with it, and it's nice to fly down the beach every morning, hoping to outpace Jack but knowing that Jack can push harder. He finds himself just behind Jack most of the time, but it makes him want to run faster. Despite the edge of competition there, Jack never draws attention to the fact that he's quicker, not even teasingly. Desmond suspects he's waiting until Desmond's full strength again, even though Jack's confusing ordeal with the others, however short, must've taken something out of him too. He's asserting himself, but at the same time, he's holding back just enough. That much is clear to Desmond, even if he doesn't know much of Jack beyond the man he is now. But this man Desmond likes very much. He still hasn't completely puzzled him out, and that's part of it. The other part is feeling like even if he hasn't figured it out, he understands him anyway. Jack longs to be understood, and by someone who can appreciate him, even if he fears it. Desmond thinks maybe he's that man.
Long after Jack has pulled out all the tangles, his hands move across his scalp, lightly swirling and making furrows in his hairline, and it's the most sensual thing Desmond can remember in a long time. Jack isn't saying anything, and Desmond is content in the silence, feeling Jack's stomach rest against his back. He sinks against him, praying that Jack will just move his hands onto his neck, press a thumb up and over the muscle just below his hairline. He's already shivering, but that would make him come undone. He longs to do the same for Jack, to run his hands over the soft buzz of his hair, but he thinks he wouldn't shave him clean. He likes the thought of feeling that stubble scraping his jaw and his upper lip. Even if it's a foreign idea to him, since he's never gone so far as to kiss a man, it's an exciting thought, a good sign.
Jack uses scissors, like a barber might, and he cuts Desmond's hair short, close to his head; it's maybe shorter than what Desmond would have wanted, but he trusts Jack's hands. The haircut leaves him feeling lighter and suddenly impatient to get his hair and his head clean. He jerks his shirt over his head, wondering if Jack is reacting to his skin with the desire to touch him, maybe run his hands over Desmond's tired, knotted back, smoothing away the hardness there. He can almost feel his hands already.
He dunks his hair in the cool water, scrubbing at his scalp until the skin there is tingling. When he pulls up his head and shakes off the water, he feels it land all over his torso, dotting him with coolness and running slowly down his chest. He holds his breath for a moment at the sensation before he smiles and says, "That is glorious water, brother. When was the last time you washed up?"
Jack's eyes, small and warm and brown, meet his and they ask something Desmond can only guess. The things that aren't in Jack's hands, because he's nervous or he's unwilling, are in always in his eyes. As he had watched Desmond pull off his shirt, they were wide and unable to hide his desire, but now that Desmond is finished washing his hair and has turned to face him again, Jack's face seems flat and cool. It would fool anyone who didn't know him, but Desmond does. Desmond smiles and turns away, nonchalant, hoping that Jack's looking at him, and he isn't surprised to see Jack's shirt fall into a pile with his own before he heads over to the water.
Desmond casually watches his body, as he has every day for weeks. He never used to pay any attention to how Jack moved, when he was helping him get to his feet again, when they stretched before a run, when they sat on the beach at night and talked, passing a bottle back and forth between them. Somewhere along the line, Desmond started paying attention, and now he feels as if he knows this body that's bending over the edge of the pool, back stretched taut. Jack stands up and Desmond traces the drops down his back, watching them disappear into the waistband of his jeans. He doesn't look at Jack for more than a few seconds after he turns back around to face him, only long enough to see the streams of water course down through the hair on his chest. Keeping himself under control, he sits back down, focuses on how he feels warm and clean, on the breeze on his skin, then the nearness of Jack's body as he steps back up behind him. He traces his fingers through Desmond's hair again, searching for unruly strands, and it feels good to have Jack's hands cradling his head as his stomach presses into Desmond's back again, almost hot to the touch.
Reluctantly, Desmond stands up to be shaved, so Jack doesn't have to crouch in front of him, but that leaves Jack standing in front of him, looking him in the eyes, and it was a lot easier when he wasn't. Desmond wants to kiss him now, just to break this tension and swallow down some of the careful determination that has set Jack's jaw. And because he really, really wants to see how he tastes.
Desmond instead tries to be disarming. "I'm in good hands, no?"
With a modest smile, Jack says, "Sure."
He thinks about what he's about to do, but not too much, because his fingers settle on Jack's chest anyway, over his ribs, then his thumb slips down until his hand is resting for a moment just above Jack's hip, in the soft spot of flesh there. Then he closes his eyes and Jack takes his face in his hands. Jack is going to kiss him, and it starts up his heart faster than he had expected. But then Jack simply begins rubbing the aloe into his stubble of beard, his hands steady and slow. This is what Jack is when he wants to be felt: no nerves but no throwing caution to the winds either. Desmond can appreciate that. He had been that man for a long time. It amazes him to see that there are things about Jack that the island hasn't destroyed, and one of those things is a patient tenderness that Desmond counts himself lucky to have seen so many times.
Jack's fingers trace the lines of his jaw, and he feels every touch. When his thumb brushes over his lip as he smoothes on the aloe, Desmond's eyes fly open to see Jack's looking so deep, that rich brown dark against the white of his eyes, under veiled lids. Their mouths are inches apart because Jack is standing much closer than he really needs to. He must know it, because when he comes back with the shaving knife, he's just a little farther away.
Now that it's actually time, Desmond doesn't know how he'll feel about being clean-shaven again. It had been the most visible sign of his faithfulness to himself and others, a badge of honor even when he was dishonorably in jail, even when he was only just existing underground and never saw a living soul but himself in the mirror. It made him who he was, once, but he has to wonder if he is that man anymore. There are so many things he's been weighed down with, struggled through, thrown off, moved beyond. There's nearly dying and wanting to die. There's the island and learning to live a semi-normal life when his life has never really been normal. There's never having the luxury of holding on to a person, because the only person he had ever wanted to hold like that has been taken away from him-and forever, he knows. He will carry a piece of her faith and love with him for the rest of his life, but that's all it can be now, a piece of the past. As he stands there so near Jack, he realizes that maybe he wants this again, real and present. He wants to care enough about someone to want to try to keep him, as much of a risk as it is and as much as it can hurt. He never thought he would, not after Penny, but when this feeling hits a person, it's never about a choice. He hasn't chosen Jack, but he's glad it's him, because of who he is and because Jack knows the man he is now as well as he knows himself.
Desmond focuses on Jack's face as he shaves him; with a thumping in his chest, he ponders the exact spots that need tasting and sucking. He's still getting used to the way the wind can blow over his scalp, how light his head feels without that hair weighing him down, and now it's the same for his face, except it makes him feel naked, somehow, in a way it never did before. His arms feel strange hanging limply at his sides, and if this was anyone else-anything else-he wanted, he wouldn't be so tentative. He would reach out and steady himself with hands on his hips, caressing and pulling him forward, forcing that sway they've been carrying on since the day before, making Jack forget to have so much propriety and just fucking kiss him already.
But this is Jack, and he has to finish, and Desmond admires that. He admires a hell of a lot about Jack, and he wouldn't want to change any of it, even his less-than-admirable qualities, including how he's just now very nearly a tease. Jack has brought a towel, and he gingerly swabs all the remnants of hair and aloe from his face, then he rinses the towel and uses it to wipe Desmond's face completely clean. Jack is suddenly nervous again. His hands shake almost imperceptibly, so Desmond smiles, warm and small, and Jack's head ducks for a moment before he looks up again. Rubbing a thumb over his newly shaven face, Jack says, "It looks good."
"Yeah?" Desmond inches closer.
Jack's lips brush over his tentatively, or so Desmond thinks, but then he realizes he's just indulging himself in the feel of their breath mingling. Desmond feels like that breath is being slowly drawn from his body, and he can't move. Then Jack answers him, finally: "Yeah."
As Jack kisses him, giving his bottom lip a gentle suck, Desmond's arms slide around him, pulling that warm skin closer until they're standing chest to chest. Desmond feels Jack's heart matching his, beat for beat, and he loves the way he has to tilt his head up, ever so slightly, to catch Jack's lips, and how it seems to make the kiss slide down the slope of his neck until he can feel it through his whole body, hot and wet and perfectly sensual, slow, the taste of Jack like salt, the slide of his lips like the knowing movements of his hands, sure and solid and right.
Desmond is hard, so hard, and stunned, forgetting stupidly how earnest Jack can be-serious about something once he's put his mind to it, and it's so intoxicating. He slides his tongue inside Jack's mouth, quick and testing first, then again, longer this time, playfully pulling back just as Jack responds. Before he knows it, Jack's taking full advantage of his welcoming lips, thrusting in his tongue and that's all it takes to open him up to it. This, he tells himself, is how to get Jack to forget to worry: a clear invitation.
Desmond forces their bodies together, and damn if Jack still doesn't kiss like they're in a movie, even when he's out of breath and grinding his hips into Desmond's in a way that's hungry and purposeful. By the time Jack pulls his lips across Desmond's now smooth jaw and down to his neck, Desmond has forgotten that Jack's hesitancy could even bother him. It's been a long time since he's felt it build up like this, such long, measured foreplay that makes him shake with need. He thinks Jack feels it to, because he's forgoing all previous sense of gallantry to dig his fingers into his neck and gasp into his mouth between kisses.
Desmond lets his hands drift down Jack's back until he's sliding them into his pants, under the waistband of his boxers, so he can squeeze his ass. Jack's mouth finds his neck again, and Desmond mumbles, "Ah, God, Jack, that's good." Desmond can feel him smiling into his neck. He wants to let Jack lead again, but he's too impatient for that now. Pushing Jack backward, maneuvering him until he's sitting astride the fallen log, Desmond then straddles him, letting his thighs sink into Jack's, feeling a hardness pressed tight against his own. Holding his neck with both hands, Desmond scrapes his tongue and then his teeth along the edge of his beard just to see what he will do. When Jack lets out a low growl, Desmond lets his lips rest against his cheek as he says, "You've been driving me fucking crazy. D'you know that?"
Jack's head falls back as he laughs with a moan. In the space before he can speak, Desmond's lips are on his neck, and he's kissing him like he'd been kissed, smoothing him down until he's no longer squirming underneath him but he's become something pliable, languidly thrusting against him, mumbling now, incoherent but lovely snatches of sentences. It calms Desmond too, enough that he knows he should ask, before he even thinks about popping the button on Jack's jeans. And he's stalling for himself, too. Maybe he's been stalling all day. This is something he's never done, and his hands aren't nearly as steady as Jack's.
Jack's eyes have become something magnetic, an energy that has the power to hold even Desmond's restless gaze. They always have had that power. Desmond asks, "Is this okay? What we're doing, Jack, is it okay?"
"God, yes," he says, emphasizing each word.
His dick is hot and thick in his grasp, and he can't believe the sounds coming from deep in Jack's throat. He takes things slowly, just enjoying the exploration, now that he has permission to learn Jack's body. Jack shudders, for a time just closing his eyes against the sensation, but when he opens his eyes again to seek out the fly of Desmond's jeans, it's clear that as much as he wants it, he's still unsure. So Desmond leans in closer, bending in such a way that he's sure he'll be sore tomorrow, just so he can override Jack's fear: with a firmer stroke and quick swipes of his thumb over the head, he says into his ear, "I cannot wait to feel your hands on me."
Those hands are so unlike his own as they pull him out of his jeans. They touch him in new ways and it's so damn good. Even if the position they're in is more than a little awkward, Desmond doesn't care. He's torn between watching their hands moving in the same rhythm and kissing Jack fiercely-possessively, he thinks. He will definitely be possessive of this, and he will crave it and he won't let him be so fucking afraid of it. Jack doesn’t seem afraid now, not as their hips settle into a rhythm and Jack's other hand comes around to pull their heads together again, to kiss him hard, fast, wet. "Oh, fuck," Desmond moans into Jack's mouth as he comes, and he has to really concentrate on his hand keeping its pace on Jack's cock. He presses his face into Jack's neck, damp with sweat and smelling so good, and he's mumbling now with a rush of breath: "You, my God, Jack, so fucking good. Would let go for me? Please, yeah?"
Jack's so wet, sliding through his hands, and it's all he can do to keep from being thrown off Jack's lap when he comes, thrusting into his hand with a gasp.
Jack's shallow breathing is almost as hot as his sex-dazed smile. Jack kisses him deeply, and they're both tentatively searching for what to do with sticky hands. Desmond finally stands up, feeling every muscle in his back and legs scream. He says, "Fancy a swim?"
He raises his eyebrows, and for a second, Jack looks at him like this is all too weird. But once they've stripped off all their clothes, Desmond pulls him into an embrace again and kisses him as they momentarily tangle themselves up in each other's arms, and it's suddenly fine. All of it. He waits for Desmond to slide into the water before he joins him, and now he's actually looking rather predatory. As Jack swims out toward him, Desmond says, "Now, brother, how am I going to get you to do this more often?"
Jack turns faintly pink, but he doesn’t stop moving and says, "I don't think it will be a problem." Then he bites his lip, shaking his head before he finally bridges the gap between them. "Of course, you can always make a move yourself."
With a groan, Desmond says, "Please don't tell me you were waiting for me to start things."
"Still waiting," he says with a smirk.
Desmond just laughs. "So, it's a race you want, is it? See who can get it up again first?"
Jack smirks even more broadly, mischievous more than cautious. "That might actually be a race you have a chance of winning."
Desmond laughs, then he obeys the sudden urge he has to pin Jack to the rock behind them, to sink into that thick body that already feels so familiar. When he speaks, his voice is low with promise: "As much as I'd like to prove you wrong, what d'you say we go for a draw?"
Jack smiles and Desmond kisses him slow and long, knowing he'll be perfectly content to do this until they both have time to recover. Then, he's not altogether sure he'll feel the need or have the willpower to be so careful with him.