One More for the Road (pt. 1)
Title: One More for the Road
Rating: PG-13
Summary: When you're in a place you shouldn't be, you never know who you might meet.
Pairings: Canton Everett Delaware III/Captain Jack Harkness
Notes: Authorial stubbornness and too many episodes of Mad Men dictate that this story predates whenever Jack decided to stop drinking.
April, 1968, Washington D.C.
Dupont Circle. On any given day, for a man like Canton Everett Delaware III, Dupont Circle might not have been the right place to be "seen", but the city was so distracted and enraged, it didn't seem to matter much. 14th Street had burned down, thousands were arrested, and now the National Guard occupied all of the nation's capital- in short, it was a damn disaster and Canton needed a drink.
He walked down the nearly empty, trash filled streets. Technically, Mayor Washington's curfew had ended on Monday after the worst of the rioting had ceased, people were more or less terrified to leave their homes at night, and not without reason. As Canton walked past another row of rubble and glass, things that used to be stores, used to be lives, but since Dr. King's murder last week, nothing had gone in the direction of right for the entire country.
The row homes, somehow left unscathed, were dark and silent and only a few people passed him as he walked- usually kids, their eyes darting in his direction, as if ready to put up a fight if they had to. He paid it no attention. He might have known he'd stick out down here- "the man in the grey flannel suit" in a sea of unkempt hair and blue jeans and lord help him if he was ID'd as FBI. At best, he'd have to suffer through being called a "pig" or a "fascist" for a while and at worst, he'd get a broken bottle to the scalp. Prepared for neither, he turned up the collar of his dark wool coat.
The faint sound of low music caught his attention, a surprise against the sound of his shoes against the pavement and the distant sound of outbound traffic. A bar. It was one of the few bars without a burnt facade or a broken window. An open, unspoiled bar on this street was like finding an oasis in the desert. He glanced up at the sign. The Blue Room. He peered through the dim windows and saw all the semblances of a normal bar and even a few patrons. At the distant sound of glass breaking a block or so down, he decided to take it.
Opening the door, he was greeted with the familiar bouquet of cigarette smoke and spilled alcohol. The Blue Room was somewhere halfway between proper lounge bar and utter dive, and judging by the odd mix of George Washington students and businessmen and other characters less visible in the dim light, no one else knew what it was either.
Canton looked around and found a spot on the tail end of the bar, close to the cigarette machine, which had seen its better days. Looking around, he supposed that the bar got its name from the dingy blue faux-brocade pattern wallpaper, now turning an even uglier color from years of tar-filled smoke. Roy Orbison's "Shahdaroba" began to play, and Canton remarked with an odd degree of wistfulness, that he hadn't heard this song in years.
'Shahdaroba, Shahdaroba means the future is much better than the past…'
He placed a cigarette between his lips and nodded to the bartender, an older man, the non-descript type that sat behind a bar and heard a million stories but told no secrets. "Whiskey. Neat." he said, the trademark gruff coolness never leaving his voice, even for simple things. The bartender nodded and turned to his gallery of bottles. He couldn't hear any conversation over the music and couldn't help but wonder what these select, intimate groupings were discussing.
The hippie couple in the booth- at first it seemed that they were practically spooning, but another glance seemed to say that they were leaning into each other for support. The couple across the way, staring into their cocktails, in palpable silence. It was in his nature (and a part of his profession) to be curious. But it didn't take a trained FBI agent to recognize the funereal feel to the place and one glance at the newspaper photo of Dr. King hanging against the mirror that backed the bar reminded him of what all those unheard conversations were probably about.
A small tumbler of whiskey slid in his direction and he lifted it up in contemplation before taking a sip. The whiskey tasted good, felt good, despite burning his chapped lips. The sound of creaking hinges indicated that someone new had entered the bar and the sudden presence of a tall figure leaning over the bar confirmed his suspicion. He took a casual glance at the newcomer. Had the man been more non-descript, Canton would later lie to himself, he might have paid him no mind and went about his drinking. But when it came to the man now standing about a foot away from where he sat, "non-descript" just did not apply.
Canton might have used the phrase "tall, dark stranger" (to himself, not to anyone else) if the bluish-grey military greatcoat he was wearing had not obscured him almost entirely. Canton was intrigued. He'd seen coats like that before, but in the photographs his father had brought back from working on plane radios during the London Blitz. It just...wasn't quite the fashion, in any circle these days. Another glance, this time from the neck up, yielded yet more surprises. Most would describe the man as "handsome" and Canton had no problem applying that descriptor, as he took another, longer pull of whiskey.
The man pulled up the bar stool nearest him and sat down, nodding to the bartender, who slid a dirty martini in his direction. Very dirty, in fact, he counted at least three olives on the toothpick. He brought his eyes away from the man's glass to find that the man was smiling at him. A knowing little half-smile that gave way to a full wide smile. Canton worked with a lot of slick characters but had to admit, if you put this guy's face on any advertisement, the product would sell damn well.
"See something you like?" The man said. American accent. The sentence should have been condescending but something about it made Canton chuckle. He gestured to the man's glass.
"What is that, a drink or a meal?" The man laughed, a low and genuine laugh. He looked at Canton's glass.
"Well, we can't all have such minimalistic taste." Canton looked down at his glass and took an almost defensive sip.
"When I drink whiskey, I drink whiskey." Canton answered coolly. The man nodded, a gleam in his pale blue eyes.
"And with such bravado, no ice or anything." The smile was still on the man's face and Canton wasn't quite sure if he found it charming or insulting. He swallowed, his mouth already dry.
"Is there something that you want, sir?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow. The smile faded a bit and the man shook his head.
"Not really." Canton nodded, turning his attention away from the man. "Just figured it was something you wanted." He paused, his mouth full of the last of his whiskey and looked back at the man. He swallowed roughly.
"That so?" A smirk crossed the man's face. Either he was very smart or very dumb, but there was a self-assuredness about him, that unfortunately suggested the former. The man took the toothpick out of his glass and slid one of the gin-soaked olives between his teeth. He leaned in to Canton slightly, lowering his voice.
"I'm just saying this, because you certainly don't look like a dumb guy, but I see someone giving me that kind of look, there only a few things they could possibly want. And eight times out of ten, I'm right about what that thing is. And nine times out of ten, they get want they want."
Canton blinked a few times in response. He sat back and contemplated his glass, and wished he hadn't finished so quickly. He looked the man over and smirked, shaking his head in disbelief that this was actually happening.
"Buddy, if you're cruising, you're barkin' up the wrong tree." Canton replied gruffly, fingering his glass anxiously. The man chuckled softly.
"I'm just having a drink and besides, we are not discussing me." The elfin smile returned. Canton realized his face was hot and he was probably blushing, a good cue to exit. He stood up and went for his coat, but a tug on the cuff of his jacket made him turn back. There was the man, still smiling, but there was sincerity to it, not just the added veneer of charm.
"In that case, let me buy you an apologetic drink." He let go of Canton's cuff. Canton shook his head and cursed the man’s perfect, carefree smile and his own weakness. You can't always get what you want. The man shrugged. "I'll make it worth your while, promise." Canton sighed and sat back down. A few gestures and words in the right direction and both men had fresh drinks.
"Suppose I should get your name." Canton said, after a thick gulp of whiskey. The music had turned to something loud, something by the Stones, but he wasn't exactly paying attention to it.
"Captain Jack Harkness." he said, sliding a hand forward, which Canton took and shook quickly. It was hard to mask his surprise.
"Captain." he repeated. He had to admit, it was a rather fantastic name, there was a stylishness to it and it fell off the tongue nicely. It was the kind of name that people wished they had. (Not that there was anything plain about Canton Everett Delaware III, but it just wasn't quite the same.) He liked it. The man looked like a Jack. "Captain of what, exactly?"
Jack shook his head and shrugged. "Nothing of any consequence." His hair was starting to come loose from the slight sheen of gel that kept in place, falling across his forehead. Canton raised an eyebrow (a somewhat permanent part of his everyday expression), and lit another cigarette. He held out the silver case towards Jack but Jack shook his head.
“Do I get a name or is that gonna cost me another drink?” Canton’s eyes narrowed slightly before giving way to a small. He wasn’t used to being kept on his toes like this. It was in the best interest of an FBI agent to be aloof, detached and Canton often found that this type of emotional insurance bled into his private life. Men like Jack just seemed a little impossible to him.
“Delaware.”
“Just Delaware?” Jack asked, flatly. He popped another olive into his mouth. Canton sighed quietly.
“Canton Everett Delaware III.” He said, punctuating the end of the sentence with a gratuitous sip of whiskey. The half of a sandwich he’d considered lunch over 10 hours ago did not support the speed of his alcohol consumption, and while Canton knew this, he ignored it for now. Jack seemed to be trying to withhold his amusement. Canton scoffed quietly.
“What?”
“That’s…” Jack shook his head and tried to force the smile off his face.
“A mouthful?”
“Very American.” Jack said. Even Canton was smiling a bit now, his unhappiness slowly fading by way of Maker’s Mark. “Don’t worry, never was one to be afraid of a mouthful.”
Canton’s jaw went slack for a second and his eyes looked at every thing in the room but the man in front of him. Jack could see that he had hit his mark, grinning inwardly.
“That must be one hell of a business card. It would be Agent Canton Everett Delaware III, right?” Canton looked back over, his brow furrowed in cautious confusion.
“Maybe…someone asking?” His voice had descended to mere rasp and his heart pounded. Jack shook his head and smiled.
“Relax.” Jack began, his voice calm and smooth. “Saw the holster under your jacket. At first I figure, you’re a cop. But the state of affairs round here, you wouldn’t be cooling your heels in a place like this on a Friday night.” He explained, taking a few sips of gin here and there, haphazardly gesturing with his martini glass. “Also, never met a cop who could afford a suit like that.”
Canton took a self-conscious look down at his suit and suddenly felt stifled and overdressed but maybe that was just the alcohol talking. He loosened his tie a bit, an action that drew Jack’s eye for a brief second.
“Unless I’m wrong.” Canton sighed and leaned his head against his palm.
“No. Not wrong.” Jack nodded. Canton expected the man to look smug or satisfied but there was something else. Something more towards fascination.
“Bit of a ways from the bureau, aren’t we?” Jack asked, polishing off another martini. Canton shrugged.
“Didn’t notice.” Actually, he had noticed but that was the point. Maybe he wouldn’t admit to himself why he was down here, but the distance made him feel safer. “Guess you get used to it. Tourists always complain about distance.” Jack chuckled softly, looking bemused.
“How do you know I’m a tourist?”
“You’re not from here.” Canton stated with inebriated confidence. “And you know that how?” Jack said, his playfulness overriding any actual care for Canton’s reasoning. Canton shrugged.
“Just aren’t.” Jack chuckled, tracing his finger against his glass. His eyes met Canton’s.
“Maybe you ought to show me around, then.” Canton maintained his gaze for a brief moment before finishing his whiskey.
“I don’t think that’s the best idea, Captain.” He said, slowly, just barely masking his own disappointment. The smile faded from Jack’s face- just enough to make Canton’s stomach knot. You can’t always get what you want. Jack nodded.
“Right.” He sat up straight and it surprised Canton when he realized how close they had been sitting. Jack grabbed a stray cocktail napkin and pulled out a pen from the inside of his coat. A few seconds of scribbling and Jack pushed the napkin in Canton’s direction. Canton took it, glancing at Jack briefly before picking it up.
The Hay-Adams. Room 429.
Canton’s eyebrow quirked upwards. “Hmmm.” He looked back up at Jack, a little surprised. “Fancy place.”
“You know it?” Canton only responded with an exasperated look, which put the smile back on Jack’s face. Jack stood up and pulled a few crisp bills out of his pocket, sliding him towards the inattentive bartender.
“That should cover the both of us. Don’t suppose you’re going to fight with me over the tab.” Canton laughed and shook his head.
“Not tonight.” Canton stood up, the Maker’s Mark catching up with him slightly, and he realized he’d do well to find himself a cab. He stumbled off his stool and was surprised when he saw a pair of hands wrapped around his forearms, steadying him against the bar.
“Easy there, Delaware.” Jack said, with that implacable grin. His hands lingered there for a second, his thumb brushing softly over the soft wool of Canton’s suit jacket. Canton took a deep breath to ground himself, breathing in a heady combination of smoke and booze and what he realized was Jack, and god, he liked it.
Jack released his arms, looking down at Canton apprehensively. “You okay?” Canton swallowed and nodded.
“Yeah.” He said, a little dazed. He cleared his throat awkwardly and began to gather his coat. “Fine.” The euphoria had faded from his voice and he was now horribly aware of the sideways glances of the few remaining patrons. Time to leave. You can’t always get what you want.
“Thanks for the drink.” He said quietly and brushed past Jack without a second glance. He pushed the door open and stepped out onto the street. The cool bite of the night air was a welcome, as was the stillness of the street. Canton exhaled loudly and shoved his hand through his hair. What were you thinking? The thought repeated itself over and over. He shook his head and began to head in the general direction of traffic. What were you thinking blaring in his head over brief flashes of blue eyes, perfect mouth, strong hands.
“Hey.” He heard a voice call behind him, followed by footsteps. He stopped, not turning around to face Jack, but patiently waited for him, despite the intuition that told him to keep walking.
Jack caught up and walked around him until they were face to face. He looked even better in the faint light of the street corner lamp. He didn’t appear to be cross with Canton, which should have given him a sense of relief, but it didn’t.
“Don’t make me spend Saturday night by myself.” He said, with a gentle smile.
Canton looked up at him for a second, before looking around him, to see if someone might be watching them. Jack lifted his hand and put it under Canton’s chin, gently turning his head back towards him.
“Stop worrying so much.” He said softly, the teasing in his voice gentle and guileless. “You can say you’re undercover.” He pulled Canton’s coat and suit jacket aside and tucked the cocktail napkin in his shirt pocket. “You can say I’m a dangerous spy and you need to use full measures to extract information.” Even that made Canton smile.
“Are you?”
“Am I what?”
Canton stepped back a pace, giving Jack a good once-over. “A spy.” Jack laughed, and Canton was continuously surprised by the man’s genuine sense of joy.
“What do you think?” Canton grinned.
“You really want to know?
“Yeah.”
“Captain, I think you’re either a very good hustler or a very bad spy.” This made Jack laugh even harder, which roused Canton’s paranoia. Lest someone hear them and so on. Jack finally stopped laughing and clapped Canton’s shoulder gently.
“So, 7 o’clock, 8 o’clock, whatever works for you…bar doesn’t stay open forever.” He asked breezily. Canton shook his head, unsure of what to say.
“How do you know I’m even going to show up?” he said, the smug look on his face shaking Jack’s confidence for a few seconds. Jack paused briefly before leaning in and kissing him. It was a gentle kiss, one could even describe it as chaste, and Canton was too surprised to reciprocate much of anything. Jack placed a hand on the side of Canton’s face, his thumb gently stroking the curve of the man’s cheekbone. After another long moment, Jack pulled away.
“Call it intuition.” A few seconds later and the smile returned to the man’s face. He patted Canton’s coat in the spot where the napkin sat, folded neatly in his breast pocket. Jack turned on his heels and started off in the general direction of the White House.
Canton stood very still for a few minutes before finally taking in a deep breath and heading off on his own way, humming a bit as he walked.
'Shahdaroba, Shahdaroba…in the future, you will find a love that lasts…
Rating: PG-13
Summary: When you're in a place you shouldn't be, you never know who you might meet.
Pairings: Canton Everett Delaware III/Captain Jack Harkness
Notes: Authorial stubbornness and too many episodes of Mad Men dictate that this story predates whenever Jack decided to stop drinking.
April, 1968, Washington D.C.
Dupont Circle. On any given day, for a man like Canton Everett Delaware III, Dupont Circle might not have been the right place to be "seen", but the city was so distracted and enraged, it didn't seem to matter much. 14th Street had burned down, thousands were arrested, and now the National Guard occupied all of the nation's capital- in short, it was a damn disaster and Canton needed a drink.
He walked down the nearly empty, trash filled streets. Technically, Mayor Washington's curfew had ended on Monday after the worst of the rioting had ceased, people were more or less terrified to leave their homes at night, and not without reason. As Canton walked past another row of rubble and glass, things that used to be stores, used to be lives, but since Dr. King's murder last week, nothing had gone in the direction of right for the entire country.
The row homes, somehow left unscathed, were dark and silent and only a few people passed him as he walked- usually kids, their eyes darting in his direction, as if ready to put up a fight if they had to. He paid it no attention. He might have known he'd stick out down here- "the man in the grey flannel suit" in a sea of unkempt hair and blue jeans and lord help him if he was ID'd as FBI. At best, he'd have to suffer through being called a "pig" or a "fascist" for a while and at worst, he'd get a broken bottle to the scalp. Prepared for neither, he turned up the collar of his dark wool coat.
The faint sound of low music caught his attention, a surprise against the sound of his shoes against the pavement and the distant sound of outbound traffic. A bar. It was one of the few bars without a burnt facade or a broken window. An open, unspoiled bar on this street was like finding an oasis in the desert. He glanced up at the sign. The Blue Room. He peered through the dim windows and saw all the semblances of a normal bar and even a few patrons. At the distant sound of glass breaking a block or so down, he decided to take it.
Opening the door, he was greeted with the familiar bouquet of cigarette smoke and spilled alcohol. The Blue Room was somewhere halfway between proper lounge bar and utter dive, and judging by the odd mix of George Washington students and businessmen and other characters less visible in the dim light, no one else knew what it was either.
Canton looked around and found a spot on the tail end of the bar, close to the cigarette machine, which had seen its better days. Looking around, he supposed that the bar got its name from the dingy blue faux-brocade pattern wallpaper, now turning an even uglier color from years of tar-filled smoke. Roy Orbison's "Shahdaroba" began to play, and Canton remarked with an odd degree of wistfulness, that he hadn't heard this song in years.
'Shahdaroba, Shahdaroba means the future is much better than the past…'
He placed a cigarette between his lips and nodded to the bartender, an older man, the non-descript type that sat behind a bar and heard a million stories but told no secrets. "Whiskey. Neat." he said, the trademark gruff coolness never leaving his voice, even for simple things. The bartender nodded and turned to his gallery of bottles. He couldn't hear any conversation over the music and couldn't help but wonder what these select, intimate groupings were discussing.
The hippie couple in the booth- at first it seemed that they were practically spooning, but another glance seemed to say that they were leaning into each other for support. The couple across the way, staring into their cocktails, in palpable silence. It was in his nature (and a part of his profession) to be curious. But it didn't take a trained FBI agent to recognize the funereal feel to the place and one glance at the newspaper photo of Dr. King hanging against the mirror that backed the bar reminded him of what all those unheard conversations were probably about.
A small tumbler of whiskey slid in his direction and he lifted it up in contemplation before taking a sip. The whiskey tasted good, felt good, despite burning his chapped lips. The sound of creaking hinges indicated that someone new had entered the bar and the sudden presence of a tall figure leaning over the bar confirmed his suspicion. He took a casual glance at the newcomer. Had the man been more non-descript, Canton would later lie to himself, he might have paid him no mind and went about his drinking. But when it came to the man now standing about a foot away from where he sat, "non-descript" just did not apply.
Canton might have used the phrase "tall, dark stranger" (to himself, not to anyone else) if the bluish-grey military greatcoat he was wearing had not obscured him almost entirely. Canton was intrigued. He'd seen coats like that before, but in the photographs his father had brought back from working on plane radios during the London Blitz. It just...wasn't quite the fashion, in any circle these days. Another glance, this time from the neck up, yielded yet more surprises. Most would describe the man as "handsome" and Canton had no problem applying that descriptor, as he took another, longer pull of whiskey.
The man pulled up the bar stool nearest him and sat down, nodding to the bartender, who slid a dirty martini in his direction. Very dirty, in fact, he counted at least three olives on the toothpick. He brought his eyes away from the man's glass to find that the man was smiling at him. A knowing little half-smile that gave way to a full wide smile. Canton worked with a lot of slick characters but had to admit, if you put this guy's face on any advertisement, the product would sell damn well.
"See something you like?" The man said. American accent. The sentence should have been condescending but something about it made Canton chuckle. He gestured to the man's glass.
"What is that, a drink or a meal?" The man laughed, a low and genuine laugh. He looked at Canton's glass.
"Well, we can't all have such minimalistic taste." Canton looked down at his glass and took an almost defensive sip.
"When I drink whiskey, I drink whiskey." Canton answered coolly. The man nodded, a gleam in his pale blue eyes.
"And with such bravado, no ice or anything." The smile was still on the man's face and Canton wasn't quite sure if he found it charming or insulting. He swallowed, his mouth already dry.
"Is there something that you want, sir?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow. The smile faded a bit and the man shook his head.
"Not really." Canton nodded, turning his attention away from the man. "Just figured it was something you wanted." He paused, his mouth full of the last of his whiskey and looked back at the man. He swallowed roughly.
"That so?" A smirk crossed the man's face. Either he was very smart or very dumb, but there was a self-assuredness about him, that unfortunately suggested the former. The man took the toothpick out of his glass and slid one of the gin-soaked olives between his teeth. He leaned in to Canton slightly, lowering his voice.
"I'm just saying this, because you certainly don't look like a dumb guy, but I see someone giving me that kind of look, there only a few things they could possibly want. And eight times out of ten, I'm right about what that thing is. And nine times out of ten, they get want they want."
Canton blinked a few times in response. He sat back and contemplated his glass, and wished he hadn't finished so quickly. He looked the man over and smirked, shaking his head in disbelief that this was actually happening.
"Buddy, if you're cruising, you're barkin' up the wrong tree." Canton replied gruffly, fingering his glass anxiously. The man chuckled softly.
"I'm just having a drink and besides, we are not discussing me." The elfin smile returned. Canton realized his face was hot and he was probably blushing, a good cue to exit. He stood up and went for his coat, but a tug on the cuff of his jacket made him turn back. There was the man, still smiling, but there was sincerity to it, not just the added veneer of charm.
"In that case, let me buy you an apologetic drink." He let go of Canton's cuff. Canton shook his head and cursed the man’s perfect, carefree smile and his own weakness. You can't always get what you want. The man shrugged. "I'll make it worth your while, promise." Canton sighed and sat back down. A few gestures and words in the right direction and both men had fresh drinks.
"Suppose I should get your name." Canton said, after a thick gulp of whiskey. The music had turned to something loud, something by the Stones, but he wasn't exactly paying attention to it.
"Captain Jack Harkness." he said, sliding a hand forward, which Canton took and shook quickly. It was hard to mask his surprise.
"Captain." he repeated. He had to admit, it was a rather fantastic name, there was a stylishness to it and it fell off the tongue nicely. It was the kind of name that people wished they had. (Not that there was anything plain about Canton Everett Delaware III, but it just wasn't quite the same.) He liked it. The man looked like a Jack. "Captain of what, exactly?"
Jack shook his head and shrugged. "Nothing of any consequence." His hair was starting to come loose from the slight sheen of gel that kept in place, falling across his forehead. Canton raised an eyebrow (a somewhat permanent part of his everyday expression), and lit another cigarette. He held out the silver case towards Jack but Jack shook his head.
“Do I get a name or is that gonna cost me another drink?” Canton’s eyes narrowed slightly before giving way to a small. He wasn’t used to being kept on his toes like this. It was in the best interest of an FBI agent to be aloof, detached and Canton often found that this type of emotional insurance bled into his private life. Men like Jack just seemed a little impossible to him.
“Delaware.”
“Just Delaware?” Jack asked, flatly. He popped another olive into his mouth. Canton sighed quietly.
“Canton Everett Delaware III.” He said, punctuating the end of the sentence with a gratuitous sip of whiskey. The half of a sandwich he’d considered lunch over 10 hours ago did not support the speed of his alcohol consumption, and while Canton knew this, he ignored it for now. Jack seemed to be trying to withhold his amusement. Canton scoffed quietly.
“What?”
“That’s…” Jack shook his head and tried to force the smile off his face.
“A mouthful?”
“Very American.” Jack said. Even Canton was smiling a bit now, his unhappiness slowly fading by way of Maker’s Mark. “Don’t worry, never was one to be afraid of a mouthful.”
Canton’s jaw went slack for a second and his eyes looked at every thing in the room but the man in front of him. Jack could see that he had hit his mark, grinning inwardly.
“That must be one hell of a business card. It would be Agent Canton Everett Delaware III, right?” Canton looked back over, his brow furrowed in cautious confusion.
“Maybe…someone asking?” His voice had descended to mere rasp and his heart pounded. Jack shook his head and smiled.
“Relax.” Jack began, his voice calm and smooth. “Saw the holster under your jacket. At first I figure, you’re a cop. But the state of affairs round here, you wouldn’t be cooling your heels in a place like this on a Friday night.” He explained, taking a few sips of gin here and there, haphazardly gesturing with his martini glass. “Also, never met a cop who could afford a suit like that.”
Canton took a self-conscious look down at his suit and suddenly felt stifled and overdressed but maybe that was just the alcohol talking. He loosened his tie a bit, an action that drew Jack’s eye for a brief second.
“Unless I’m wrong.” Canton sighed and leaned his head against his palm.
“No. Not wrong.” Jack nodded. Canton expected the man to look smug or satisfied but there was something else. Something more towards fascination.
“Bit of a ways from the bureau, aren’t we?” Jack asked, polishing off another martini. Canton shrugged.
“Didn’t notice.” Actually, he had noticed but that was the point. Maybe he wouldn’t admit to himself why he was down here, but the distance made him feel safer. “Guess you get used to it. Tourists always complain about distance.” Jack chuckled softly, looking bemused.
“How do you know I’m a tourist?”
“You’re not from here.” Canton stated with inebriated confidence. “And you know that how?” Jack said, his playfulness overriding any actual care for Canton’s reasoning. Canton shrugged.
“Just aren’t.” Jack chuckled, tracing his finger against his glass. His eyes met Canton’s.
“Maybe you ought to show me around, then.” Canton maintained his gaze for a brief moment before finishing his whiskey.
“I don’t think that’s the best idea, Captain.” He said, slowly, just barely masking his own disappointment. The smile faded from Jack’s face- just enough to make Canton’s stomach knot. You can’t always get what you want. Jack nodded.
“Right.” He sat up straight and it surprised Canton when he realized how close they had been sitting. Jack grabbed a stray cocktail napkin and pulled out a pen from the inside of his coat. A few seconds of scribbling and Jack pushed the napkin in Canton’s direction. Canton took it, glancing at Jack briefly before picking it up.
The Hay-Adams. Room 429.
Canton’s eyebrow quirked upwards. “Hmmm.” He looked back up at Jack, a little surprised. “Fancy place.”
“You know it?” Canton only responded with an exasperated look, which put the smile back on Jack’s face. Jack stood up and pulled a few crisp bills out of his pocket, sliding him towards the inattentive bartender.
“That should cover the both of us. Don’t suppose you’re going to fight with me over the tab.” Canton laughed and shook his head.
“Not tonight.” Canton stood up, the Maker’s Mark catching up with him slightly, and he realized he’d do well to find himself a cab. He stumbled off his stool and was surprised when he saw a pair of hands wrapped around his forearms, steadying him against the bar.
“Easy there, Delaware.” Jack said, with that implacable grin. His hands lingered there for a second, his thumb brushing softly over the soft wool of Canton’s suit jacket. Canton took a deep breath to ground himself, breathing in a heady combination of smoke and booze and what he realized was Jack, and god, he liked it.
Jack released his arms, looking down at Canton apprehensively. “You okay?” Canton swallowed and nodded.
“Yeah.” He said, a little dazed. He cleared his throat awkwardly and began to gather his coat. “Fine.” The euphoria had faded from his voice and he was now horribly aware of the sideways glances of the few remaining patrons. Time to leave. You can’t always get what you want.
“Thanks for the drink.” He said quietly and brushed past Jack without a second glance. He pushed the door open and stepped out onto the street. The cool bite of the night air was a welcome, as was the stillness of the street. Canton exhaled loudly and shoved his hand through his hair. What were you thinking? The thought repeated itself over and over. He shook his head and began to head in the general direction of traffic. What were you thinking blaring in his head over brief flashes of blue eyes, perfect mouth, strong hands.
“Hey.” He heard a voice call behind him, followed by footsteps. He stopped, not turning around to face Jack, but patiently waited for him, despite the intuition that told him to keep walking.
Jack caught up and walked around him until they were face to face. He looked even better in the faint light of the street corner lamp. He didn’t appear to be cross with Canton, which should have given him a sense of relief, but it didn’t.
“Don’t make me spend Saturday night by myself.” He said, with a gentle smile.
Canton looked up at him for a second, before looking around him, to see if someone might be watching them. Jack lifted his hand and put it under Canton’s chin, gently turning his head back towards him.
“Stop worrying so much.” He said softly, the teasing in his voice gentle and guileless. “You can say you’re undercover.” He pulled Canton’s coat and suit jacket aside and tucked the cocktail napkin in his shirt pocket. “You can say I’m a dangerous spy and you need to use full measures to extract information.” Even that made Canton smile.
“Are you?”
“Am I what?”
Canton stepped back a pace, giving Jack a good once-over. “A spy.” Jack laughed, and Canton was continuously surprised by the man’s genuine sense of joy.
“What do you think?” Canton grinned.
“You really want to know?
“Yeah.”
“Captain, I think you’re either a very good hustler or a very bad spy.” This made Jack laugh even harder, which roused Canton’s paranoia. Lest someone hear them and so on. Jack finally stopped laughing and clapped Canton’s shoulder gently.
“So, 7 o’clock, 8 o’clock, whatever works for you…bar doesn’t stay open forever.” He asked breezily. Canton shook his head, unsure of what to say.
“How do you know I’m even going to show up?” he said, the smug look on his face shaking Jack’s confidence for a few seconds. Jack paused briefly before leaning in and kissing him. It was a gentle kiss, one could even describe it as chaste, and Canton was too surprised to reciprocate much of anything. Jack placed a hand on the side of Canton’s face, his thumb gently stroking the curve of the man’s cheekbone. After another long moment, Jack pulled away.
“Call it intuition.” A few seconds later and the smile returned to the man’s face. He patted Canton’s coat in the spot where the napkin sat, folded neatly in his breast pocket. Jack turned on his heels and started off in the general direction of the White House.
Canton stood very still for a few minutes before finally taking in a deep breath and heading off on his own way, humming a bit as he walked.
'Shahdaroba, Shahdaroba…in the future, you will find a love that lasts…