Fic: "To Warm the Winter Night" [Torchwood: Jack/Jack, NC-17]
Title: To Warm the Winter Night
Author: Shane Mayhem
Pairing: Jack/Jack
Rating: NC-17, I guess, for sex.
Wordcount: 5,480
Notes: No spoilers, unless for some odd reason you haven't seen ep. 1x12, "Captain Jack Harkness." Plot bunny by avon_09! Beta'ed by fuingala! Submitted for at_the_ritz weekly challenge #64, "All Good Things".
Summary: Torchwood's Jack visits Captain Harkness on a lonely winter's night.
Jack leans forward and rubs the condensation from the inside of the small, dirty window with his sleeve. Through the smeary glass he can see the dim shapes of the little fleet: the 1929 Stearman next to the 1936 Lockheed, and just beyond that, the sharp nose of the Supermarine Spitfire Mk V. The other aircraft, Cessnas and Superlites and even an old Fokker Dr.I, line the other side of the tarmac, and he cranes his head a little to let his gaze take them all in, briefly. All present and accounted for, not that there is any logical reason to worry that they wouldn't be. It's just that Jack can't sleep and with his bedroom just upstairs, above the little hangar, he might as well be down here, keeping watch. He leans back; the chair creaks, wobbling a little on its broken stalk. Freezing rain patters on the window, through the darkening sky. He really should turn on the hangar lights. He wanted to move some of the planes inside, but Charlie has his latest pet project--a 1950's MiG jet (God knows where he got it)--in there, being stripped and re-finished.
He slips a silver flask out of the slash pocket of his flight jacket and takes another sip, letting the cheap whiskey burn his throat and make his eyes water. He's not drunk, but he's getting on toward "tipsy," he figures.
Good thing, then, Jack muses, that there's no flying schedule tomorrow, because not only will he probably be hungover, but he'd have to chip a layer of ice off of all of the planes' wings in order to even get them up. That's Cardiff weather for you: wet. No matter the season. He turns the whiskey flask in his palm and stares blankly out the window.
Snow is beginning to mix in with the freezing rain, and the sight--those soft white flakes floating past on the backdrop of the cold and dark--hits him, somehow. He frowns and takes another drink, to dispatch feelings he's not even sure he can name.
He's lucky, he knows, to be here. To have survived his crash and come miraculously through Time like some intrepid Jules Verne-esque hero. Of course, he doesn't feel very heroic, but that's because no one ever does. Heroes are what fiction calls guys who just happened to be in the right place at the right time. Or guys who were in the wrong place at the wrong time, and survived it. It was strange to arrive suddenly in a time when his generation (already almost all gone) were regarded with just such a blanket awe--idolized, memorialized in films and plays and books. It was strange, but it sure doesn't help him out much; the world careens onward, and he has to find himself a place in it and hold on with tooth and nail. Charlie sure doesn't think he's very heroic; his employer, while outwardly jovial, always calling Jack "my boy" or "old chap," had taken a long time to stop giving him odd sideways looks as though he thought Jack would try to make off with one of his planes or his money or something. But thankfully, he kept Jack on, probably because he was an ace pilot and not half bad as a mechanic, either. He even let him rent the attic room above the hangar--the one which Charlie himself had lived in for a time while going through the messy divorce brought on by his obsession with old planes and young women.
Charlie's actually a millionaire, but like a lot of self-made millionaires, is eccentric as hell and tends to do things like go to the pub in his dressing gown or try to purchase battle-damaged F-16's from the Libyans. Jack has the sneaking suspicion that Charlie is just a few steps away from some serious jail time, most of the time. Still, he lets Jack fly and he even pays him (not much) for it. Most importantly, he doesn't pry into Jack's past or ask to see his credentials.
The sky is darker; it's snowing harder, and Jack draws the wool-lined flight jacket tighter around himself, taking another long swig of whiskey. The radio is warbling "(There's No Place Like) Home for the Holidays," and he reaches over to switch it off. There's too much talking on the radio these days, anyway. Advertisements and "talk shows" and everything. The sudden silence makes it seem colder and darker, and Jack sighs, rousing himself to stand up and turn on the outdoor light, which illuminates the glistening, icy forms of the aircraft. He really should go out there and make sure hydraulic lines aren't freezing and things like that. He winces as he stretches his stiff back--old wounds from a war no one would ever believe he'd fought--and is about to brave the freezing cold when he hears a knock on the office door.
He's suddenly a lot more sober. Who'd be knocking this time of night on Christmas Eve? Could be Charlie, reeling drunk and wanting to rope Jack into the tales of his myriad woes, but he knows Charlie wouldn't bother with knocking, and is probably currently charming the socks off of helpless young girls at some ritzy party anyway. Subtly unbuckling the strap on his Webley, he moves towards the door, trying to be a lot steadier on his feet than he feels. Jack knows he's not really going to shoot anyone, but it feels better to have the option of being intimidating. He just hopes it's not some government official, finally come to catch up with his employer about not paying his taxes or smuggling rare aircraft through dubious channels, or whatever the hell he's been doing.
He tries to get a glimpse of the visitor through the window, but this one's even dirtier and foggier than the other one, and he can only see the sleet, flickering in the worn-out yellow light above the doorstep. Cautiously, he cracks the door just a little, then, eyes widening a bit, throws it open.
They stand there in silence for a few seconds.
"James Harper."
He knows now, of course, that that's not the man's real name, but he was also told, those two interminable years ago, that he could call him that if he wanted. Back when he thought the two of them might...have some kind of future together. Or at least, you know, see each other. But James had disappeared out of his life after turning him loose, telling him, cryptically, that it was "better this way." Feeling shunned and disappointed, Jack tried to understand. The other Captain Harkness had Torchwood, after all, which Jack was noticeably not invited to be part of. It had stung a little, to tell the truth. Since then, he's made his way alone, using a different surname and trying to make sense of the 21st century.
James doesn't look a day older than when Jack left, except for around the eyes. His hair is shorter, too, which Jack thinks nicely accentuates that chiselled jawline. James stands tall and still in his RAF greatcoat, gloved hand wrapped around the neck of a bottle of...something Jack can't quite make out. He crosses his arms over his chest, mostly against the cold, but also instinctively against the urge to throw himself into James' arms, despite the anguished flash of confused anger he feels at seeing him.
"You been drinking?" He asks the other Captain, curiously. James gives him a little smirk that dimples one cheek, and lowers his eyes, shaking his head.
"No. You?"
"Yep."
"Can I come in?"
Jack's stomach is turning somersaults, but he just casually steps aside, letting James into the tiny flightline office. The other Captain comes in, a gust of wintry air following him, and stands there looking slightly lost and trying not to. The longing to throw his arms around him is getting almost unbearable, and Jack bites his lower lip, hard. "Nice place," James says, at which Jack can't help but laugh.
"Yeah. Sorry about the lack of heat. Charlie doesn't like to pay for utilities if he can help it."
He follows him into the back corner of the office, with its broken chair and dim, foggy view of the planes on the tarmac. "You wanna have a seat, Captain?" He gestures at the one he's just vacated, trying not to sound too hopeful. He has no idea why James is here, after all.
But to his surprise, the other Captain nods, blue eyes gazing straight at him in a way that makes Jack flush a little and look hard at the floor, his heart pounding. There's such a lot of sadness in those eyes, even behind the startling look of shy hope Jack glimpsed there. James sets the bottle down on the desk amid a clutter of papers and is about to take the seat when Jack leaps forward. "Uh, no, wait! That one's broken. Let me..." He grabs a folding metal chair from behind the looming file cabinet and smacks it a few times to get it to unfold fully, setting it out for him. The playful grin he gets in return is truly heart-stopping.
"Thanks," James says softly, settling on the metal chair with an alarming squeak of its rusty hinges. Jack leans against the desk, hands thrust into his jacket pockets, gazing down at the man he was doubtful he'd see again. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing seems willing to come out.
"How are you?" James asks first, looking back up at him, leaned forward with his forearms on his knees. God, he looks good.
"I'm..." Jack begins, distractedly, caught up in that straightforward blue gaze. "Fine," he finishes somewhat stiffly. Almost unconsciously, he pulls out the whiskey flask and tips some more down his throat, hoping to calm that shiver in his stomach. James raises an eyebrow. Jack leans back and wipes another clear spot on the windowpane, casting his glance out over the tarmac as though there were really something to be watching for. Sleet flurries past, tapping against the glass like tiny, icy fingers. It fills the night as far as Jack can see, and he suddenly has the vision that the whole world is like this, right now...just a vast emptiness of sleet and snow, creaking with cold. "Why are you here?" He asks, his voice hoarse and quiet.
"I...just wanted to see you." James replies, his words hesitant. Jack snorts.
"After two years? Why? Things not working out with Ianto?"
He winces; that was a cheap shot, he knows. He looks back down at the whiskey flask. Thankfully, annoyingly, James doesn't rise to the bait.
"I um...missed you." The words are spoken with such painful awkwardness that Jack looks up at the other Captain, a furrow in his brow, unable to formulate the angry reply that was waiting on the back of his tongue. James is looking at his linked hands, fidgeting unhappily. Jack has to physically stop himself from professing his complete forgiveness, by reaching for the bottle James brought.
"What's this?"
"Ah! That's frederaal. Fermented flower wine from Tarkanos." That grin is back, and Jack coughs a surprised laugh.
"That doesn't sound like someplace I'd know..."
"It's not. It's in another arm of the galaxy and won't be civilized for another hundred years or so. Present from a friend of mine." The blue eyes sparkle mischievously and Jack shakes his head, not quite sure how much to believe him.
"Pretty fancy, bringing me wine from another planet, Captain. What's the occasion?"
James sobers again, and for a split second, Jack can see the loneliness of those untold planets and galaxies in his eyes, stars that shine desolately in the aching vacuum of space. It makes his insides hurt, and makes him feel a little dizzy, as though it were just the two of them, standing in their own isolated worlds that spin further and further away from each other.
"I wasn't kidding when I said I missed you."
"Didn't think you were," Jack manages to say. "But why?"
James stands, comes closer in a gust of cool air from the movement of his coat, then heated air from the nearness of his body. Jack stands up straight, eyes wide, but James remains a foot and a half away, searching in Jack's face for something that he feels James has been looking for in the faces of many people for many centuries. It's not me you're looking for, he knows, with a sharp twist like a knife in his gut, a wound that reopens with any sudden movement.
"Because I made a mistake," James says, his voice low, and Jack realizes, alarmingly close to tears. "And I'm tired...really tired of making mistakes." He lowers his head with a self-deprecating laugh, and Jack can see the despondent, surrendering slump of his shoulders in the greatcoat. He watches him as though from outside of himself, stranded in orbit while the world spins and things fall apart. He wants nothing more than to touch James, to wrap his arms around him, but he can't seem to move. The sleet has become pellets of ice and they rattle on the roof like cold, strange music. James raises his eyes, and they have become still. "Maybe this is a mistake, too," he says without anger or bitterness. "Maybe I should go."
He really should go out, Jack thinks, and make sure the fuel tanks have all been properly drained, so that fuel can't freeze in them if it gets too cold. Check the hydraulic lines. Make sure the covers on the open-cockpit planes are buttoned down tight. He looks out the window at the serene icy aircraft, and imagines himself doing those things, every winter night, for years. Until his injured back gets too stiff, his hands too arthritic to fly anymore, his heart too hollow to care. He takes an uneven breath.
James is moving to leave, his fingers trailing slowly along the surface of the desk as he shifts away from it, stirring the receipts and flight logs, all penned in Jack's own neat handwriting, because Charlie doesn't bother with things like paperwork. Jack feels the shift of air, warm to cold again, as James moves past him.
He puts out a hand, and it catches, of its own accord, around the lapel of James' greatcoat, surprising Jack with a grip like iron. He tugs, and James lets out a little breath, eyes wide and unshielded as Jack gracefully takes one step to the side and devours his mouth in a kiss made of hunger and heat. It's a split second before James reacts, and then he leans against him, heavy warm body pushing him back against the edge of the desk as his arms go around Jack's ribs, pulling him to his chest as his mouth opens and his head tilts just a little to the side, letting their tongues meet. Jack tastes saltwater in the corners of James' mouth, and feels the other Captain's heart pounding, helpless and quick, against Jack's chest. A shiver seems to pass all the way through his body into Jack's, and they clutch each other tighter, like two survivors tossed on a lonely sea.
When they part to a seemingly unbearable distance of inches, James is looking into his eyes with such a soft expression that Jack's heart pounds in his throat and he doesn't think he'll be able to bear to let go of him, ever. The thought curls with bitterness in his stomach, burning more than the whiskey did.
"Don't leave me again." he growls, hoarsely, burying his nose in the warm, sweet-smelling wool of James' greatcoat. Even as he says the words, however, he knows they're the wrong ones: he can see James' eyes filling with promises that the other man knows he can never make. Jack doesn't let go of his coat, though, clinging to the ray of light, however weak and small, that James' presence lends to him. When he finally straightens up and moves back, it's with the calm, hurt flicker of acceptance, a candle's flame that illuminates how huge the darkness really is.
They stare at each other for what seems a very long moment, and Jack tries to read the emotions on the other Captain's face, without much success. One of James' hands rests at the waistband of Jack's trousers, and his touch makes a bittersweet tingle run through Jack's skin. Finally, a smile pushes at the sadness in James' face.
"So...do you have a room?" It comes out sounding so hesitant and shy that Jack can't help but smile, even though the implications of the question send a dart of excited, nervous electricity up his spine.
"Yeah...upstairs."
He turns, as though in a daze, and leads him up the rickety stairs that hug the hangar wall, leading to the half-attic above the cavernous floor and the gleaming MiG. He hears the scrape of the wine bottle across the desk as James grabs it, and they ascend in silence, weight creaking on the wooden steps, the air seeming to press heavier on Jack's chest as they go, making him feel almost dizzy.
The bed is a mattress on the floor, but James doesn't seem to notice or mind as he gently pushes Jack--barely breathing--down onto it, following closely with his warm weight pressing him against the thin sheets. The cold makes Jack's skin prickle as James slowly strips him of his clothing, and his fingertips trail over Jack's slender body, pausing at the waistband of his trousers. Jack's ribs heave with his short, sharp breaths, and for a moment, he just gazes up at him, trying to gather his certainty. Then, his fingers flex on James' solid flanks, and he abruptly pulls him down, crushing a kiss to his mouth, arching his back off of the bed to press their bodies as close as possible. The friction ignites a heat in his belly and banishes the cold elsewhere, outside of the space that swirls and warms between them with each fierce, discovering touch.
Jack spreads his legs and lets James lie between them, as he closes his eyes and devours the taste of James' mouth as though he'll never kiss anyone ever again. James' lips move on his, open, panting slightly, catching his tongue with a light and thrilling pinch of teeth, and his heavy body fits comfortably against Jack's length, muscles shifting under his skin and nearly pushing all the air out of him, leaving him feeling helplessly pinned and light-headed at the same time. Air shivers in his lungs, as he gasps softly for breath, his mind reeling and trying to catch up to his body. The slight scratch of stubble on James' cheek, brushing against Jack's throat as James kisses his neck, lights his nerve endings on fire, and with some instinct long-buried inside him, Jack just pulls him closer, the longing of his heart cutting with utter clarity through the confusion in his mind. He shivers and surrenders, unresisting, to the delirious sensations of James' touch.
Only briefly does James pause, lift his body up off of Jack's to look him in the eye. The intensity of his gaze makes Jack's chest feel tight, and he stares back, looking over the edge of something within himself, knowing that he's about to let go and fall. Then James smiles, a soft, knowing smile, and it's over--that moment on the precipice. Jack surges up off of the pillow and his mouth captures James' in a heated grasp of certainty, a refusal to regret. He brings his knees up around James' flanks, gripping him to himself and making James' breath squeak a little into the kiss. The other Captain hurriedly struggles out of his coat, miraculously keeping his mouth in contact all the while, and tosses it aside, atop the clutter of newspapers, beer bottles, and wiring kits on the bare wood floor.
Jack's fingers curve desperately on James' shoulders, then scratch down his ribs to his chest, finding the buttons--too many damned buttons--of his vest and shirt, working at them with single-minded purpose until he feels bare skin, so smooth and pale and warm, beneath his hands. The rhythm of their breathing, loud and erratic in the cold, still room, increases in tempo, their bodies slicking with sweat as they push against each other, needing more contact, to be closer, deeper. Jack can't help but utter a short, quiet cry as James' cock, now free of his trousers, rubs into the cleft of Jack's thigh, hot and wanting. The sensation scrapes at raw nerves; every inch of his skin feels brand new, painfully sensitive. James' mouth falls to his chest and closes around one nipple, teasing with teeth and lips until the flesh peaks and Jack utters a helpless, strangled noise, head falling back onto the sweaty pillow. His fingers spasm, slipping across the tensing muscles of James' back. James' hand presses down the line of Jack's ribs, then wedges into the heated cavern of his hipbone, fingertips finding his aching cock and starting to stroke. Jack's spine jerks instinctively in response, and his breaths scatter. He clutches a fist in James' dark hair.
Coherent thought seems to jam up in Jack's mind the way air is jammed up in his throat, neither caught nor released. He wants to lie back and be taken; he wants to grasp and push and conquer. James' touch is light, but the muscular press of his body is fierce and needing, and Jack responds, gathering his strength and rolling them over until their positions are switched, James looking up at him with a surprised gust of breath from the thin mattress. Jack flattens a palm over James' chest, feeling the heart beat, steady and quick, under the strong ribs. His own breathing calms a little, as he lets his gaze take in everything--the way James' sweat-spiked hair is ruffled against the pillow, the way his kiss-bitten lips are just barely parted, the way his pale, even skin seems luminous in the dim light from the frosted window just above their heads. In a moment, he's catalogued everything, a brief space of time he knows he'll never forget. He lets his hand drift down the sleek length of James' outer thigh, lifting his leg at the knee. He shifts his weight, balanced on the other hand, muscles straining at the skin, and pushes himself inside James' body.
The sensation, at first, is so hot and tight and nearly painful that Jack has to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from coming right away. The moan that James makes--a helpless whimper of breath--as Jack leans forward and carefully presses his cock further into the furnace of the other man's body, sends a cool shiver of fierce pleasure up his spine. He makes himself go slowly, carefully, but James shows no sign of pain, only need, his eyes rolling back and his mouth opening in a shuddering gasp, one hand flung above his head to clutch and push helplessly against the wall, knuckles rapping on the window-ledge as he squirms. Jack lunges forward to bite a kiss to that distended throat, long and lean and pale in the wan lamplight. James cries out, not bothering to muffle the sound at all, and wraps his legs around Jack's waist, briefly crushing all the air out of him. Jack's cock throbs inside James' body and he plants one hand heavily into the pillow beside James' head and starts to thrust into him, strong and deep, a motion that sends sparks across his vision each time he does.
Time evaporates around them like the steam rising from their tangled bodies. Jack's mind knows only a wordless wanting, an urge that seems just barely fulfilled by every clash of tongues and thrust of hips, every stab of fingertips into tender flesh and solid muscle, every guttural moan and gasp, every sweat-slick collision of skin. He buries himself in the hot vise of the body beneath him, and James clenches around him, legs wrapping tighter, as though two could really become one. James' fingers scrape and slide on the wall above his head, Jack's fists slip in the rumpled sheets, their movements get shorter, more fierce, until Jack comes with a force that blots out every other sensation and has him groaning the other Captain's name, head bowed, slow droplets of sweat falling onto the heaving plane of James' chest. James lashes his body upward against Jack, strong, wanton, his hand coming down heavily on the back of Jack's neck, grasping at the short hair. Jack feels the throb of the other man's cock against his belly, the warm rush of fluid as he bucks beneath him, crying out with a sound that sends tremors up and down Jack's spine and aftershocks of orgasm rippling through his body.
The winter cold groans at the seams of the drafty attic, but warm air spirals up from their bed still, as Jack leans down and they gently press lips. He tastes the subtle tang of salt. James shivers beneath him, a luxurious ripple of his sleek skin as he lazily lets his stroking hand fall down the slope of Jack's spine. With a soft exhale, Jack pulls away from James' body, chilly air prickling his heat-flushed skin, and lays himself down on top of him, every muscle loose and heavy, sated. The other Captain's arms wrap firmly around him and hold him down, and he pushes his nose against James' sweaty, musky neck; for the moment, his whole universe consists of that smell overwhelming his senses, the solid press of James' limbs, his chest and ribs, the taste of his contented desire where Jack's lips brush his cheek and throat.
James stirs and sits up, letting small eddies of cold air into the spaces between them, and when Jack raises his eyes, he sees James smiling down at him with unwary tenderness. He stretches, struggling against the pleasant haze of satisfaction, back into an awareness of the world. The window is fogged above their heads, and Jack reaches up automatically to rub a clear spot in one of the panes. When he sits up, if he cranes his neck, he can just see out, though from this angle, the planes on the tarmac are impossible to see. He watches James lean back against the wall, head on the windowsill, his dark hair drying in ruffled spikes, his lips still red and swollen from kisses, but his eyes slowly regaining a clarity and a small, bitter hint of sadness as he catches Jack glancing out the window. Jack can still feel the heat of him, radiating from where he sits, but there's already a distance between them again, growing wider by the second.
Jack doesn't know the words to say, to thank James for the sex or to tell him how wonderful it was, or how much he doesn't want him to go. He's not even sure that one should talk about any of those things. His fingers ache to touch again, but he doesn't know how to go about closing that gap. He finds a cigarette and lights it, instead, offering one to James across the abyss.
The other Captain hesitates, about to refuse, but then changes his mind, and his smile touches his eyes as he takes a cigarette and pokes it between his lips. Jack leans forward to light it for him and their fingers brush. Jack's sensitive skin lights up with the touch, and suddenly, James is pulling on his hand, cigarette held smoldering between two fingers as he pulls Jack onto his lap, kissing him. Ash falls lightly down James' smooth back, Jack's forgotten cigarette held perilously over him, between the two of them and the wall. James' mouth tastes sweet and clean. He is trembling very slightly.
"How about that wine?" James asks, voice a husky vibration against Jack's lips.
This time, Jack does not let go of James' hand as he moves to fetch the bottle from the floor. They drink together in a silence that blooms with something slow and tremulous--touches that are light and familiar, fingertips that exhibit a soft curiosity, like creatures coming out of hiding. The wine truly is alien; it's not so much a liquid as a vapor that rises off of Jack's tongue when he tastes it, filling his head with a wonderful lightness. They kiss again, and again, sharing the ethereal sensation, and each time they remain closer when they part, until they are lying in each other's arms as lovers might, comfortable in an uncompromising nearness. Jack's breaths are getting slow. The pattering of ice has stopped against the window, and when James lazily rubs another clear spot in the fog, Jack looks up and can see fat white flakes drifting silently by.
"I should...check on the planes," Jack murmurs, head against James' chest. "The Spitfire...I think there was a bit of a crack in the canopy."
James considers this. "So I have competition, do I?"
Jack laughs, but suffers a twinge of pleased jealousy deep inside. "At least I know she won't run out on me."
There is silence, James stroking his back lightly, fingertips finding the edges of old, smooth scars, the smell of cigarette smoke drifting upward in the cooling air.
"I was thinking..." the other Captain begins softly. In those few words, Jack hears the gentle tenor of whatever change has slowly begun between them, in the last few minutes. It's as though James is cautiously parting the curtains of his own loneliness, wary, hopeful. It makes something flutter in Jack's stomach, and he carefully cranes his head to look up at James' wondering eyes. "Gwen and I are going to have to make a trip to Geneva in a few weeks...it's a UNIT intelligence meeting, top-secret. Normally, we'd get a contracted flight, but...it'd be a lot better if we had a crack pilot working for Torchwood that could fly us there, don't you think?"
Jack sits up. "Are you offering me a job, Captain?"
"You interested?"
James' voice is casual, almost businesslike, but it doesn't matter; Jack can see the sudden longing in his eyes, a true fear of rejection that he tries to hide with a saucy smile. It's more than the offer of a job--it's the offer of a life, an offer that's part joy and part pain, and one that's costing James more than Jack can understand to make. Jack knows he can never fully comprehend that tug-of-war in James' mind, or know the sorrows he's seen to make the bloom of love so bittersweet. Part of him wishes he could know everything; part of him is afraid to know, and so he just threads his fingers tightly through James' fingers, a silent promise to hold on through thick and thin, until Time inevitably tears him away.
Jack's heart is thumping hard in his chest, and again, he feels himself on the edge, breathless. A million conflicting voices clamor in his head, warning him with a warrior's innate wisdom about the frailty of life, his life, and reminding him that all good things come to an end, no matter how much you wish and pray and love. Jack doesn't listen, or rather, he overrides those voices with a greater wisdom yet: that to end, things have to begin, and that, as a famous man once said, every man dies, but not every man truly lives.
Jack has been waiting, he suddenly realizes, to live. Through his growing years, through war, and loneliness and danger and loss, he's been holding his breath, crouching in the dark and silence. And now, here in Charlie's cold, drafty attic in the middle of a winter he shouldn't even be alive to see, Jack knows he has the chance to begin again.
He accepts the offer with the entirety of his being; he doesn't hesitate another instant. He smothers a grin against James' surprised, parted lips and wraps his arms around him in a tight embrace.
"When do I start?"
Jack can feel the shudder of James' relieved laugh through his ribcage and they sink back onto the mattress together while the snow falls quiet and calm outside, blanketing the planes and the field. James tugs him close, arms around Jack's slim waist, and heaves a soft, shivering sigh. Jack strokes his hair soothingly, smiling in the dim light as all around them the waiting world spins in quiet peace.
Author: Shane Mayhem
Pairing: Jack/Jack
Rating: NC-17, I guess, for sex.
Wordcount: 5,480
Notes: No spoilers, unless for some odd reason you haven't seen ep. 1x12, "Captain Jack Harkness." Plot bunny by avon_09! Beta'ed by fuingala! Submitted for at_the_ritz weekly challenge #64, "All Good Things".
Summary: Torchwood's Jack visits Captain Harkness on a lonely winter's night.
Jack leans forward and rubs the condensation from the inside of the small, dirty window with his sleeve. Through the smeary glass he can see the dim shapes of the little fleet: the 1929 Stearman next to the 1936 Lockheed, and just beyond that, the sharp nose of the Supermarine Spitfire Mk V. The other aircraft, Cessnas and Superlites and even an old Fokker Dr.I, line the other side of the tarmac, and he cranes his head a little to let his gaze take them all in, briefly. All present and accounted for, not that there is any logical reason to worry that they wouldn't be. It's just that Jack can't sleep and with his bedroom just upstairs, above the little hangar, he might as well be down here, keeping watch. He leans back; the chair creaks, wobbling a little on its broken stalk. Freezing rain patters on the window, through the darkening sky. He really should turn on the hangar lights. He wanted to move some of the planes inside, but Charlie has his latest pet project--a 1950's MiG jet (God knows where he got it)--in there, being stripped and re-finished.
He slips a silver flask out of the slash pocket of his flight jacket and takes another sip, letting the cheap whiskey burn his throat and make his eyes water. He's not drunk, but he's getting on toward "tipsy," he figures.
Good thing, then, Jack muses, that there's no flying schedule tomorrow, because not only will he probably be hungover, but he'd have to chip a layer of ice off of all of the planes' wings in order to even get them up. That's Cardiff weather for you: wet. No matter the season. He turns the whiskey flask in his palm and stares blankly out the window.
Snow is beginning to mix in with the freezing rain, and the sight--those soft white flakes floating past on the backdrop of the cold and dark--hits him, somehow. He frowns and takes another drink, to dispatch feelings he's not even sure he can name.
He's lucky, he knows, to be here. To have survived his crash and come miraculously through Time like some intrepid Jules Verne-esque hero. Of course, he doesn't feel very heroic, but that's because no one ever does. Heroes are what fiction calls guys who just happened to be in the right place at the right time. Or guys who were in the wrong place at the wrong time, and survived it. It was strange to arrive suddenly in a time when his generation (already almost all gone) were regarded with just such a blanket awe--idolized, memorialized in films and plays and books. It was strange, but it sure doesn't help him out much; the world careens onward, and he has to find himself a place in it and hold on with tooth and nail. Charlie sure doesn't think he's very heroic; his employer, while outwardly jovial, always calling Jack "my boy" or "old chap," had taken a long time to stop giving him odd sideways looks as though he thought Jack would try to make off with one of his planes or his money or something. But thankfully, he kept Jack on, probably because he was an ace pilot and not half bad as a mechanic, either. He even let him rent the attic room above the hangar--the one which Charlie himself had lived in for a time while going through the messy divorce brought on by his obsession with old planes and young women.
Charlie's actually a millionaire, but like a lot of self-made millionaires, is eccentric as hell and tends to do things like go to the pub in his dressing gown or try to purchase battle-damaged F-16's from the Libyans. Jack has the sneaking suspicion that Charlie is just a few steps away from some serious jail time, most of the time. Still, he lets Jack fly and he even pays him (not much) for it. Most importantly, he doesn't pry into Jack's past or ask to see his credentials.
The sky is darker; it's snowing harder, and Jack draws the wool-lined flight jacket tighter around himself, taking another long swig of whiskey. The radio is warbling "(There's No Place Like) Home for the Holidays," and he reaches over to switch it off. There's too much talking on the radio these days, anyway. Advertisements and "talk shows" and everything. The sudden silence makes it seem colder and darker, and Jack sighs, rousing himself to stand up and turn on the outdoor light, which illuminates the glistening, icy forms of the aircraft. He really should go out there and make sure hydraulic lines aren't freezing and things like that. He winces as he stretches his stiff back--old wounds from a war no one would ever believe he'd fought--and is about to brave the freezing cold when he hears a knock on the office door.
He's suddenly a lot more sober. Who'd be knocking this time of night on Christmas Eve? Could be Charlie, reeling drunk and wanting to rope Jack into the tales of his myriad woes, but he knows Charlie wouldn't bother with knocking, and is probably currently charming the socks off of helpless young girls at some ritzy party anyway. Subtly unbuckling the strap on his Webley, he moves towards the door, trying to be a lot steadier on his feet than he feels. Jack knows he's not really going to shoot anyone, but it feels better to have the option of being intimidating. He just hopes it's not some government official, finally come to catch up with his employer about not paying his taxes or smuggling rare aircraft through dubious channels, or whatever the hell he's been doing.
He tries to get a glimpse of the visitor through the window, but this one's even dirtier and foggier than the other one, and he can only see the sleet, flickering in the worn-out yellow light above the doorstep. Cautiously, he cracks the door just a little, then, eyes widening a bit, throws it open.
They stand there in silence for a few seconds.
"James Harper."
He knows now, of course, that that's not the man's real name, but he was also told, those two interminable years ago, that he could call him that if he wanted. Back when he thought the two of them might...have some kind of future together. Or at least, you know, see each other. But James had disappeared out of his life after turning him loose, telling him, cryptically, that it was "better this way." Feeling shunned and disappointed, Jack tried to understand. The other Captain Harkness had Torchwood, after all, which Jack was noticeably not invited to be part of. It had stung a little, to tell the truth. Since then, he's made his way alone, using a different surname and trying to make sense of the 21st century.
James doesn't look a day older than when Jack left, except for around the eyes. His hair is shorter, too, which Jack thinks nicely accentuates that chiselled jawline. James stands tall and still in his RAF greatcoat, gloved hand wrapped around the neck of a bottle of...something Jack can't quite make out. He crosses his arms over his chest, mostly against the cold, but also instinctively against the urge to throw himself into James' arms, despite the anguished flash of confused anger he feels at seeing him.
"You been drinking?" He asks the other Captain, curiously. James gives him a little smirk that dimples one cheek, and lowers his eyes, shaking his head.
"No. You?"
"Yep."
"Can I come in?"
Jack's stomach is turning somersaults, but he just casually steps aside, letting James into the tiny flightline office. The other Captain comes in, a gust of wintry air following him, and stands there looking slightly lost and trying not to. The longing to throw his arms around him is getting almost unbearable, and Jack bites his lower lip, hard. "Nice place," James says, at which Jack can't help but laugh.
"Yeah. Sorry about the lack of heat. Charlie doesn't like to pay for utilities if he can help it."
He follows him into the back corner of the office, with its broken chair and dim, foggy view of the planes on the tarmac. "You wanna have a seat, Captain?" He gestures at the one he's just vacated, trying not to sound too hopeful. He has no idea why James is here, after all.
But to his surprise, the other Captain nods, blue eyes gazing straight at him in a way that makes Jack flush a little and look hard at the floor, his heart pounding. There's such a lot of sadness in those eyes, even behind the startling look of shy hope Jack glimpsed there. James sets the bottle down on the desk amid a clutter of papers and is about to take the seat when Jack leaps forward. "Uh, no, wait! That one's broken. Let me..." He grabs a folding metal chair from behind the looming file cabinet and smacks it a few times to get it to unfold fully, setting it out for him. The playful grin he gets in return is truly heart-stopping.
"Thanks," James says softly, settling on the metal chair with an alarming squeak of its rusty hinges. Jack leans against the desk, hands thrust into his jacket pockets, gazing down at the man he was doubtful he'd see again. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing seems willing to come out.
"How are you?" James asks first, looking back up at him, leaned forward with his forearms on his knees. God, he looks good.
"I'm..." Jack begins, distractedly, caught up in that straightforward blue gaze. "Fine," he finishes somewhat stiffly. Almost unconsciously, he pulls out the whiskey flask and tips some more down his throat, hoping to calm that shiver in his stomach. James raises an eyebrow. Jack leans back and wipes another clear spot on the windowpane, casting his glance out over the tarmac as though there were really something to be watching for. Sleet flurries past, tapping against the glass like tiny, icy fingers. It fills the night as far as Jack can see, and he suddenly has the vision that the whole world is like this, right now...just a vast emptiness of sleet and snow, creaking with cold. "Why are you here?" He asks, his voice hoarse and quiet.
"I...just wanted to see you." James replies, his words hesitant. Jack snorts.
"After two years? Why? Things not working out with Ianto?"
He winces; that was a cheap shot, he knows. He looks back down at the whiskey flask. Thankfully, annoyingly, James doesn't rise to the bait.
"I um...missed you." The words are spoken with such painful awkwardness that Jack looks up at the other Captain, a furrow in his brow, unable to formulate the angry reply that was waiting on the back of his tongue. James is looking at his linked hands, fidgeting unhappily. Jack has to physically stop himself from professing his complete forgiveness, by reaching for the bottle James brought.
"What's this?"
"Ah! That's frederaal. Fermented flower wine from Tarkanos." That grin is back, and Jack coughs a surprised laugh.
"That doesn't sound like someplace I'd know..."
"It's not. It's in another arm of the galaxy and won't be civilized for another hundred years or so. Present from a friend of mine." The blue eyes sparkle mischievously and Jack shakes his head, not quite sure how much to believe him.
"Pretty fancy, bringing me wine from another planet, Captain. What's the occasion?"
James sobers again, and for a split second, Jack can see the loneliness of those untold planets and galaxies in his eyes, stars that shine desolately in the aching vacuum of space. It makes his insides hurt, and makes him feel a little dizzy, as though it were just the two of them, standing in their own isolated worlds that spin further and further away from each other.
"I wasn't kidding when I said I missed you."
"Didn't think you were," Jack manages to say. "But why?"
James stands, comes closer in a gust of cool air from the movement of his coat, then heated air from the nearness of his body. Jack stands up straight, eyes wide, but James remains a foot and a half away, searching in Jack's face for something that he feels James has been looking for in the faces of many people for many centuries. It's not me you're looking for, he knows, with a sharp twist like a knife in his gut, a wound that reopens with any sudden movement.
"Because I made a mistake," James says, his voice low, and Jack realizes, alarmingly close to tears. "And I'm tired...really tired of making mistakes." He lowers his head with a self-deprecating laugh, and Jack can see the despondent, surrendering slump of his shoulders in the greatcoat. He watches him as though from outside of himself, stranded in orbit while the world spins and things fall apart. He wants nothing more than to touch James, to wrap his arms around him, but he can't seem to move. The sleet has become pellets of ice and they rattle on the roof like cold, strange music. James raises his eyes, and they have become still. "Maybe this is a mistake, too," he says without anger or bitterness. "Maybe I should go."
He really should go out, Jack thinks, and make sure the fuel tanks have all been properly drained, so that fuel can't freeze in them if it gets too cold. Check the hydraulic lines. Make sure the covers on the open-cockpit planes are buttoned down tight. He looks out the window at the serene icy aircraft, and imagines himself doing those things, every winter night, for years. Until his injured back gets too stiff, his hands too arthritic to fly anymore, his heart too hollow to care. He takes an uneven breath.
James is moving to leave, his fingers trailing slowly along the surface of the desk as he shifts away from it, stirring the receipts and flight logs, all penned in Jack's own neat handwriting, because Charlie doesn't bother with things like paperwork. Jack feels the shift of air, warm to cold again, as James moves past him.
He puts out a hand, and it catches, of its own accord, around the lapel of James' greatcoat, surprising Jack with a grip like iron. He tugs, and James lets out a little breath, eyes wide and unshielded as Jack gracefully takes one step to the side and devours his mouth in a kiss made of hunger and heat. It's a split second before James reacts, and then he leans against him, heavy warm body pushing him back against the edge of the desk as his arms go around Jack's ribs, pulling him to his chest as his mouth opens and his head tilts just a little to the side, letting their tongues meet. Jack tastes saltwater in the corners of James' mouth, and feels the other Captain's heart pounding, helpless and quick, against Jack's chest. A shiver seems to pass all the way through his body into Jack's, and they clutch each other tighter, like two survivors tossed on a lonely sea.
When they part to a seemingly unbearable distance of inches, James is looking into his eyes with such a soft expression that Jack's heart pounds in his throat and he doesn't think he'll be able to bear to let go of him, ever. The thought curls with bitterness in his stomach, burning more than the whiskey did.
"Don't leave me again." he growls, hoarsely, burying his nose in the warm, sweet-smelling wool of James' greatcoat. Even as he says the words, however, he knows they're the wrong ones: he can see James' eyes filling with promises that the other man knows he can never make. Jack doesn't let go of his coat, though, clinging to the ray of light, however weak and small, that James' presence lends to him. When he finally straightens up and moves back, it's with the calm, hurt flicker of acceptance, a candle's flame that illuminates how huge the darkness really is.
They stare at each other for what seems a very long moment, and Jack tries to read the emotions on the other Captain's face, without much success. One of James' hands rests at the waistband of Jack's trousers, and his touch makes a bittersweet tingle run through Jack's skin. Finally, a smile pushes at the sadness in James' face.
"So...do you have a room?" It comes out sounding so hesitant and shy that Jack can't help but smile, even though the implications of the question send a dart of excited, nervous electricity up his spine.
"Yeah...upstairs."
He turns, as though in a daze, and leads him up the rickety stairs that hug the hangar wall, leading to the half-attic above the cavernous floor and the gleaming MiG. He hears the scrape of the wine bottle across the desk as James grabs it, and they ascend in silence, weight creaking on the wooden steps, the air seeming to press heavier on Jack's chest as they go, making him feel almost dizzy.
The bed is a mattress on the floor, but James doesn't seem to notice or mind as he gently pushes Jack--barely breathing--down onto it, following closely with his warm weight pressing him against the thin sheets. The cold makes Jack's skin prickle as James slowly strips him of his clothing, and his fingertips trail over Jack's slender body, pausing at the waistband of his trousers. Jack's ribs heave with his short, sharp breaths, and for a moment, he just gazes up at him, trying to gather his certainty. Then, his fingers flex on James' solid flanks, and he abruptly pulls him down, crushing a kiss to his mouth, arching his back off of the bed to press their bodies as close as possible. The friction ignites a heat in his belly and banishes the cold elsewhere, outside of the space that swirls and warms between them with each fierce, discovering touch.
Jack spreads his legs and lets James lie between them, as he closes his eyes and devours the taste of James' mouth as though he'll never kiss anyone ever again. James' lips move on his, open, panting slightly, catching his tongue with a light and thrilling pinch of teeth, and his heavy body fits comfortably against Jack's length, muscles shifting under his skin and nearly pushing all the air out of him, leaving him feeling helplessly pinned and light-headed at the same time. Air shivers in his lungs, as he gasps softly for breath, his mind reeling and trying to catch up to his body. The slight scratch of stubble on James' cheek, brushing against Jack's throat as James kisses his neck, lights his nerve endings on fire, and with some instinct long-buried inside him, Jack just pulls him closer, the longing of his heart cutting with utter clarity through the confusion in his mind. He shivers and surrenders, unresisting, to the delirious sensations of James' touch.
Only briefly does James pause, lift his body up off of Jack's to look him in the eye. The intensity of his gaze makes Jack's chest feel tight, and he stares back, looking over the edge of something within himself, knowing that he's about to let go and fall. Then James smiles, a soft, knowing smile, and it's over--that moment on the precipice. Jack surges up off of the pillow and his mouth captures James' in a heated grasp of certainty, a refusal to regret. He brings his knees up around James' flanks, gripping him to himself and making James' breath squeak a little into the kiss. The other Captain hurriedly struggles out of his coat, miraculously keeping his mouth in contact all the while, and tosses it aside, atop the clutter of newspapers, beer bottles, and wiring kits on the bare wood floor.
Jack's fingers curve desperately on James' shoulders, then scratch down his ribs to his chest, finding the buttons--too many damned buttons--of his vest and shirt, working at them with single-minded purpose until he feels bare skin, so smooth and pale and warm, beneath his hands. The rhythm of their breathing, loud and erratic in the cold, still room, increases in tempo, their bodies slicking with sweat as they push against each other, needing more contact, to be closer, deeper. Jack can't help but utter a short, quiet cry as James' cock, now free of his trousers, rubs into the cleft of Jack's thigh, hot and wanting. The sensation scrapes at raw nerves; every inch of his skin feels brand new, painfully sensitive. James' mouth falls to his chest and closes around one nipple, teasing with teeth and lips until the flesh peaks and Jack utters a helpless, strangled noise, head falling back onto the sweaty pillow. His fingers spasm, slipping across the tensing muscles of James' back. James' hand presses down the line of Jack's ribs, then wedges into the heated cavern of his hipbone, fingertips finding his aching cock and starting to stroke. Jack's spine jerks instinctively in response, and his breaths scatter. He clutches a fist in James' dark hair.
Coherent thought seems to jam up in Jack's mind the way air is jammed up in his throat, neither caught nor released. He wants to lie back and be taken; he wants to grasp and push and conquer. James' touch is light, but the muscular press of his body is fierce and needing, and Jack responds, gathering his strength and rolling them over until their positions are switched, James looking up at him with a surprised gust of breath from the thin mattress. Jack flattens a palm over James' chest, feeling the heart beat, steady and quick, under the strong ribs. His own breathing calms a little, as he lets his gaze take in everything--the way James' sweat-spiked hair is ruffled against the pillow, the way his kiss-bitten lips are just barely parted, the way his pale, even skin seems luminous in the dim light from the frosted window just above their heads. In a moment, he's catalogued everything, a brief space of time he knows he'll never forget. He lets his hand drift down the sleek length of James' outer thigh, lifting his leg at the knee. He shifts his weight, balanced on the other hand, muscles straining at the skin, and pushes himself inside James' body.
The sensation, at first, is so hot and tight and nearly painful that Jack has to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from coming right away. The moan that James makes--a helpless whimper of breath--as Jack leans forward and carefully presses his cock further into the furnace of the other man's body, sends a cool shiver of fierce pleasure up his spine. He makes himself go slowly, carefully, but James shows no sign of pain, only need, his eyes rolling back and his mouth opening in a shuddering gasp, one hand flung above his head to clutch and push helplessly against the wall, knuckles rapping on the window-ledge as he squirms. Jack lunges forward to bite a kiss to that distended throat, long and lean and pale in the wan lamplight. James cries out, not bothering to muffle the sound at all, and wraps his legs around Jack's waist, briefly crushing all the air out of him. Jack's cock throbs inside James' body and he plants one hand heavily into the pillow beside James' head and starts to thrust into him, strong and deep, a motion that sends sparks across his vision each time he does.
Time evaporates around them like the steam rising from their tangled bodies. Jack's mind knows only a wordless wanting, an urge that seems just barely fulfilled by every clash of tongues and thrust of hips, every stab of fingertips into tender flesh and solid muscle, every guttural moan and gasp, every sweat-slick collision of skin. He buries himself in the hot vise of the body beneath him, and James clenches around him, legs wrapping tighter, as though two could really become one. James' fingers scrape and slide on the wall above his head, Jack's fists slip in the rumpled sheets, their movements get shorter, more fierce, until Jack comes with a force that blots out every other sensation and has him groaning the other Captain's name, head bowed, slow droplets of sweat falling onto the heaving plane of James' chest. James lashes his body upward against Jack, strong, wanton, his hand coming down heavily on the back of Jack's neck, grasping at the short hair. Jack feels the throb of the other man's cock against his belly, the warm rush of fluid as he bucks beneath him, crying out with a sound that sends tremors up and down Jack's spine and aftershocks of orgasm rippling through his body.
The winter cold groans at the seams of the drafty attic, but warm air spirals up from their bed still, as Jack leans down and they gently press lips. He tastes the subtle tang of salt. James shivers beneath him, a luxurious ripple of his sleek skin as he lazily lets his stroking hand fall down the slope of Jack's spine. With a soft exhale, Jack pulls away from James' body, chilly air prickling his heat-flushed skin, and lays himself down on top of him, every muscle loose and heavy, sated. The other Captain's arms wrap firmly around him and hold him down, and he pushes his nose against James' sweaty, musky neck; for the moment, his whole universe consists of that smell overwhelming his senses, the solid press of James' limbs, his chest and ribs, the taste of his contented desire where Jack's lips brush his cheek and throat.
James stirs and sits up, letting small eddies of cold air into the spaces between them, and when Jack raises his eyes, he sees James smiling down at him with unwary tenderness. He stretches, struggling against the pleasant haze of satisfaction, back into an awareness of the world. The window is fogged above their heads, and Jack reaches up automatically to rub a clear spot in one of the panes. When he sits up, if he cranes his neck, he can just see out, though from this angle, the planes on the tarmac are impossible to see. He watches James lean back against the wall, head on the windowsill, his dark hair drying in ruffled spikes, his lips still red and swollen from kisses, but his eyes slowly regaining a clarity and a small, bitter hint of sadness as he catches Jack glancing out the window. Jack can still feel the heat of him, radiating from where he sits, but there's already a distance between them again, growing wider by the second.
Jack doesn't know the words to say, to thank James for the sex or to tell him how wonderful it was, or how much he doesn't want him to go. He's not even sure that one should talk about any of those things. His fingers ache to touch again, but he doesn't know how to go about closing that gap. He finds a cigarette and lights it, instead, offering one to James across the abyss.
The other Captain hesitates, about to refuse, but then changes his mind, and his smile touches his eyes as he takes a cigarette and pokes it between his lips. Jack leans forward to light it for him and their fingers brush. Jack's sensitive skin lights up with the touch, and suddenly, James is pulling on his hand, cigarette held smoldering between two fingers as he pulls Jack onto his lap, kissing him. Ash falls lightly down James' smooth back, Jack's forgotten cigarette held perilously over him, between the two of them and the wall. James' mouth tastes sweet and clean. He is trembling very slightly.
"How about that wine?" James asks, voice a husky vibration against Jack's lips.
This time, Jack does not let go of James' hand as he moves to fetch the bottle from the floor. They drink together in a silence that blooms with something slow and tremulous--touches that are light and familiar, fingertips that exhibit a soft curiosity, like creatures coming out of hiding. The wine truly is alien; it's not so much a liquid as a vapor that rises off of Jack's tongue when he tastes it, filling his head with a wonderful lightness. They kiss again, and again, sharing the ethereal sensation, and each time they remain closer when they part, until they are lying in each other's arms as lovers might, comfortable in an uncompromising nearness. Jack's breaths are getting slow. The pattering of ice has stopped against the window, and when James lazily rubs another clear spot in the fog, Jack looks up and can see fat white flakes drifting silently by.
"I should...check on the planes," Jack murmurs, head against James' chest. "The Spitfire...I think there was a bit of a crack in the canopy."
James considers this. "So I have competition, do I?"
Jack laughs, but suffers a twinge of pleased jealousy deep inside. "At least I know she won't run out on me."
There is silence, James stroking his back lightly, fingertips finding the edges of old, smooth scars, the smell of cigarette smoke drifting upward in the cooling air.
"I was thinking..." the other Captain begins softly. In those few words, Jack hears the gentle tenor of whatever change has slowly begun between them, in the last few minutes. It's as though James is cautiously parting the curtains of his own loneliness, wary, hopeful. It makes something flutter in Jack's stomach, and he carefully cranes his head to look up at James' wondering eyes. "Gwen and I are going to have to make a trip to Geneva in a few weeks...it's a UNIT intelligence meeting, top-secret. Normally, we'd get a contracted flight, but...it'd be a lot better if we had a crack pilot working for Torchwood that could fly us there, don't you think?"
Jack sits up. "Are you offering me a job, Captain?"
"You interested?"
James' voice is casual, almost businesslike, but it doesn't matter; Jack can see the sudden longing in his eyes, a true fear of rejection that he tries to hide with a saucy smile. It's more than the offer of a job--it's the offer of a life, an offer that's part joy and part pain, and one that's costing James more than Jack can understand to make. Jack knows he can never fully comprehend that tug-of-war in James' mind, or know the sorrows he's seen to make the bloom of love so bittersweet. Part of him wishes he could know everything; part of him is afraid to know, and so he just threads his fingers tightly through James' fingers, a silent promise to hold on through thick and thin, until Time inevitably tears him away.
Jack's heart is thumping hard in his chest, and again, he feels himself on the edge, breathless. A million conflicting voices clamor in his head, warning him with a warrior's innate wisdom about the frailty of life, his life, and reminding him that all good things come to an end, no matter how much you wish and pray and love. Jack doesn't listen, or rather, he overrides those voices with a greater wisdom yet: that to end, things have to begin, and that, as a famous man once said, every man dies, but not every man truly lives.
Jack has been waiting, he suddenly realizes, to live. Through his growing years, through war, and loneliness and danger and loss, he's been holding his breath, crouching in the dark and silence. And now, here in Charlie's cold, drafty attic in the middle of a winter he shouldn't even be alive to see, Jack knows he has the chance to begin again.
He accepts the offer with the entirety of his being; he doesn't hesitate another instant. He smothers a grin against James' surprised, parted lips and wraps his arms around him in a tight embrace.
"When do I start?"
Jack can feel the shudder of James' relieved laugh through his ribcage and they sink back onto the mattress together while the snow falls quiet and calm outside, blanketing the planes and the field. James tugs him close, arms around Jack's slim waist, and heaves a soft, shivering sigh. Jack strokes his hair soothingly, smiling in the dim light as all around them the waiting world spins in quiet peace.