Rp for captjacksparrow

[bertiewwooster]

'Dash it, Jeeves, it's too bally early!'  He grumbles, still half asleep.  'If you're going to wake a chap up at an indecent hour like this you could at least bring him a cup of tea, what?'

But Jeeves doesn't answer.  There is no serene voice next to the bed saying 'My apologies, sir, but you had requested to be woken at this hour,' no cup of tea

Comments

[bertiewwooster]

Quite suddenly Bertie feels absolutely horrible. Almost ill, in fact. But not about Jeeves, as he had done before; guilty that he should be abandoning the bloke he loves (even if Jeeves doesn't know it) for a night with a handsome stranger who's more interesting than he should be. No, now he feels guilty about what he's done to Jack. He's got drunk with Jack, spent an evening baring his soul to Jack, slept with Jack, and he likes him a lot, perhaps even fancies the chap, but he's in love with Jeeves. That's really just bad form, isn't it? Not the way a preux chevalier operates at all.

Is that even possible, he wonders, to be in love with one fellow but take such a liking to another? Ought it to be? Bertie's no Bingo Little, certainly, falling for a different girl every week; the way he feels about Jeeves, it's true, he knows that. Realer than anything else in the world. But Jack...

He sighs, chewing on his lip. He ought to have expected this, really.

The tone of Jack's voice is hard and hurt, and Bertie swallows, looking down at his own bare feet. It's a horrible sort of voice to hear. Bertie can't stand people being upset on his account; at least not people he cares about, and something twists in his gut. It wouldn't be right to defend Jeeves now, as much as it is his instinct to, so instead he just shrugs ineffectually.

'Doesn't know, does he? I can hardly tell the chap, after all.'

He ought to say something else, he really ought, but he quite simply has no idea what. This is not a situation he's ever been in before.

'Doesn't matter though, really. Not here, does it?' He tries desperately. 'I mean to say- this is sort of separate, in a way; you don't know Jeeves and he doesn't know you and it's just, well- us.' He clears his throat. 'Here. As it were.'

[captjacksparrow]

Jack swallows and looks over Bertie's shoulder, out the window to the overbright, grey sky. At least he assumes it's grey. Rarely is it anything else in London, it seems.

He doesn't know what to say. Or do. Or think anymore, for that matter. Everything is twisted up inside of him. What he wants. Why he wants it. How he plans to get it. Everything is confusing and blurry, like in the middle of a great storm with the rain slushing down so hard he can't see two feet in front of him and the sea churning rough and ragged, tossing his ship about. Jack's never felt seasick but he thinks it might be a bit like he feels right now, rocked about to the point of vomiting.

'Should tell him,' he says, voice getting stuck in his throat. 'Might know already if he's as smart as you say he is.' He glances at Bertie, then back out the window. There's something he wants to say, but can't find the words to get it out. Or maybe just the courage. 'It... matters, the small things. They matter. Distant and company doesn't factor into it, if there's a thing what needs doing. Should be done. Should be said. Best to do it instead of always wondering what things be like if you had.'

He's not talking about Bertie or Jeeves anymore. He's not even sure what he is talking about, only that he's been waiting to say it.

Jack jerks his chin to the window. 'My ship's out there. Somewhere. May be at the bottom of the ocean for all I know but she's there. Waiting for me.'

[bertiewwooster]

Tears prick hot and bright at the corners of his eyes as Bertie listens to Jack speak, and a lump rises in his throat, tight and painful. He doesn't even know why it should seem so tragic, but it does. Thinking of Jeeves, he always feels how hopeless the thing is, how futile to want a man like Jeeves. Now though, it's not just Jeeves. He wants to... hug Jack, just hold him and murmur useless sentiments into his ear, promise him that he'll find his ship, his Pearl, if that's the thing's name, that everything will be alright. That's ridiculous, of course, because he doesn't even know what's wrong in the first place, but he feels it anyway.

And Bertie's not the sort of man to hesitate on an impulse. At least not usually. So he shifts just slightly where he's sat on the floor and hesitantly leans forward to put his arms around Jack's shoulders.

'I-' he starts to speak, but his voice breaks off, choked, and he doesn't know what to say anyway. He's not overfond of silence, Bertie, but it'll have to do for now.

[captjacksparrow]

It's weird, what Bertie's doing. Hugging Jack. Or something. It might be a hug. Jack isn't sure, having never recieved or given one before. Seems like a hug, though, this affectionate but non-sexual act. Jack's not used to that, being touched because it's comforting, without any other gain to be got out of it. Not a lead in to something more or a slap or a drunken fumble in some alley.

And he's not use to anyone reacting that way, like Bertie does, voice choking off as if he's going to cry. Jack wishes with a fervent panic that Bertie doesn't cry, because despite all the things he's done that haven't particularly pleased people, he's never seen one of them cry. Get angry, yes. Or sad or distant. Or drunk. Usually they just get drunk. Maybe that's what he should suggest. He and Bertie should just get very, very drunk again.

Except he sort of likes this. This hug. This closeness. Being close for the sake of being close, touching another person just to touch and not because he particularly wants anything.

Tentatively, Jack snakes his arms around Bertie's back, nudging his face between his neck and shoulder. And because he can, because it's strange to just sit here like this in the sun and the silence, he bites very lightly at the cord of muscle there, running up into Bertie's neck. Just a delicate pressing of teeth. Then soothes it with a kiss.

[bertiewwooster]

Something lightens perceptibly in his belly when, after a pause, Jack returns the embrace, burrowing into the space between his neck and shoulder, just as he had done the night before. It's curious how awkward the other man is about it, as though he'd never given someone a hug before. Bertie can't imagine why he wouldn't have, though; why would anyone not have? Well, he supposes, if one's a pirate. One never knows about that sort of thing. Even so. He combs the fingers of one hand into the hair at the base of Jack's skull, enjoying the comfort of his breath against Bertie's neck and thinking that if it's true he's never been hugged before, he's not doing a fine job for a first go.

He smiles a watery little smile at that thought, and it cracks further when Jack bites down gently at the curve of his neck, pressing his lips against the skin. The lump in his throat is still there, but it's decidedly smaller now, and Bertie can speak around it. So he does, clearing his throat a little against the side of Jack's head.

'Dashed sorry about that, Jack. Not the done thing to get quite so emotional, that, but you know. Rummy and distressing things, human relations can be.'

He doesn't really quite want to let Jack go, not just yet, but he shifts back, loosening his arms around the other man in case Jack wants to pull away, in case Bertie's being too awkward about the whole thing. It's nice, though; he doesn't ever really sit in an embrace with someone like this. A hug is one thing, but they're usually brief, casual affairs. This is something more about comfort and solidarity and the reassurance of another body's being there, and Bertie's enjoying that quite a lot.

[captjacksparrow]

Jack laughs at Bertie's neat little summation. It's fitting, of course, which makes it all the funnier.

'Aye,' he breathes. 'Tricky and confusing.' He thinks that's what Bertie meant. 'Don't know if I call them rummy though, being rum's a good thing to have 'round.'

Bertie might be a good thing to have 'round too, Jack decides. He tighens his hold, just as Bertie loosens his, and Jack freezes, afraid that maybe he's done something wrong and this isn't how it's suppose to go. He places another kiss to Bertie's neck, because that at least he does know, and then another, tracing a pattern up to his ear. He places a kiss at the soft spot just behind the lobe, not wanting to move back and looking for an excuse to stay.

'Can think of better ways to relate,' he whispers, mouth playing with the half-formed concept of a smile. 'Not quite so complicated, this time.' He sucks the earlobe between his teeth, nibbling gently, as his fingers beat a skitering tattoo down Bertie's spine.

[bertiewwooster]

He lets out a pleased little exhalation- something halfway between a gasp and a murmur- when Jack nibbles on his earlobe, smiling around the sound because this at least means things aren't too strange. Less complicated, as Jack says. The lazy warmth of his body, which had been replaced for a moment there by a horrible sinking emptiness, reinstates itself, curling contentedly in Bertie's limbs.

Seemingly of its own accord, his head tilts to one side, baring more of his neck for Jack to access. His hand in Jack's hair slides down just a little, his finger tracing along the shell of Jack's ear, and he laughs breathily into the morning air.

'Jolly good. I must say, I do like the way your old onion works. Priorities in order and all that, what?'

He's half teasing, but it's affectionate, really. He's just glad that neither of them have left in a huff or done anything rash. And of all the ways to start a morning, this is not at all a bad one.

[captjacksparrow]

Jack hums appreciatively when Bertie bears his neck for him, nuzzling the underside of his ear, then setting to leave another mark somewhere on him. He rather fancies the pulse point at the base of Bertie's throat. He licks wetly, then closes his mouth around it and sucks.

The finger brushing his ear makes Jack twitch, skittering away from the touch. The giggling sound he makes is really a manly sort of chuckle that just goes high-pitched on the end because it tickles. He throws a put-upon look at Bertie, but can't quite pull it off.

'Not appreciated enough, my priorities.' Jack nods anf flashes a grin. 'My only endeavor is to please.' He gives a mock little bow, the incline of his head serving as a perfect excuse to continue at Bertie's neck. He pauses halfway there to nip once more at the mark on Bertie's jaw, flaming it red again.

[bertiewwooster]

Bertie insists to himself it's not really a groan, that sound he makes when Jack dips down to suck hard at the place where the blood pounds just under the skin of his neck, but it's so deep and throaty that really it can't be called anything else. He doesn't really know what to do with his hands with Jack just going at his neck like that, so he settles for sliding them up and down the other man's arms, gripping hard now and again when he does something particularly breathtaking.

He returns Jack's grin almost compulsively, and lets out a little gasp of startled pleasure when he nips lightly at Bertie's jaw. The sound quickly turns into a breathless laugh as Jack returns to his neck, and his eyes strain downward at the top of his dark head.

'Well, bally well keep endeavouring, I say, because you're making a neat job of it so far!'

[captjacksparrow]

'Never been told I were neat before.' He gives a strange look, as if he's not sure what to do with that, and dips his mouth to the hollow of Bertie's throat once more. Jack continues to apply himself, teeth then tongue then lips, until he's satisfied there is a mark. He inspects it, running his fingers over the tender skin, and moves to place wet, sloppy kisses across Bertie's collar bone and shoulder. He can't reach much else in their current position.

'Should get a tattoo,' he says, ghosting his mouth over the curve of one shoulder. He looks up at Bertie through his eyelashes. 'What's you call them? Bally things, tattoos.'

He leans his nose against Bertie's shoulder, inhaling the smell of sweat and brandy and the barest hint of cologne. His fingers on Bertie's back float up and down, painting fanciful images over his spine. Jack traces what he thinks may be a dragon's head. Then the outline of Jamaica, and Antigua. Finally he starts coding things like the sea channels across the Atlanic, dragging the gulf stream in a wave around Bertie's ribs, down to his arse, and ending on his shoulder by Jack's cheek.

'Could be of an animal,' he says as he works. 'Like a...' He pauses to think of a creature that reminds him of Bertie. None really come to mind. 'Or symbol. Something what you want to remember for all time. My mate has himself a flask tattoo'd over his heart. And Delilah over his left arse cheek.'

Jack grins at the images, thankful Gibbs'll never find out about this.

[bertiewwooster]

He murmurs a little, contentedly, as Jack sucks at his throat, kissing a wet path over his collarbone, simply luxuriating in the sensations, stretching out beneath them. Jack's fingertips pitter-patter over his skin, tracing patterns Bertie can't identify, and he squirms a little at the light touches. A little snort of a laugh trips out over his lips when Jack suggests he get a tattoo, though actually most of the amusement is at his use of the word 'bally.' He shakes his head down at Jack, a smirk twitching about his lips.

'Not quite the word you're seeking there, old thing, but close enough. Take a bit of time to adjust to the Wooster vernacular before you attempt it yourself, what? As for the chance of old Bertram getting a tattoo...' he scoffs, 'Not dashed likely. Pale English rose, me- not suited for buccaneering ink like your fine corpus sports. Though it might be worth it just for Aunt A's reaction. She'd probably disown me.'

He chuckles a little at that thought and smooths his hand down Jack's arm again, pushing him back slightly so he can take in the sight of him, the marks and scars that dapple his body. There's a sunset on one shoulder, the sparrow on the inside of his wrist, a swirling tribal design of some variety circling a bicep, the words Black Pearl in scrolled, antiquated lettering just under the shelf of his ribs. Bertie cocks his head like a curious bird and runs his fingers over the inked designs, feeling as he does so the uneven texture of what he can only imagine are a lifetime of old scars. They're strange and wonderful, all these marks. So unfamiliar to Bertie, whose own body is as pale and clean as the day he was born, but beautiful, exotic.

'I imagine you've a tale to go with each of these, what?'

He takes Jack's wrist in his hand again and brings it up to his lips, pressing a slow kiss to the bird in flight there. He flicks his tongue out just slightly, as if he might find the ink under the skin, but it tastes just like the rest of Jack, salt and spice and sweat.

[captjacksparrow]

It's too much that Bertie kiaaes the sparrow. Too much of a recognition or an acceptance or a question. Or something. Jack isn't sure, only that he can't quite face what it means himself. He gently twists his wrist from Bertie's grasp, reclining against the side of the bed with a soft smile.

'It don't need to be someplace she could see it.' He ignores Bertie's question for the time being, unsure if he should tell (or could tell) the real story behind any of them. 'You could get one right over here.' Jack arcs a finger over Bertie's nipple. 'Could say, Jack.'

He's only teasing, of course, but the idea makes him smile.

'Could say Jack was here right there.' He runs his fingers through Bertie's chest hair, dancing a little design on his breast bone. 'You need a mark on all that parchment white skin of yours.'

Jack slumps again against the mattress, rolling his head back to look at Bertie through his eyelashes. 'Even an English rose like yourself needs some sort of thorn. That's what they are, you know.' He runs his fingers over one of his own tattoos, tracing the lettering with a finger. His legs stretch out, curling over and around Bertie's thighs, Jack's toes wiggling against the underside of his knee. 'All stories set down and remembered. Things what people tend to forget and shouldn't, so they imprint it on theirselves, to go back and read.'

[bertiewwooster]

'Rather presumptuous of you to assume I'd want your name writ all over this body of mine, what?'

Bertie means to say. He makes a valiant effort, at that, but his voice degenerates into a little mewl when Jack flicks a fingernail over a nipple, grinning at him. Of course, he wouldn't entertain the notion of getting anything tattooed on him at all, much less Jack was here, but the thought is somehow not entirely unappealing, and lends a flush of heat to his cheeks.

He lets himself loll back on his arms, watching Jack with contented curiosity as he traces over one of his own tattoos. It's the idea that somehow, if one knew how to read them properly, a fellow could divine Jack's entire life story just from going over his tattoos. Bertie finds he rather likes that idea. The momentary brush of Jack's toes (and they're really quite cold) against the sensitive back of his knee shocks him into a giggle for a moment, but after giving Jack a halfhearted sort of glare, he subsides. He hmms consideringly at Jack.

'I do set my stories down though, what? Though in rather a more traditional way than on my own skin. I've positive reams of the stuff back at the humble abode. Utter tosh, I'm sure, but a chap does what he can.'

[captjacksparrow]

'Presumption's got me far in life,' Jack says as Bertie fades off. He narrows his eyes consideringly, as if calculating the exact proper formula for dissolving Bertie into a quivering mess of ecstacy. He plans to try that nipple thing again.

He returns the glare with the more innocent expression he can conjure, as if mentally adjusting the halo back around his crown. It's entirely accidental that his toes flex beneath Bertie's leg, tickling the sensitive underside of his thigh this time. Jack has no say in the matter.

He's pretty sure he isn't at all convincing, and that just makes it more fun to continue.

Curiousity flames in Jack's eyes when Bertie mentions he keeps a track of his stories. Jack misses hearing stories, told by Gibbs or other sailors, in the belly of the Pearl or at some dockside pub, drinks and laughter transforming an anecdote into an epic. He loves the way stories breath for people, coming to life to dance around the room, their words and the air spun together like yarn to create a patchwork cloak of images and people and adventures.

'I'll be the judge of that. Tell me one.' He lolls his head to the other shoulder, a beckoning expression on his face. 'Did you save any damsels or fight off any fire-breathers? Or your nephew crusher. Tell me about her.'

Jack almost suggests Bertie tell him a story about Jeeves, because he wants to know about him. Wants to know why Bertie cares about him so much and why he won't say nothing to him despite this. But Jack doesn't ask it. Doesn't want to talk about anything outside this room that is not thousands and thousands of leagues away.

Stories are good for that as well, filling Jack's head with myths and legends and long ago deeds that he hasn't much room for the present. The rum helps with that too.

'Wait!' Jack says, before Bertie can open his mouth. He feels behind him, on the bed, until his fingers close over a glass neck. 'Ahh. Can't tell a proper story without rum.' He uncorks the bottle and drinks, before holding it out to Bertie.

[bertiewwooster]

Another twitch ripples out through his body as Jack's foot moves upward, toes wiggling against his thigh. The other man's look is calculated innocence, though, and Bertie humphs good-naturedly. He does not, however, move away from the touch of his feet, cold though they might be.

When Jack asks for one of his stories though, Bertie looks down. He's got plenty, of course, could probably recount a good three or four right now without even having to think on it, but next to Jack's tales of Singapore and the East India Company- proper pirate yarns- Bertie's tales of domestic confusion and matrimonial strife seem paltry indeed. He thinks back, running through every adventure and mishap he can recall. When he thinks about it, there really are a shocking amount of the things.

He's about to open his mouth to speak when Jack suddenly holds up a hand and turns behind him to fish for- what? Ah. Of course. Bertie stifles a grin, and takes the smallest of sips when the bottle is proffered in his direction. Handing it back to Jack- who seems positively enthusiastic about the thing- he shrugs.

'What sort of story do you fancy? I'm chock full of all sorts, really. Could tell you about the time I got engaged to two girls at once without knowing about either, or the time I was held prisoner on a yacht and had to do my face up in bootblack like some sort of minstrel to get back to good dry land. The time I had to pretend to be a lady novellist, perhaps? That was a rummy affair, especially when I actually ran into the filly in question. Girl made a right kerfuffle of the thing too, I can tell you.'

He swallowed, recalling that particular unpleasant incident, and lifted an eyebrow at Jack.

[captjacksparrow]

Jack takes a long swig of the rum, enjoying the taste and the heat as it rushes down his throat. Rum's the same no matter where he goes and he's drank more of it in the last day than he has during almost his entire stay in London.

Which makes it such a shame that some of it splatters out of his mouth when Bertie mentions masquerading as woman. Jack coughs, and laughs, and coughs some more. He brings a hand to his mouth to catch the trails of rum that are sliding down his chin and neck.

'Women,' he croaks out at Bertie's nonchalence way of relating it, as if saying Well, they're just like that, aren't they?

He coughs again and laughs stupidly, the image of Bertie in a dress amusing and oddly appealing. His cups a hand around his jaw, drying the dribbles of rum, and follows down his chest and stomach to wipe off the liquid.

'Never pegged you as one of those types,' Jack says, eyeing Bertie with a new respect. 'Takes a bit out of the ordinary to get up in a dress and skirts, and parade around.'

He's only done it the once -- or twice, really, but it doesn't count if it were just for the benefit of one person -- and Jack still remembers the looks from other men. Men who wouldn't have given him the eye otherwise suddenly appraising him from afar. He chuckles at the memory, the shock of their faces when he accidentally let his voice fall back into its normal range. Safely out of caputre distance, of course.