Slash fic: Whiskey and Leather (SPN/SG) Jack O'Neill/John Winchester
Title: Whiskey and Leather
Author: Epeeblade
Rating: NC-17 for sex
Pairing: Jack O'Neill/John Winchester
Status: complete
Genre: slash, crossover, pwp
Disclaimer: I don't own any these characters or the Supernatural and Stargate SG-1
universes. This work of fiction is not written for profit.
Warnings: m/m sex
Summary: One man walks into a bar, two men walk out.
Notes: Thanks to seanchaidh for the beta. This was written for her. This fic
takes place in 1996, in that year between the Stargate movie and the tv series.
Whiskey and Leather
By Epeeblade
He had to look twice, but yeah, it was the same damn guy from the cemetery. What were
the odds they'd both walk into the same bar afterwards? John Winchester didn't believe
in coincidence, not anymore.
The guy had left the cemetery hours ago, long enough for John to find the grave he was
looking for, dig up the body and torch the corpse. Must have been drinking for a long
time.
John settled into a seat at the bar and motioned for a beer. He wouldn't hit the hard stuff
until he figured out if this guy was going to be trouble.
John found it was easier to walk into cemeteries during the day, just like any other visitor.
The trick was to keep out of the sight till the caretaker left, then he knew he had the place
to himself. So he waited, parked next to a grave so old he bet there was nobody left to
leave flowers or scrape away the weeds slowly growing up the granite stone.
It was a perfect place to watch her. She was a pretty thing, blond hair a wavy halo around
her head. She moved with a purpose to a specific grave. She had flowers in her hand and
something else, it looked like a baseball cap. John frowned and turned away, never one
for letting himself get too focused on one thing he lost track of his surroundings.
That's when he saw him, watching her. Tall guy, moved like he knew what he was doing,
despite the leather jacket and jeans. John didn't peg him for military until later, after the
woman had left and the guy stood at ease over the same stone she had visited. He stood
there a long time, till the sun touched the horizon. Then he bent and picked up the
baseball cap she had left, crushing it between his fingers.
When he left the cemetery, he took it with him.
Curious, John stopped to check out the grave. He frowned at the inscription: Charles
Tyler O'Neill, Beloved Son, 1984-1994. Goddamn it, he hated it when it was a kid.
Which was another reason he found himself in this bar not too far from the cemetery.
Ghost had been a little girl, not long dead, and he needed the wipe the memory from his
mind.
You'd think he'd get used to this, and god knew if he had his boys with him he wouldn't
have let them see he was rattled. But he had left Dean and Sammy over in Arizona,
school year in full swing. Didn't need another scare with Child Services, not when he
could take care of a simple haunting, just a state over.
"Are you drinking alone?" a slightly slurred voice asked.
John turned, surprised, and met the dark eyes of the man from the cemetery. "That a
problem?"
"No, no. I'm drinking alone too. Goddamn shame."
"Jack, I think you've had enough," The bartender interrupts. "Let me call you a cab."
Jack stumbled onto the bar stool next to John's. "Give me a minute, Gary. Making a
friend here."
The bartender leveled worried eyes at John. He just shrugged, not going to look a gift
horse in the mouth. Maybe this guy was good for a couple of hundred at the pool table, if
he was three sheets to the wind anyway.
"So you're Jack," he said. "I'm John."
"That's funny," Jack laughed. "Nice to meet you John." He held out a hand and John
took it. He motioned to the bartender. "Give John here another one of these."
Apparently Jack was drinking Jack Daniels. John grinned and took the free drink.
"You're not from around here," Jack said, he slung one arm over John's shoulders,
caught the slight stiffening and backed off a bit, patting his shoulder before settled back
into his own seat.
"Nope," John agreed. Maybe Jack was looking for a stranger, he thought, giving the man
a once over from the corner of his eye. He wasn't bad looking, dark hair cut way too
short, brow a bit too furrowed, like he'd worried too much. But Jack's eyes were clear
brown, open and inviting, and when he grinned, drink induced or not, the smile lit up his
entire face.
"…I'm originally from Minnesota," Jack was saying, rolling right on as if John hadn't
answered. "Born in Chicago, but best times were in the forests of Minnesota. Grandad
had a cabin out in the woods, guess it's mine now. It's on a lake with no fish."
"Sounds perfect," John agreed, accepting the second shot when the bartender poured it
for him. Granted, he's been on the wrong side of drunk before, so he shouldn't find it so
amusing to poke this guy, but he just couldn't help himself.
He thought he had Jack figured out though. He'd seen the type, hell, he'd been the type.
Needed to get shit out of his mind so bad the only cure was to drink and fuck the pain
away. He couldn't blame a man for trying.
And if Jack thought that picking up a rough looking stranger in a bar was the best way to
get the second part of his plan accomplished, John wasn't the guy to tell him no. It had
been too long for him too.
Jack seemed to crumple all of a sudden, playing with the empty shot glass on the bar,
long fingers precise in his movements. The left hand had a tan mark where a ring used to
sit. He fell silent and John found he missed the chatter.
"You military?" John asked, the closest to inviting conversation he ever came.
Jack stiffened and looked over. "This is Colorado Springs, everyone is military."
Ah. That answered the question of why Jack was looking for a stranger. John slammed
down the shot glass. Enough pussyfooting around. He could sit here all night before Jack
made a move. "Men's room or back alley?" he said in a low growl, making sure the
bartender was out of earshot.
Jack's fingers stilled on the glass. "You don't fuck around, do you?"
"Thought fucking was the point."
"Then I would appreciate the decency of a motel room." Jack would have sounded more
sincere if he hadn't lisped his way through that sentence.
John cocked his head to one side. "You're paying for it." No way was he taking this guy
to his motel on the other side of town. They'd just need to find something with hourly
rates.
"We done negotiating?" Jack stood and tossed a few bills onto the bar, more than enough
to cover John's drinks too.
"You're not driving," John stated, watching as Jack stumbled out of the bar.
The motel was in walking distance, probably got most of its business from the bar. They
weren't in the best neighborhood, and no one looked twice at two men stumbling along
the streets. John got the room, paid up front with cash Jack had slammed onto the desk.
He signed the name 'Luis Montoya' into the registry and the clerk hadn't batted an eye.
When he unlocked the door, Jack surprised him by grabbing his arm and slamming him
against the wall. He would have bet dollar to donuts that the man was too drunk to
manage that kind of precision. Not that he was worried; John knew three different ways
he could flip the situation around. He outweighed Jack at the very least, and he knew he
was the more sober.
What surprised him was the kiss. Jack leaned forward, his lips gentle at first, before John
opened his mouth, took control of things before they got any more out of hand. He bit
back, forcing Jack's mouth open, crushing their lips together, almost sparring with their
tongues. John intended to be on top, and he was letting Jack know.
He pushed back, gripping Jack's upper arms and forcing him back towards the bed under
the incredibly loud orange bedspread. Couldn't miss the bed with that atrocity covering
it. Jack's knees hit the bed and he fell back onto it. John let him go and started
unbuttoning his shirt. Jack tore off his own jacket and shirt in record time. While Jack
was focused on undoing his own jeans, John slid his pants off, careful to hide his gun
under the bed, within reach but out of sight.
"Condom?" he asked before this got any further. If he needed to run out to a pharmacy, it
had better be now and not later.
Jack had lain down on the bed, one arm thrown over his eyes. "Wallet. Back pocket."
"Good man," John reached over and plucked it out of the discarded pair of jeans. He slid
the condom out of the wallet and placed it on the bed within reach.
Jack's other arm had slid down and was slowly jerking himself through his boxers. John
covered that hand with his own, moving up and down the cloth covered length. "Don't
suppose you got any lube in your other pocket?"
Jack shook his head. He pulled himself out from hiding and met John's gaze, eyes wide
with arousal. "Use my come."
John groaned and nearly had to squeeze himself. "Son of a bitch," he bit out. He didn't
miss the grin on Jack's face. Bastard knew exactly what he was doing. John hooked his
thumbs in the waistband of the boxer shorts and drew them down, letting Jack kick them
off. He thumped the long red cock wickedly, a little bit of things to come while he
straightened to slide out of his own underwear.
"How do you want it?" John rasped, scoring his teeth down the tender skin of Jack's
neck, his finger nails scraping along his chest. He had thrown one thigh between Jack's
legs, forcing them open, but nowhere near Jack's cock.
Jack arched up, hands fisted at his sides as if he had to force himself not to touch. "Hard.
Ride me hard."
John would like nothing better than to haul Jack's legs up and plunge right into his dry
hole. But he wasn't that guy; he wanted to enjoy this more than he wanted to hurt Jack.
He latched onto Jack's throat, continuing to mouth the tender skin there while his hands
wandered down Jack's chest. He carded his fingers through the slight brush of chest hair,
touching scars hidden. It felt like Jack's body was almost as marked as his own.
"C'mon," Jack hissed, hands finally moving, coming up to catch at John's back,
fingernails scoring into his skin.
Yeah, that was it. John pushed his hardening cock into Jack's hip, using the friction to
wind himself up. Then he reached down and caught that slim cock in his hand. Jack was
hard enough to drive nails, the tip leaking already. Guy must be at the end of a drought.
"Fuck," Jack swore as John fisted his cock. No more playing around. If they were going
to fuck, they needed the lube.
And damned if he wasn't right, it didn't take more than three strokes before Jack was
coming. John covered the pulsing cock with his hand, making sure to catch every last
drop. He pressed a kiss in Jack's throat before sliding down the bed, knocking Jack's legs
apart and settling between them.
Two fingers slid in easy, after coming Jack was pretty limber. He had brought himself up
on his elbows and watched John as he worked the slippery fluid inside the guy. Jack
licked his lips and murmured, "Christ."
Well, at least he wasn't possessed, John thought, biting his lip to keep from laughing. He
pushed further, making Jack arch and gasp at his touch. Yeah, that was tight. He couldn't
wait to slide himself home.
He pulled himself away long enough to pull on the condom. Jack had rolled over,
scrambling to the head of the bed. "Like this," he threw over his shoulder and damned if
he didn't look like an invitation to sin, sweat shimmering along the smooth skin of his
back and ass.
John swore, gripping his erection tightly. He didn't want to blow before the main event,
not when they were so close.
Though he didn't think that had been enough prep, Jack didn't make a sound when John
pushed his way inside, closing his eyes at the warmth surrounding his cock. Lord, it had
been a long time.
He struggled forward, forcing his way until they were fully connected, his front plastered
against Jack's back. John panted against his back, catching one hand on the headboard for
balance. "You ok?"
Jack grunted and tried to push backwards. John got the hint and started to thrust, angling
upward as he pulled almost all the way out and then slammed inside again. He liked the
sounds Jack made when he hit him just the right way. John started to look for that,
thrusting harder and faster until he lost all sense of rhythm. He had the presence of mind
to give a reach around, but Jack's hand was already there on his reawakened erection.
John didn't feel a moment's guilt in coming, grasping Jack's hips as he did, fingers
digging into the sensitive skin hard enough to leave bruises.
He followed Jack in collapsing to the bed, having the presence of mind to hold on to the
condom and pull out. John rolled over and took care of it quickly, dropping in into the
wastebasket on the other side of the bed.
John didn't let himself sleep, though he watched as Jack slipped into slumber, snoring
slightly. He perched on the edge of the bed, dressing quickly, tucking his gun back into
its familiar place in his belt. He bent to tie his laces when he saw Jack's wallet standing
in the haphazard way John had thrown it after retrieving the condom.
He palmed it, flipped through the remaining cash, and noted the Air Force ID card. There
were several photos behind clear plastic cover and he pulled one out. It was a boy, not
much younger than Sammy. John bit his lip when he realized that this must be the boy,
the one in the grave over in the cemetery.
"You could have just asked."
Apparently Jack wasn't as asleep as John had thought. Which would make sense, Jack
had the same kind of training he did. "Flyboy," he teased, trying to diffuse the moment.
Jack rolled over and palmed the place on John's thigh where his Semper Fi tattoo had
been inked. "Jarhead."
John looked back down at the photo, at the floppy haired kid with the familiar brown
eyes. "I have two boys," he found himself saying. "Dean's 17, and Sammy is 13 going on
30."
For a moment Jack didn't say anything. Then he pulled the picture out of John's hand,
not roughly, just quick and efficient. "He would have been 12 today."
John handed him his wallet, watching Jack slip the photograph back into its folds.
"I saw you at the cemetery," Jack said. "Who were you there for?"
Oh, John thought with sudden clear understanding. Jack had thought…no wonder he had
approached him in the bar. He looked down, playing absently with his wedding ring. He
couldn't very tell the truth, that he was there to burn the corpse of a little girl who didn't
have the decency to stay buried.
"I see," Jack said, covering John's hand, stopping the fidgeting.
John looked up, realized the conclusion Jack must have come to based on the ring and
nearly sputtered a denial. But, in a way, he was in that cemetery for Mary. Every step he
had taken on his god-damned path had been for her. So he just nodded, let Jack tilt his
head and kiss him again.
end
Author: Epeeblade
Rating: NC-17 for sex
Pairing: Jack O'Neill/John Winchester
Status: complete
Genre: slash, crossover, pwp
Disclaimer: I don't own any these characters or the Supernatural and Stargate SG-1
universes. This work of fiction is not written for profit.
Warnings: m/m sex
Summary: One man walks into a bar, two men walk out.
Notes: Thanks to seanchaidh for the beta. This was written for her. This fic
takes place in 1996, in that year between the Stargate movie and the tv series.
Whiskey and Leather
By Epeeblade
He had to look twice, but yeah, it was the same damn guy from the cemetery. What were
the odds they'd both walk into the same bar afterwards? John Winchester didn't believe
in coincidence, not anymore.
The guy had left the cemetery hours ago, long enough for John to find the grave he was
looking for, dig up the body and torch the corpse. Must have been drinking for a long
time.
John settled into a seat at the bar and motioned for a beer. He wouldn't hit the hard stuff
until he figured out if this guy was going to be trouble.
John found it was easier to walk into cemeteries during the day, just like any other visitor.
The trick was to keep out of the sight till the caretaker left, then he knew he had the place
to himself. So he waited, parked next to a grave so old he bet there was nobody left to
leave flowers or scrape away the weeds slowly growing up the granite stone.
It was a perfect place to watch her. She was a pretty thing, blond hair a wavy halo around
her head. She moved with a purpose to a specific grave. She had flowers in her hand and
something else, it looked like a baseball cap. John frowned and turned away, never one
for letting himself get too focused on one thing he lost track of his surroundings.
That's when he saw him, watching her. Tall guy, moved like he knew what he was doing,
despite the leather jacket and jeans. John didn't peg him for military until later, after the
woman had left and the guy stood at ease over the same stone she had visited. He stood
there a long time, till the sun touched the horizon. Then he bent and picked up the
baseball cap she had left, crushing it between his fingers.
When he left the cemetery, he took it with him.
Curious, John stopped to check out the grave. He frowned at the inscription: Charles
Tyler O'Neill, Beloved Son, 1984-1994. Goddamn it, he hated it when it was a kid.
Which was another reason he found himself in this bar not too far from the cemetery.
Ghost had been a little girl, not long dead, and he needed the wipe the memory from his
mind.
You'd think he'd get used to this, and god knew if he had his boys with him he wouldn't
have let them see he was rattled. But he had left Dean and Sammy over in Arizona,
school year in full swing. Didn't need another scare with Child Services, not when he
could take care of a simple haunting, just a state over.
"Are you drinking alone?" a slightly slurred voice asked.
John turned, surprised, and met the dark eyes of the man from the cemetery. "That a
problem?"
"No, no. I'm drinking alone too. Goddamn shame."
"Jack, I think you've had enough," The bartender interrupts. "Let me call you a cab."
Jack stumbled onto the bar stool next to John's. "Give me a minute, Gary. Making a
friend here."
The bartender leveled worried eyes at John. He just shrugged, not going to look a gift
horse in the mouth. Maybe this guy was good for a couple of hundred at the pool table, if
he was three sheets to the wind anyway.
"So you're Jack," he said. "I'm John."
"That's funny," Jack laughed. "Nice to meet you John." He held out a hand and John
took it. He motioned to the bartender. "Give John here another one of these."
Apparently Jack was drinking Jack Daniels. John grinned and took the free drink.
"You're not from around here," Jack said, he slung one arm over John's shoulders,
caught the slight stiffening and backed off a bit, patting his shoulder before settled back
into his own seat.
"Nope," John agreed. Maybe Jack was looking for a stranger, he thought, giving the man
a once over from the corner of his eye. He wasn't bad looking, dark hair cut way too
short, brow a bit too furrowed, like he'd worried too much. But Jack's eyes were clear
brown, open and inviting, and when he grinned, drink induced or not, the smile lit up his
entire face.
"…I'm originally from Minnesota," Jack was saying, rolling right on as if John hadn't
answered. "Born in Chicago, but best times were in the forests of Minnesota. Grandad
had a cabin out in the woods, guess it's mine now. It's on a lake with no fish."
"Sounds perfect," John agreed, accepting the second shot when the bartender poured it
for him. Granted, he's been on the wrong side of drunk before, so he shouldn't find it so
amusing to poke this guy, but he just couldn't help himself.
He thought he had Jack figured out though. He'd seen the type, hell, he'd been the type.
Needed to get shit out of his mind so bad the only cure was to drink and fuck the pain
away. He couldn't blame a man for trying.
And if Jack thought that picking up a rough looking stranger in a bar was the best way to
get the second part of his plan accomplished, John wasn't the guy to tell him no. It had
been too long for him too.
Jack seemed to crumple all of a sudden, playing with the empty shot glass on the bar,
long fingers precise in his movements. The left hand had a tan mark where a ring used to
sit. He fell silent and John found he missed the chatter.
"You military?" John asked, the closest to inviting conversation he ever came.
Jack stiffened and looked over. "This is Colorado Springs, everyone is military."
Ah. That answered the question of why Jack was looking for a stranger. John slammed
down the shot glass. Enough pussyfooting around. He could sit here all night before Jack
made a move. "Men's room or back alley?" he said in a low growl, making sure the
bartender was out of earshot.
Jack's fingers stilled on the glass. "You don't fuck around, do you?"
"Thought fucking was the point."
"Then I would appreciate the decency of a motel room." Jack would have sounded more
sincere if he hadn't lisped his way through that sentence.
John cocked his head to one side. "You're paying for it." No way was he taking this guy
to his motel on the other side of town. They'd just need to find something with hourly
rates.
"We done negotiating?" Jack stood and tossed a few bills onto the bar, more than enough
to cover John's drinks too.
"You're not driving," John stated, watching as Jack stumbled out of the bar.
The motel was in walking distance, probably got most of its business from the bar. They
weren't in the best neighborhood, and no one looked twice at two men stumbling along
the streets. John got the room, paid up front with cash Jack had slammed onto the desk.
He signed the name 'Luis Montoya' into the registry and the clerk hadn't batted an eye.
When he unlocked the door, Jack surprised him by grabbing his arm and slamming him
against the wall. He would have bet dollar to donuts that the man was too drunk to
manage that kind of precision. Not that he was worried; John knew three different ways
he could flip the situation around. He outweighed Jack at the very least, and he knew he
was the more sober.
What surprised him was the kiss. Jack leaned forward, his lips gentle at first, before John
opened his mouth, took control of things before they got any more out of hand. He bit
back, forcing Jack's mouth open, crushing their lips together, almost sparring with their
tongues. John intended to be on top, and he was letting Jack know.
He pushed back, gripping Jack's upper arms and forcing him back towards the bed under
the incredibly loud orange bedspread. Couldn't miss the bed with that atrocity covering
it. Jack's knees hit the bed and he fell back onto it. John let him go and started
unbuttoning his shirt. Jack tore off his own jacket and shirt in record time. While Jack
was focused on undoing his own jeans, John slid his pants off, careful to hide his gun
under the bed, within reach but out of sight.
"Condom?" he asked before this got any further. If he needed to run out to a pharmacy, it
had better be now and not later.
Jack had lain down on the bed, one arm thrown over his eyes. "Wallet. Back pocket."
"Good man," John reached over and plucked it out of the discarded pair of jeans. He slid
the condom out of the wallet and placed it on the bed within reach.
Jack's other arm had slid down and was slowly jerking himself through his boxers. John
covered that hand with his own, moving up and down the cloth covered length. "Don't
suppose you got any lube in your other pocket?"
Jack shook his head. He pulled himself out from hiding and met John's gaze, eyes wide
with arousal. "Use my come."
John groaned and nearly had to squeeze himself. "Son of a bitch," he bit out. He didn't
miss the grin on Jack's face. Bastard knew exactly what he was doing. John hooked his
thumbs in the waistband of the boxer shorts and drew them down, letting Jack kick them
off. He thumped the long red cock wickedly, a little bit of things to come while he
straightened to slide out of his own underwear.
"How do you want it?" John rasped, scoring his teeth down the tender skin of Jack's
neck, his finger nails scraping along his chest. He had thrown one thigh between Jack's
legs, forcing them open, but nowhere near Jack's cock.
Jack arched up, hands fisted at his sides as if he had to force himself not to touch. "Hard.
Ride me hard."
John would like nothing better than to haul Jack's legs up and plunge right into his dry
hole. But he wasn't that guy; he wanted to enjoy this more than he wanted to hurt Jack.
He latched onto Jack's throat, continuing to mouth the tender skin there while his hands
wandered down Jack's chest. He carded his fingers through the slight brush of chest hair,
touching scars hidden. It felt like Jack's body was almost as marked as his own.
"C'mon," Jack hissed, hands finally moving, coming up to catch at John's back,
fingernails scoring into his skin.
Yeah, that was it. John pushed his hardening cock into Jack's hip, using the friction to
wind himself up. Then he reached down and caught that slim cock in his hand. Jack was
hard enough to drive nails, the tip leaking already. Guy must be at the end of a drought.
"Fuck," Jack swore as John fisted his cock. No more playing around. If they were going
to fuck, they needed the lube.
And damned if he wasn't right, it didn't take more than three strokes before Jack was
coming. John covered the pulsing cock with his hand, making sure to catch every last
drop. He pressed a kiss in Jack's throat before sliding down the bed, knocking Jack's legs
apart and settling between them.
Two fingers slid in easy, after coming Jack was pretty limber. He had brought himself up
on his elbows and watched John as he worked the slippery fluid inside the guy. Jack
licked his lips and murmured, "Christ."
Well, at least he wasn't possessed, John thought, biting his lip to keep from laughing. He
pushed further, making Jack arch and gasp at his touch. Yeah, that was tight. He couldn't
wait to slide himself home.
He pulled himself away long enough to pull on the condom. Jack had rolled over,
scrambling to the head of the bed. "Like this," he threw over his shoulder and damned if
he didn't look like an invitation to sin, sweat shimmering along the smooth skin of his
back and ass.
John swore, gripping his erection tightly. He didn't want to blow before the main event,
not when they were so close.
Though he didn't think that had been enough prep, Jack didn't make a sound when John
pushed his way inside, closing his eyes at the warmth surrounding his cock. Lord, it had
been a long time.
He struggled forward, forcing his way until they were fully connected, his front plastered
against Jack's back. John panted against his back, catching one hand on the headboard for
balance. "You ok?"
Jack grunted and tried to push backwards. John got the hint and started to thrust, angling
upward as he pulled almost all the way out and then slammed inside again. He liked the
sounds Jack made when he hit him just the right way. John started to look for that,
thrusting harder and faster until he lost all sense of rhythm. He had the presence of mind
to give a reach around, but Jack's hand was already there on his reawakened erection.
John didn't feel a moment's guilt in coming, grasping Jack's hips as he did, fingers
digging into the sensitive skin hard enough to leave bruises.
He followed Jack in collapsing to the bed, having the presence of mind to hold on to the
condom and pull out. John rolled over and took care of it quickly, dropping in into the
wastebasket on the other side of the bed.
John didn't let himself sleep, though he watched as Jack slipped into slumber, snoring
slightly. He perched on the edge of the bed, dressing quickly, tucking his gun back into
its familiar place in his belt. He bent to tie his laces when he saw Jack's wallet standing
in the haphazard way John had thrown it after retrieving the condom.
He palmed it, flipped through the remaining cash, and noted the Air Force ID card. There
were several photos behind clear plastic cover and he pulled one out. It was a boy, not
much younger than Sammy. John bit his lip when he realized that this must be the boy,
the one in the grave over in the cemetery.
"You could have just asked."
Apparently Jack wasn't as asleep as John had thought. Which would make sense, Jack
had the same kind of training he did. "Flyboy," he teased, trying to diffuse the moment.
Jack rolled over and palmed the place on John's thigh where his Semper Fi tattoo had
been inked. "Jarhead."
John looked back down at the photo, at the floppy haired kid with the familiar brown
eyes. "I have two boys," he found himself saying. "Dean's 17, and Sammy is 13 going on
30."
For a moment Jack didn't say anything. Then he pulled the picture out of John's hand,
not roughly, just quick and efficient. "He would have been 12 today."
John handed him his wallet, watching Jack slip the photograph back into its folds.
"I saw you at the cemetery," Jack said. "Who were you there for?"
Oh, John thought with sudden clear understanding. Jack had thought…no wonder he had
approached him in the bar. He looked down, playing absently with his wedding ring. He
couldn't very tell the truth, that he was there to burn the corpse of a little girl who didn't
have the decency to stay buried.
"I see," Jack said, covering John's hand, stopping the fidgeting.
John looked up, realized the conclusion Jack must have come to based on the ring and
nearly sputtered a denial. But, in a way, he was in that cemetery for Mary. Every step he
had taken on his god-damned path had been for her. So he just nodded, let Jack tilt his
head and kiss him again.
end