"Of All Things" pt. 3
By Sahari
Title: Of All Things
Author: Sahari
Fandom: Master and Commander
Pairing: Stephen/Jack
Warnings: None
Of All Things
By Sahari
Part Three
Stephen's departure from Gibraltar had been so speedy and disorganized that little communication had taken place between himself and his superiors in the Intelligence Department: a note had been sent, explaining what little he knew about his destination. At the time, Jack's orders had not been known and all that Stephen knew was that he was to board the Surprise and tend his duties there.
Their destination, it turned about, was Port Mahon, to meet up with undisclosed ships that were in the dockyards for refitting. Stephen looked upon the arrival with some pleasure. The warm waters of the Mediterranean and the familiar coast of Spain were always welcome diversions as they made their way northeast to the Balearic Islands and His Majesty's port town. A shockingly number of years before, Stephen had found himself at the Governor's House there, penniless, sitting next to an unknown, yellow-haired lieutenant, not yet Post-Captain. They had been listening to a decent rendition of Locatelli's C major. They had not liked each other very much.
But then Stephen's mind turned to other wonders, the natural paradise of S’Albufera des Grau! The innumerable birds and plants!
And, thankfully, such fine sailing made Jack happy and busy, far too busy to maneuver Stephen into anything more complicated than a succession of quick breakfasts. Stephen knew that eventually Jack's tenaciousness would have to be tested, but he'd rather it happen from his own willingness and not Jack's sense of obligation.
There grew to be another benefit to their port of call, and Stephen came to know it two days into their cruise. Killick was looking pale and peaked, and one morning, having sipped his coffee under the servant's anxious glance, Stephen ascertained why, from the familiar taste. Then one look at poor Killick, and the doctor knew.
The rats had been into the coffee, which meant they were only a few pots from depletion. For Killick's safety, he said nothing, but even his temper was uncertain when the coffee grew thinner and thinner. Stephen without stimulants was a trial; both Jack and Stephen without was an ordeal no steward would wish for. One could rightly find themselves before the mast, rigged in the grating or flogged about the fleet for not keeping Captain Aubrey in coffee. Luckily Jack was too distracted to notice until they were one day from Port Mahon and the promise of more stores could be anticipated.
The town of Mahon was a lovely old stone port on a high hill overlooking a natural harbor. Stephen had truly forgotten how picturesque the town was, despite the bareness of its immediate surroundings. They anchored in line with the Hotspur, a 20-gun post-ship (according to Pullings after Stephen had mis-identified it as a sloop), whose deck seemed bare but for two midshipmen and one dark-haired officer on watch.
While the captain was ashore getting the details of his orders arranged, the mail packet arrived aboard in a brisk manner and was divided to eager recipients. Stephen took his, distinctive by its seal and careful packaging, straight to his cabin and got out his code books. As always, Sir Joseph was much in the know and kindly considerate. He was aware of the orders that Jack would open in due course, outlining those things of which Stephen ought to be sensible. There were names named, descriptions given, which Stephen dedicated to his memory before destroying the papers.
He added his newer observations to his already considerable letter, carefully enclosed it, and sent it out with all of the official papers waiting to be posted.
Then Jack returned, with dinner invitations to Admiral Keith's, and the elated news that there was a chance of a quartet afterward. The captain's face was so lit with happiness that Stephen knew he too remembered that first meeting, but perhaps not with the ambivalence of feelings of that time.
Killick, smarting over the issue of coffee, seemed determined to make them the most gentlemanly officers ever to leave the ship, and grumbled over everything from Jack's gold lace to Stephen's sad lack of shine on his shoe buckles. But at last they were turned out as fine as possible, Stephen lowered into the boat while Jack's second nature (that of an orangutan, Stephen was sure) allowed that he hardly glanced where he went yet finished both dry and stable on his feet. The boat's crew, including Bonden, were in their best clothes, their straw hats with Surprise embroidered on the ribbon, their blue jackets and white trousers; even to the buckled shoes on their feet. So in state, them rowed the whole 15 minutes necessary to land ashore, handed Stephen over the side like a child and were off again.
"Is there a chance of shore leave?" Stephen asked as they walked through the less than picturesque dockside, avoiding many of ill-looking creatures. "There was little, was there not, in Gibraltar?"
"A day only," Jack admitted. "I am never happy to let them loose, for you know, Stephen, they spend all their prize money that ain't entailed to their wives, and half of 'em are poxed by the time they come back, if they haven't run off somewhere."
"I am intimately aware of the prevalence of pox, but, my dear, the joy of an island is that they have very few alternatives to flee to," the doctor reminded him.
"Bless me, you're right as always. I'll send a message back to let Tom know. Oh, and the coffee..."
"Already arranged. Killick is eager to be in our good graces again."
"As is right and proper! What does he mean, to not be guarding the treasure of our coffee beans?"
Stephen had to laugh at Jack's belligerent tone. "We have the most clear-minded, sleep-deprived rats in the whole British fleet, wouldn't you say? Perhaps we should assign them duties?"
"Ha ha, what a caper! As they are they run the ship's cat right mad. If it weren't for the fact that cats neither recognize rank nor respectful manners, I'd want half a dozen at least."
"I think you resent them sitting in your lap and ruining your dignity."
Jack gave Stephen a thoughtful glance. "Sure, one cannot be dignified with such a purring, aloof creature occupying one's lap and not giving one the respect one is due. Spoils one's image."
"Quite," Stephen agreed with a smile.
Admiral and Lady Keith were as generous as always, excellent hosts and not for wont of conversation. When the evening party split up, more than half for cigars or card games, Jack and Stephen excused themselves and made their way to the concert hall, attempting to disguise their eagerness to make it on time for the opening quartet.
And greeting them, as they quietly entered and found seats in the back, were the opening notes of Locatelli's C major, making them grin with delight. Violins, 'cello and harpsichord were perfectly suited, and Stephen closed his eyes to concentrate on their soaring progress. The next piece, booming with a strong 'cello part set Jack to beating the time, a deplorable habit he had not quite broke. Stephen, very much aware and unwilling to voice the criticism in the small space (and recalling that such would have little effect), instead let his hand fall on top of Jack's larger one, stilling it. From the corner of his eye he could see Jack's face redden, but his hand relaxed under Stephen's. It was two pieces later that the doctor remembered to remove his hand, and by then he was sure his own face was more pink than pale. He had not predicted that elation born of his pleasure in music and the slight physical contact with his friend. It was almost as good as coffee and certainly better than any other stimulant.
They did not converse on their walk to the quay, but Jack was beaming with happiness, humming his favorite parts and in such good spirits that Stephen himself felt quite lightened. The rounds of wine from dinner had long ceased their effects, and sober joy, the doctor reflected, was so much kinder.
He dropped off immediately in sleep but woke, as was his habit, in the small hours, and was surprised to see light beaming from the great cabin from under their shared partition. Sleepily he shuffled to the door, tapped and opened it.
Jack was staring out the aft windows, quite unfocussed, with a quill in hand, and belatedly turned as if to reprimand, stopping dead at the sight of Stephen there.
"My dear, have you not slept yet?" Stephen inquired, concerned. It was not a usual thing for his friend to stay awake in the wee hours, and with half the crew on shore (the message faithfully carried and joyously received), Jack had little to worry him.
Jack cleared his throat. "No, not tonight." He eyes dropped and widened and Stephen, belatedly, glanced down at his old, worn nightshirt. Even in lamplight it was obviously far from opaque, as it was washed so many times that it was perfect for the warmer climes. Modesty had never been much cause for concern for Stephen, and between them they had a rather pitifully realistic knowledge of each other's anatomies, but as things stood, another layer of awareness had appeared.
"Shall I leave?" Stephen asked, acknowledging the inevitable discomfort.
Jack blinked. "No, of course not. Can you not - " He waved a vague hand. "- dress yourself?"
"Why?" the doctor asked, then to be perverse: "I am as God intended me, and I was assured you wished to be educated in such things."
Jack's florid face reddened further. "Now, Stephen..."
"If the captain cannot countenance even this modest nightshirt -"
"Modest!" Jack protested, although there was a familiar gleam of humor, and something else, in his eye.
"- how will he endure the rigors yet to come?" Stephen slid the door closed behind him, and flipped the latch.
Jack laid down his quill, looking rather disoriented. Apparently he'd been brought "by the lee," as it were. Stephen wondered if he'd mistimed or misinterpreted, but Jack's blue eyes brightened by degrees, and his expression began to exhibit signs of tacit comprehension, and a certain amount of carnal interest. "Ah," he said with a smile, "is this when I receive my lesson?"
Stephen narrowed his eyes at his friend, wondering just how lightly the going ought to be. Here he was, with one nightshirt and a single crucifix between himself and Jack Aubrey. He had no conception of his own potential attractiveness, and suspected what his friend saw in him was not the wretched, slight and secretive bastard he knew himself to be. Thus do friends overlook each other's faults.
And clearly that gleam was lust as Jack watched him expectantly. Was he now to be expected to be the predator, having begun the discourse? At one time, before the laudanum and coca leaves, he might have balked, allowed reason to sway the natural animal, but here he was, in a locked cabin with Jack Aubrey, and if the captain wished him to advance first, he would not abstain.
"Yes, although I shall not claim the tyranny of schoolmaster," Stephen said with an answering look of levity.
"A shame," Jack replied with a fair imitation of a naughty schoolboy's grin. "I was a student who needed a brisk hand; a man such as yourself might have prevented my willfulness."
"You are the very snake in the garden," Stephen breathed in admiration.
"Says the serpent in that un-Christian shirt," Jack replied, and shifted in his chair.
Stephen, recognizing what that movement meant, anticipated an end to Jack's patience. He approached and bent; Jack did not wait but reached up and brought him down to ghost his lips and breath over his friend's neck. Stephen took the moral advantage, and straddled Jack's expansive lap as the captain gathered him closer. Stephen did not have to wonder at how so many women had fallen to Jack's charms, blundering and innocent as they were. Jack advanced with his whole being, once his focus was fixed.
He ducked his head down to coerce and meet Jack's mouth, and shifted his hips closer.
"My God, Stephen," he breathed, all amazement, but his hands circled Stephen's waist tighter, steady and sure; there was no hesitation.
Ah, now, how could he forget this closeness, this warmth? Jack spent no time on pleasantries, getting right to the point, and in this Stephen was in all agreement that such things should begin without delay. An exchange of lips and tongues, and he was carding his hands through Jack's long hair, forcing the ribbon off, hitching his hips forward to crush them to each other. Stephen, never one to be quickly aroused, was surprised that he was hard as soon as his loins pressed against Jack's, one diaphanous shirt and one pair of canvas breeches the only barriers. Jack was in a similar state, a hardening bulge answering perfectly, and he was astonished that Jack was not balking, not out of his element, nor protesting the feel of another man's desire so shamelessly displayed. Stephen was half-convinced that Jack's perseverance was, in fact, reliable, at least as these things went, for Jack's hands had not left his waist.
Stephen lifted his hips, freeing his shirt from the sad crush it was in and raised it up his thighs. Jack went still and Stephen sighed, pressing his brow to Jack's. Blue eyes stared, agitated, into his.
"Shall I stop?" Stephen asked in the same tone he had asked if he should leave, earlier. "We are carrying along fine."
""Fine"?" Jack echoed. "If this were a midshipman's practicum, I should have made lieutenant by now."
Stephen chuckled. "Should you, now? There's more than just kissing, you know."
"As strict as a line of admirals," Jack grumbled, breathing deep.
"Never in life! I shall be quite the mentor. I will even give you an example to strive for."
He began to loosen Jack's belt, watching his face the whole while, waiting for a denial or a shift in expression. Jack closed his eyes and licked his lips, perhaps nervously. "Lift out your shirt," the doctor advised, and Jack released him to obey as the buckle came free in Stephen's hands and he was able to start unfastening Jack's breeches, feeling and seeing hardness under his fingers. This was something of Jack's anatomy he had not examined yet, not in this state. Heat flashed through him at the thought; it had been so long that it was a shock to think that this was lust just from a simple imagining.
He slid his hand in and cupped humid and hard flesh and immediately Jack's hand was on his wrist, almost crushing it in his fervor to stay further encroachment. "Stephen," the man said, but his expression and tone were so at odds that Stephen could not tell if it was warning, disgust or fear. Or all.
"Shall I desist?" Stephen asked gently, purging all disappointment or censure from his tone or expression. He did not move his hand, although the sensation against the sensitive pads of his fingers proved to be a temptation. Jack was actually swelling still. What a delight! "I can desist."
Jack's eyes had fallen on the space between them, Stephen's hand, and his chest rose and fell.
"How- how well do you know your way, my dear?" he asked at last.
"I am out of practice, sure."
At the look of shock in his face, Stephen had to chuckle; the flesh under his hand hardened further. "In my youth, such things were pitifully common, joy. We slept many boys to a bed, and being healthy young creatures did what nature guided us to do. No harm, my dear. No harm. I am sorry not to offer you more expertise."
Jack swallowed. "What...did you do, all the boys in the bed together?"
Stephen outright smiled. Was his captain titillated? Censorious? Certainly, nothing was wilting. "Used our hands, and our mouths with each other."
His fingers kept still, resisting the urge to press or slide as Jack's eyes closed and silence fell. He was certain now that Jack would want to stop; this was far beyond his boundaries, after all.
Jack said: "Can you use your mouth?" And then, quickly: "That is, if you would like it."
"Like it?" He thrust his fingers against Jack's flesh and they brushed the head. Both of them drew in a breath. "I should like it of all things."
He carefully withdrew, slipping from Jack's lap and urging him up to free him from his breeches. He did not attempt to convince the captain from his modest shirt, but instead knelt there between Jack's spread legs and teased the hem of the shirt up, as if raising a curtain upon a stage, and the performer, in all its glory, the root of him, was undeniably impressive. Large and flushed, much like the man himself, and as responsive.
Stephen, even as a child, could never be qualified as a hedonist. He had always felt a little removed from those happy creatures about himself, loud, boisterous and with growing appetites for food, drink, and congress. He ate to fill the void of hunger; he fornicated to ease the ache of loneliness.
But, kneeling before Jack Aubrey, perhaps the only person on God's earth he could say he truly loved with all of himself, he found himself a sudden sensualist. He wanted the feel and taste of flesh in his mouth, not because it filled up a lack in himself, but in of itself. He wanted it because he wanted it, and he always thought that was the fundamental thought behind hedonism.
So he took the rigid heated flesh in both hands and brought the head to his tongue. Jack's hands came down hard upon the wooden armrests on either side and he seemed to stop breathing. Surely that was as good a signal to advance as any? Tentatively he stroked his tongue across the fat head, tasting musk and salt. Feeling Jack shudder, he assayed to slide his mouth over and take it in. Although it was a skill one did not forget, he had never quite taken in such a prodigious penis; not entirely an arduous proposition, but one requiring some maneuvering. He filled his mouth and took as much as he could, feeling Jack tense and hearing the wood under his hands creak in protest as he repeated the motion slowly.
The tentative touch of Jack's hand along the short hairs of his nape caused him to pause and glance up. There was not much to see but a billowing white shirt and Jack's expansive self, but he withdrew reluctantly and breathed: "All is well, joy?"
"Stephen," his captain growled. "I... wouldn't wish to..."
This certainly required a view of his friend's face. Stephen got to his feet carefully to see Jack's expression. The captain looked quite undone.
"That is, not to finish like that..." Jack looked so befuddled and embarrassed, but Stephen grasped his thoughts immediately. "Not like -"
"A whore?" he finished, inquiringly.
Jack dropped his head in his sheltering hand. "Lord, I am sorry, Stephen."
The doctor took a deep breath. "My dear, it pains me that such pleasures bring no loving memories for you, but I hardly take offense." He caressed Jack's hair and smiled when the man lifted his head to look at him with apologetic eyes. "There are other ways."
The gleam was back immediately, and when Stephen once again straddled the captain's lap, Jack helped him move the barriers of their shirts. Stephen reached between them and brought their members together, fingers curling about Jack's shaft; he would, he pondered analytically, have to use both hands. Jack groaned down low and bowed his head forward, touching their damp foreheads together.
"Like this?" Stephen croaked, quite losing his long-held composure as he shifted them together.
"Oh, yes," Jack replied as hoarsely, his hands settling about Stephen's waist underneath his shirt and helping him thrust with the powerful help of his arms.
It did not take long. Jack was not, Stephen knew, the sort of man who staved off pleasure. He rode it, open-eyed and smiling, with much the same eagerness as he headed into battle. He was also solicitous of Stephen's pleasure, caressing and kissing him even as the crest of desire was upon him. It was so unaccustomed a kindness that Stephen's own pleasure drowned him a moment after Jack's; the warm and salty smell of his friend's seed and his expression stunned gratification were quite enough but Jack's deep kiss right on his own cusp pushed him over. He sat there gasping, dropping his head onto Jack's wide shoulder, listening to his friend's panting breaths and trying to regulate his own.
"Sweet as honey," Jack rumbled in a self-satisfied and sated tone. A large hand ran itself over Stephen's short hair but the doctor did not acknowledge it, keeping his face hidden. "Where was this shyness earlier?" he was teased.
They were quiet as sweat cooled and breath settled. Stephen's thoughts were inevitably already on the night's diary entry, already chronicling his self-doubt. Why cannot I trust that happiness might last? Will I always expect a cold void in my heart, regardless of the perfection of the moment? He made to dismount his friend but Jack's arms tightened.
"We need to clean ourselves," Stephen protested half-heartedly.
"My dear," Jack admonished him in a stern but tender voice, "why are you determined to be unhappy?"
So he hadn't even managed that small deception. Stephen sighed. "Happiness is fleeting and often carries too high a price. I cannot trust it."
Jack was silent and finally Stephen condescended to turn his head, even though he knew his expression was far too open. He hated effusion in himself more than he hated it in others; he despised vulnerability!
"You mean, I cannot be trusted," Jack said thoughtfully.
"No, Jack," Stephen protested mildly, although he detected the lie in himself immediately. He could not trust Jack to preserve his happiness because Stephen himself did not know how he was to be made happy.
"Perhaps I have not gone about it properly," Jack murmured. "Usually it is not so difficult to convince ...a person... of my regard."
Stephen smiled despite himself; yes, there were few mysteries with Jack, which was what was so appealing about him as a man. As he opened his mouth to Jack's lazy kiss, tracking the movement of the captain's hands as they traced slow patterns on his back, the wicked thought invaded: He still has much to learn. All other thoughts and questions about his own behavior, and about Jack's, were momentarily allayed. He shivered at the descent of his mental faculties, shivered at the imaginings that came with them: what Jack's big hands and voracious mouth could do to him if they had the will.
"You are a man of towering parts," Jack rumbled with good humor, misinterpreting Stephen's physical response as an effect of his kisses, and luckily too distracted to linger on his bon mot.
Towering parts, indeed, Stephen thought, recalling the feel of Jack's impressive "tower" in his mouth. He would anticipate that sensation for the rest of the night and for days to come, and hopefully the memory would satisfy when his dreams imagined harsher pleasures.
Jack's slackening caresses and stifled yawn were enough excuse for Stephen to disengage. He could heart Killick cursing and stumbling above them, newly arrived from his debauchery ashore, and exchanged a wry glance with his friend before slipping back to his own sleeping cabin. When he dropped off to the sleep, it was far from the sleep of the innocent, and when he dreamed, he dreamed to the soft motions of a calm sea. He did not dream of the future, nor of the past.
He dreamt of warmth and soft caresses, and were he pressed to sum up the whole of the night's reveries, he would say that his waking and sleeping mind were certainly in contention.
He dreamt of love.
But he woke to doubt.