Advent Calendar 2011 Day 7: A Night Like This
I have swapped places with sidlj. She will take my place on Day 12. So, while Eljay lets me, here is my second humble offering:
A Night Like This
by esteven
Pairing: Jack/Stephen
Rating: NC 17 (just in case, and just for the last few paragraphs)
Spoilers: Hundred Days; set post Blue at the Mizzen
Disclaimer: Patrick O'Brian created and owns Jack Aubrey, Stephen Maturin and their world. All material here is not-for-profit.
Length: about 2300
Summary: Playing Cards
Author's Note: Oodles of thanks to feroxargentea for beta-ing and patience.
How many times,
have I been waiting by the door to hear these chimes?
To hear that someone debonair has just arrived.
And opened up to see my world before my eyes.
That silhouette creates an image on the night I can’t forget.
It has the scent of something special, I can’t rest.*
The Breguet lay on the small side table near the door. It chimed the hour, as it had done every hour of every day since Stephen had had it.
Only the moon and a few stars shed their meagre light from a largely overcast sky into the garden below. Stephen stood at the open window of his bedroom in Woolcombe’s left wing. The Maturins had definitely settled in this part of the sprawling manor house to which Diana’s excellent taste had added furniture and artwork for many years. A nightingale serenaded the moon.
“What is Jack doing in the fields at this time of night?” Stephen thought, and almost instantly wondered how he could have mistaken the tall silhouette of the vegetable patch scarecrow in the kitchen garden for his friend. It must surely be equally a figment of his imagination that the night breeze carried the scent of salty clean air and the sea, scents he associated with Jack. He breathed deeply to calm himself as he waited. To keep himself occupied, he reflected on the months that had passed and more specifically on the last few days.
They had been ashore for almost a year after their return from South Africa, and tonight was one of those occasions, sadly few and difficult to arrange, when they could be together. Every now and then they had visited London, for a concert, meetings of the Royal Society of which they were both members, or some other business. Still, they had only managed a few snatched hours at Black’s or at The Grapes, where one of them always had to leave the bed to sneak into a separate room after they had taken their pleasure with each other. It did not occur to them to meet in one of those secret places where patrons shut their eyes to the dealings of their customers. That might have spelt blackmail, and neither he nor Jack wished to court the noose and cause grief to their families and friends by causing a scandal. Everything was so much easier at sea, where arrangements were less complicated - as long as they kept quiet.
Last Wednesday George had left Woolcombe after some leave to join Heneage Dundas’ squadron again. Shortly after that, Sophie, Clarissa, Brigid and the twins had left for Bath to select everything Charlotte and Fanny would need in order to come out the next year. Everybody had been so excited at that prospect that Jack had not dared mention the cost. After all, he too wanted his daughters’ futures secured. The ladies would all stay at the large flat Diana had purchased many years ago for the late Mrs Williams.
Cook had assured Brigid that the new dormouse would want for nothing and would greet her well-fed and cheerful on her return. Brigid faithfully kept a dormouse to remind her of dear George while he was away on duty for many months on end.
As soon as the coach had gone bowling down the drive at a fine pace, Jack had sent out invitations to some of his neighbours for an evening of whist and van John. Contrary to those ill-fated card games at Craddock’s many years ago, they would play for love. Well, not quite for love, perhaps, but their ponies would only be worth a few pence. The men were looking forward to an evening amongst themselves. Woolcombe was known for its hospitality; plenty of food and drink, but best of all, there would be no womenfolk around this time to hear any high words that might fly in the course of the game.
“Do not feel so low, old Stephen.” Jack had picked up on his friend’s disappointment for once, remembering that earlier on the doctor had expressed a wish for some music. It had been a while since they had found time to try out some of the music Jack had found in a shop in nearby Dorchester.
“Our neighbours will have been expecting this invitation, since they know that the ladies and children are away. We will have a few more quiet evenings…” Jack had coughed and continued, “…quiet evenings left to us before Sophie, Mrs Andrews and the girls return.”
If I resist temptation, oh I know for sure that I will lose the bet.
I walk away and suddenly it seems I’m not alone.
In front of me he stands - I stop, before he goes.*
‘He wishes to draw me out, the creature,” thought Stephen. Aloud, he said, “I too will be looking forward to this evening, though I hope you will forgive me if I watch rather than play.” His voice had dropped to the merest whisper and it cost him every ounce of self-restraint not to give into the temptation to reach up and trail his fingers along the blush his words had created on his friend’s face. What a pleasing reaction had been brought forth.
Jack had visibly drawn himself together. “How kind of you, dear. I would not like to see my neighbours fleeced.” Then he left the room to hand the invitations over to one of the servants before Stephen could come up with a suitable reply.
A barn owl hooted in the woodlands and interrupted Stephen’s thoughts. Soon Jack would ask Killick to arrange for his guests to be piled into their waiting coaches, whose horses knew their own way home. Servants and sailors alike, having cleaned the saloon and kitchen, would be off to sleep, and they would think nothing of Captain Aubrey paying a visit to Dr Maturin before going to bed. The two of them had been known to sit up all night, making music together until they were relieved by the dawn chorus.
Stephen’s thoughts drifted back to the early evening. Killick and Mnason, the hereditary butler to the Aubrey family, had been standing near the welwet saloon’s door, arguing about the use of fish slices and how best to keep silver clean and shiny. They fell silent at his approach and were quick to open the door for him, glad that he did not favour them with a biting remark or two.
From where you are,
you see the smoke start to arise,
where they play cards.
And you walk over, softly moving past the guards.
The stakes are getting higher.*
Smoke from several cigars obscured the air over the table. He walked over, moving past Killick and Mnason, and was surprised at how the stakes had surpassed a pound while he had been out taking a breath of fresh air. He nodded at Jack, but instead of sitting down where his friend had kept him a seat, he went over to the side-table and helped himself to a handful of grapes from the fruit basket. He turned and watched the players from the half-shadows cast by flickering candles.
A movement caught his attention and he saw that his friend was dealing the cards. Not wanting to be caught staring, Stephen focussed on Jack’s hands. Despite the effects of age, those strong hands still knew how to wield a sword as certainly as they knew how to give pleasure, hands that were gentle despite their calluses. He looked up and found Jack’s eyes watching him. Greatly daring and thankful for the shadows, he reached for another grape, swiped across it with his tongue and then slowly, oh so slowly, sucked it into his mouth. He still held Jack’s gaze and was astonished that none of the other gentlemen seemed to sense the electricity that suddenly filled one part of the saloon. Jack swallowed dryly, and when his opposite declared a ‘natural’ he was hardly able to check his cards, something that Stephen saw with great complacency.
You can feel it in your heart.
He calls you bluff.
He is the ace you never thought he played that much.
And now it’s more than all this cards you want to touch.
You never know if winning this could really be enough.*
The chips changed hands and a new game started. Stephen settled against the wall to enjoy the sight of a flustered Jack, but he had not bargained for the fact that his friend was able to give as good as he got. First Jack reached for his port, barely touching the rim, and then he pursed his lips and sipped, swallowing slowly. He set the glass down and, catching Stephen’s gaze, made a show of wiping one hand on his breeches. All this only took an instant or two, and he immediately focussed again on the game, encouraging his guests to take more of the port. Even though decades should have taught him patience, Stephen was by now fighting to maintain his self-control, and so as not to betray his lack of it he bowed to the card-players and left the room, murmuring something about having to finish his notes on a medical paper.
He was grateful that neither servants nor seamen saw him make his unsteady way down the corridors and up the stairs, lest they thought him deeply into his wine. He swallowed, still almost overcome by the sight of Jack’s strong thighs in those tight fawn breeches. He did not care whether he lay across those thighs or was gripped by them or whether they supported Jack as he knelt on the white linen, just as long as Stephen was able to touch, stroke, rub and feel those hard muscles under the pale skin. He paused on the stairs and his knuckles showed white from his grip on the handrail.
Take a look, beyond the moon you see the stars.
And when you look around, you know the room by heart.*
Once in his bedroom he did not bother with a candle, shifting his clothes by moonlight instead. It was a relief to rid himself of his breeches, which were by then restricting his heated flesh to the point where it had become physically painful. He opened the window to the mild night breeze and briefly contemplated the moon and the stars before breathing deeply and trying to gather his thoughts about the paper he was to write, an account of his recent census of the waders round the mere at Woolcombe. Though he relaxed after a while, his mind would not cooperate completely. A sad cock he would make of his notes if he were to write them up now.
During the past week his need to know Jack again in all ways had grown ever stronger and from some of his friend’s reactions he knew the need to be equally returned. The passage of time had not diminished Stephen’s ardent temperament and his friend always reciprocated wholeheartedly, because he knew his wants intimately well since they were his own.
I have never dreamed it.
Have you ever dreamed a night like this?
I cannot believe it.
I may never see a night like this.*
Once the ladies and children had left, Stephen had begun imagining the ways of joining with or being joined to Jack. He could hardly believe himself so far gone, but he longed for completeness in body and mind, a feeling which generous, loving Jack, and only Jack, could give him.
When everything you think is incomplete.
Starts happening when you are cheek to cheek.
Could you ever dream it?
I have never dreamed, dreamed a night like this.*
The Breguet chimed again, marking an hour since he had left the card room. Suddenly he heard a noise he could not quite place. He listened, head cocked. Then it came again and he knew it to be the creaking floor plank next to the staircase! He went to the door and opened it before Jack had raised his hand to knock. They searched each other’s face in the dim light from the window for a moment before Stephen stood aside. Jack moved into the room and closed the door, leaning against it, fumbling behind his back to turn the key.
Talk was unnecessary between them; they simply moved towards each other, one bending down, the other straightening up until they were cheek to cheek, stubble rasping against stubble. When their lips met, Stephen saw an answering light in Jack’s eyes and finally felt complete.
Their hair was now badger grey and they ought to have known the advantage of caution, but no, they threw it to the wind as they tore at each other’s clothes, ripping shirts where seams would not give and landing in the most unseemly heap on the bed, where they rolled and heaved, fingernails drawing blood as they clawed at each other. Sanity, too, seemed to have deserted them entirely; they were consumed by their desires until they spent as fast as they had met.
Afterwards, Stephen sprawled bonelessly next to Jack, one arm flung over the wide chest.
“Stephen?”
“Yes, soul?”
“We certainly went at it.”
“You boarded with guns roaring and drums beating.”
“We both struck our colours quickly, having shot our bolts.”
“There is never a moment to lose.”
Jack chuckled into Stephen’s hair. “Shall we engage once more?”
“I should like that of all things.”
“You would?”
Stephen heard the smile in Jack’s question and he replied, “Already with thee! Tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays.”
“I take that to be a yes.”
“By all means.”
And they set to it several times that night before they finally slept, and were woken only by the morning sun shining through the window.
Notes:
*Caro Emerald’s A Night Like This, with reshuffled lyrics
Stephen cites John Keats Ode to a Nightingale
A Night Like This
by esteven
Pairing: Jack/Stephen
Rating: NC 17 (just in case, and just for the last few paragraphs)
Spoilers: Hundred Days; set post Blue at the Mizzen
Disclaimer: Patrick O'Brian created and owns Jack Aubrey, Stephen Maturin and their world. All material here is not-for-profit.
Length: about 2300
Summary: Playing Cards
Author's Note: Oodles of thanks to feroxargentea for beta-ing and patience.
How many times,
have I been waiting by the door to hear these chimes?
To hear that someone debonair has just arrived.
And opened up to see my world before my eyes.
That silhouette creates an image on the night I can’t forget.
It has the scent of something special, I can’t rest.*
The Breguet lay on the small side table near the door. It chimed the hour, as it had done every hour of every day since Stephen had had it.
Only the moon and a few stars shed their meagre light from a largely overcast sky into the garden below. Stephen stood at the open window of his bedroom in Woolcombe’s left wing. The Maturins had definitely settled in this part of the sprawling manor house to which Diana’s excellent taste had added furniture and artwork for many years. A nightingale serenaded the moon.
“What is Jack doing in the fields at this time of night?” Stephen thought, and almost instantly wondered how he could have mistaken the tall silhouette of the vegetable patch scarecrow in the kitchen garden for his friend. It must surely be equally a figment of his imagination that the night breeze carried the scent of salty clean air and the sea, scents he associated with Jack. He breathed deeply to calm himself as he waited. To keep himself occupied, he reflected on the months that had passed and more specifically on the last few days.
They had been ashore for almost a year after their return from South Africa, and tonight was one of those occasions, sadly few and difficult to arrange, when they could be together. Every now and then they had visited London, for a concert, meetings of the Royal Society of which they were both members, or some other business. Still, they had only managed a few snatched hours at Black’s or at The Grapes, where one of them always had to leave the bed to sneak into a separate room after they had taken their pleasure with each other. It did not occur to them to meet in one of those secret places where patrons shut their eyes to the dealings of their customers. That might have spelt blackmail, and neither he nor Jack wished to court the noose and cause grief to their families and friends by causing a scandal. Everything was so much easier at sea, where arrangements were less complicated - as long as they kept quiet.
Last Wednesday George had left Woolcombe after some leave to join Heneage Dundas’ squadron again. Shortly after that, Sophie, Clarissa, Brigid and the twins had left for Bath to select everything Charlotte and Fanny would need in order to come out the next year. Everybody had been so excited at that prospect that Jack had not dared mention the cost. After all, he too wanted his daughters’ futures secured. The ladies would all stay at the large flat Diana had purchased many years ago for the late Mrs Williams.
Cook had assured Brigid that the new dormouse would want for nothing and would greet her well-fed and cheerful on her return. Brigid faithfully kept a dormouse to remind her of dear George while he was away on duty for many months on end.
As soon as the coach had gone bowling down the drive at a fine pace, Jack had sent out invitations to some of his neighbours for an evening of whist and van John. Contrary to those ill-fated card games at Craddock’s many years ago, they would play for love. Well, not quite for love, perhaps, but their ponies would only be worth a few pence. The men were looking forward to an evening amongst themselves. Woolcombe was known for its hospitality; plenty of food and drink, but best of all, there would be no womenfolk around this time to hear any high words that might fly in the course of the game.
“Do not feel so low, old Stephen.” Jack had picked up on his friend’s disappointment for once, remembering that earlier on the doctor had expressed a wish for some music. It had been a while since they had found time to try out some of the music Jack had found in a shop in nearby Dorchester.
“Our neighbours will have been expecting this invitation, since they know that the ladies and children are away. We will have a few more quiet evenings…” Jack had coughed and continued, “…quiet evenings left to us before Sophie, Mrs Andrews and the girls return.”
If I resist temptation, oh I know for sure that I will lose the bet.
I walk away and suddenly it seems I’m not alone.
In front of me he stands - I stop, before he goes.*
‘He wishes to draw me out, the creature,” thought Stephen. Aloud, he said, “I too will be looking forward to this evening, though I hope you will forgive me if I watch rather than play.” His voice had dropped to the merest whisper and it cost him every ounce of self-restraint not to give into the temptation to reach up and trail his fingers along the blush his words had created on his friend’s face. What a pleasing reaction had been brought forth.
Jack had visibly drawn himself together. “How kind of you, dear. I would not like to see my neighbours fleeced.” Then he left the room to hand the invitations over to one of the servants before Stephen could come up with a suitable reply.
A barn owl hooted in the woodlands and interrupted Stephen’s thoughts. Soon Jack would ask Killick to arrange for his guests to be piled into their waiting coaches, whose horses knew their own way home. Servants and sailors alike, having cleaned the saloon and kitchen, would be off to sleep, and they would think nothing of Captain Aubrey paying a visit to Dr Maturin before going to bed. The two of them had been known to sit up all night, making music together until they were relieved by the dawn chorus.
Stephen’s thoughts drifted back to the early evening. Killick and Mnason, the hereditary butler to the Aubrey family, had been standing near the welwet saloon’s door, arguing about the use of fish slices and how best to keep silver clean and shiny. They fell silent at his approach and were quick to open the door for him, glad that he did not favour them with a biting remark or two.
From where you are,
you see the smoke start to arise,
where they play cards.
And you walk over, softly moving past the guards.
The stakes are getting higher.*
Smoke from several cigars obscured the air over the table. He walked over, moving past Killick and Mnason, and was surprised at how the stakes had surpassed a pound while he had been out taking a breath of fresh air. He nodded at Jack, but instead of sitting down where his friend had kept him a seat, he went over to the side-table and helped himself to a handful of grapes from the fruit basket. He turned and watched the players from the half-shadows cast by flickering candles.
A movement caught his attention and he saw that his friend was dealing the cards. Not wanting to be caught staring, Stephen focussed on Jack’s hands. Despite the effects of age, those strong hands still knew how to wield a sword as certainly as they knew how to give pleasure, hands that were gentle despite their calluses. He looked up and found Jack’s eyes watching him. Greatly daring and thankful for the shadows, he reached for another grape, swiped across it with his tongue and then slowly, oh so slowly, sucked it into his mouth. He still held Jack’s gaze and was astonished that none of the other gentlemen seemed to sense the electricity that suddenly filled one part of the saloon. Jack swallowed dryly, and when his opposite declared a ‘natural’ he was hardly able to check his cards, something that Stephen saw with great complacency.
You can feel it in your heart.
He calls you bluff.
He is the ace you never thought he played that much.
And now it’s more than all this cards you want to touch.
You never know if winning this could really be enough.*
The chips changed hands and a new game started. Stephen settled against the wall to enjoy the sight of a flustered Jack, but he had not bargained for the fact that his friend was able to give as good as he got. First Jack reached for his port, barely touching the rim, and then he pursed his lips and sipped, swallowing slowly. He set the glass down and, catching Stephen’s gaze, made a show of wiping one hand on his breeches. All this only took an instant or two, and he immediately focussed again on the game, encouraging his guests to take more of the port. Even though decades should have taught him patience, Stephen was by now fighting to maintain his self-control, and so as not to betray his lack of it he bowed to the card-players and left the room, murmuring something about having to finish his notes on a medical paper.
He was grateful that neither servants nor seamen saw him make his unsteady way down the corridors and up the stairs, lest they thought him deeply into his wine. He swallowed, still almost overcome by the sight of Jack’s strong thighs in those tight fawn breeches. He did not care whether he lay across those thighs or was gripped by them or whether they supported Jack as he knelt on the white linen, just as long as Stephen was able to touch, stroke, rub and feel those hard muscles under the pale skin. He paused on the stairs and his knuckles showed white from his grip on the handrail.
Take a look, beyond the moon you see the stars.
And when you look around, you know the room by heart.*
Once in his bedroom he did not bother with a candle, shifting his clothes by moonlight instead. It was a relief to rid himself of his breeches, which were by then restricting his heated flesh to the point where it had become physically painful. He opened the window to the mild night breeze and briefly contemplated the moon and the stars before breathing deeply and trying to gather his thoughts about the paper he was to write, an account of his recent census of the waders round the mere at Woolcombe. Though he relaxed after a while, his mind would not cooperate completely. A sad cock he would make of his notes if he were to write them up now.
During the past week his need to know Jack again in all ways had grown ever stronger and from some of his friend’s reactions he knew the need to be equally returned. The passage of time had not diminished Stephen’s ardent temperament and his friend always reciprocated wholeheartedly, because he knew his wants intimately well since they were his own.
I have never dreamed it.
Have you ever dreamed a night like this?
I cannot believe it.
I may never see a night like this.*
Once the ladies and children had left, Stephen had begun imagining the ways of joining with or being joined to Jack. He could hardly believe himself so far gone, but he longed for completeness in body and mind, a feeling which generous, loving Jack, and only Jack, could give him.
When everything you think is incomplete.
Starts happening when you are cheek to cheek.
Could you ever dream it?
I have never dreamed, dreamed a night like this.*
The Breguet chimed again, marking an hour since he had left the card room. Suddenly he heard a noise he could not quite place. He listened, head cocked. Then it came again and he knew it to be the creaking floor plank next to the staircase! He went to the door and opened it before Jack had raised his hand to knock. They searched each other’s face in the dim light from the window for a moment before Stephen stood aside. Jack moved into the room and closed the door, leaning against it, fumbling behind his back to turn the key.
Talk was unnecessary between them; they simply moved towards each other, one bending down, the other straightening up until they were cheek to cheek, stubble rasping against stubble. When their lips met, Stephen saw an answering light in Jack’s eyes and finally felt complete.
Their hair was now badger grey and they ought to have known the advantage of caution, but no, they threw it to the wind as they tore at each other’s clothes, ripping shirts where seams would not give and landing in the most unseemly heap on the bed, where they rolled and heaved, fingernails drawing blood as they clawed at each other. Sanity, too, seemed to have deserted them entirely; they were consumed by their desires until they spent as fast as they had met.
Afterwards, Stephen sprawled bonelessly next to Jack, one arm flung over the wide chest.
“Stephen?”
“Yes, soul?”
“We certainly went at it.”
“You boarded with guns roaring and drums beating.”
“We both struck our colours quickly, having shot our bolts.”
“There is never a moment to lose.”
Jack chuckled into Stephen’s hair. “Shall we engage once more?”
“I should like that of all things.”
“You would?”
Stephen heard the smile in Jack’s question and he replied, “Already with thee! Tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays.”
“I take that to be a yes.”
“By all means.”
And they set to it several times that night before they finally slept, and were woken only by the morning sun shining through the window.
Notes:
*Caro Emerald’s A Night Like This, with reshuffled lyrics
Stephen cites John Keats Ode to a Nightingale