Hook (Jack/James, NC-17)
Title: Hook
Pairing: Jack/James
Rating: NC-17
Summary: If he was strong, he wouldn't need this.
Prompt: 073. Light
Note: The Jack/James verse belongs to foxxcub. I'm only a visitor. I need to thank her a million times for the permission and the handholding. Also, originally written for lostvalentines, as a response to zenana7's request for anything Jack/Sawyer and NC-17. I was attempting to mold it after the story of Hades and Persephone, but things got a little tangled along the way. Takes place immediately after foxxcub's Gravity.
Hook
He was expecting to wake up alone. Hell, he was counting on it, on Jack taking off at some ungodly grey hour, scrambling to get the car back before his dad noticed it was missing.
But James isn’t alone. And from the slice of hot sunlight that’s hitting him square in the face, he’s pretty sure the time for slinking away quietly has come and gone.
Their legs are tangled together, over and under the sheets, and James’ nose is pressed right up behind Jack’s ear. He can feel Jack’s rumpled hair tickling his face with every breath, and he breathes in deep, noting the smoky, sweet scent of pot still clinging to Jack. The breath comes out a frustrated sigh, louder than he intended, and Jack hums a little in his sleep, but doesn’t stir.
“Fuckin’ idiot,” James hears himself saying. He doesn’t know which one of them he’s talking about. It just seems right. The words are equal parts fondness and disdain.
The focused sunshine makes everything too bright, and James closes his eyes again, turning a little to avoid the worst of it. His right arm shifts from where it’s draped along Jack’s side, hand splaying on Jack’s bare thigh. It hasn’t escaped his notice that his cock is right up against Jack’s ass. It’s even harder not to do anything about it, now that he’s fully aware of Jack’s smell and the soft, easy heat of his skin. James can’t believe how quickly he goes from fast asleep to so fucking turned on.
He knows he should wake Jack up, send him running home with a last minute alibi. But he’s sleepy and the urgency hasn’t quite hit him yet. Or maybe it has, and he’s just choosing to ignore it, choosing to just lie here with his eyes closed for a while. Choosing to pretend away the downward pull of dread.
If he doesn’t look at his alarm clock, he can imagine that this moment is longer than it really is.
Jack mumbles himself awake over the space of a few minutes, something James has heard him do before, but still isn’t quite used to. It’s a little spooky, like Jack is in a trance, and it makes something inside James’ chest tighten uncomfortably. Makes him hold his breath as he listens for real words inside the gibberish. But there aren’t any, just the soft vibrations of Jack’s voice coursing through them both as he climbs slowly out of his dream.
Then Jack clears his throat and says, “Did you call me a fucking idiot just now?” in a sleepy, flat voice, and James grins against the back of his head.
“Maybe.”
“S’what I thought,” Jack says.
His body lengthens into a full stretch, and James takes the opportunity to let his hand slide down to Jack’s stomach. One finger absently starts playing the letter game, slowly spelling out his own name.
“Mornin’, Prep.”
Jack squirms, puts some distance between them on the narrow bed as he turns to look at James.
“It’s afternoon,” he says, squinting and raising a hand to his face to fend off the glare. Disoriented, he looks around the room. “Gotta be.”
“No. Morning,” James insists with gravity. “It’s morning.”
Jack frowns.
Here it comes, James thinks, his insides going cold. Time to go running off to daddy.
Jack’s hand falls from his face to rest on his belly, interrupting James before he’s had a chance to put the S at the end of his name. James retreats, gets ready.
Then Jack’s mouth quirks up at the corners. An anxious little smile, but it’s enough. James lets out a long breath. If he doesn’t look at the time, then this moment can last all day.
Or as long as he can keep it going before fucking it up.
James rolls, lazily covers Jack’s body with his own. Jack’s eyes are searching his face with an unsettling openness, and James has to look away. Jack may not remember uttering those words last night, but that doesn’t take away the sentiment, or make it hurt any less. James didn’t know it would feel like this.
They’re just words.
Then why did it seem like he was bleeding? And why is the feeling still with him, just a vague impression of something slowly draining out of him?
That’s not how the hero of the story feels.
He can’t stop the thought from nagging at the back of his mind, even though he’s doing his best to erase every thought in his head. He lets his hips slowly roll against Jack’s, closing his eyes against a sensation that his body, still in its sleepy, relaxed state, wasn’t quite ready for.
Love isn’t supposed to hurt like this.
James silently curses himself for being weak. For even thinking the word. If he had any kind of strength, he’d be pushing Jack away right now, not melting into him like this. He hears Jack’s breath stop short in his throat, then feels Jack’s arms snaking around him, fingers digging into James’ lower back as he tries to somehow pull James tighter against him. They’re already pressed skin to skin.
“Oh fuck, Prep,” James says, because he feels like he has to say something.
“Yeah,” Jack says, the word empty of air and of meaning.
James has a leg nearly wrapped around one of Jack’s. Leverage, as he grinds against him again. Their upper bodies connect and suddenly they’re breathing together, James feeling every quick, uneven intake of air from Jack. Jack grips his shoulder hard, tries to slip his other hand between their bodies, but it’s too tight and James isn’t accommodating it. A muffled sound that could be frustration escapes Jack’s throat.
James shifts his hips again and this time Jack moves with him, trapping an intense and entirely manufactured heat between them. There’s a painful surge of arousal deep in James’ gut, and he consciously slows his breath, trying to stifle it as best he can, to stave it off.
If he was strong, he wouldn’t need this.
The sight of Jack’s flushed skin against the dingy white pillowcase isn’t anything he’s noticed before, and it takes James a few seconds to realize that they’ve only ever done this in darkness, in shadow. In secret. Jack is staring at him with a mix of concern and impatience, his eyelids still heavy with sleep. Every few seconds, his gaze flickers to James’ mouth and then back up to meet his eyes. It’s obvious what he wants, and yet, except for his fingers sliding from James’ shoulder down his arm, Jack isn’t moving.
James shifts, feeling the awkward, moist heat of Jack’s erection against his thigh, and Jack lets out a choked whimper and jerks up into the small movement, but still doesn’t come in for the kiss.
That’s when it hits James. Jack doesn’t want to just kiss him. Jack wants to be kissed, like this is some damn movie.
“Fuckin’ idiot,” James says again just before his lips brush against Jack’s, barely there, rationing the sensation as if he’s liable to run out of this feeling.
Jack makes a sound not unlike the ones he makes when he’s asleep, and James sighs, giving up. Kisses him for real this time, Jack’s mouth falling softly open against his, Jack’s long nose pressing into his cheek for a moment as James tries to find a better angle and then lets his tongue get involved. There’s the taste of stale smoke and morning breath and him, and somehow the combination is delicious to James, intoxicating, even though he knows it should be foul.
Jack’s hands slide up his back so fast it gives him goosebumps, and a second later Jack’s fingers are working through his hair, sending hot, tingly waves through him. His tongue slides against Jack’s, just for a second, teasing, then he’s sucking at the sleep-swollen upper lip and then Jack’s mouth is capturing his for another round, more intensity between them now as James’ hips jerk forward, nothing he can control, and James can’t understand how he’s still conscious. It feels like he hasn’t drawn a breath in ten minutes.
He’s being touched all over, Jack’s hands skimming over his shoulders, digging into his sides, kneading his ass and thighs. James breaks the kiss long enough to take in a gasp of air, and then that’s it. He props himself up and takes them both in hand, shuddering at the heat of Jack’s cock against his.
“Why do you keep calling me that?” Jack says, halfway between amused and irritated.
James sees the flush creep up into Jack’s cheeks, watches the involuntary hitching of his breath when James shifts his grip.
“I’m not talking about you,” James says, tone a bit grumpier than he meant it to be. He catches a glimpse of Jack’s dark eyes narrowing just before Jack pulls him down and clumsily kisses his chin. James suddenly wants to laugh, but he can’t find the air. His hand has gotten slick and he’s thrusting against Jack without even realizing it.
He couldn’t stop this, even if he wanted to. There’s just something about Jack that makes it too easy to get lost.
Jack’s fingers curve softly around his ear, absent-mindedly caressing the sensitive skin there, while his other hand slips between their bodies and closes over James’ fist. James’ throat tightens; he thinks he can hear the blood crashing through his veins. His hips roll forward again, pushing his cock further into the moist, warm closeness created by their joined hands, and Jack lets out a shaky moan. If possible, he’s a darker shade of pink, sweat glistening on his forehead and chest. There’s something deep and flinty in Jack’s gaze, a hunger and something lurking just behind it, and again James can’t quite catch his breath.
Still the back and forth continues and James shudders, feels himself nearly coming unhinged in response to the friction between them. Jack is saying his name, breathing it, stretching it out until it loses its meaning. He knows Jack’s close to breaking. All the signs are there: the slight cracking of his voice, the tremor that seems to run through the core of him straight to his cock, the dazed, sated shine in his eyes. Still, James can’t shake the feeling that Jack is peering into him, and more and more it seems like Jack is seeing something that isn’t really there. Something that couldn’t be a part of James, because what Jack is seeing is beautiful.
“Hey, why are you shaking?” Jack says, breathless.
“I… no.” James lowers his eyes, focuses on what his hand is doing. “I’m not.”
If Jack wants to call him on it, he never gets the chance. One long hard stroke and Jack is coming with a turbulent cry, orgasm quaking through his entire body, legs tensing, jaw hardening, hands clenching. James’ cock lurches at the suddenly tighter grip, white light flaring behind his open eyes. He feels the sticky warmth coating his stomach, and Jack’s cock trembling against his like something fragile. Then the ache in James’ gut dissolves into a spreading heat, and he’s coming right after Jack, not even bothering to utter the oath that was waiting on his tongue.
Jack continues to caress them both, movements soft and imprecise in his spent state, until James pulls away. He’s fighting his first instinct to fall into Jack, to let this moment grow into something more than it is. Instead, he ends up halfway down the mattress, far enough forward that his feet are hanging off the bed and he has no idea where the pillows are. He closes his eyes, thinks maybe if he lets sleep wash over him again Jack will still be here when he wakes up and they can start this whole thing over, like it’s some sort of magic keeping him here.
But James doesn’t want to test the theory, not when he can still smell sex and sweat, not when he can feel Jack’s gaze firmly fixed on the top of his head.
“Quit looking at me that way,” he says without turning to verify his hunch.
“Huh,” Jack says, which may or may not mean anything. James can still feel Jack’s eyes on him. There’s a queasiness inside him that he can’t quite wish away.
“Quit it,” James repeats quietly, sort of ashamed that it’s bothering him that much. He grabs a sheet from the bed, absentmindedly wipes off his stomach. His mind is straying strangely from the present; he’s remembering a play he read once, or maybe a bunch of plays, where a guy switches clothes with his servant and hilarious antics ensue. It’s all a little too familiar. Except James doesn’t feel much like laughing.
Jack’s palm lands heavy on his head, thumb straying along James’ hairline. Everything about the gesture is possessive. Jack says his name with a hint of a question at the end and James knows this should be easy, but he keeps thinking about the servant, all dressed up in fancy clothes that aren’t his.
“Jack, listen,” he begins, rolling onto his stomach and looking up to find that he was right, that Jack’s looking at him with that same shine in his eyes. Jack’s fingers travel down, slide over James’ face, trace his lips. James blinks a second too long. “Aw, fuck, I don’t know. You gotta quit looking at me like that, Prep.”
“Like what?”
Like I’m something beautiful, James thinks. Like you’re in love with me. Like this is a movie.
Like it’s all going to be okay.
He opens his mouth, waits for the words that don’t come, and Jack says, “I have to go,” and it’s mostly regret and only a little bit of hurt shining through.
James finally looks at his alarm clock, on the nightstand next to Jack, and isn’t surprised to find it’s well after 1 o’clock. Jack doesn’t look too shocked, either, but he’s pulling on his boxers in a hurry.
Sitting naked on the edge of the bed, James grabs the crumpled pack of smokes from his nightstand and shakes one out, then takes his time going through the pockets of his discarded jeans, looking for his lighter. It finally just falls out, landing on the stained beige carpet with a heavy metallic thump that makes Jack look up from buckling his belt.
“Hey, where’s your phone?” he asks as James lights up and then makes a show of stretching out on the bed. Taking up as much room as possible now that he’s alone.
James gestures across the room to the top of the narrow bureau. Jack picks up the receiver, untangling it from the long cord that leads out into the hall, and dials. He gets an absent look on his face as he waits for the connection to be made, slips one arm through the armhole of his grey t-shirt and then just pauses as whoever’s on the other end picks up.
“Hi, is Rob there?… Thanks.” He turns, sort of dips his head as he faces the window. James thinks he can see the muscles in his shoulders tensing, a pink flush still visible on his ears and the back of his neck. “Benson, hey… Listen, did- Fuck… Fuck. What did you tell him? No, I…” He turns his back on the window, looks in James’ direction, and James can’t read his expression, so he just fiddles with his Zippo and pretends he’s not listening. “I passed out in the car. No, yeah… Fuck, I know… I know. Listen, I gotta go. He’s gonna have, like, the cops or something out look… Shit. Fuck. Shit… Yeah, bye.”
Jack starts across the room and pulls his t-shirt over his head, ruffling his messy hair even more and rendering himself temporarily blind just in time to stumble into the foot of James’ bed. He ends up sitting as he yanks the t-shirt down and pops his arm out the other sleeve. James has never seen someone fight so hard with a shirt before. When he’s dressed, Jack just sits there looking kind of shell-shocked for a while. James does little Zippo flips and tricks without paying much attention to his hand. He’s had this silver lighter for a couple of years now. It’s engraved with the Jack Daniels logo and the ridges make it that much more tricky to manipulate, which is a point of pride for James.
“I don’t know what I’m gonna say to him,” Jack says quietly.
When James speaks, it’s slow and deliberately calm. “Say what you just said. It’s embarrassing, that’s good. Looking like a moron always adds believability to an alibi.”
Jack shakes his head. “He’s going to know.”
James shifts his leg until it’s resting against Jack’s back. He has a need to take this heaviness away from Jack and he can’t express it any other way. All his advice on the subject feels empty and dries out on his tongue, because he knows. He knows that all this is his fault. That somehow he’s led Jack astray, has been leading all along. He’s never been strong enough to push Jack away, and now they’re both suffering for it.
“Hey, can I have one of those?” Jack says, and it takes James a minute to realize he’s talking about the smokes.
“Sure thing, Prep,” he says a bit too slickly, and tosses Jack the pack. Jack lights the cigarette and then sits there, turning the lighter over between his fingers, staring off into space until James starts to think he didn’t actually want a smoke, just wanted to sit there and let something burn, to have a length of time before there’s nothing left to do but leave.
James takes a long pull, flicks his ash on the floor. Watches the muscle at the back of Jack’s neck knit itself into a ball of tension. And James hates himself for what he’s doing to Jack. Hates himself for what he’s about to say even before he knows what the words will be.
“You don’t have to let him control everything. Jack.”
Weak, he’s just weak. He can’t say anything without his need for Jack showing just under the surface.
“He doesn’t control everything,” Jack says, and he sounds pissed. “I have to go.”
He hasn’t even brought the cigarette to his mouth once after lighting it. Now he gets up and stubs it out in the ashtray on the nightstand, towering over James’ naked form. When he stuffs his hands in his pockets, the movement is deliberate, not at all fidgety.
James takes one last drag and lets the butt burn out, then looks back up at Jack. He thought he’d heard anger in Jack’s voice, but now Jack’s looking at him with a familiarity and tenderness that tears at James’ nerves like sandpaper.
“Go, then.”
He forces himself to close his eyes. Can feel Jack lingering in the doorway of his room a minute. Then movement; he’s sure he feels Jack’s breath on his face. But James doesn’t look, and a short while later the front door opens and closes. He waits for the sound of an engine before letting the light in again.
If James was smart, he’d move to some other town. Change his name. Anything to keep Jack from falling in further. Because James knows he should know better, but he doesn’t expect the same from Jack. Jack is too easy, too open. Too fucking full of hope. And James could stop this, if he really put his mind to it. He knows he could.
It’s only when he pulls another smoke out of the beat up pack and brings it to his lips that he notices what he missed before.
Jack, the fucker, has his lighter.
He doesn’t even have to look for it to confirm that. He knows. And somehow it means much more than just a hunk of metal. It means that James has lured Jack farther off the path than he ever realized. It means that Jack has taken bait that wasn’t up for grabs to begin with.
It means that Jack is waiting. Waiting to be reeled in again.
Pairing: Jack/James
Rating: NC-17
Summary: If he was strong, he wouldn't need this.
Prompt: 073. Light
Note: The Jack/James verse belongs to foxxcub. I'm only a visitor. I need to thank her a million times for the permission and the handholding. Also, originally written for lostvalentines, as a response to zenana7's request for anything Jack/Sawyer and NC-17. I was attempting to mold it after the story of Hades and Persephone, but things got a little tangled along the way. Takes place immediately after foxxcub's Gravity.
Hook
He was expecting to wake up alone. Hell, he was counting on it, on Jack taking off at some ungodly grey hour, scrambling to get the car back before his dad noticed it was missing.
But James isn’t alone. And from the slice of hot sunlight that’s hitting him square in the face, he’s pretty sure the time for slinking away quietly has come and gone.
Their legs are tangled together, over and under the sheets, and James’ nose is pressed right up behind Jack’s ear. He can feel Jack’s rumpled hair tickling his face with every breath, and he breathes in deep, noting the smoky, sweet scent of pot still clinging to Jack. The breath comes out a frustrated sigh, louder than he intended, and Jack hums a little in his sleep, but doesn’t stir.
“Fuckin’ idiot,” James hears himself saying. He doesn’t know which one of them he’s talking about. It just seems right. The words are equal parts fondness and disdain.
The focused sunshine makes everything too bright, and James closes his eyes again, turning a little to avoid the worst of it. His right arm shifts from where it’s draped along Jack’s side, hand splaying on Jack’s bare thigh. It hasn’t escaped his notice that his cock is right up against Jack’s ass. It’s even harder not to do anything about it, now that he’s fully aware of Jack’s smell and the soft, easy heat of his skin. James can’t believe how quickly he goes from fast asleep to so fucking turned on.
He knows he should wake Jack up, send him running home with a last minute alibi. But he’s sleepy and the urgency hasn’t quite hit him yet. Or maybe it has, and he’s just choosing to ignore it, choosing to just lie here with his eyes closed for a while. Choosing to pretend away the downward pull of dread.
If he doesn’t look at his alarm clock, he can imagine that this moment is longer than it really is.
Jack mumbles himself awake over the space of a few minutes, something James has heard him do before, but still isn’t quite used to. It’s a little spooky, like Jack is in a trance, and it makes something inside James’ chest tighten uncomfortably. Makes him hold his breath as he listens for real words inside the gibberish. But there aren’t any, just the soft vibrations of Jack’s voice coursing through them both as he climbs slowly out of his dream.
Then Jack clears his throat and says, “Did you call me a fucking idiot just now?” in a sleepy, flat voice, and James grins against the back of his head.
“Maybe.”
“S’what I thought,” Jack says.
His body lengthens into a full stretch, and James takes the opportunity to let his hand slide down to Jack’s stomach. One finger absently starts playing the letter game, slowly spelling out his own name.
“Mornin’, Prep.”
Jack squirms, puts some distance between them on the narrow bed as he turns to look at James.
“It’s afternoon,” he says, squinting and raising a hand to his face to fend off the glare. Disoriented, he looks around the room. “Gotta be.”
“No. Morning,” James insists with gravity. “It’s morning.”
Jack frowns.
Here it comes, James thinks, his insides going cold. Time to go running off to daddy.
Jack’s hand falls from his face to rest on his belly, interrupting James before he’s had a chance to put the S at the end of his name. James retreats, gets ready.
Then Jack’s mouth quirks up at the corners. An anxious little smile, but it’s enough. James lets out a long breath. If he doesn’t look at the time, then this moment can last all day.
Or as long as he can keep it going before fucking it up.
James rolls, lazily covers Jack’s body with his own. Jack’s eyes are searching his face with an unsettling openness, and James has to look away. Jack may not remember uttering those words last night, but that doesn’t take away the sentiment, or make it hurt any less. James didn’t know it would feel like this.
They’re just words.
Then why did it seem like he was bleeding? And why is the feeling still with him, just a vague impression of something slowly draining out of him?
That’s not how the hero of the story feels.
He can’t stop the thought from nagging at the back of his mind, even though he’s doing his best to erase every thought in his head. He lets his hips slowly roll against Jack’s, closing his eyes against a sensation that his body, still in its sleepy, relaxed state, wasn’t quite ready for.
Love isn’t supposed to hurt like this.
James silently curses himself for being weak. For even thinking the word. If he had any kind of strength, he’d be pushing Jack away right now, not melting into him like this. He hears Jack’s breath stop short in his throat, then feels Jack’s arms snaking around him, fingers digging into James’ lower back as he tries to somehow pull James tighter against him. They’re already pressed skin to skin.
“Oh fuck, Prep,” James says, because he feels like he has to say something.
“Yeah,” Jack says, the word empty of air and of meaning.
James has a leg nearly wrapped around one of Jack’s. Leverage, as he grinds against him again. Their upper bodies connect and suddenly they’re breathing together, James feeling every quick, uneven intake of air from Jack. Jack grips his shoulder hard, tries to slip his other hand between their bodies, but it’s too tight and James isn’t accommodating it. A muffled sound that could be frustration escapes Jack’s throat.
James shifts his hips again and this time Jack moves with him, trapping an intense and entirely manufactured heat between them. There’s a painful surge of arousal deep in James’ gut, and he consciously slows his breath, trying to stifle it as best he can, to stave it off.
If he was strong, he wouldn’t need this.
The sight of Jack’s flushed skin against the dingy white pillowcase isn’t anything he’s noticed before, and it takes James a few seconds to realize that they’ve only ever done this in darkness, in shadow. In secret. Jack is staring at him with a mix of concern and impatience, his eyelids still heavy with sleep. Every few seconds, his gaze flickers to James’ mouth and then back up to meet his eyes. It’s obvious what he wants, and yet, except for his fingers sliding from James’ shoulder down his arm, Jack isn’t moving.
James shifts, feeling the awkward, moist heat of Jack’s erection against his thigh, and Jack lets out a choked whimper and jerks up into the small movement, but still doesn’t come in for the kiss.
That’s when it hits James. Jack doesn’t want to just kiss him. Jack wants to be kissed, like this is some damn movie.
“Fuckin’ idiot,” James says again just before his lips brush against Jack’s, barely there, rationing the sensation as if he’s liable to run out of this feeling.
Jack makes a sound not unlike the ones he makes when he’s asleep, and James sighs, giving up. Kisses him for real this time, Jack’s mouth falling softly open against his, Jack’s long nose pressing into his cheek for a moment as James tries to find a better angle and then lets his tongue get involved. There’s the taste of stale smoke and morning breath and him, and somehow the combination is delicious to James, intoxicating, even though he knows it should be foul.
Jack’s hands slide up his back so fast it gives him goosebumps, and a second later Jack’s fingers are working through his hair, sending hot, tingly waves through him. His tongue slides against Jack’s, just for a second, teasing, then he’s sucking at the sleep-swollen upper lip and then Jack’s mouth is capturing his for another round, more intensity between them now as James’ hips jerk forward, nothing he can control, and James can’t understand how he’s still conscious. It feels like he hasn’t drawn a breath in ten minutes.
He’s being touched all over, Jack’s hands skimming over his shoulders, digging into his sides, kneading his ass and thighs. James breaks the kiss long enough to take in a gasp of air, and then that’s it. He props himself up and takes them both in hand, shuddering at the heat of Jack’s cock against his.
“Why do you keep calling me that?” Jack says, halfway between amused and irritated.
James sees the flush creep up into Jack’s cheeks, watches the involuntary hitching of his breath when James shifts his grip.
“I’m not talking about you,” James says, tone a bit grumpier than he meant it to be. He catches a glimpse of Jack’s dark eyes narrowing just before Jack pulls him down and clumsily kisses his chin. James suddenly wants to laugh, but he can’t find the air. His hand has gotten slick and he’s thrusting against Jack without even realizing it.
He couldn’t stop this, even if he wanted to. There’s just something about Jack that makes it too easy to get lost.
Jack’s fingers curve softly around his ear, absent-mindedly caressing the sensitive skin there, while his other hand slips between their bodies and closes over James’ fist. James’ throat tightens; he thinks he can hear the blood crashing through his veins. His hips roll forward again, pushing his cock further into the moist, warm closeness created by their joined hands, and Jack lets out a shaky moan. If possible, he’s a darker shade of pink, sweat glistening on his forehead and chest. There’s something deep and flinty in Jack’s gaze, a hunger and something lurking just behind it, and again James can’t quite catch his breath.
Still the back and forth continues and James shudders, feels himself nearly coming unhinged in response to the friction between them. Jack is saying his name, breathing it, stretching it out until it loses its meaning. He knows Jack’s close to breaking. All the signs are there: the slight cracking of his voice, the tremor that seems to run through the core of him straight to his cock, the dazed, sated shine in his eyes. Still, James can’t shake the feeling that Jack is peering into him, and more and more it seems like Jack is seeing something that isn’t really there. Something that couldn’t be a part of James, because what Jack is seeing is beautiful.
“Hey, why are you shaking?” Jack says, breathless.
“I… no.” James lowers his eyes, focuses on what his hand is doing. “I’m not.”
If Jack wants to call him on it, he never gets the chance. One long hard stroke and Jack is coming with a turbulent cry, orgasm quaking through his entire body, legs tensing, jaw hardening, hands clenching. James’ cock lurches at the suddenly tighter grip, white light flaring behind his open eyes. He feels the sticky warmth coating his stomach, and Jack’s cock trembling against his like something fragile. Then the ache in James’ gut dissolves into a spreading heat, and he’s coming right after Jack, not even bothering to utter the oath that was waiting on his tongue.
Jack continues to caress them both, movements soft and imprecise in his spent state, until James pulls away. He’s fighting his first instinct to fall into Jack, to let this moment grow into something more than it is. Instead, he ends up halfway down the mattress, far enough forward that his feet are hanging off the bed and he has no idea where the pillows are. He closes his eyes, thinks maybe if he lets sleep wash over him again Jack will still be here when he wakes up and they can start this whole thing over, like it’s some sort of magic keeping him here.
But James doesn’t want to test the theory, not when he can still smell sex and sweat, not when he can feel Jack’s gaze firmly fixed on the top of his head.
“Quit looking at me that way,” he says without turning to verify his hunch.
“Huh,” Jack says, which may or may not mean anything. James can still feel Jack’s eyes on him. There’s a queasiness inside him that he can’t quite wish away.
“Quit it,” James repeats quietly, sort of ashamed that it’s bothering him that much. He grabs a sheet from the bed, absentmindedly wipes off his stomach. His mind is straying strangely from the present; he’s remembering a play he read once, or maybe a bunch of plays, where a guy switches clothes with his servant and hilarious antics ensue. It’s all a little too familiar. Except James doesn’t feel much like laughing.
Jack’s palm lands heavy on his head, thumb straying along James’ hairline. Everything about the gesture is possessive. Jack says his name with a hint of a question at the end and James knows this should be easy, but he keeps thinking about the servant, all dressed up in fancy clothes that aren’t his.
“Jack, listen,” he begins, rolling onto his stomach and looking up to find that he was right, that Jack’s looking at him with that same shine in his eyes. Jack’s fingers travel down, slide over James’ face, trace his lips. James blinks a second too long. “Aw, fuck, I don’t know. You gotta quit looking at me like that, Prep.”
“Like what?”
Like I’m something beautiful, James thinks. Like you’re in love with me. Like this is a movie.
Like it’s all going to be okay.
He opens his mouth, waits for the words that don’t come, and Jack says, “I have to go,” and it’s mostly regret and only a little bit of hurt shining through.
James finally looks at his alarm clock, on the nightstand next to Jack, and isn’t surprised to find it’s well after 1 o’clock. Jack doesn’t look too shocked, either, but he’s pulling on his boxers in a hurry.
Sitting naked on the edge of the bed, James grabs the crumpled pack of smokes from his nightstand and shakes one out, then takes his time going through the pockets of his discarded jeans, looking for his lighter. It finally just falls out, landing on the stained beige carpet with a heavy metallic thump that makes Jack look up from buckling his belt.
“Hey, where’s your phone?” he asks as James lights up and then makes a show of stretching out on the bed. Taking up as much room as possible now that he’s alone.
James gestures across the room to the top of the narrow bureau. Jack picks up the receiver, untangling it from the long cord that leads out into the hall, and dials. He gets an absent look on his face as he waits for the connection to be made, slips one arm through the armhole of his grey t-shirt and then just pauses as whoever’s on the other end picks up.
“Hi, is Rob there?… Thanks.” He turns, sort of dips his head as he faces the window. James thinks he can see the muscles in his shoulders tensing, a pink flush still visible on his ears and the back of his neck. “Benson, hey… Listen, did- Fuck… Fuck. What did you tell him? No, I…” He turns his back on the window, looks in James’ direction, and James can’t read his expression, so he just fiddles with his Zippo and pretends he’s not listening. “I passed out in the car. No, yeah… Fuck, I know… I know. Listen, I gotta go. He’s gonna have, like, the cops or something out look… Shit. Fuck. Shit… Yeah, bye.”
Jack starts across the room and pulls his t-shirt over his head, ruffling his messy hair even more and rendering himself temporarily blind just in time to stumble into the foot of James’ bed. He ends up sitting as he yanks the t-shirt down and pops his arm out the other sleeve. James has never seen someone fight so hard with a shirt before. When he’s dressed, Jack just sits there looking kind of shell-shocked for a while. James does little Zippo flips and tricks without paying much attention to his hand. He’s had this silver lighter for a couple of years now. It’s engraved with the Jack Daniels logo and the ridges make it that much more tricky to manipulate, which is a point of pride for James.
“I don’t know what I’m gonna say to him,” Jack says quietly.
When James speaks, it’s slow and deliberately calm. “Say what you just said. It’s embarrassing, that’s good. Looking like a moron always adds believability to an alibi.”
Jack shakes his head. “He’s going to know.”
James shifts his leg until it’s resting against Jack’s back. He has a need to take this heaviness away from Jack and he can’t express it any other way. All his advice on the subject feels empty and dries out on his tongue, because he knows. He knows that all this is his fault. That somehow he’s led Jack astray, has been leading all along. He’s never been strong enough to push Jack away, and now they’re both suffering for it.
“Hey, can I have one of those?” Jack says, and it takes James a minute to realize he’s talking about the smokes.
“Sure thing, Prep,” he says a bit too slickly, and tosses Jack the pack. Jack lights the cigarette and then sits there, turning the lighter over between his fingers, staring off into space until James starts to think he didn’t actually want a smoke, just wanted to sit there and let something burn, to have a length of time before there’s nothing left to do but leave.
James takes a long pull, flicks his ash on the floor. Watches the muscle at the back of Jack’s neck knit itself into a ball of tension. And James hates himself for what he’s doing to Jack. Hates himself for what he’s about to say even before he knows what the words will be.
“You don’t have to let him control everything. Jack.”
Weak, he’s just weak. He can’t say anything without his need for Jack showing just under the surface.
“He doesn’t control everything,” Jack says, and he sounds pissed. “I have to go.”
He hasn’t even brought the cigarette to his mouth once after lighting it. Now he gets up and stubs it out in the ashtray on the nightstand, towering over James’ naked form. When he stuffs his hands in his pockets, the movement is deliberate, not at all fidgety.
James takes one last drag and lets the butt burn out, then looks back up at Jack. He thought he’d heard anger in Jack’s voice, but now Jack’s looking at him with a familiarity and tenderness that tears at James’ nerves like sandpaper.
“Go, then.”
He forces himself to close his eyes. Can feel Jack lingering in the doorway of his room a minute. Then movement; he’s sure he feels Jack’s breath on his face. But James doesn’t look, and a short while later the front door opens and closes. He waits for the sound of an engine before letting the light in again.
If James was smart, he’d move to some other town. Change his name. Anything to keep Jack from falling in further. Because James knows he should know better, but he doesn’t expect the same from Jack. Jack is too easy, too open. Too fucking full of hope. And James could stop this, if he really put his mind to it. He knows he could.
It’s only when he pulls another smoke out of the beat up pack and brings it to his lips that he notices what he missed before.
Jack, the fucker, has his lighter.
He doesn’t even have to look for it to confirm that. He knows. And somehow it means much more than just a hunk of metal. It means that James has lured Jack farther off the path than he ever realized. It means that Jack has taken bait that wasn’t up for grabs to begin with.
It means that Jack is waiting. Waiting to be reeled in again.