fic: asylum (I will not take these things for granted, anymore) (part two of probably five)
And part two...
Title: Asylum (I Will Not Take These Things For Granted, Anymore) (part two of probably five) (part one here)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: explicit sex, D/s dynamics, mention of non-con in the past, healing, wedding-day emotions
Word Count: 24,722 total; 6,190 for this part
Disclaimers: boys’re not mine, only doing this out of excitement and affection. Title from Toad The Wet Sprocket’s “I Will Not Take These Things For Granted”: how can I hold the part of me that only you can carry/ it needs a strength I haven't found/ but if it's frightening, I'll bear the cold/ and on the telephone you offer warm asylum/ I'm listening/ music in the bedroom, laughter in the hall…
Summary: James and Michael, the wedding day and wedding night, after everything, at last; happy endings that are real, and deserved.
Notes: The last one, finally, of the Epic Universe of Porn and Hurt/Comfort and Emotions and everything else too. Thank you, thank you, to everyone who’s stuck with this ’verse, from the beginning when I’d no idea what it’d eventually turn into, through the brutal first stories of the Continuation, all the way to this happy ending. This is for you: thank you. (And, you never know-there might be snippets in this ’verse, from time to time, if requests or the ideas turn up. It’ll be hard to leave them behind, even with the next Epic Thing on the horizon…)
The hotel was a spectacular one. Not the newest, or the largest, but updated, all white walls and breezy windows and casual beachfront elegance. Michael’d known it was the right one the second he’d taken James there and those expressive eyes had lit up at first glimpse; the hotel itself knew it too, he thought now, as he stood in the reserved wedding-preparation room by one of those windows, idly gazing out at the swell of the surf. It wanted them there. Wanted them to be happy, there.
That was, of course, a James thought, one Michael would’ve never had on his own, in times past. But he believed, glancing around, that it was true.
They’d walked out onto the sand, the ocean crashing joyfully a few feet away, a flustered hotel manager orbiting around them with equal parts enthusiasm and dismay at the short notice and the celebrity ceremony. James had looked up at him with a smile flickering like the wind around the corners of those lips, and Michael’d brushed an equally windblown strand of hair out of blue eyes and glanced over at their distressed satellite companion and promised he’d pay whatever price might be demanded.
Worth it, for that smile. Worth everything.
He played with the friendly weight of the pocket watch in his hands, and waited for James to finish poking at wayward hair, in the restroom. The hair didn’t need the assistance, and Michael was planning to run hands through it anyway, but he suspected that James was using the last-minute tidying as a distraction from nerves.
He wanted to ask about those nerves-surely not about the actual wedding, he couldn’t imagine that, though the voice had been a bit shaky, earlier, before James’d vanished into the restroom-but he wasn’t certain how to phrase the question, yet. James would tell him if it were important; he did believe that.
He fiddled with the pocket watch again. The weight felt solid, and real, rolling through his fingers.
“James?” he’d inquired, that morning, after they’d finally made it out of the shower, soap-scrubbed and thoroughly pleasured; and then had said it again after James reemerged from the depths of the closet, blinking.
“What? Also, have you seen my-”
“Your shoes are under the bed. Your shoelaces are still tied to the headboard. From last night.”
“Oh…thank you. Though I’m not sure I can wear these in front of people in…four hours from now…at least not without thinking about last night. And probably blushing in front of your parents. Sorry, what were you asking about?”
“That was the idea, and can I borrow your pocket watch?”
“Neither of us is actually a bride, you know!” James had been laughing, though. “But of course yes. And it’s your fault if I spend the entire wedding being turned on by the sight of my own feet. And if we’re doing that, then, can I borrow your cufflinks? The Magneto-helmet ones?”
“Seriously? I’m almost completely certain Ian gave me those as a joke. I’ve never even worn them.”
“I like them!”
“I like you.”
“Oh,” James’d said, grinning, coming over with watch in hand, held out like a promise, “I did think you might. A little. Sometimes.”
“All the times,” Michael’d concurred, and they’d traded accessories, along with kisses, and finished packing the bags.
It was a nice hotel. Historic, even, the location if not the building dating back over a century. He did enjoy history. Stability. Places with roots, connections, stories to tell. He always had.
He’d tied James to a bedpost, once, in a different historic hotel. Had pushed him to his knees, and spanked him, fucked him, used the slim sleek length of the cane on his backside, ordered him to get himself off on command, to come from only the antique wooden furniture shoved hard between spread legs and the sweet shock of Michael’s hands on his skin. Because James had asked. Because James wanted that. From him.
Those days were behind them, he thought; he couldn’t imagine James ever asking again, or himself being able to raise a hand against once-wounded freckles. But the memories were good ones. And so were the newer recollections. Blue eyes gazing into his, as James knelt on the bed, nearly his same height in that particular pose, awaiting his command. James breathing softly, as Michael’s hands explored his body, all the scars old and new. James saying words with open eyes and quiet passion: I want to be yours, please, all of me, sir.
Yes, he’d said back, then. All of you. All mine. Because you want to be.
“Yes,” he said now, softly, to the palm-tree afternoon and the neighboring ocean and the muffled Scottish-accented grumbles about misbehaving hair.
James popped his head out of the restroom. “Sorry, did you say something?”
“You’re incredible.”
“Am not. You look fantastic, by the way, in case I forgot to tell you. Not that you don’t always, but this…I definitely approve.”
“Thank you. And so do you. Look fantastic, I mean.” True. They weren’t being terribly formal-dressing up, yes, but not full tuxedos, not for a beachside wedding, not as relaxed and personal as they’d wanted the evening to be. White shirts and grey suits, simple and classic, but neatly tailored, too, and the fine linen embraced every line of James’s body in a way that invited enthusiastic removal later, if not immediately, on the spot.
Their ties were blue. Michael’d been adamant about that one.
A knock echoed from beyond the door, followed by a call of, “It’s us!” and Michael shouted back, “Come in!” and got smothered by a tidal wave of sisterly affection. Joy hugged him first, mostly because his own sister was busy looking him up and down and smirking.
“Not bad. James is good for your fashion sense.”
“James is good at a lot of things,” Michael shot back, innuendo firmly in place, just to see her expression. This had the side effect of James’s sister punching him in the shoulder, in flagrant defiance of her diaphanous chiffon bridesmaid’s dress. “I do not need to think about you in bed with my big brother, Michael Fassbender.”
“James,” Michael said, “your sister’s trying to maim me, please help,” and James reappeared from around the corner, eyebrows up. “He’s not wrong, you know. I am very good at a lot of things. Including the in-bed sorts of things.”
“Oh god…”
“I love you too.” James held out his arms, and Joy launched herself into them, with more force than Michael would’ve approved; she said something inaudible into James’s ear, and he nodded, and hugged her, even when she squeezed tightly enough to make him yelp.
Catherine looked over at Michael. “Want me to hug you?”
Michael considered this. Then decided to be honest. “Yes?”
And she grinned, and flung her arms around him. Said, “I would’ve anyway, and him too, and I’m just so happy for you two, you-I love you and you’re going to be so happy and you both deserve it, so much, and I’m happy for you and I love you-” and Michael got out, “I know, I know-” and then just gave up on talking and hugged her in return.
“Okay,” Cat said, after a while, letting him go, stepping back. “We’re actually here to collect you. Patrick sent us up.”
“And Ian says that if you want to be waiting for James at the altar you need to get your sexy ass down there immediately. His words, not mine.”
That was probably true; both Sir Ian and Sir Patrick had been thrilled to be asked, Patrick as more or less master of ceremonies and Ian-who was, as it turned out, conveniently legally ordained-as the officiant, and they’d been all but bouncing off the walls with glee ever since.
That one had been James’s idea. And it’d been a good one; they’d agreed that they wanted intimate, small, meaningful, only the people most important to them both. Family, of course. A few close friends. And Patrick and Ian, who’d been there on that first dread-filled night, and after, through the agonizing days immediately following the abduction, while James lay traumatized and voiceless in a sterile white hospital bed.
Ian’d teared up, upon being asked, and then tried to promise he’d not cry during the ceremony itself, and then admitted that he probably would, and Patrick had snickered and then surreptitiously snuck out a handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes.
They’d decided weeks ago that Michael would be the one at the altar, waiting for James; he’d honestly not had a preference, himself, and had said so, lying propped up on his elbows in bed, gazing at acres of pinwheel freckles displayed like exotic artwork just for him.
“Hmm.” James, thoroughly naked and worn out and visibly completely content, had rolled his head to the side, to make eye contact. The sweat was drying on his skin, lending it a golden sheen; Michael considered this evidence of success.
“I might want to walk down the aisle to you. If we’re doing that.”
If he’d had to guess, he might’ve imagined the other way around. James did enjoy being asked to wait. “Really?”
“Um…I think so, yes.” With a grin, sideways and happy. Hair fell into his eyes; Michael reached over and brushed it back. James could move his own hands, of course-he’d been sure to say as much-but plainly had opted not to. “I like…the idea of coming to you. Of you watching me, accepting me, when I do. Or something; not sure that makes any kind of sense, I’m too tired to make sense, just now…”
“I’m taking that as a compliment. And…yes. I think I can see that. You coming in, coming to me, while I wait for you…”
“I wonder,” James’d said, almost to himself, and then had moved a hand after all, touching his throat, a sudden fleeting motion of freckles.
“You wonder what? Are you-” He’d copied the gesture, gingerly, asking in as many ways as he knew how. “-is everything-all right?”
“What? Yes. Sorry. Really fine.” James had licked his lips, and scooted closer, and put his head on Michael’s offered shoulder. “Not important, just a thought I had.”
“I like knowing your thoughts…”
“I know. But…” James tapped fingertips over his ribs, lazily, comforting. “I’m still thinking. I’ll tell you later. Once I’ve figured it out. Okay?”
“Um. If you want-if you’re asking for that, then okay. You know you can tell me anything, though? I can listen. I’m here.”
“Yes,” James’d said, smiling, sketching a heart over his hip with playful fingers, “I know.”
James hadn’t told him, not later, not even yet. Michael, in fact, had nearly forgotten; something indefinable in that expression, in those sea-spray eyes, summer evenings over shifting moon-drawn tides, reminded him now.
He reached for the closest hand. Held on. This earned a quicksilver smile, luminosity in the ocean depths, iridescently outlined gratitude.
“You two,” Joy said, shaking her head. “Disgustingly sweet. Like, seriously, cotton candy and sleepy kittens, or something. Michael, you really do need to go, we’ll wait up here with my brother, and I promise we won’t leave him alone, not for a second-”
“That’s absolutely completely terrifying, coming from you,” James said conversationally, and Joy laughed. “Come on, you’ll be late to your own wedding…”
Michael looked at James. Sighed, half-reluctantly: the word wedding was still hanging intoxicatingly in the air. Lifted freckled fingertips, kissed them; saw the smile at the old-fashioned intimacy, and smiled in return. And then, as he started to step away, felt those fingers close more tightly around his.
He stopped. “James…?”
One breath, a rapid small inhale. That was enough; Michael turned, not letting go. “Joy? Cat? Could you give us a minute, please?” It wasn’t really a question.
After they’d gone out, eyes concerned-he’d not’ve put it past both siblings to be listening at the door-he tugged James in a little closer. Put both hands on his shoulders. “Can you tell me?”
A nod; James was looking at him, which was good, despite the infinitesimal quivering, under Michael’s hands. “I’m only…I’m not scared of this, of you, of-I want to do this.”
“Good?”
That earned a small smile, and James relaxed, ever so slightly, into his touch. Kept talking, safely guarded inside the shield of Michael’s arms. He tried to be the strongest fortress he could, while that voice went on.
“I just keep thinking…this can’t be real, it can’t be right, I’m not…something’s going to happen, right before I make it to you, something or someone or-I know he’s gone but I can’t-I feel like I can’t breathe, thinking about you-about you walking out that door, and I know you’ll be waiting for me but what if I can’t find you, what if something goes wrong, it has to, I can’t-have this, I can’t be this happy-”
“Oh,” Michael whispered, softly, “oh, James,” and folded both arms around him and simply held him, that head on his shoulder, under the pale gold of the hotel lamplight.
After a while, he added, “I love you,” and, “Breathe, just breathe, please,” and James nodded, hair shivering along Michael’s face, and did as asked, in and out, measured and slow, Michael’s hand rubbing his back through the layers of expensive suit.
Time drifted by, unhurriedly.
“Better?”
“Yes.” Into his shirt collar, words ghosting warm along his neck. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”
“Oh…James, you don’t need to…”
“It’s only reassurance.” James tipped his head up, to meet Michael’s eyes with his own. “I felt like saying it. I love you.”
“I love you.” Michael brought their lips together, lightly enough to be a question; James smiled, into the kiss. Opened his mouth, and kissed back.
A tentative tap at the door reverberated into their space; he looked at James, inquiring, and got the head-tilt of agreement, so he called back, “Come in!”
Patrick Stewart put his head into the opening. “Ah…”
“We’re coming.” He didn’t bother to move the arms. They wanted to stay around James. “But, um. Small change of plans. We’re walking down together. Just let everyone know, maybe, and come back and get us?”
And Patrick nodded, and said, simply, “Of course,” and ducked back out, presumably to go orchestrate the entrance all over again and work a few minor miracles along the way.
“I really do love him,” James sighed, into Michael’s shoulder.
“As long as you love me more. Want to go get married?”
“I thought,” James said, and put both arms around his waist, holding him in return, “we already were.”
And the waves splashed beyond the window, in dramatic punctuation.
The ceremony itself was taking place outside, just before sundown; the tent billowed whitely in the breeze, and the sun shone with all its might, and the whole world glowed in shades of gold and cloud and ocean-blue. Michael’s parents were in a front row, next to James’s grandparents; all four of them seemed to be crying, though James’s grandmother also seemed to be determinedly pretending she wasn’t. Catherine and Joy, in their matching dresses, stood up by the altar, beaming; Ian, practically vibrating with delight, was beaming too.
And Michael barely noticed any of them. He was looking at James.
Who walked down the hastily smoothed-over sand-aisle at his side. Upright and smiling, if a little pale, and holding his hand.
They’d planned for it to be quick. Simple, straightforward, heartfelt. They were already wearing rings, the ones James had bought months ago; the set Michael’d picked out, the first time the question’d been asked, remained at home, in a dresser drawer. James’s didn’t quite fit, not yet, but it would.
James had been just a little despondent, at that; he’d been hoping to’ve regained enough weight to wear them by the wedding day. Michael had kissed him, the week before, and told him they’d still be there. Whenever he could wear his, they’d be there.
Secretly, he wasn’t sure he’d want to trade, when the time came. He’d be perfectly happy wearing the ring that James had chosen for him, his half of the supposedly temporary set, for the rest of his life.
James squeezed his hand. Mouthed, I love you, when Michael looked into his eyes.
“You’re not doing your vows yet,” Ian said, “stop being impatient, James, you’re getting ahead of me,” and a ripple of laughter spread through the circle of family around them. Michael said, “I love you being impatient, James,” and the laughter melted into a collective adoring chorus of sighs.
“You two deserve each other,” Ian grumbled, and then edited that statement: “In all honesty…you genuinely do. You listen to each other, and you look at each other with such joy, and you’ve been there for each other in ways that the rest of us can’t begin to imagine. You’re here today because you are in love, and because you know exactly how much that means.”
James was blinking rapidly, obviously trying not to cry; Michael picked up his other hand, too, and held them both, thumbs caressing the backs of his hands, connecting all the freckles, under the light.
“So,” Ian said, “because James is impatient, and Michael’s going to do just about anything to indulge him, including telling me to hurry up within the next five seconds…”
Michael, who had in fact been contemplating exactly that, though not yet prepared to speak up, shut his mouth on the words; caught James’s brilliant smile.
“James, do you take Michael to be your husband? Freely, in front of family and friends, to join your lives together?”
“Yes,” James said, and those eyes were so very blue. “Yes. I do.”
“Michael-”
“Yes.”
“You could let me finish the question, first.”
“Sorry, Ian.”
“Hush. Same question. Do you take James as your husband, here, freely, in front of family and friends, to join your lives together?”
“Yes,” Michael said, quietly, fervently, with all of his heart. “I do.”
At this point there was a pause, during which everyone, including the officiant, hunted for tissues. Michael reached over and used both thumbs to brush the tears away from James’s eyes; James took a step forward, into his arms, and stayed there.
“Right,” Ian said, resurfacing from Patrick’s handkerchief, “you wanted to do your own vows, which makes my job easy, so go ahead. James?”
“Oh, I’m first, I’m not certain that’s fair, now that I can’t talk without crying…Michael.” James didn’t move out of his arms, but did tip that head back, looking directly into his eyes, hair leaping upwards in the breeze. “I had a hard time with what I wanted to say, at first. Because I wanted to say so many things, to you. Because I could-I can-say things to you, now.” That smile turned a little rueful, crooked, accepting. Michael whispered, “I love you,” and got a laugh, small and vivid and warm.
“Really,” James said, continuing to look at him, “all those things, they came down to one thing, in the end. Because these are our vows, this is me making a promise to you, so this is what I’m promising. I love you. I will always love you, through-everything-and I’ll stand here at your side forever, and I’ll be yours, forever, and I love you. And…I’ll make those double-chocolate peanut-butter cookies you like, for your birthday. For all your birthdays.”
And Michael found himself tumbling from teardrops into laughter, breathless, astonished, in awe.
James smiled; blushed, a little, but didn’t glance down or away. Just kept looking at him, eyes all infinite blue, under the fire-opal rays of the setting sun.
“I love you,” Michael told him, “so much. More than-more than anything. Ever. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do, for you. I can do anything, because of you, because you make me believe I can. I told you once that I’d be a superhero for you, if you wanted that. Still true. But that’s because you make me want to be one. You make me better, and you make me smile, and you make me fall more in love with you every single day. And I promise to spend all those days trying to make you smile, too. Every day, every night, every minute, I’ll be here for you, and I’ll love you through everything, too-oh, you did just say that, but I already had it written in mine, and you went first, so that’s not fair-anyway, everything. Good, bad, ordinary, spectacular. Always. You’re mine-you are, you just said that too, and yes, completely yes-and I’m yours and I love you.”
Not the most coherent lines he’d ever delivered. But James was smiling, despite renewed damp tear-tracks, and gazing into his eyes, and the whole world was, for the space of that single minute, flawlessly bright.
“Well,” Ian said, very gently, sounding suspiciously waterlogged, “I think it’s about time the two of you kissed, then. While I pronounce you very wonderfully married.”
Married. Michael looked at James, inches away; prepared to lean down and touch their lips together, feather-light, no demands, not in public, not with all the emotions laid so raw and bare.
James leaned in and up and kissed him, fiercely, devotedly, passionately. Like the sunlight. Like the crash and cheer of the waves, breaking over the sand with wild foam.
The crowd cheered, too. Or maybe that was just his own heartbeat, pounding in time with the kiss; James pulled him closer, and Michael discovered that smile with lips and teeth and tongue, tasting sea and wind and salt air and absolute happiness, and he couldn’t’ve said who started laughing first, because they both were, together, too much emotion to keep inside.
When they turned around to wave, at last, the gleam from the sunset caught in James’s hair and glowed like wood at the heart of a bonfire, and Michael’s breath snagged somewhere in his lungs, tangled up on the fishhook of his heart for just a second.
He didn’t remember much of the exit, or the circling back for pictures, photo opportunities out on the sand. Their photographer’d been provided by the hotel, and she was quite nice; Michael wondered why she didn’t bother to tell him to smile more when she was reminding everyone else, and then realized he’d been smiling the entire time. His cheeks ached. And he didn’t care.
He did watch James throughout the photo session, alert for any signs of fatigue, emotional or otherwise. He didn’t like the photographer’s assistant, he’d decided. The boy kept trying to put hands on James.
In theory there was a reason for this-better lighting, camera angles-and James was tolerating the uninvited touches with good humor as far as Michael could see, but once or twice a hand had reached too abruptly for his face, and James had flinched, at that. Too close to the memories.
He’d glared, smile transforming into some other tooth-filled expression for a split second. The boy gulped, backed off, and then took a picture of his own thumb in the confusion.
James glanced up at him, leaned in under his arm; said “Sorry” to the boy out of the security of that shelter, even though it was clearly in no conceivable way his fault. Michael scowled. Didn’t say anything.
“He’s only doing his job.”
“His job shouldn’t involve touching you.”
“I can be touched. I’m touchable. Grand entrance time, is it?”
“You’re very touchable, yes. For me. No one else. Are you-”
“If you ask me whether I’m all right, I’m going to push you into the next big wave. Lots of salt water. Very cold. Very wet.”
“-hungry? Because we’re missing the hors d’oeuvres. I could bring you something. Also…” He waited until James raised eyebrows at him, expectantly. Then murmured, with his best lascivious leer, “…if you’re planning to get me all wet, I’m going to get you wet, too.” And watched with satisfaction as James dissolved into astonished laughter, far-off clouds banished from those eyes and replaced with the dancing reflection of emerging stars.
The reception went by in a colorful blur, interrupted by vivid snapshot moments. Patrick’s announcement of them as husbands. The smile on James’s face at the word. The standing ovation when they appeared on the dance floor, and the cheers and whistles when the X-Men theme music billowed out from speakers. They didn’t do a proper first dance-James had said he could, but there’d been a second’s pause before the agreement, and Michael’d imagined all those eyes on the two of them for three or four or six minutes, and had compromised-but he did spin James into his arms dramatically and deliver a thorough kiss.
After all, James had been the one to kiss him, at the ceremony. This was his turn.
The applause was loud, and sustained. James was grinning hugely when Michael let him go, lips marked with the imprint of desire, possession emphatically asserted; despite the grin, directed at their guests, the eyes had gone smoky and soft around the edges, for precisely that same reason, that reminder.
Good. He’d been trying.
The kaleidoscope of the evening spun again, all coruscating silver lights and blue silk, lanterns and beachside tents at twilight and shimmering effervescent champagne. James let himself be pulled onto the dance floor by his sister, and then by Michael’s sister; laughing, Michael watched him go, and then got dragged that direction himself by Patrick and Ian.
More champagne. Toasts, sincere and sentimental and occasionally embarrassing, from friends and family; Michael cast a longing look over at the open bar when Catherine began telling the story about his boyhood affection for his plush stuffed Ewok, but refrained. He wanted to be sober, wanted to remember every last magical sight and sound and taste of the night.
Besides, James was looking utterly entertained, next to him. So the embarrassment never would matter. Not compared to that.
More toasts. More cheers, and clinking of glasses, and applause when they kissed. Old-fashioned cake layers, brandy and lemon and sweetness and caramel, flavors that made blue eyes sparkle. James fed him first, neatly and gracefully, by hand; lowered those eyes, very briefly, while he did it, and Michael ran his tongue over sugary fingertips, tasting, and then closed teeth on that index finger, not really an assertion but enough that James could take it as one, if he chose.
The deepwater blue glinted in appreciation, glancing up. And James didn’t kneel, not then, didn’t say sir to him in public, didn’t submit, so willingly, to command. But all that hung in the night anyway, unspoken, understood.
Michael fed him very methodically, precisely, after that. His fingers, their wedding-cake, James’s splendid mouth. James accepted every bite Michael wanted to give him, and licked those lips, in the aftermath.
He’d arranged for a coffee bar, near the end of the night. Gingerbread and cinnamon vanilla and blueberry. Hazelnut and coconut and sweet chai spice. James regarded this last surprise with Christmas-morning eyes, and then threw both arms around him and kissed him with lips that tasted of chocolate and holidays and cream.
In the ensuing caffeine-appreciation rush, though, he did decide he needed at least one more actual drink, and wandered over to the bar. Requested a martini; approved, somewhere in the back of his head, of the technique, while watching the dance floor.
James had ended up back on said dance floor, at the moment, this time with Michael’s mother. Both of them were radiant, flushed with excitement and exertion and the enchantment of the night. James had pushed up his sleeves and loosened his tie, and his hair was falling into his eyes, and he was listening intently to whatever Michael’s mother’d decided to tell him, nodding back. He laughed at whatever comment it’d been, and twirled her around, and then tipped his head to one side, said something else, let himself be teasingly swatted on the shoulder in reply. Easily, no strain in those movements, or in that smile. No pain, no fear, only obvious delight.
Michael knew he was staring. Couldn’t look away.
“He looks happy.”
He jumped several inches in the air. Spun around to find the source of that unexpected voice. Nearly collided with the bar.
James’s grandmother watched this comedy act, smirking; Michael wondered briefly whether she’d snuck up on him on purpose. He’d not be surprised.
“He always should be.”
She glanced at James. Then back at Michael. Snorted. “He would tell you he doesn’t deserve it.”
“He’s wrong.”
This got a grin. Michael’d seen a similarly amused expression on James’s face, on occasion. Somehow, under these circumstances, it was much less sexy, and slightly terrifying.
“Of course he is. Glad you think so, too.”
A pause, during which they both watched James start laughing at whatever Michael’s mother’d just murmured in his ear, and then grin and dip her over one arm, making her laugh, too.
The scar on that wrist reflected silver, for a split second, under the lights. Neither of them, in motion, seemed to notice.
“It was bad.” Not a question. A statement of fact.
Michael, startled, tripped over words, stopped, started the question again. “It was-how much did he-he told you?” He hadn’t thought James’d told anyone exactly how bad.
“Of course he didn’t.” A snort; Michael swallowed the urge to apologize. “But. It’s in his eyes. And that-” Obviously she’d seen that silver also. “In your eyes, too. When you look at him. Like you can’t believe he’s real.”
“Sometimes I can’t,” Michael said, honestly, after a second. “I keep expecting to wake up. Thinking this has to be some kind of dream.”
James’s grandmother considered this admission thoughtfully. “I could pinch you.”
Michael contemplated several responses, and went with, “Sorry, that’s his job, later,” and she looked at him delightedly and then let out a peal of laughter, loud enough for nearby guests to turn and look.
“I knew I liked you. You can stay.”
“Thank you,” Michael said, wryly, which made her grin again.
“You make him happy. I can see that, too. Written all over him.”
“I…you know I’ll always try to make him happy.” Still honest. “Every day. Anything I can do. Because he-I never knew I could be this happy, either. With him.”
“Huh. You know how lucky you are.”
“I am.”
“He’d probably say we’re wrong. That he’s lucky he met you.”
“I…maybe?”
“He’d be right, too.”
Michael almost fell over again, out of sheer shock; this prompted James’s grandmother to laugh one more time. “Don’t look so shocked. I did say I liked you. Besides, you’ve got good taste in whiskey.”
“Such a subtle family, you are,” Michael said, and got her another drink. She patted him on the shoulder, and they both watched James for a while, in companionable silence.
The song ended; blue eyes flicked their way, spotting Michael even through the other heads, and then bounded over, enthusiastic and champagne-tipsy and excited. Michael reached out and collected both his hands, making the connection just because, and the excitement melted into something more private, quieter and deeper and intense, at the gesture.
“So,” James said, eyes all warm and wide and bluer than the night sky above, “I love you.”
“And I love you. Want to go have our wedding night?”
James laughed. There wasn’t a shooting star overhead, but there should’ve been, Michael thought, a comet streaking white-hot through the dark at that sound. “Entirely yes. Should we say goodbye, or-”
“You go on. I’ll say the goodbyes for you.”
“Thank you,” James said, and hugged her; Michael caught her eye, echoing the gratitude, and saw the answering nod.
“Right,” he said, and grabbed James’s hand, and they ran out of the reception laughing like truant children, hand in hand, under all the beachside stars.
He’d not opted for the most expensive suite in the hotel-he’d seen pictures, and decided it felt overdone, glitzy and overeager-but this one was still in a fairly extravagant price range, complete with historic carved wooden furniture, unobtrusively updated modern conveniences, and, most importantly, a location up on the top floor, tucked away in a corner, with a view of the ocean and the moonlight and no other guests to intrude. James, who’d not seen it yet, walked in and stopped, looking around, eyebrows flying up.
“This is…”
“If you don’t like it we can-do you like it?”
“Honestly, you’re asking that?” James put the contemplation of ornate bedposts on hold to toss a smile up at him. “This is fantastic. Literally, mind you; I’m expecting a magical kingdom inside that wardrobe.”
“Would you settle for your mermaids? There’re some carved into the headboard.”
“There are? Oh-there are, this is brilliant, how’d you ever find this place?”
Michael sat down on the end of the bed, forgetting to answer. Watched James explore, peeking interestedly out at the waves, under the moonlight; running a hand over the curtains, delicate fabric flowing through his fingers like a pleased housecat, ribboning around the caress.
James turned back around, and met his gaze, and smiled.
And the impact of that smile went all the way through his heart.
He’d always heard the adjective heartwarming as metaphorical. It wasn’t. Felt like the liquid radiance of the moon, right there inside his body, sparked to life by the sun.
James tipped his head to one side. Licked his lips. Michael caught himself licking his, too, especially when that smile got a little more heated, catching fire in return, and James took the few steps back across the room to stand in front of him, waiting.
The night air crackled like hearth-coals, red-hued and glowing with secret promise.
“Come here.” He slipped an arm around that tempting waist. Tugged James down onto his lap. “I want to ask you about something.”
“Yes, sir?” So soon, Michael thought, somewhere between appreciation and apprehension and startlement; but then he didn’t bother protesting, as James discovered Michael’s ear with his teeth. Breath, hot and delicious, drifted along his skin, and made all the tiny hairs prickle.
“No…I mean yes, do that again, but…I mean seriously. I wanted to ask you…” He shifted a leg, moved an arm, got James to pause and sit up and look at him. “What you said. Before. Before the ceremony. About being-that you couldn’t believe this, that you weren’t…allowed…to be this happy. Can you believe it? Now?”
“Oh…” James licked his bottom lip, swiftly, caught in thought. Michael tracked the unconscious sweep of pink tongue, heart aching strangely in his chest.
One long leg swung over him, adjusting position, settling down astride Michael’s hips. Sensual, unthinkingly so, and all the more eloquent for that reason: James wasn’t hesitating, wasn’t afraid to fit their bodies together in erotic lines and shapes and curves.
James said, “Yes.”
“You-yes? Just…yes?”
“Yes.” James sounded as if he was laughing, though he wasn’t, quite; the emotion was there, though, lying audibly among the wind-hewn Scottish melody of that voice. “I’m not saying I’m suddenly perfect…”
“You are.”
“Thank you for that. I am saying, I think…well. We did this. We have this. Nothing-no one stood up and took it away, or stopped me from finding you, or told me I didn’t deserve-we’re married and we got married in front of everyone and I do believe it, it completely happened, I love you. And I know I’m happy, because I am. We are. Ah…I assume you’re happy. Pretty sure you are.”
Michael’s response was instant, and wholehearted, and just a touch blasphemous because he couldn’t hear that doubt for even a second longer, even if only teasingly so. James not-quite-laughed again, joy too vast and all-encompassing for laughter, but shining out in eyes, voice, the upward quirk of lips.
“Good, then. So, now that we’ve get that sorted…I’ve got your present, finally. I wanted to have it for you this morning, but Kevin was running late. And I needed his help; he was picking this up for me.” James hopped off his lap, bounced across the room, found his discarded jacket. Michael followed, unwilling to let go of all the twinkling freckles even for an instant. “And you can stop looking nervous about that; it’s not going to bite.”
“That’s what you think.” But he took the extended envelope anyway. Paused, not quite removing whatever James’d arranged to be put inside it. “You know you didn’t have to…I got to marry you. You asked me to marry you. And that was-you didn’t need to get me anything. Not today.”
“Well…it’s kind of for both of us.” James pulled off his tie. Tossed it toward the pillows. Michael raised an eyebrow; James grinned in agreement, and then waved a hand at the envelope. “Go on.”
Title: Asylum (I Will Not Take These Things For Granted, Anymore) (part two of probably five) (part one here)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: explicit sex, D/s dynamics, mention of non-con in the past, healing, wedding-day emotions
Word Count: 24,722 total; 6,190 for this part
Disclaimers: boys’re not mine, only doing this out of excitement and affection. Title from Toad The Wet Sprocket’s “I Will Not Take These Things For Granted”: how can I hold the part of me that only you can carry/ it needs a strength I haven't found/ but if it's frightening, I'll bear the cold/ and on the telephone you offer warm asylum/ I'm listening/ music in the bedroom, laughter in the hall…
Summary: James and Michael, the wedding day and wedding night, after everything, at last; happy endings that are real, and deserved.
Notes: The last one, finally, of the Epic Universe of Porn and Hurt/Comfort and Emotions and everything else too. Thank you, thank you, to everyone who’s stuck with this ’verse, from the beginning when I’d no idea what it’d eventually turn into, through the brutal first stories of the Continuation, all the way to this happy ending. This is for you: thank you. (And, you never know-there might be snippets in this ’verse, from time to time, if requests or the ideas turn up. It’ll be hard to leave them behind, even with the next Epic Thing on the horizon…)
The hotel was a spectacular one. Not the newest, or the largest, but updated, all white walls and breezy windows and casual beachfront elegance. Michael’d known it was the right one the second he’d taken James there and those expressive eyes had lit up at first glimpse; the hotel itself knew it too, he thought now, as he stood in the reserved wedding-preparation room by one of those windows, idly gazing out at the swell of the surf. It wanted them there. Wanted them to be happy, there.
That was, of course, a James thought, one Michael would’ve never had on his own, in times past. But he believed, glancing around, that it was true.
They’d walked out onto the sand, the ocean crashing joyfully a few feet away, a flustered hotel manager orbiting around them with equal parts enthusiasm and dismay at the short notice and the celebrity ceremony. James had looked up at him with a smile flickering like the wind around the corners of those lips, and Michael’d brushed an equally windblown strand of hair out of blue eyes and glanced over at their distressed satellite companion and promised he’d pay whatever price might be demanded.
Worth it, for that smile. Worth everything.
He played with the friendly weight of the pocket watch in his hands, and waited for James to finish poking at wayward hair, in the restroom. The hair didn’t need the assistance, and Michael was planning to run hands through it anyway, but he suspected that James was using the last-minute tidying as a distraction from nerves.
He wanted to ask about those nerves-surely not about the actual wedding, he couldn’t imagine that, though the voice had been a bit shaky, earlier, before James’d vanished into the restroom-but he wasn’t certain how to phrase the question, yet. James would tell him if it were important; he did believe that.
He fiddled with the pocket watch again. The weight felt solid, and real, rolling through his fingers.
“James?” he’d inquired, that morning, after they’d finally made it out of the shower, soap-scrubbed and thoroughly pleasured; and then had said it again after James reemerged from the depths of the closet, blinking.
“What? Also, have you seen my-”
“Your shoes are under the bed. Your shoelaces are still tied to the headboard. From last night.”
“Oh…thank you. Though I’m not sure I can wear these in front of people in…four hours from now…at least not without thinking about last night. And probably blushing in front of your parents. Sorry, what were you asking about?”
“That was the idea, and can I borrow your pocket watch?”
“Neither of us is actually a bride, you know!” James had been laughing, though. “But of course yes. And it’s your fault if I spend the entire wedding being turned on by the sight of my own feet. And if we’re doing that, then, can I borrow your cufflinks? The Magneto-helmet ones?”
“Seriously? I’m almost completely certain Ian gave me those as a joke. I’ve never even worn them.”
“I like them!”
“I like you.”
“Oh,” James’d said, grinning, coming over with watch in hand, held out like a promise, “I did think you might. A little. Sometimes.”
“All the times,” Michael’d concurred, and they’d traded accessories, along with kisses, and finished packing the bags.
It was a nice hotel. Historic, even, the location if not the building dating back over a century. He did enjoy history. Stability. Places with roots, connections, stories to tell. He always had.
He’d tied James to a bedpost, once, in a different historic hotel. Had pushed him to his knees, and spanked him, fucked him, used the slim sleek length of the cane on his backside, ordered him to get himself off on command, to come from only the antique wooden furniture shoved hard between spread legs and the sweet shock of Michael’s hands on his skin. Because James had asked. Because James wanted that. From him.
Those days were behind them, he thought; he couldn’t imagine James ever asking again, or himself being able to raise a hand against once-wounded freckles. But the memories were good ones. And so were the newer recollections. Blue eyes gazing into his, as James knelt on the bed, nearly his same height in that particular pose, awaiting his command. James breathing softly, as Michael’s hands explored his body, all the scars old and new. James saying words with open eyes and quiet passion: I want to be yours, please, all of me, sir.
Yes, he’d said back, then. All of you. All mine. Because you want to be.
“Yes,” he said now, softly, to the palm-tree afternoon and the neighboring ocean and the muffled Scottish-accented grumbles about misbehaving hair.
James popped his head out of the restroom. “Sorry, did you say something?”
“You’re incredible.”
“Am not. You look fantastic, by the way, in case I forgot to tell you. Not that you don’t always, but this…I definitely approve.”
“Thank you. And so do you. Look fantastic, I mean.” True. They weren’t being terribly formal-dressing up, yes, but not full tuxedos, not for a beachside wedding, not as relaxed and personal as they’d wanted the evening to be. White shirts and grey suits, simple and classic, but neatly tailored, too, and the fine linen embraced every line of James’s body in a way that invited enthusiastic removal later, if not immediately, on the spot.
Their ties were blue. Michael’d been adamant about that one.
A knock echoed from beyond the door, followed by a call of, “It’s us!” and Michael shouted back, “Come in!” and got smothered by a tidal wave of sisterly affection. Joy hugged him first, mostly because his own sister was busy looking him up and down and smirking.
“Not bad. James is good for your fashion sense.”
“James is good at a lot of things,” Michael shot back, innuendo firmly in place, just to see her expression. This had the side effect of James’s sister punching him in the shoulder, in flagrant defiance of her diaphanous chiffon bridesmaid’s dress. “I do not need to think about you in bed with my big brother, Michael Fassbender.”
“James,” Michael said, “your sister’s trying to maim me, please help,” and James reappeared from around the corner, eyebrows up. “He’s not wrong, you know. I am very good at a lot of things. Including the in-bed sorts of things.”
“Oh god…”
“I love you too.” James held out his arms, and Joy launched herself into them, with more force than Michael would’ve approved; she said something inaudible into James’s ear, and he nodded, and hugged her, even when she squeezed tightly enough to make him yelp.
Catherine looked over at Michael. “Want me to hug you?”
Michael considered this. Then decided to be honest. “Yes?”
And she grinned, and flung her arms around him. Said, “I would’ve anyway, and him too, and I’m just so happy for you two, you-I love you and you’re going to be so happy and you both deserve it, so much, and I’m happy for you and I love you-” and Michael got out, “I know, I know-” and then just gave up on talking and hugged her in return.
“Okay,” Cat said, after a while, letting him go, stepping back. “We’re actually here to collect you. Patrick sent us up.”
“And Ian says that if you want to be waiting for James at the altar you need to get your sexy ass down there immediately. His words, not mine.”
That was probably true; both Sir Ian and Sir Patrick had been thrilled to be asked, Patrick as more or less master of ceremonies and Ian-who was, as it turned out, conveniently legally ordained-as the officiant, and they’d been all but bouncing off the walls with glee ever since.
That one had been James’s idea. And it’d been a good one; they’d agreed that they wanted intimate, small, meaningful, only the people most important to them both. Family, of course. A few close friends. And Patrick and Ian, who’d been there on that first dread-filled night, and after, through the agonizing days immediately following the abduction, while James lay traumatized and voiceless in a sterile white hospital bed.
Ian’d teared up, upon being asked, and then tried to promise he’d not cry during the ceremony itself, and then admitted that he probably would, and Patrick had snickered and then surreptitiously snuck out a handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes.
They’d decided weeks ago that Michael would be the one at the altar, waiting for James; he’d honestly not had a preference, himself, and had said so, lying propped up on his elbows in bed, gazing at acres of pinwheel freckles displayed like exotic artwork just for him.
“Hmm.” James, thoroughly naked and worn out and visibly completely content, had rolled his head to the side, to make eye contact. The sweat was drying on his skin, lending it a golden sheen; Michael considered this evidence of success.
“I might want to walk down the aisle to you. If we’re doing that.”
If he’d had to guess, he might’ve imagined the other way around. James did enjoy being asked to wait. “Really?”
“Um…I think so, yes.” With a grin, sideways and happy. Hair fell into his eyes; Michael reached over and brushed it back. James could move his own hands, of course-he’d been sure to say as much-but plainly had opted not to. “I like…the idea of coming to you. Of you watching me, accepting me, when I do. Or something; not sure that makes any kind of sense, I’m too tired to make sense, just now…”
“I’m taking that as a compliment. And…yes. I think I can see that. You coming in, coming to me, while I wait for you…”
“I wonder,” James’d said, almost to himself, and then had moved a hand after all, touching his throat, a sudden fleeting motion of freckles.
“You wonder what? Are you-” He’d copied the gesture, gingerly, asking in as many ways as he knew how. “-is everything-all right?”
“What? Yes. Sorry. Really fine.” James had licked his lips, and scooted closer, and put his head on Michael’s offered shoulder. “Not important, just a thought I had.”
“I like knowing your thoughts…”
“I know. But…” James tapped fingertips over his ribs, lazily, comforting. “I’m still thinking. I’ll tell you later. Once I’ve figured it out. Okay?”
“Um. If you want-if you’re asking for that, then okay. You know you can tell me anything, though? I can listen. I’m here.”
“Yes,” James’d said, smiling, sketching a heart over his hip with playful fingers, “I know.”
James hadn’t told him, not later, not even yet. Michael, in fact, had nearly forgotten; something indefinable in that expression, in those sea-spray eyes, summer evenings over shifting moon-drawn tides, reminded him now.
He reached for the closest hand. Held on. This earned a quicksilver smile, luminosity in the ocean depths, iridescently outlined gratitude.
“You two,” Joy said, shaking her head. “Disgustingly sweet. Like, seriously, cotton candy and sleepy kittens, or something. Michael, you really do need to go, we’ll wait up here with my brother, and I promise we won’t leave him alone, not for a second-”
“That’s absolutely completely terrifying, coming from you,” James said conversationally, and Joy laughed. “Come on, you’ll be late to your own wedding…”
Michael looked at James. Sighed, half-reluctantly: the word wedding was still hanging intoxicatingly in the air. Lifted freckled fingertips, kissed them; saw the smile at the old-fashioned intimacy, and smiled in return. And then, as he started to step away, felt those fingers close more tightly around his.
He stopped. “James…?”
One breath, a rapid small inhale. That was enough; Michael turned, not letting go. “Joy? Cat? Could you give us a minute, please?” It wasn’t really a question.
After they’d gone out, eyes concerned-he’d not’ve put it past both siblings to be listening at the door-he tugged James in a little closer. Put both hands on his shoulders. “Can you tell me?”
A nod; James was looking at him, which was good, despite the infinitesimal quivering, under Michael’s hands. “I’m only…I’m not scared of this, of you, of-I want to do this.”
“Good?”
That earned a small smile, and James relaxed, ever so slightly, into his touch. Kept talking, safely guarded inside the shield of Michael’s arms. He tried to be the strongest fortress he could, while that voice went on.
“I just keep thinking…this can’t be real, it can’t be right, I’m not…something’s going to happen, right before I make it to you, something or someone or-I know he’s gone but I can’t-I feel like I can’t breathe, thinking about you-about you walking out that door, and I know you’ll be waiting for me but what if I can’t find you, what if something goes wrong, it has to, I can’t-have this, I can’t be this happy-”
“Oh,” Michael whispered, softly, “oh, James,” and folded both arms around him and simply held him, that head on his shoulder, under the pale gold of the hotel lamplight.
After a while, he added, “I love you,” and, “Breathe, just breathe, please,” and James nodded, hair shivering along Michael’s face, and did as asked, in and out, measured and slow, Michael’s hand rubbing his back through the layers of expensive suit.
Time drifted by, unhurriedly.
“Better?”
“Yes.” Into his shirt collar, words ghosting warm along his neck. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”
“Oh…James, you don’t need to…”
“It’s only reassurance.” James tipped his head up, to meet Michael’s eyes with his own. “I felt like saying it. I love you.”
“I love you.” Michael brought their lips together, lightly enough to be a question; James smiled, into the kiss. Opened his mouth, and kissed back.
A tentative tap at the door reverberated into their space; he looked at James, inquiring, and got the head-tilt of agreement, so he called back, “Come in!”
Patrick Stewart put his head into the opening. “Ah…”
“We’re coming.” He didn’t bother to move the arms. They wanted to stay around James. “But, um. Small change of plans. We’re walking down together. Just let everyone know, maybe, and come back and get us?”
And Patrick nodded, and said, simply, “Of course,” and ducked back out, presumably to go orchestrate the entrance all over again and work a few minor miracles along the way.
“I really do love him,” James sighed, into Michael’s shoulder.
“As long as you love me more. Want to go get married?”
“I thought,” James said, and put both arms around his waist, holding him in return, “we already were.”
And the waves splashed beyond the window, in dramatic punctuation.
The ceremony itself was taking place outside, just before sundown; the tent billowed whitely in the breeze, and the sun shone with all its might, and the whole world glowed in shades of gold and cloud and ocean-blue. Michael’s parents were in a front row, next to James’s grandparents; all four of them seemed to be crying, though James’s grandmother also seemed to be determinedly pretending she wasn’t. Catherine and Joy, in their matching dresses, stood up by the altar, beaming; Ian, practically vibrating with delight, was beaming too.
And Michael barely noticed any of them. He was looking at James.
Who walked down the hastily smoothed-over sand-aisle at his side. Upright and smiling, if a little pale, and holding his hand.
They’d planned for it to be quick. Simple, straightforward, heartfelt. They were already wearing rings, the ones James had bought months ago; the set Michael’d picked out, the first time the question’d been asked, remained at home, in a dresser drawer. James’s didn’t quite fit, not yet, but it would.
James had been just a little despondent, at that; he’d been hoping to’ve regained enough weight to wear them by the wedding day. Michael had kissed him, the week before, and told him they’d still be there. Whenever he could wear his, they’d be there.
Secretly, he wasn’t sure he’d want to trade, when the time came. He’d be perfectly happy wearing the ring that James had chosen for him, his half of the supposedly temporary set, for the rest of his life.
James squeezed his hand. Mouthed, I love you, when Michael looked into his eyes.
“You’re not doing your vows yet,” Ian said, “stop being impatient, James, you’re getting ahead of me,” and a ripple of laughter spread through the circle of family around them. Michael said, “I love you being impatient, James,” and the laughter melted into a collective adoring chorus of sighs.
“You two deserve each other,” Ian grumbled, and then edited that statement: “In all honesty…you genuinely do. You listen to each other, and you look at each other with such joy, and you’ve been there for each other in ways that the rest of us can’t begin to imagine. You’re here today because you are in love, and because you know exactly how much that means.”
James was blinking rapidly, obviously trying not to cry; Michael picked up his other hand, too, and held them both, thumbs caressing the backs of his hands, connecting all the freckles, under the light.
“So,” Ian said, “because James is impatient, and Michael’s going to do just about anything to indulge him, including telling me to hurry up within the next five seconds…”
Michael, who had in fact been contemplating exactly that, though not yet prepared to speak up, shut his mouth on the words; caught James’s brilliant smile.
“James, do you take Michael to be your husband? Freely, in front of family and friends, to join your lives together?”
“Yes,” James said, and those eyes were so very blue. “Yes. I do.”
“Michael-”
“Yes.”
“You could let me finish the question, first.”
“Sorry, Ian.”
“Hush. Same question. Do you take James as your husband, here, freely, in front of family and friends, to join your lives together?”
“Yes,” Michael said, quietly, fervently, with all of his heart. “I do.”
At this point there was a pause, during which everyone, including the officiant, hunted for tissues. Michael reached over and used both thumbs to brush the tears away from James’s eyes; James took a step forward, into his arms, and stayed there.
“Right,” Ian said, resurfacing from Patrick’s handkerchief, “you wanted to do your own vows, which makes my job easy, so go ahead. James?”
“Oh, I’m first, I’m not certain that’s fair, now that I can’t talk without crying…Michael.” James didn’t move out of his arms, but did tip that head back, looking directly into his eyes, hair leaping upwards in the breeze. “I had a hard time with what I wanted to say, at first. Because I wanted to say so many things, to you. Because I could-I can-say things to you, now.” That smile turned a little rueful, crooked, accepting. Michael whispered, “I love you,” and got a laugh, small and vivid and warm.
“Really,” James said, continuing to look at him, “all those things, they came down to one thing, in the end. Because these are our vows, this is me making a promise to you, so this is what I’m promising. I love you. I will always love you, through-everything-and I’ll stand here at your side forever, and I’ll be yours, forever, and I love you. And…I’ll make those double-chocolate peanut-butter cookies you like, for your birthday. For all your birthdays.”
And Michael found himself tumbling from teardrops into laughter, breathless, astonished, in awe.
James smiled; blushed, a little, but didn’t glance down or away. Just kept looking at him, eyes all infinite blue, under the fire-opal rays of the setting sun.
“I love you,” Michael told him, “so much. More than-more than anything. Ever. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do, for you. I can do anything, because of you, because you make me believe I can. I told you once that I’d be a superhero for you, if you wanted that. Still true. But that’s because you make me want to be one. You make me better, and you make me smile, and you make me fall more in love with you every single day. And I promise to spend all those days trying to make you smile, too. Every day, every night, every minute, I’ll be here for you, and I’ll love you through everything, too-oh, you did just say that, but I already had it written in mine, and you went first, so that’s not fair-anyway, everything. Good, bad, ordinary, spectacular. Always. You’re mine-you are, you just said that too, and yes, completely yes-and I’m yours and I love you.”
Not the most coherent lines he’d ever delivered. But James was smiling, despite renewed damp tear-tracks, and gazing into his eyes, and the whole world was, for the space of that single minute, flawlessly bright.
“Well,” Ian said, very gently, sounding suspiciously waterlogged, “I think it’s about time the two of you kissed, then. While I pronounce you very wonderfully married.”
Married. Michael looked at James, inches away; prepared to lean down and touch their lips together, feather-light, no demands, not in public, not with all the emotions laid so raw and bare.
James leaned in and up and kissed him, fiercely, devotedly, passionately. Like the sunlight. Like the crash and cheer of the waves, breaking over the sand with wild foam.
The crowd cheered, too. Or maybe that was just his own heartbeat, pounding in time with the kiss; James pulled him closer, and Michael discovered that smile with lips and teeth and tongue, tasting sea and wind and salt air and absolute happiness, and he couldn’t’ve said who started laughing first, because they both were, together, too much emotion to keep inside.
When they turned around to wave, at last, the gleam from the sunset caught in James’s hair and glowed like wood at the heart of a bonfire, and Michael’s breath snagged somewhere in his lungs, tangled up on the fishhook of his heart for just a second.
He didn’t remember much of the exit, or the circling back for pictures, photo opportunities out on the sand. Their photographer’d been provided by the hotel, and she was quite nice; Michael wondered why she didn’t bother to tell him to smile more when she was reminding everyone else, and then realized he’d been smiling the entire time. His cheeks ached. And he didn’t care.
He did watch James throughout the photo session, alert for any signs of fatigue, emotional or otherwise. He didn’t like the photographer’s assistant, he’d decided. The boy kept trying to put hands on James.
In theory there was a reason for this-better lighting, camera angles-and James was tolerating the uninvited touches with good humor as far as Michael could see, but once or twice a hand had reached too abruptly for his face, and James had flinched, at that. Too close to the memories.
He’d glared, smile transforming into some other tooth-filled expression for a split second. The boy gulped, backed off, and then took a picture of his own thumb in the confusion.
James glanced up at him, leaned in under his arm; said “Sorry” to the boy out of the security of that shelter, even though it was clearly in no conceivable way his fault. Michael scowled. Didn’t say anything.
“He’s only doing his job.”
“His job shouldn’t involve touching you.”
“I can be touched. I’m touchable. Grand entrance time, is it?”
“You’re very touchable, yes. For me. No one else. Are you-”
“If you ask me whether I’m all right, I’m going to push you into the next big wave. Lots of salt water. Very cold. Very wet.”
“-hungry? Because we’re missing the hors d’oeuvres. I could bring you something. Also…” He waited until James raised eyebrows at him, expectantly. Then murmured, with his best lascivious leer, “…if you’re planning to get me all wet, I’m going to get you wet, too.” And watched with satisfaction as James dissolved into astonished laughter, far-off clouds banished from those eyes and replaced with the dancing reflection of emerging stars.
The reception went by in a colorful blur, interrupted by vivid snapshot moments. Patrick’s announcement of them as husbands. The smile on James’s face at the word. The standing ovation when they appeared on the dance floor, and the cheers and whistles when the X-Men theme music billowed out from speakers. They didn’t do a proper first dance-James had said he could, but there’d been a second’s pause before the agreement, and Michael’d imagined all those eyes on the two of them for three or four or six minutes, and had compromised-but he did spin James into his arms dramatically and deliver a thorough kiss.
After all, James had been the one to kiss him, at the ceremony. This was his turn.
The applause was loud, and sustained. James was grinning hugely when Michael let him go, lips marked with the imprint of desire, possession emphatically asserted; despite the grin, directed at their guests, the eyes had gone smoky and soft around the edges, for precisely that same reason, that reminder.
Good. He’d been trying.
The kaleidoscope of the evening spun again, all coruscating silver lights and blue silk, lanterns and beachside tents at twilight and shimmering effervescent champagne. James let himself be pulled onto the dance floor by his sister, and then by Michael’s sister; laughing, Michael watched him go, and then got dragged that direction himself by Patrick and Ian.
More champagne. Toasts, sincere and sentimental and occasionally embarrassing, from friends and family; Michael cast a longing look over at the open bar when Catherine began telling the story about his boyhood affection for his plush stuffed Ewok, but refrained. He wanted to be sober, wanted to remember every last magical sight and sound and taste of the night.
Besides, James was looking utterly entertained, next to him. So the embarrassment never would matter. Not compared to that.
More toasts. More cheers, and clinking of glasses, and applause when they kissed. Old-fashioned cake layers, brandy and lemon and sweetness and caramel, flavors that made blue eyes sparkle. James fed him first, neatly and gracefully, by hand; lowered those eyes, very briefly, while he did it, and Michael ran his tongue over sugary fingertips, tasting, and then closed teeth on that index finger, not really an assertion but enough that James could take it as one, if he chose.
The deepwater blue glinted in appreciation, glancing up. And James didn’t kneel, not then, didn’t say sir to him in public, didn’t submit, so willingly, to command. But all that hung in the night anyway, unspoken, understood.
Michael fed him very methodically, precisely, after that. His fingers, their wedding-cake, James’s splendid mouth. James accepted every bite Michael wanted to give him, and licked those lips, in the aftermath.
He’d arranged for a coffee bar, near the end of the night. Gingerbread and cinnamon vanilla and blueberry. Hazelnut and coconut and sweet chai spice. James regarded this last surprise with Christmas-morning eyes, and then threw both arms around him and kissed him with lips that tasted of chocolate and holidays and cream.
In the ensuing caffeine-appreciation rush, though, he did decide he needed at least one more actual drink, and wandered over to the bar. Requested a martini; approved, somewhere in the back of his head, of the technique, while watching the dance floor.
James had ended up back on said dance floor, at the moment, this time with Michael’s mother. Both of them were radiant, flushed with excitement and exertion and the enchantment of the night. James had pushed up his sleeves and loosened his tie, and his hair was falling into his eyes, and he was listening intently to whatever Michael’s mother’d decided to tell him, nodding back. He laughed at whatever comment it’d been, and twirled her around, and then tipped his head to one side, said something else, let himself be teasingly swatted on the shoulder in reply. Easily, no strain in those movements, or in that smile. No pain, no fear, only obvious delight.
Michael knew he was staring. Couldn’t look away.
“He looks happy.”
He jumped several inches in the air. Spun around to find the source of that unexpected voice. Nearly collided with the bar.
James’s grandmother watched this comedy act, smirking; Michael wondered briefly whether she’d snuck up on him on purpose. He’d not be surprised.
“He always should be.”
She glanced at James. Then back at Michael. Snorted. “He would tell you he doesn’t deserve it.”
“He’s wrong.”
This got a grin. Michael’d seen a similarly amused expression on James’s face, on occasion. Somehow, under these circumstances, it was much less sexy, and slightly terrifying.
“Of course he is. Glad you think so, too.”
A pause, during which they both watched James start laughing at whatever Michael’s mother’d just murmured in his ear, and then grin and dip her over one arm, making her laugh, too.
The scar on that wrist reflected silver, for a split second, under the lights. Neither of them, in motion, seemed to notice.
“It was bad.” Not a question. A statement of fact.
Michael, startled, tripped over words, stopped, started the question again. “It was-how much did he-he told you?” He hadn’t thought James’d told anyone exactly how bad.
“Of course he didn’t.” A snort; Michael swallowed the urge to apologize. “But. It’s in his eyes. And that-” Obviously she’d seen that silver also. “In your eyes, too. When you look at him. Like you can’t believe he’s real.”
“Sometimes I can’t,” Michael said, honestly, after a second. “I keep expecting to wake up. Thinking this has to be some kind of dream.”
James’s grandmother considered this admission thoughtfully. “I could pinch you.”
Michael contemplated several responses, and went with, “Sorry, that’s his job, later,” and she looked at him delightedly and then let out a peal of laughter, loud enough for nearby guests to turn and look.
“I knew I liked you. You can stay.”
“Thank you,” Michael said, wryly, which made her grin again.
“You make him happy. I can see that, too. Written all over him.”
“I…you know I’ll always try to make him happy.” Still honest. “Every day. Anything I can do. Because he-I never knew I could be this happy, either. With him.”
“Huh. You know how lucky you are.”
“I am.”
“He’d probably say we’re wrong. That he’s lucky he met you.”
“I…maybe?”
“He’d be right, too.”
Michael almost fell over again, out of sheer shock; this prompted James’s grandmother to laugh one more time. “Don’t look so shocked. I did say I liked you. Besides, you’ve got good taste in whiskey.”
“Such a subtle family, you are,” Michael said, and got her another drink. She patted him on the shoulder, and they both watched James for a while, in companionable silence.
The song ended; blue eyes flicked their way, spotting Michael even through the other heads, and then bounded over, enthusiastic and champagne-tipsy and excited. Michael reached out and collected both his hands, making the connection just because, and the excitement melted into something more private, quieter and deeper and intense, at the gesture.
“So,” James said, eyes all warm and wide and bluer than the night sky above, “I love you.”
“And I love you. Want to go have our wedding night?”
James laughed. There wasn’t a shooting star overhead, but there should’ve been, Michael thought, a comet streaking white-hot through the dark at that sound. “Entirely yes. Should we say goodbye, or-”
“You go on. I’ll say the goodbyes for you.”
“Thank you,” James said, and hugged her; Michael caught her eye, echoing the gratitude, and saw the answering nod.
“Right,” he said, and grabbed James’s hand, and they ran out of the reception laughing like truant children, hand in hand, under all the beachside stars.
He’d not opted for the most expensive suite in the hotel-he’d seen pictures, and decided it felt overdone, glitzy and overeager-but this one was still in a fairly extravagant price range, complete with historic carved wooden furniture, unobtrusively updated modern conveniences, and, most importantly, a location up on the top floor, tucked away in a corner, with a view of the ocean and the moonlight and no other guests to intrude. James, who’d not seen it yet, walked in and stopped, looking around, eyebrows flying up.
“This is…”
“If you don’t like it we can-do you like it?”
“Honestly, you’re asking that?” James put the contemplation of ornate bedposts on hold to toss a smile up at him. “This is fantastic. Literally, mind you; I’m expecting a magical kingdom inside that wardrobe.”
“Would you settle for your mermaids? There’re some carved into the headboard.”
“There are? Oh-there are, this is brilliant, how’d you ever find this place?”
Michael sat down on the end of the bed, forgetting to answer. Watched James explore, peeking interestedly out at the waves, under the moonlight; running a hand over the curtains, delicate fabric flowing through his fingers like a pleased housecat, ribboning around the caress.
James turned back around, and met his gaze, and smiled.
And the impact of that smile went all the way through his heart.
He’d always heard the adjective heartwarming as metaphorical. It wasn’t. Felt like the liquid radiance of the moon, right there inside his body, sparked to life by the sun.
James tipped his head to one side. Licked his lips. Michael caught himself licking his, too, especially when that smile got a little more heated, catching fire in return, and James took the few steps back across the room to stand in front of him, waiting.
The night air crackled like hearth-coals, red-hued and glowing with secret promise.
“Come here.” He slipped an arm around that tempting waist. Tugged James down onto his lap. “I want to ask you about something.”
“Yes, sir?” So soon, Michael thought, somewhere between appreciation and apprehension and startlement; but then he didn’t bother protesting, as James discovered Michael’s ear with his teeth. Breath, hot and delicious, drifted along his skin, and made all the tiny hairs prickle.
“No…I mean yes, do that again, but…I mean seriously. I wanted to ask you…” He shifted a leg, moved an arm, got James to pause and sit up and look at him. “What you said. Before. Before the ceremony. About being-that you couldn’t believe this, that you weren’t…allowed…to be this happy. Can you believe it? Now?”
“Oh…” James licked his bottom lip, swiftly, caught in thought. Michael tracked the unconscious sweep of pink tongue, heart aching strangely in his chest.
One long leg swung over him, adjusting position, settling down astride Michael’s hips. Sensual, unthinkingly so, and all the more eloquent for that reason: James wasn’t hesitating, wasn’t afraid to fit their bodies together in erotic lines and shapes and curves.
James said, “Yes.”
“You-yes? Just…yes?”
“Yes.” James sounded as if he was laughing, though he wasn’t, quite; the emotion was there, though, lying audibly among the wind-hewn Scottish melody of that voice. “I’m not saying I’m suddenly perfect…”
“You are.”
“Thank you for that. I am saying, I think…well. We did this. We have this. Nothing-no one stood up and took it away, or stopped me from finding you, or told me I didn’t deserve-we’re married and we got married in front of everyone and I do believe it, it completely happened, I love you. And I know I’m happy, because I am. We are. Ah…I assume you’re happy. Pretty sure you are.”
Michael’s response was instant, and wholehearted, and just a touch blasphemous because he couldn’t hear that doubt for even a second longer, even if only teasingly so. James not-quite-laughed again, joy too vast and all-encompassing for laughter, but shining out in eyes, voice, the upward quirk of lips.
“Good, then. So, now that we’ve get that sorted…I’ve got your present, finally. I wanted to have it for you this morning, but Kevin was running late. And I needed his help; he was picking this up for me.” James hopped off his lap, bounced across the room, found his discarded jacket. Michael followed, unwilling to let go of all the twinkling freckles even for an instant. “And you can stop looking nervous about that; it’s not going to bite.”
“That’s what you think.” But he took the extended envelope anyway. Paused, not quite removing whatever James’d arranged to be put inside it. “You know you didn’t have to…I got to marry you. You asked me to marry you. And that was-you didn’t need to get me anything. Not today.”
“Well…it’s kind of for both of us.” James pulled off his tie. Tossed it toward the pillows. Michael raised an eyebrow; James grinned in agreement, and then waved a hand at the envelope. “Go on.”