Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

300,000 dollars. 300 thousand fucking dollars. 300,000 smackers and somehow they were all his. After all that talk of wanting to be out of this sleazy business once and for all and now he was finally free, gifted a new life by some kind stranger, kind friend, a generous man he would never see again. What the hell should he do now? He had spent so much time dreaming of making stacks but now he had them all his stunned brain could do was play elevator music. He was so dazed he ended up walking the full 13 miles back home, only getting home as the sun was rising and the sky was blushing pink. His feet hurt, he reeked, he could barely keep his eyes open but none of that registered - he was so exhilarated he felt completely weightless, like he had floated the whole way. A new beginning - he could do whatever he wanted, go wherever he pleased, actually live instead of just surviving week to week, year to year. He could finally get out of this crummy bedsit, out of this gaudy city with its relentless sunshine and it’s chaotic sprawl, head back home to New York where the weather, the layout, the people made sense. He could say goodbye to a miserable era of his life and the shadow of a man who had occupied it. But first, sleep.

After 15 hours of dreamless slumber (he had collapsed on his bed in his clothes and slipped under within seconds) he quickly showered and changed, packed up everything he owned into a duffel and a suitcase, posted the keys through the landlords door with a curt note, got straight back to the airport and on to the first plane to New York. Within a week he had managed to move out of his cheap motel room and into a modest one bed rental down in Brooklyn. He was home, but what came next?

Suddenly days yawned out before him. What were you supposed to do with all of this time? How were you supposed to fill it, how were you supposed to enjoy it? He knew drinking beer, smoking his way through packs of cigarettes, watching sports in some dive bar, but those were all for rare lulls and the odd spare moments between jobs, they weren’t meant for full months, decades. Where do you start with all that when pretty much all of your adult life, and nearly every waking hour, had been consumed with work? The weeks stretched out before him and for the first time there was nothing, and no one, to fill them with.

He started small; trips to New Yorkers public library to work out how to start a business. Hours between the stacks, taking notes, looking for supplier tips and information, reviewing market reports and starter guides. He was in his element, working alone, following leads, doing his own research. Every so often he would feel the air shift around him as he noticed men catching his eye or appraising his body, but after meeting their gaze briefly with an imperceptible smirk he would turn back to his books.

After a couple of weeks scouring papers, calling agents and searching the neighbourhood, Jack found what he wanted. A vacant shop space with big windows that came with kitchen utilities, perfect for a cafe. The apartment immediately above it, by some stroke of luck, was also for sale - two bedrooms in an old brownstone. He took both of them. It took a big chunk out of his budget but he loved them and couldn’t wait to move in and put down some roots. Now he had somewhere bigger where his daughter could finally have a place to stay, something he hadn’t had in years, and a kitchen that wasn’t just a sink and a hot plate.

Gradually the cafe started to take shape and all of the studying paid off; he got some deals on old equipment, found decent local grocers, bakers and butchers willing to sell him fresh produce, a woman in the neighbourhood who was a skilled confectioner who agreed to providing him with fresh cakes and canolis.

When he wasn’t researching, he was renovating. The grubby shop walls were whitewashed, the electrics rewired, wooden counters fitted and coffee machines, fridges and chilled glass cabinets installed. Where he could he taught himself and carried out the work, learning as he went. He’d also managed to scrounge a rag tag collection of tables, sofas and chairs, some off the street, some from people moving out, some from thrift stores, to furnish the interior after they’d had a good scrub. The finished effect was pleasing, even if just to him - a little eclectic, sparse but calm, and with the big windows and the gracious amounts of light they invited in, welcoming. The menu was limited - good strong coffees, whatever cakes his supplier had come up with that week, and a small lunch time run of his own recipe soups and sandwiches, concocted with a range of ingredients he had on hand and soft fresh bread. It was simple fare, but he soon found he had gained a reputation for decent drinks and good cheap food, enough to keep the business ticking along and tables occupied. He got to know the locals; people on their lunchbreaks, the older regulars looking for a chat and a couple of steaming mugs to fill their afternoons, friends catching up over cappuccino’s, families looking for somewhere to sit and silence a grumpy kid with something sweet. The hours were sometimes long, but with a couple of extra staff and the satisfaction he got from seeing people happy, it was rewarding in a way work had never been for him before.

Evenings tended to be trickier. Once he locked up shop and said goodbye to his colleagues he would head to his flat upstairs, sit at his kitchen table and ponder how to spend the yawning hours ahead of him before sleep. Years before he might have felt panic wash over him at the prospect of spending so much time with himself but now, his self-hatred softened by time, decent work and the buffer of some money, those hours became positively luxuriant. He hadn’t known where to start initially, so stuck to lifting weights, attempting chin ups that had been much easier 20 years ago, and listlessly watching TV, but he soon got bored. Gradually he spent less time channel surfing and more reading the paper, from there taking in book recommendations that he could take to the local library, then would return with a haul of different texts and sit and read. He steadily made his way through the classics he’d never had a chance to read as a younger man, relishing the fact that he was not only getting through each book but was also enjoying them. Reading them prompted a deeper, more private curiosity that he knew he couldn’t take to other people, so he found himself searching for books that would answer some of the unarticulated questions that had been tucked away at the back of his mind for so long. With the windows open and the familiar sounds of the streets on the evening breeze, he discovered James Baldwin, Mann, Forster, Mishima, Melville, Highsmith, Wilde and more. He found part of himself reflected in their words, a part that he found he was getting more comfortable with acknowledging, that no longer caused the same pangs of confusion and disgust.

Food too, now that he had time to pay attention to it, needed some change. He wasn’t grabbing burgers late at night in greasy diners any more so he had to work out what food he could make himself that he would eat and actually enjoy. Pasta, fish, stews, bread, even salads - he made his way through whatever recipes held his attention and found that he was actually a competent cook who could appreciate food, now that the lingering char of cigarettes had faded from his tongue. More fruit and vegetables, less meat, negligible booze - after a couple of months the ulcer that had bugged him for years dwindled away to nothing. He’d even managed to befriend and take in a stray kitten he had found in an alley behind the shopfront - a tiny calico he’d named Tina- who he kept fed and watered, so dinners weren’t a completely solitary affair.

Tina was affectionate and he enjoyed having a pet he could idly chat to, but sometimes he felt a yearning for more social interaction. Sometimes a good looking man or woman would catch his eye as he put their orders through but beyond maybe slipping them something extra for free he got tongue tied at the prospect of talking to them. Conversations at work were friendly and warm but still polite and at some distance; while they were gratifying they weren’t exactly substantive. But what did he mean by substantive? His old friends had all been work related, the sort you would grab a beer with at some bar, sit alongside and not make any eye contact with while you gruffly exchanged comments on recent cases and dregs of petty office gossip. It had been limited and rough but it had filled some sort of gap - he didn’t want to return to it, to those people or that life, or have any deep conversations about books or the nature of existence, but he did want to laugh, enjoy a joke, feel some intimacy with someone without the old pull of withdrawal. Time and solitude had unspooled so much of the tension he used to carry, worn away the wariness he had draped around himself as protection that he now felt that, even if he still wasn’t exactly the chattiest, he was more open to talking in a way he hadn’t been before.

Running helped to dispel those eddies of loneliness. When he had the energy and free time he would run through the streets of Brooklyn in the pooling ink of dusk, the air cooling and noise subsiding as he felt the reassuring jolt of impact as his feet met the sidewalk. As the runs got longer they became more wide ranging, taking him round new streets, undiscovered parts of the borough. Without thinking soon he found himself running regularly though the park guided by lamplight and a building wordless urgency. Sometimes he would spot the silhouette of a man, of men, lingering by trees or streetlamps and he would feel himself slow to a walk and his eyes taking in their physiques, chasing their gaze and holding it. If it was returned, if a head nodded subtly, they would drift to some secluded shady spot and seek each others bodies out in the darkness. Despite the books he had read, the unworded childhood thoughts he had revisited, the charge he had felt in the company of some other men, he had still felt the uneasy hum of doubt in the back of his mind, that what was hypothetically desirable would prove less so in reality, or less powerful than his attraction to women. But once he felt rough stubble on his skin, firm muscle against him, and slick hardness in his hand, those doubts vanished. The musk of bodies, sweat and want was even more thrilling than he could have guessed, the feeling of being coveted in a primal sense that didn’t need language. He lacked confidence and ease so refused kisses or anything other than an offered hand, but he still loved to hold a body close to his, to put his mouth to a corded, strong neck as he made a man come. Realising his attraction to men properly this late in life he had thought that he was probably past it - the thought of clubs or conversation, dating, answering ads left him feeling totally bewildered and hopeless, but in these places, as he felt a firm grip on his arse, his crotch, exploring him under his t shirt, he found that he could still be desired, still be accepted without question or judgement. Sometimes, mid fumble he would catch himself wondering if he could ask these strangers to meet, to grab drinks somewhere and talk as friends, but what would they talk about? He would probably get quiet or awkward; just as quickly as the thoughts started churning they were extinguished in a mist of lust.

Those encounters came to an end abruptly when he heard, while inadvertently eavesdropping a conversation when ringing someone up, that the police had done raids on the usual haunts and were stepping up patrols, looking for some easy harrassment to pass the time. He had avoided clubs as he hadn’t known where to start, was worried he might be spotted by someone he knew or just read as a cop by other men and then avoided, but the threat persisted even here, in places that had felt almost safe in their anonymity. He stopped going and went to ground, subsisted on memories, allowing his mind and hands to drift when the frustration became too much to bear late at night.

Chapter Text

Jon came to a stop, took off his sunglasses and looked over the road to the shopfront opposite him. This was not what he expected. This was a mistake. A coffee shop with big windows, outside of which tables were scattered under a striped awning, a pared back old fashioned script sign that read ‘al duca’ hanging over the top of it. It looked simple but charming, not at all like what he had pictured in his mind’s eye. He’d figured it might be somewhere smaller, maybe darker, more unassuming or secretive. Maybe, even though he knew this was snobby, struggling. But the business in front of him looked healthy with a steady stream of people heading in and out, customers sitting out in front enjoying the mellowing of the afternoon sun. He had managed to track this place down through friends and some moderate sleuthing but now that he was here he was having second thoughts. He had figured he might be able to sneak in, catch a glimpse of Jack without him noticing, gauge how things were going then disappear, or at most manage a terse five minutes of conversation before turning on his heel and deciding to never see him again, but he had to admit that his interest was piqued. even without seeing him, Jack had surprised him.

He steeled himself, crossed the road and after a moment’s pause outside the door, headed in. The walls, plain white, were decorated with a couple of large faded prints of empty, expansive american landscapes, the windowsills held some books and the corners were occupied by content looking plants, but the cafe had otherwise drained of patrons for the day. With a twist to his stomach he could see Jack was in and working behind the counter; thankfully his back was turned as he assembled the coffee order for the person at the till and said goodbye to the barista whose shift had ended, so he hadn’t spotted him. He was still completely recognisable, even with his face turned away; the same close cropped dark hair, stocky lean build and muscled arms still evident through his white t-shirt and apron. Jon slotted in behind the woman in front and kept his eyes downcast, fumbling with something in his pocket as he raced through potential ice breakers. Was this weird? It was probably weird. But even though he knew he’d probably look like a twit, when faced again with the decision to do this or leave it well enough alone until Jack’s memory faded away entirely, he knew what choice he would make. The woman in front, now with her cup in hand, made her way out and Jon stepped up into the vacant space as Jack, head down and distracted, tidied the money away in the cash drawer.

In the suavest most measured tone Jon could muster, reaching for the deepest resonances of his voice, he stated, ‘Alonso Mosley of the FBI. I’ve been tracking a ring of counterfeiters passing phony $20 dollar bills across the state. Have you received any $20 bills in the last 24 hours?’ In his hand he held the pilfered FBI badge that he had managed to sneak from Jack in the last moments before they had said goodbye 3 years ago, though he was concerned that his nerves were causing it to shake. He looked ahead, trying to keep his face as straight as possible. As Jack looked up he realised he couldn’t do it, it was impossible; a grin unfurled across his face because there he was, both the same and not the same. A stone heavier with muscle and decent food, a little greyer at the temples, the same brown eyes in a face slightly more weathered. It was indisputably Jack but more so, in a way Jon couldn’t quite make out.

‘You sonofabitch! You sonofabitch, what the hell are you doing here?’

The grin on Jack’s face as he spotted Jon, the smile in his voice, those lines around his eyes he always had when he laughed etching themselves into his face again - he had made the right call, coming here. While Jon took him in, he felt his hand being taken in two others and shaken with enthusiasm, Jack exclaiming quietly, beaming, then heading round the counter. He reeled Jon into a bear hug, patting him on the back then stepped back with his hands still grasping his upper arms while he absorbed the view.

It was indisputably Jon, both the same and not the same. A stone or two lighter by the looks of things, more tanned and hair more salt and peppered, stubble thicker but flattering, the same eyes dancing with latent mischief. That same rich deep voice that was smooth enough to caress skin. He was wearing a worn light blue shirt, slightly unbuttoned with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, with jeans and desert boots, a canvas weekend bag slung over his shoulder and a sports Jacket over his arm. This was the first time Jack was seeing him without a bulky coat on and he could see broad shoulders, the lean, toned physique of someone used to a decent amount of exercise, the sun speckled skin that indicated that exercise was usually outdoors. Jack had only ever seen him in winter clothes, business casual, but in this gear with his five o’clock shadow he looked much more relaxed. In that moment, as they had stared at one another talking but the noise not quite registering, Jack felt the most incredible rush, as pure and terrifying as vertigo - he was glad. He had worked, he had thought, he had matured quietly alone but in some way, despite all of the achievements he had had over the last couple of years, this, without even realising it, was what he had been waiting for. For all those bilious moments of self pity where he had felt lacking in companionship, here in front of him, despite what he might say otherwise, was a real genuine friend. A friend looking at him with that same intent expression he remembered, one so strong it felt like it was pushing right through his flesh and muscle, down to the depths of him. Jack could have spoken absolute gibberish and Jon would probably still manage to look at him like that, totally focused, as if no one else existed. Underneath his delight, underneath that gaze he felt the undertow of something stronger.

‘How’re you doin’? How’re things? What are you even doing here? Hey, you look good, you look good. Can I get you somethin’? You hungry?’

He was so excited that he couldn’t stop talking, couldn’t stop asking questions. Jon just laughed, his voice reverberating deep inside his chest as Jack steered him into a free chair and sat opposite him. With his hands clasped loosely on the table Jack could see john was wearing his watch, his wrists still scored with the pale pink scars left from those metal cuffs.

‘Ok, ok, sure. What’ve you got? What’s good here? Give me something you’d recommend and I don’t know..a black coffee.’

Jons eyes were bright as he gazed around him. ‘It really is a wonderful coffee shop Jack, honestly it is.’

Jack busied himself with drinks and grabbing a selection of the best cakes they had then finally took his seat again, stopping and breathing deep. He could still feel himself smiling. Jon, leaning back and watching quietly, found this barely concealed excitement endearing. Yet again he was surprised - he hadn’t expected such a strong response or for Jack’s eyes to be so bright. He realised slowly what had caused him to think the man in front of him had changed in some subtle but fundamental way: he was happy, genuinely content. It was radiating out of him, his manner, his face, his brown eyes, which even though they were dark were shining like vinyl, like light on water.

They managed to chat politely for a while, covering how Jon had ended up here (friends, business - though he was quick to shoot down Jack’s insinuations of more embezzling), how long the cafe had been going and how it was doing (well), where they were staying (Portland, Maine, and the apartment above the shop respectively) how life was (good, good). It wasn’t particularly deep or interesting but both of them laughed easily, picking up the same rhythms they’d forged between them years ago. Any possibility of awkwardness had been banished instantly, was inconceivable. As they talked and laughed Jon noticed that the little pencil tucked behind Jack’s right ear had made its way between his index and middle fingers, that he proffered it and gestured with it as if it was a cigarette. He realised that Jack had stopped smoking, that was another reason why he looked so healthy and solid. He wasn’t even conscious he was doing it but the movements were still the same familiar ones, brandishing the pencil in the air when he needed emphasis. Jon found himself charmed by this and chalked up yet another surprise.

Soon enough Jack realised he’d passed closing so slipped the sign on the door round and left Jon to his own devices while he quickly put things away and tidied.

Jon, seeing the fading light and feeling the shift of energy as Jack busied himself with chores, rubbed his thighs and made to stand up, grabbing his bag and Jacket. It had been a great afternoon, fantastic even. He had not expected to have such a good time, to feel so pleased to see someone and to see them not only doing well but also looking truly at ease. He had felt such a wave of pleasure seeing how thrilled Jack was to see him again, from feeling the same charge between them reemerge, the tug of attraction towards this kind and vital man, but he hadn’t considered staying this long. Best to leave things on a high and make vague plans to see each other the next time he was in town than stay beyond his welcome.

‘Hey, I’d better get going Jack. It's been great, it really has, but I’d better head out.’

Jack, his head in a fridge, turned round to face him. He looked, for want of a better word, stricken.

‘You got plans? Ok, ok, that’s ok. Sure. But hey, if you haven’t got anything on you can come up, I can make you some dinner. Some food, some drink, some conversation, it’s early still, if you can afford to stay a while.’

‘Uh…’

This wasn’t what Jon had expected. Sure, he didn’t have dinner plans, only had an impersonal mid tier hotel room to check in to. But he didn’t want to be an imposition or to get to a point in the evening where they ran out of things to say to each other and had to admit they had nothing more to bond over than memories of some daft capers. He knew that underneath the company there was something more he wanted, something more he’d come back for - what if he got it wrong? Jack was still looking at him with a mix of concern and hope.

‘Well, I mean if it’s no imposition to you, I guess I can’

Jack’s furrowed brow smoothed as he smiled in response.

‘It could never be, don’t be stupid.’

‘Oh, and what do I owe you for the food?’

‘Owe me? Owe me?! Jon, are you serious?’

Hearing Jack indignant, indignant and saying his name, made him smile in spite of himself.

‘After what you’ve done for me you’re not paying a cent, so don’t bother asking. If you do there’ll be trouble’

The fake threat made him smile even more.

‘Fine, fine, you got it, it’s graciously accepted. I don’t want any grief.’

He raised his hands in a gesture of mock surrender and, while Jack finished up, idly paced around the room taking in details.

The shop tidied, wiped down and shuttered, they headed up the narrow staircase through the side door up to the first floor, Jack in front. Jon couldn’t help watching the back of him as they ascended, the pull of his jeans on his slightly thicker, more rounded arse. To distract himself he decided to cause the exact grief he had sworn off.

‘So what are you going to make anyway? Burnt toast, potato chips and warm beer?’

Jack didn’t turn as he opened the door but Jon could hear him take the bait as he laughed.

‘Shut the fuck up,Mardukas. You’re a rude sonofabitch, you know that? I invite you into my home and this is what I get. unbelievable. you'll be lucky if you get crumbs.’’

They made their way into the flat and as Jack made his way through to the lounge Jon cast his eyes around the place. The surprises just kept coming, he was starting to lose count - a central hall with living room and master bedroom to the street facing side, bathroom and another room opposite. Making his way to the main living space he acknowledged how wrong his assumptions had been. It was minimally but comfortably furnished with a selection of second hand pieces, some crammed bookcases, comfortable couches, the floors polished wood, the walls white and large windows framed with pale checked curtains. There were one or two prints on the wall and on the wooden table bordering the modest kitchenette he spotted a dog eared copy of Giovanni’s Room that Jack hastily bundled up under a newspaper and put to one side. There was even a cat - not a raggedy stray that had wandered in through an open window but a glossy, slightly grumpy looking pet. When Jack had said flat he had pictured what the Jack of three years ago might have lived in - something smaller, messier, more chaotic, slightly neglected. A single bed studio, hot plate and a half empty bottle of scotch. This was a vast improvement.

Jack insisted Jon take a seat as he pottered around the open kitchen, talking to and feeding the cat, looking for a bottle of wine, checking the fridge for food he could use.

‘Ok, I’ve got steak. Or some pasta? Maybe some shrimp? we’ve got options. Here, open this’ he passed Jon a bottle of wine (Jack drank wine?) and a corkscrew and caught him looking curiously at the cat diligently scoffing its food.

‘That’s Tina. I found her behind the shop and took her in when she was a tiny mess. Now look at her.’

Jon chuckled and looked at Jack again. That same inscrutable look, the blue of his eyes almost deepening as he stared. Jack turned away and distracted himself with finding glasses.

‘Pasta’s perfect, honestly. Want a hand?’

‘Here, can you knock up something green?’’

Jack dumped some leaves and vegetables, oil and vinegar, seasoning, chopping board and knife on the table in a big ceramic bowl then started on the meal (Jack ate salad?). As Jack cooked (Jack cooked?), Jon sliced, blended, mixed and tossed until something vaguely appetising appeared, then poured wine for them both, standing close to Jack to hand him a glass. He had swapped the cafe apron for one of his own and was intently sautéing onions, garlic and chilli in a pan as the pasta gurgled away in the pot.

‘Cheers’

‘Cheers’

They clinked glasses.

‘To old friends.’

‘To old friends.’

Chapter Text

The pasta was delicious, rich and sating despite its limited ingredients, the salad adequate. The wine bottle steadily emptied as they kept laughing, chatting about food, Jack’s cooking, travel, how they had been living, and other inconsequential things, fitting in the odd sly jibe where they could as another bottle of wine appeared, was uncorked and gradually drained. Jack’s cheeks had become faintly flushed and his eyes, if it was even possible, had grown more lucent. He looked slightly undone and even more handsome to Jon, unguarded and a little goofy. Jons body, already long and lean, had become more expansive, tanned arms stretching across the table, round the back of his chair, his legs a wide sprawl. The sensation of atmospheric pressure, of air thickening between them, even as they chatted casually, continued to build.

‘How’s your wife? How’s your daughter doing?’

‘Ex wife, Jon, don’t try to catch me out. for real this time. She’s ok, still with that bum but otherwise fine. A lot happier when I paid her back 20 times over for lending me the money and car to get to LA.’

He paused as he slowly ran his hand over the back of his neck.

‘And Denise? Oh you should see her, Jon. Taller now and so smart, real smart kid - wants to be a doctor. All grown up now - she’s headed to NYU in the fall so I should be seeing her more. Graduating high school this year. We talk more now, and we try to spend holidays and weekends together when we can’

‘That’s good, that’s really good.’

‘It is considering that money is getting her through college. Without that it would be a different story.’

He refilled their glasses and they raised them in a mute toast. They each took a long drink.

‘Sounds like you’ve managed to move on, get some peace, that’s great.’

Jon took another sip as he considered his next question.

‘So are you seeing anyone now? A girl?’ Jon waited a beat. ‘A guy?’

Jack’s head snapped up at that. He should’ve known Jon missed nothing, he’d seen him checking out the bookcases earlier. Jack met that shrewd provoking look and smirked, passing a hand over his jaw. He stared back, eyes glittering, lip quirked, as he replied as casually as he could.

‘no, no one.’

They held each other’s gaze for a couple of seconds, Jon both disappointed and curious, maybe even a little impressed that Jack hadn’t taken it the wrong way, kicked off. This was different and unexpected, and that private, knowing smile he’d caught as Jack had answered was new.

‘And how about you, your wife?’

He wasn’t as observant as Jon but he had still noticed he wasn’t wearing a ring.

‘Wife? Ah, well. she wasn’t really my wife.’

Jack, now looking confused, waited politely.

‘It wasn’t so much a marriage as an arrangement that worked for both of us.’

Jack’s grin had faded and he was now listening intently, his face serious. Jon took a deep breath and leaned back, his slim, tapered fingers tapping absently on the base of his wine glass.

‘We each had our own, uh, inclinations, but we also had corporate jobs where we didn’t want any questions. She’s one of my oldest friends from college, we met through one of the societies and hit it off. She’s working for some big company now as an executive and is as gay as they come. I saw her briefly earlier actually, her and her partner. They have a son now, he’s 10 - I was their donor. When we were younger, starting our careers, we figured that some cheap rings, a couple of mall photo shoots and showing up as each other’s dates every once in a while was a small price to pay for some peace and quiet. We lived together for years too. it worked pretty well, didn’t get a peep from anyone. Helped with childcare, Even helped with the parents.’ He sighed and drank some wine.

‘And no, there’s no one at the moment. There hasn’t been for some time. A lot of my friends, a lot of the people i had been with, they’ve not been well. They’ve gotten sick, some are gone. So it was easier to leave all that and help them, take care of them, help however I could. That’s how I ended up in that Serrano mess - a load of stress but it was worth it, and a decent distraction.’

His mouth was pressed into a tight smile that for once didn’t reach his eyes and for the first time he looked older and tired. He had mentioned charities, but listening to that Jack realised he’d never told him which ones.

‘Jesus Jon, I’m so sorry. I had no idea. That’s, uh, a really rough ride. A lot of pain.’

‘It’s ok. It’s not but it is. Fuck, sorry for being a downer, I don’t mean to be. Apart from that, Life is decent and hey, I’m not in jail or at the bottom of the Hudson. It could be much worse.’

‘I’m glad you’re here, Jon.’

‘So am I.’

They carefully navigated to lighter topics and kept talking, though both of them, despite being pretty tipsy from the wine and company, were starting to flag.

Jon caught sight of the clock. It was gone one in the morning.

‘I’d better split Jack, it’s so late. You have work and I need to get back.’

‘Hey, don’t worry about that. Stay - I mean you can stay here.’

Jack’s voice was surprisingly soft as he made the suggestion. ‘There’s another bed through there you can crash in, so no funny business. Anything you need I probably have spare. You don’t have to but it’s past 1 and you’re so far from midtown, it’ll probably take you forever to get back.’

‘Are you sure? It’s really no big deal, I can make my way on the subway no problem.’

‘Nah, come on, leave that, it’s no trouble. Leave first thing or whenever you want once I’m out, drop in for some breakfast while I’m working. You’re not putting me out, I promise.’

Jon gave it some moments thought.

‘Ok, ok. If you’re sure.’

Jon still looked uneasy but the thought of tumbling into a clean bed just feet from where he was sitting was too tempting.

That decided, he cleared the table and tried to do the washing up but Jack insisted he leave the dishes alone. while Jack disappeared to the bathroom, he slipped out of his clothes and into his pyjamas,grateful that he hadn’t managed to check into the hotel and leave his bag there. Jack reappeared in a t shirt and ancient looking plaid pyjama bottoms, his arms full of blanket, and looked to Jon, without his usual trappings of denim and leather, vulnerable. seeing Jon had changed, his arms exposed in an old vest, Jack turned off the lights. The room was doused in amber from the street lamps outside.

‘You got everything you need? I grabbed you this in case you need it. I’ve left you a towel and a glass of water by the bed.’

Jon had turned and was standing opposite him, reaching for the throw. ‘Thanks, yeah I’m fine.’ As he gently extended his arms he took a couple of steps forward, closing the gap between them. He studied Jack's face in the expanding silence.

Instead of taking the blanket off him, Jack found that one of Jon's hands had made for his wrist, fingers braceleting round it so gently they were barely touching him.

‘Jack…’

Jack was suddenly very aware of their breathing, that the only sound he could hear was the rise and fall of their chests. all other sounds of the city had retreated.

‘What?’ He reaponded, his voice barely a croak.

‘Come to bed.’

Jack realised he was struggling to exhale properly so he just looked up, straight into those blue eyes; they had turned dark and serious in the low light, searching his.

‘Come to bed. come to bed with me.’

Jon took a deep breath.

‘Maybe I want some funny business. Don’t worry about the other room, just come to bed.’

The silence extended out further as Jack continued to watch him. Jon sighed.

‘Listen, if I’ve misjudged this, tell me to fuck off and I can get out and not bother you again, no problem. But I think there is something here - I can feel it, I can hear it. I can see it too, in the way you look at me , the way you move.’ He paused again, his expression suddenly exposed, his voice a murmur.

‘Have I misjudged things, Jack?’

Jack was looking away, avoiding that face and how painfully open it looked.

‘...no. No, you haven’t’

Jon slowly took the blanket and placed it on the back of the couch, then brought his hand to rest gently on the curve between Jack’s shoulder and the bottom of his neck, his other hand still loosely surrounding his wrist. They were bigger than Jack’s, soft, with a comforting heat to them like sun soaked stone.

‘If it gets weird or you’re not ok with it we can stop at any time, no questions asked. But if you want to, I want to.’

He looked down at Jack intently.

‘Do you trust me?’

Jack finally lifted his face up and felt Jons thumb lightly stroke his jaw. There was that same look, the same one he remembered from the airport all of those years ago, shining down on him, through him, like a beam of incandescent light. It felt inescapable in what it offered -kindness, acceptance and underneath it a love so clear that it needed no articulation. It was unwavering in its certainty, it’s intensity, it’s warmth. He had had an inkling back then but now he knew it for certain, knew that he could recognise it and return it. He had stood on this precipice once before, aeons ago, now here he was again - older, greyer but the feeling was just as exhilarating as he remembered.

After scrutinising his face for what felt like an eternity, checking for any hint of ridicule and finding none, he eventually answered, though the words were molten on his tongue.

‘Yeah, I guess I do trust you, Jackass.’ he murmured.

It was at moments like this, where Jack was at his most raw and unprotected, when the swearing kicked in. Jon loved it, that mixture of tenderness and defensiveness.

‘You’re a good looking chicken, you know that?’

Jack grinned as he found his hands moving of their own accord, one to Jons waist, another to his chest, fingers curling through his chest hair. He could feel his eyelids getting heavy, the warmth of Jon’s breath on his cheek, the inexorable magnetic force that surrounded and pulsed through their bodies, pulling them closer together, making his skin bristle. He could feel himself melting into the broad chest front of him.

‘Shut the fuck up, Mardukas.’

With that Jon leaned in and kissed him. For such a big guy he was incredibly gentle; his lips were soft, and the pressure of them against Jack’s was unexpectedly light and hesitant. As kisses went it was practically chaste. Jack returned it with more force, opening his mouth slightly, giving it more certainty as he pulled Jon closer to him. He had avoided this for so long that now he was finally kissing a man, a man he felt so strongly for, he had no patience and little tact. The combination of coarseness and softness, delicacy and force, the solidity of the figure he was embracing, it was all too intoxicating.

Jon, on surprise number 200 of the night, found that his brain had temporarily stopped working, it had fritzed out completely. His gambit, his brazen gambit lacking all subtlety and finesse, had somehow paid off and the tough guy he had thought beyond his reach was slipping his tongue into his mouth and pressing himself up against him. He’d had little hope in it as a ploy but hadn’t considered it paying off, or quite so successfully. Even though he knew how to do this, how to kiss good looking men, guide them into various configurations with quiet confidence, this gruff man had upended all of that. All he could do was allow his body to return the sensations in kind as he made inadvertent low noises of pleasure, his hand slipping behind Jack’s head to kiss him deeper.

They stayed like that for some time. At some point Jack’s shirt was peeled off of him, then shortly after so was Jons. Jon was not only taller than him but fuzzier, his arms and chest covered in brown hair, and for the first time in his life Jack was being kissed by someone bigger and broader than him, surrounded by strong arms. jumbled childhood thoughts resurfaced vaguely, of an innocent longing to be hugged by strapping heroes from his comic books, not entirely sure what this meant or even what it would feel like, just that it was something he yearned for. And here he was, just that the hulking type he was being embraced by happened to be a lot older and a tad more annoying. But none of those characters could have smelt or felt this good.

With some difficulty they managed to make it into Jack’s bedroom, then shuffle to the bed, both of them loathe to break contact. With a slight push Jon lay down, with Jack following and aligning the length of his body against his. Jon, feeling urgency build within him and Jack hard against him, slipped his hand under his waistband.

‘I didn’t think you would enjoy this so much, Jack’ Jon’s voice in his ear had dropped half an octave, turned husky.

Jack, mind spinning out, struggled to respond. Mid moan he managed a gravelly ‘shut up, Jon’.

‘Can I- ‘

‘Yes, dumbass, of course you can.’ His voice, hoarse but tender, was growing increasingly strained.

‘Please, I can’t take much more’

Jack shifted his hips closer into him and felt for Jon's cock over thin cotton, making Jon breathe in sharply.

‘What, you think this is my first time doing this?’

‘It’s not?’

‘No, Jon. No, it isn’t’

As soon as Jack muttered those words his hand, smaller and rougher than Jons was on him, stroking him firmly and with gathering speed. Jon, his breathing already getting shallow, tried to match his rhythm then fell in sync. Neither of them lasted long, each stuttering to an intense climax within seconds of each other.

No one said anything for a while as their heart rates slowed, breathing eased and the ability to think coherently returned to them.

A whispered ‘Fuck’ was all Jack could manage.

Jon, flat on his back, opened his eyes and turned his head to face him, voice incredulous, ‘so you’ve done that before??’

‘Maybe. Maybe a couple of times. Maybe it felt good, maybe I liked it. Don’t overthink it, Jon.’

‘Sure, sure.’

Both exhausted from such a frenetic bout of activity and generous amounts of wine, they eventually turned to face the same direction, Jons body curling around Jack’s, his topmost arm settling on his midriff. Jack’s hand enmeshed itself with Jons on his stomach as he felt himself sinking into sleep.

‘I didn’t take you for a fellow pervert, Jack.’

Jon whispered groggily in his ear as he drifted off, his voice suffused with sex and a knowing smile.

‘Shut up Jon, go to sleep.’

After kissing Jack on the neck one final time, that is exactly what he did.