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Stephen frowned, flexing his left hand carefully. Rain was pelting against the deck above him, heavy but not serious enough to require his or Jack's attention quite yet. The weather was, however, severe enough for Stephen's damaged joints to take up protesting with enthusiasm. He had thought it would be fine, when he and Jack had finished dinner and produced their instruments to be played, but as Jack tuned his fiddle in the seat next to Stephen, Stephen found himself quite unable to get a good grip on the pegs of his 'cello without wincing. His fingers felt stiff and clumsy, and Stephen was reminded sharply of the times after Port Mahon, when his hands had still been healing and he hadn't been sure he'd ever regain his dexterity completely.
Stephen shook out his hand as Jack, satisfied, adjusted his instrument upon his shoulder.
'The Corelli then?' Jack asked.
'With all my heart,' Stephen replied, and they played.
Jack played, that is. Stephen attempted the same, but he found he could not move his stiff fingers quickly enough to keep up. They simply refused to bend the way Stephen wanted them to. He had missed quite a few notes, he knew, gone flat or absent entirely, and Jack, overly expressive in his English way, was looking at him now with obvious concern even as he played his own part. Scowling, Stephen looked down at his 'cello and made a concerted effort to force his string-hand into the correct positions. No matter how Stephen wished it might, however, sheer willpower alone could not overcome such a stiffness of the joints. Stephen, as a physician, was of course aware of this, but he had always been a stubborn sort of person and preferred not to let any physical condition stop him from doing as he wished.
As the piece drew to a close, Stephen did his best to hit the notes he was meant to be playing, although he had to forego the ornaments as well as quite a few of the actual notes themselves. The song ended just in time, as it happened, and only on the final note did Stephen's right hand jerk sharply, muscles spasming painfully and his bow clattering to the floor and sliding across the cabin as the ship rocked. Stephen swore.
'Are you alright?' Jack asked, as Stephen went to retrieve his bow. The question tumbled from his mouth as if by accident, and when Stephen turned to look, his expression confirmed it.
'I am fine, Jack,' Stephen replied, attempting to sound nonchalant and missing the mark by a great margin. He sounded tired and snippish to his own ears, enough to give himself away.
'Something is the matter,' confirmed Jack. 'Missing so many notes is not like you, old Stephen, nor dropping your bow. It's your hands, ain't it?"
'I'm sure I don't know what you mean,' Stephen lied. His voice was defensive, he found, and cursed himself. His job was to hide things and to lie well, and yet here he was making a complete fool of himself simply because his particular friend had looked at him sadly. It was utterly embarrassing.
'I am no physician,' Jack stated, responding to the typical argument Sephen gave when others expressed concern for his wellbeing despite Stephen having not yet tried to give it, 'but i have heard that the rain can agitate old wounds.'
Stephen looked away, then, and gave himself away entirely. 'I am an embarassment to the service,' he thought again, deeply frustrated with his own incompetence.
'If you would like, I might try to help,' Jack offered. 'More harm than good to have more music tonight, I think. Not in this rain.'
'It's really not necessary, Jack,' Stephen attempted, but Jack shook his head.
'You're in pain, ain't it only decent to help if I'm able? You've helped me enough, to be sure.'
Some proud part of Stephen dearly wished to continue arguing, but Jack clearly wasn't going to leave this be. Even if he did, Stephen did not particularly want Jack peering at him sadly the rest of the night. Stephen frowned, looking down at his aching hands.
'Alright,' he acquiesced. 'Do as you will, you dog.'
Jack grinned, victorious, then quickly schooled his expression into something more appropriate.
'Shall we sit on the bench then? Come, would you like me to stow your 'cello for you or will you do it yourself?'
At Jack's sudden busy enthusiasm, Stephen felt an emotion that he might call fondness from anyone else. He informed Jack that he would be alright to put his own 'cello away, but allowed the man to loosen his bow for him without putting up too much of a fight. 'Just to make him feel useful,' Stephen told himself, but his fingers ached enough without an attempt to keep a hold of the bow's screw. Eventually, 'cello in its case in the corner, Stephen settled on the bench with Jack.
'May I have your hands for a moment, joy?' Jack asked, reaching out with his own hands, palms up, to receive Stephen's. Stephen did not respond, but placed his hands in Jack's. He could not help but be struck by how small and fragile they looked in Jack's broad, rough palms. A sailor's hands, to be certain, as Stephen's very much were not. Jack, like most large men, always ran very warm when in good health, and his hands were the same, the natural heat seeping into Stephen's fingers and beginning to chase out the always lingering cold. It did not entirely ease the pain, but Stephen noticed it was slightly lessened.
'Your hands are uncommon soft,' Jack commented absently, then seemed to realize what he had said and flushed pink in the ears as his generally ruddy continence became yet redder.
'Thank you,' Stephen replied, attempting to keep his composure. 'So I have been told.'
'Mine ain't-- mine are rough, I know. Sophie says so sometimes.'
'It's alright,' Stephen said, looking down at his hands in Jack's.
They sat together quietly for a moment, then Jack let go of one of Stephen's hands to take the other with both of his. He rubbed gentle circles into Stephen's knuckles and the meat of his palm, working out the stiffness Stephen hadn't even mentioned. He must have seen it when Stephen had been playing. The thought of it made Stephen feel oddly warm, but he pushed the emotion away to contemplate later. Once Stephen's left hand was rubbed well and loose--and hurt quite a bit less, Stephen thought appreciatively--Jack switched to his right, massaging in the same little circles around Stephen's joints and palm. He took extra care with the three nail-less fingertips, running his thumb over them, feather-light, and looking guilty in a way Stephen could not bear to watch.
'It's not your fault, soul,' he told Jack softly. 'You cannot take the blame for the actions of the French government. I am a spy, they treated me accordingly.'
'I should have found you sooner,' Jack said, a desolate breath. His eyes shone a touch too wetly in the candlelight, and Stephen lifted his unheld hand to caress the side of Jack's face.
'You found me,' Stephen said, as Jack leaned into the contact. 'All else is forgiven.'
Jack did not say anything to that, but he brought Stephen's fingers to his lips and kissed where the missing nails had been. A shiver ran through Stephen's whole body, leaving him as a sigh too quickly for him to control.
Looking shocked but vaguely pleased at the reaction, Jack pressed a kiss to the back of Stephen's hand, almost romantic. Jack glanced up at Stephen, who felt his cheeks grow warm and hoped dearly it did not show. Jack rubbed the hand he was holding again, then took the one resting against his cheek in his own and pressed another kiss to Stephen's inner wrist, nuzzling into Stephen's palm. At once, the feelings Stephen had been putting aside for as long as he'd known Jack came to the front of his mind in a rush, and he found he could not remove his gaze from the arch of Jack's lips. His chest felt curiously as if a small bird had been trapped within his ribcage.
Jack was staring at him, Stephen noticed. His eyes were remarkably blue, and Stephen felt self-conscious of his own for a moment, before quickly being distracted by Jack leaning towards him. Jack was still holding Stephen's hands.
'Jack,' Stephen breathed, and then Jack's mouth was on his.
At first, all Stephen could think was that this was surely some sort of trick. Jack was not a paederast, he had a wife, he denounced sodomy every sabbath to the entire ship. Then again, Stephen thought, that did not mean much. Many men married in order to conceal their sexual proclivities and Stephen himself knew those who enjoyed sincere relationships with men and women both. Most compellingly, however, was the fact that Jack had very clearly initiated this to no apparent personal gain. Experimentally, Stephen leaned into the kiss, deepening it. Jack responded enthusiastically, releasing one of Stephen's hands to cradle his face and pull him closer. Stephen moaned against Jack and hooked his now free hand over Jack's broad shoulder for balance. His mouth was as warm as his hands, as the rest of his person. His lips were chapped and tasted faintly of wine, and Stephen wondered for a moment if the taste on Jack's tongue might be stronger. Before he could endeavour to find out, however, Jack had pulled away to breathe.
Jack's face was flushed now even more, expression utter joy and contentment. Stephen imagined it was likely unavoidable now that he had gone quite pink as well, but could no longer find it in himself to be terribly upset by his body's betrayal. As he had many times before today, Stephen was struck suddenly by the thought that he should do anything to keep Jack this happy as long as was possible. It felt deeply unnatural that the cause of this jubilance might be Stephen himself, but Stephen knew, no matter what he might like to believe, that this was a precedented joy, Jack's typical reaction to Stephen's long-awaited return after they had been parted simply in a new context. His face had formed a smile itself, he discovered then, and could not quite bring himself to be upset by this physical betrayal. Let him smile, he supposed. It was not as if there were anyone here but Jack to see it.
'To bed, I think,' Stephen said after they had sat some time in silence, watching each other. 'Shall I take down your queue, dear? I believe my hands will allow me that much.'
Jack smiled, nearly glowing in the low candlelight. 'I should like nothing more.'
The rain continued tapping out its steady staccato upon the deck over their heads. Stephen could not bring himself to mind.