Archive of Our Own

The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters;
And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters.



From the journal of Gerald R. Padalecki

Adrift, somewhere in the southern Indian Ocean, March 19, year of Our Lord 1773. For many days we had been tempest-tossed. Six times had the darkness closed over a wild and terrific scene, and returning light as often brought but renewed distress, for the raging storm increased in fury until on the seventh day all hope was lost.


Father bent over his journal, his pen scratching slowly across the wrinkled page, his hand shaking ever so slightly. Jared watched from the nest of blankets he and his brother had built, blinking sleepily. The ship had run aground hours ago, and the crew had abandoned her. Abandoned his family, as well. But his father had put on a brave face, and Mother had contrived a meal from ship's stores, and now they were all to sleep, jury-rigged life belts tied around them, and Father with a pack of essentials tied up ready near the cabin door.

Jared wasn't sure if he was afraid or not. Father had said not to be, and he had smiled and given Megan a kiss, and rumpled up Jared's hair. And supper had been quite good, salt-pork and tinned peaches and biscuit, and a cup of wine from the Captain's own cupboard. So Jared was pleasantly full and heavy and warm, curled next to his brother.

But...the wind never ceased its mourning wail through the rigging, and the waves rushed and broke with a sound like tearing, as if long knives were shredding the very air. The ship itself, jammed crookedly between two huge spires of rock, shuddered and shook, like a tied wolf straining desperately to get free. Jared rubbed his eyes and lifted his head as a particularly hard shudder jolted through the groaning timbers.

"It's all right, my boy," Gerald said softly. He sanded the journal page, drying the ink. "You must sleep and be rested. Tomorrow we'll make landfall, if we can contrive some sort of boat to float us to shore, and then we shall see what we can see."

"Will there be savages?" Jared whispered, and his father smiled tiredly.

"Only time will tell, son. Go to sleep now."

"Yes, Father," Jared said. He tucked down into the blankets and pushed a little closer to Jeffery and was asleep almost before he knew it.




March 20. All being ready, we cast off, and moved away from the wreck. My good, brave wife sat in the first compartment of the boat; next to her was our youngest, our daughter Megan who had just turned five. Next came Jared, a pretty little boy, nearly nine years old. Then came Jeffery, a handsome, spirited young fellow of twelve, and our first born. I myself, the anxious, loving father, stood in the stern, endeavoring to guide the raft with its precious burden to a safe landing place.


Jared rather liked their new home. They'd raised a tent beside a lively brook, and had salvaged some casks and trunks from the wreck. There were even chickens and ducks, and a lone cow, which had been coerced into swimming ashore. The best, though, the best were two mastiff pups. Mother had named the littlest one Juno, and Jared had prevailed until the other was called Turk. He took it as his especial duty to care for the pups every day, checking their coats for ticks and making sure the soft pads of their paws weren't being lacerated by the rough rocks of their sanctuary.

Father had rowed back out to the ship twice with Jeffery, bringing back as many essentials as he could, including guns and shot, casks of butter and oil, herbs and sail cloth and other things. Jeffery desperately wanted to bring one of the pretty brass guns from the ship – to protect against pirates, he said – but Father said no, his brows drawn down and his mouth thin. He was worried, Jared knew. Worried about them all; about how they should live. But mostly, he was worried about Megan.




November 22. I must force myself to write this. Must force myself to believe that our daughter.... Our sweet girl Megan has succumbed to the ague, and today we laid her to rest. Sharon wished for her to be buried near our Tentholm, but I feared that the jackals that plague us would disturb her grave. After much discussion, we buried her at sea, and my heart was broken in two as we let her small, white-wrapped body slip overboard. I shall not soon forget Jared's quiet whimpers, nor Jeffery's brave, tear-stained face as he kept fast by the tiller and guided us home again. Sharon is ill from grief, and I feel that I will soon follow her if I do not gird myself and hold fast. I must be strong for my sons, and for my wife. I must pray, and hope that God gives us all the strength to go on....


Mother had been so ill after Megan.... After. They had all been struck with the ague, but even though the chills and fever came back now and again, it seemed to have drained some vital thing from Mother. Jared watched her as she moved listlessly from bed to fire, stirring the stew that was in the pot, one hand shading her face from the sun. She didn't like their camp here, what they called Tentholm. She said it was hot and too barren – so bleak. And, too, many creatures came down to drink at the brook in the night, waking her out of the troubled half-doze that was all that passed for her sleep, now. She stirred and sighed and glanced up at Jared, her eyes dark-circled.

Jared got up from his play with the pups – dogs now, really – and went over to her. "Mother, may I get you anything? Father and Jeffery brought some fresh cane up yesterday; it's wonderfully sweet and refreshing."

Mother shook her head, smiling tiredly. "No, Jared. I don't care for any, but I'm sure your sister would like some. Do cut her a piece, please."

Jared felt something like a ball of ice drop into his belly, and he stared at his mother. "B-but...what do you mean? Megan is...Megan –"

The smile snapped off his mother's face, replaced with something wild-eyed and vicious. "You were to be watching her, Jared, while I made supper. Where is she? Megan!" Jared flinched as Mother's voice rose shrilly, calling for her daughter. She staggered to her feet, casting nervous looks all around. "Megan! Where are you! Don't hide from us, daughter, it's not safe!" Mother's hand reached out, fastening onto Jared's shoulder like a clamp and he cried out, trying to pull away.

"Mother, please, you're hurting me!"

"Where is your sister? You were supposed to watch her!" His mother shook him hard, making his head reel, and Jared batted wildly at her hands. He pulled away from her grip with a jerk and fell hard, and the dogs swarmed over his legs, whining in distress.

"What if she's fallen into the brook? What if she's dashed herself on the rocks below the cliff?" His mother clawed at her hair, staring about them. She was panting as if she'd run up a hill. "She could die, you stupid boy, she could die! Megan!"

"Stop it! Mother, stop it, stop!" Jared heard his own voice, high and shrill and hysterical and the dogs began to ululate, catching his fear, crowding close to him, pressing in. He buried his face in the buff-colored fur, eyes hot with tears. "Please, stop it!"

"Oh, my Lord, oh, I have to find her, my daughter, my daughter –" Mother stumbled about the camp, tumbling the contents of the trunks onto the ground, snatching at the blankets that made their beds – shoving at casks and even rattling away into the bushes, screaming Megan's name.

Jared huddled on the ground with the dogs. When his father and brother arrived an hour later, he was still there, stiff from fear, cried out, watching as his mother rocked herself over the heap of Megan's clothes and rag dolls. Her face and arms were bloody from the cruel thorns of the bushes, her eyes vacant – too wide. None of them slept that night.




May or June, 1774. I am lost. I am fighting against a black and yawning pit of despair, but I cannot muster the strength.... I do not know what to do, please God, please, help me, help your faithful servant who is so lost. I have only you to cling to.... Sharon, oh my Sharon....


Jared went just twice to the place where Mother had died. Just twice, he stood on the crumbling precipice and looked down. The sea foamed far below, mouthing the jagged rocks that had shattered her. Blood had bloomed red across the bodice of her pale-fawn dress, and then the sea had covered her face. That had been the first time.

The second time, he screamed; fell to his knees and pounded the earth – shouted into the salt-thick wind that buffeted him. And then he turned to the trunk he had dragged there, threw it open and began to tear at the things inside. He began to hurl them over, just as she had gone over, plummeting down and down, a broken bird against the huge, blind sky. But she had gone willingly. He flung her dresses and her work basket, her Bible and her shoes and her ivory-backed brushes – nearly everything, nearly all. But then Father was there, shouting, and Jeffery, and they snatched him away – shook him and slapped him and hugged him so tight he couldn't breathe, and finally they all cried, there on the headland with the screams of gulls in their ears. She had been silent.




Autumn.... It is too much. Surely, it is too much, Lord, that you ask of me. I cannot...fathom why you would put this upon my shoulders. This despair heaped upon despair, so heavy and so suffocating. Why do you torture me, Lord? Why do you trample me down so low, so very low....


Jeffery went out in their rickety little boat, intent on a netful of fish for them to smoke and store. The winters of this place were full of cold rain and lashing wind and they had suffered, the food not as abundant as they'd hoped, and Father ill and listless, grieving. Jeffery had taken it upon himself to store up food for them, as Father has declined and gotten foggier – more lost. But it was hard work, and he refused to let Jared help, afraid for him – angry in his fear.

Jeffery thought – they all thought – the storms were over, but a final blow was hiding in the west and boiled up out of nothing. The haze and calm sea of the morning descended into a howling gale; the sky full of towering black clouds and restless, sizzling lightning; the sea like a shaken glass, flinging itself high and wide. The storm raged until sunset and Father screamed himself hoarse, churning uselessly up and down the beach. Searching. Jared squatted in the rocks – his feet cold, his belly empty – picking at the ragged hems of his rotting trousers, his hair across his eyes.

Anger like a coal in his belly, but he wasn't sure at what. At Jeffery, for being so reckless? Or at Father, for being so.... So soft. Crying, as if that would help; as if that would bring Jeffery out of the waves. Would bring any of them back. Crying at night under his blanket; crying as he tanned hide or set a snare. Crying, always crying, and Jared wanted to slap him. Just wanted it to stop.

They only ever found the splintered remains of the bow, and one oar. When Jared found his father hanging from a tree limb one month later, he felt nothing but sick rage – a churning, tearing fury that made him batter the lifeless body with his fists, his feet – a stick plucked from the ground. He wore himself out with anger, until the rope parted and his Father tumbled into the dirt, and then he ran away. Ran into the tall grass and lay there, panting, sick, exhausted and shaking.

Hours later he returned, only to find the jackals had gotten there, and he could do nothing but watch the pack tear the body to pieces. It was three days before he could bring himself to touch the remains – gather the bones into a blanket and hurl the whole thing into the sea, rags of bloody cloth and rags of flesh fluttering down and down, again, until the waves claimed them all.




Fathr Jefry Mothr and Megan ar gonn. I think I am elevn. I shant ever comm bak to tenthom. I and dogs ar to liv som other plass. I dont care. Jarred




Ten years later.....


"Oh, hell!" Jensen resisted the urge to glance around him – to check that no one had heard him swear. Six months on and he still felt a guilty flush when a swear would cross his lips. But his foot had slipped, the fish had gotten away, and he was hungry. "Stinking, stupid....bloody fish!" 'Bloody' was one of the favorite swears of the sailors, forbidden to him since childhood, and he liked how it sounded.

And really – could it be considered a swear? It wasn't a bad word, or the name of God. Muttering 'bloody' under his breath two or three times more, Jensen waded slowly forward, squinting. He'd lost his glasses in the wreck, and though he could see well enough, the fish were just out of his range, which made them even trickier to catch. His eyes on the dancing surface of the water – on the shadow forms of the fish darting underneath – he stalked his dinner.

He'd tried a hook and line, at first, but it was slow and difficult and not very successful. His triple-pronged spear, made of slivers of wood and sinew, worked much better. The sun was warm across his back and his irritation slowly leeched away as the constant, dry hush of the surf soothed him.

Breathing softly, he stepped forward one, two – three steps, slow and careful. Lifted his spear and watched the shadows and then drove his arm forward and down, fast. He felt it hit – felt the solid connect – and pulled the spear back, lifting it high out of the water. A fat, spotted fish wiggled on the end of the tines, neatly spitted, and Jensen let out a crow of delight.

Two more and he'd have enough, dinner and breakfast. He waded back to his creel and pushed the fish inside, then turned once again to the hunt, unaware of the dark eyes that followed his every move from far up the shoreline.



The next morning, early, Jensen put his hat on – he'd made it himself from palm fronds, and was rather proud of it – and hung powder, shot and a knife from his belt. Into the same belt he tucked a brace of pistols, and into his satchel he put some ship's biscuit, his tinderbox, a bag of sultanas and a tin of potted meat. He consulted his compass – squinted up at the sky and then down along the beach and set off, a sturdy walking stick in his hand.

Today he would go south, past the cliffs and over the ridgeline, down into the valley. It had taken him several months to establish his camp – build his home and learn how to hunt – how to prepare and store his food. Only in the last few weeks had he undertaken any serious surveys of his new home, and he was methodically working 'round the compass rose. So far, he'd found sugar cane and monkeys, wild boars, fruit trees and mosquitoes.

Today, he hoped for something better, or at least more interesting. Ever since the Evangeline had floundered off the coast – and the crew drowned or been blown apart from him in the storm – he had hoped to find some other survivors – other people. So far, he had been disappointed. He was, as far as he could tell, utterly alone on the island.

Jensen shook the dispiriting thoughts away and climbed up off the beach, into the trees. He ascended through a rather dense forest, and then up rockier, open slopes until at last he came to a gap in a heavily-overgrown ridge. It followed a narrow brook, and he stepped carefully from rock to rock, over and then down. A small inlet lay before him, bound on one side with a low, marshy area, and on the other with a stony plain that stepped away to grasses and the sea.

As Jensen made his way down, he caught sight of something that made him catch his breath. A trunk stood in the shadow of a stone spire, its corners rusted and its sides stove in. But it was a trunk – was manmade – and Jensen skidded and slithered down the last twenty feet or so, heart pounding, legs trembling.

He fell to his knees and reached out – carefully lifted the lid. It came halfway apart in his hands, wood buckling out of true and sliding free from long-rusted iron bands. He heaved the whole mess over and down and then poked gingerly at the tangle inside.

Rotting clothing, a small bundle of letters – bits and bobs of useless things. A sailor's trunk, it seemed, with a palm and needles for repairing canvas, and a little housewife with bits of different colored yarns and thread wound around wooden spindles. All of it was crumbling to the touch, eaten away by time and the salt air, and Jensen sagged back, disappointed.

Whoever this had belonged to, it had been here for a long time. And as there had been no signs of any human habitation...Jensen sighed and pushed himself to his feet. Well, he would go to the margin of the sea, here, and make sure. Looking up at the sky, he could see the sun was near its zenith. He wanted to be home again before dark. Thirty minutes more, and he would start back.

Further down the slope, where the land flattened out around the brook, he found more signs of some other castaway. A person or people who had been there long before Jensen, but seemed to have abandoned their camp. The tattered bits of a canvas tent, more rotting casks and trunks and the detritus of what had been in them, scattered by scavengers and storms, picked apart by sun and wind.

Jensen stirred through a tangle of rent blankets and decomposing rope – turned over this box and that and was nearly ready to give up when something caught his eye. He bent over the remains of a trunk, pushing aside what seemed to be the rags of a suit, and lifted out his prize.

It was a book, bound in vellum, and with vellum pages. Jensen opened it gently, turning the first page over with careful fingers. For many days we had been tempest-tossed.

"A diary, a...a journal. It must tell their story. Perhaps it will tell how they came to be gone...." Jensen closed the book and hugged it to him – looked about the deserted and ruined camp. The sun was already slipping down the sky, and he felt a sudden chill, as if the long-lost inhabitants were watching him. He wanted desperately to turn to the last pages in the book. To see what had been the fate of these long-gone others. But his instincts were sending him a warning – his whole being was vibrating with a sense of danger and he suddenly, very badly, wanted his own little nest, with a fire in the big pot and the rope ladder safely drawn up. He climbed to his feet, found his walking stick and struck out, moving quickly. He did not want to be anywhere near this place in the dark.

He got home in good time, checking his snares and finding a fat sort of grouse for his dinner. He ate and washed and did all his usual chores, and then, with mounting excitement, he climbed up into his cozy roost and drew the rope ladder up behind him. Safely ensconced, he added a few sticks to his fire, lit the lantern that was for emergencies only and settled down to read.



The next day dawned bright – lemon-custard and sugar-pink, beautiful as all the sunrises there were beautiful. But Jensen went down the ladder and to his morning ablutions with a heavy heart. They were all dead. The mother and the father, the three children. The last one – Jared – had left, but at eleven it was hardly a certainty that he had survived, alone and friendless. And what agonies he must have lived through, Jensen thought. After seeing his parents' deaths – his siblings' – surely grief and illness had been the end of the young boy. Jensen stoked his camp-fire and sat down heavily in the sand, poking listlessly with a half-charred stick. The journal lay under his other hand and he stroked it softly. He would keep it close – take it with him if ever he came to be free of this island. Perhaps there was family left, somewhere, who would wish to know for a certainty the fate of their relatives. Jensen shivered a little, looking out at the soft, rolling blue-green of the sea. He, himself, he felt, would rather never know, and always be able to have that kernel of hope, deep in his heart....

Without warning, something howled from the tree line and Jensen whipped around, startled. A figure was moving across the sand toward him, dark and huge and screaming, and Jensen felt his heart kick and race in his chest. Felt his mouth go dry and his breath come short. He scrambled clumsily in the sand, his legs refusing to cooperate, and was only to his knees when the creature ran headlong into him, dashing him to the ground and then rolling them both in a mad flurry of limbs and sand and hair toward the surf.

"No! Get off! Help! He-! Oh, stupid – get off, get away!" Jensen shouted – pounded madly at whatever bit of the creature he could reach. Kicking, yelling, and writhing for all he was worth, but the creature was far stronger and finally pinned him, his arm twisted up behind his back and his face scrunched down into the wet sand. "Let me go! Get off!"

The creature made a noise. A word, in a voice that was ragged and hoarse and deep. Mangled it, as if it were unsure of exactly how to say it, but the third time around Jensen understood.

"Mmuuh! Mmmy! Miine!" And then the creature was up – off him – and Jensen turned his head in time to see it snatch the journal up out of the sand and tuck it close. Watched as it shot one wild, tooth-bared grimace over its shoulder before pelting back the way it had come, sand kicking up and its hoarse breathing fading. A doggish woof seemed to greet the creature as it melted into the shadows of the forest, and Jensen simply lay in the sand, staring, aching all over, out of breath and utterly astounded. For the rest of the day, he stared long and often into the shadows, but neither saw nor heard anything.

That night, he dreamed of a boy – a brown-haired boy with a quick smile and laughing eyes. The boy from the journal. He dreamed the boy was lost – was crying – and he woke in his nest with a shout, his heart pounding. Outside, he could hear the jackals that plagued him yipping and growling in the forest, on the hunt. He took a sip of water from the cup by his pillow and lay down again, curling up tight under his blanket. Shaking, just a little, but thinking, too. Making a plan.


For the next six days, Jensen laid offerings on a weather-smoothed rock near the tree line: ship's biscuit with marmalade, two grilled fish, a trio of slightly scorched cakes thick with the last of his sugar and sultanas. He left the second of his tin cups, and a string of pearls that had come ashore in a little cask. He also left, with much trepidation, a very fine bone-handled knife. Every morning, the things were gone, though he supposed that wild animals could have had the food, and a magpie or crow the cup and pearls. He was quite sure the knife had gone to...him. It unsettled him, even as it made him glad.

On the seventh day, as he trudged through the cool sand to lay out that day's offering – a packet of candied orange peel that he had been hoarding – he stopped dead upon seeing the rock. Laid out on large, triangular leaves were the halves of a coconut, one half full of the clear milk, the other full of honey comb, a-drip with golden honey.

"Oh. Oh, my, that...oh my." Jensen knelt down and lifted the milk and took a sip – then a draught, sighing at the sweetness of it, the pure freshness. Then he slid a finger through the honey and sucked it clean, blissful. He peered into the deep shadow of the forest that lay just an arm's length away, trying in vain to see the being he knew had left the gifts. "Thank you! Thank you so very much. I...my name is Jensen. I wish...I wish you would come speak to me. Jared?" Nothing answered back but the birds in the trees, flitting and calling, and the ever-present rush of the sea and Jensen sighed. He gathered up the coconut and laid his own offering down and went slowly away, pausing several times to look back. The last time he did, the orange peel was gone, but so too, it seemed, was Jared.

On the eighth day, Jensen despaired over what to give next. His spare clothing was dull and not in the best shape. He needed his other cup, and he rather quailed at the thought of that creature – that boy – with one of his flintlocks. He ate a rather glum breakfast – though he did have fresh honey for his biscuit – and then stripped down to his ragged breeches to wade out and catch his dinner. He'd found the fish were more abundant early in the day, and if he waited too long he'd go hungry like as not.

As he waded, arm cocked and spear high, his gaze fixed firmly on the shadowy fish, he felt a sort of prickle between his shoulder blades. A kind of tingle, as if something were very close but not quite touching. As if something were watching. He did his best to ignore it and moved slowly through the water, feeling with his toes and breathing softly. But it was maddening.

He managed to ignore the feeling well enough to spear two fat fish though, and waded ashore to gut and clean his catch and set them cooking over his fire. Washing up, he set a potful of water to heating and settled into the sand to shave. He only did it every fourth or fifth day, because his beard grew rather slowly, but he disliked the itchy feel of it, especially when the sun overheated him.

He wetted the brush and applied it to his face, working up a lather, once again pleased to have found the handsome kit in a trunk that had washed ashore. He covered his cheeks and chin, stropped the blade and then began a careful scraping-away of his beard. Nearly finished, he was tipping his head up to get the last bits under his jaw when a shadow fell over his mirror.

Frowning – wondering what in the world it was – Jensen twisted around in the sand and looked up. And up. Jared stood there, staring down at him, and Jensen nearly dropped the razor in shock. He scrambled clumsily to his feet and Jared took a few hasty steps backward.

Jensen froze. "No, wait, wait. I.... It's all right, I – please stay. Please?"

Jared stood half-turned away, and Jensen's gaze roved over him, greedily taking in each detail. His skin was darkly tanned by the sun, and cut across here and there by paler scars. His hair was brown, tangled with leaves and bits of twigs; ragged, as if he had hacked it off with a knife in an effort to control it. It brushed his shoulders and chest in uneven layers, and half-hid his face. He was mustached and bearded, as well, the hairs darker than those on his head – coarser. Also uneven, obviously kept trimmed back but still down over his throat. He seemed to be wearing a loincloth of some sort, and nothing else, and Jensen felt a flush of pleasure at seeing his knife tucked securely into Jared's belt.

Jared stood tensely under Jensen's inspection, and Jensen was chagrined to realize that he was trembling all over, a faint shiver of muscle that betrayed his nervousness. "Please don't...I wouldn't hurt you." Jensen glanced down at the razor still in his hand and tossed it down on his ragged towel, wiping his hand on his thigh. "I'm Jensen. Jensen Ackles. Pleased to meet you," he blurted. Habit made him hold out his hand – dictated his words – and he silently berated himself for the ridiculousness of it.

Jared stared down at his hand – back at him – and then just as Jensen started to withdraw, he slowly held his own hand out. His long fingers wrapped around Jensen's and squeezed for a moment and Jensen couldn't stop the huge grin that spread over his face.

"Yes! Excellent. That's...you're Jared, aren't you? The boy in the diary?" Jared's hand dropped away and he tipped his head a little, regarding Jensen with a wary, puzzled expression. "Oh, bother. The...the book? The one you...your book. That I inadvertently took and Jared, please, I'm – I'm so sorry if I...I didn't mean to upset you." Jared's look was still one of incomprehension, or perhaps simply uninterest and Jensen sighed, running one hand back through his hair.

"You are Jared, aren't you?" Jared gave a sudden, jerky nod of his head and Jensen grinned again. "I knew that you were! I'm...I'm so pleased that you've finally come." Jensen cast about him for something to do – to talk about – and the fire gave a little hissing pop, making him jump. "Oh! Oh, I have – there's fish, if you're hungry. Would you join me for breakfast?" Jared gave that jerky nod again and Jensen beamed. He bustled around the fire, sliding the fish off their spits onto a mat of leaves and pouring out water into his cup – opening the tin of biscuit and setting it down next to the remains of the honey that Jared had given him.

"There! Not much of a spread, I'll admit, but not bad for a tenderfoot like myself." Jensen gestured toward the food and waited and Jared finally un-froze, moving in a wide arc around Jensen and crouching down opposite the fish. Jensen settled into the sand, cross-legged, and hastily wiped at his face with his towel, making sure he had all the bits of shaving foam cleaned away. Jared watched him with interest, his gaze flicking from the towel to the scrap of mirror Jensen had propped against a bit of driftwood, to Jensen's face.

"Makes you feel a bit more civilized, to have your face clean," Jensen said absently. He dripped honey over a bit of softened biscuit and held it out to Jared, who took it gingerly between finger and thumb. He sniffed it over and then shoved it into his mouth in one gulp, chewing hard. Jensen grinned – got his own bit and did the same, watching Jared's eyes crinkle and his lips stretch in a grin as the coarse hardtack distended his cheeks.

They ate in companionable silence, sharing the tin cup and picking the bones out of the fish, fingers sticky with honey and the sun creeping gradually higher, warming them both. Jared finished first and leaned back in the sand, stretching his long legs out and turning his face to the sun. Jensen, busily tidying things and casting about for something to say, glanced up and then stared, feeling the blood creep into his face and his breath go a little short. Because Jared....

Jared was so obviously at his ease – so very confident. All long bones and hard muscle, nothing awkward or contrived in him at all, and Jensen both envied and admired him. Jensen tossed the fish bones into the fire, wiped his fingers on his breeches and drank the last mouthful of water from the cup, thinking how Jared's long fingers had looked wrapped around it and feeling a sweet-hot little shiver of something when he realized that his mouth was touching where Jared's had touched, moments ago.

"Well now!" Jensen exclaimed, and Jared jerked, startled. Tucked his chin down and stared at Jensen, and Jensen coughed a little to hide his embarrassment. "I...generally I gather firewood after breakfast, and walk 'round my snares. You could...would you like to come with me?"

Jared pushed himself upright and nodded – stood when Jensen did, arms over his head, stretching hard. Turning a little, he put his fingers to his mouth and let out a piercing whistle. A moment later, two pale shapes exploded from the underbrush and pelted across the sand toward them. The shapes were dogs, two huge mastiff dogs who leapt at Jared, their mouths open and panting – tails scything the air, tongues lolling and sides heaving in doggish delight. Jared turned to him, a huge smile on his face, his hands busy stroking and petting the massive creatures. They both wore collars that seemed to have been made of some thick hide, wide and sturdily, if clumsily, sewn. For protection, Jensen surmised, seeing scars on both the collars and the muzzles of the dogs.

"Will they let me touch them?" Jensen asked, and Jared tipped his head to one side, obviously thinking about it. Jensen held both hands out, fingers spread, toward the dogs, and they seemed to notice him for the first time. They approached and sniffed busily, pushing their noses into Jensen's fingers and thighs. He let them take in his scent, cautiously stroked over the wide curves of their fawn-colored skulls and smiled when the dogs seemed eager for more. "They're beautiful, Jared. Have you – did they come ashore with you? Have you had them...all this time?"

Jared nodded. He crouched down when the dogs came back over to him, letting them push up under his arms and all but trample him underfoot. The look that he turned on both dogs was one of utter devotion, and he tugged them close and put his face down into their fur for a moment. Then he looked up at Jensen and put his right hand on one of the dogs. It had a nick in its right ear and a white line of a scar over the right eye. "Juno," Jared said, and Jensen felt his heart stumble and skip. Jared's voice was rough – hoarse. Obviously not much used, and Jensen felt an immense sort of giddy excitement that Jared was speaking – deliberately speaking – to him. Jared put his hand on the other dog, that had a darker patch on its side, a kind of heart-shaped spot. "Turk."

"Juno and Turk? Those are good names – fine names." The dog's ears had perked at their names and now Turk wandered back to Jensen, pushing with his broad forehead so hard that Jensen staggered back a step or two in the soft sand. "Oh, he's strong! He must be an excellent fighter. Did you make these collars? I imagine those damned jackals were a bit of a problem, eh?"

Jared just stared back and Jensen had a sudden thought that his flood of words – his nervous babble – must be overwhelming for the boy. So, of course, he immediately talked more. "Oh, I'm sorry! It must be so strange to hear me just chatter on and on. My grandfather always said that I never knew when to hold my tongue; it made him very cross –" Jensen bit his lip and forced himself to silence and was rewarded by Jared laughing at him. A strange, rusty, too-loud laugh, but one none the less, and Jensen grinned in response. "So of course I compound the problem by talking more! You must tell me when it's too much, Jared. I won't think any the less of you if you want me to be quiet!"

Jared stood, one graceful push upward, and Jensen caught his breath as he stepped closer – closer. Close enough for Jensen to smell the thick, earthy scent of him, tinged with wood smoke and sweat. Close enough that Jensen could see his eyes, a bright brown flecked with green and gold, surrounded by dark lashes. Jared kicked a half-burnt stick into the fire and grinned at Jensen. "Wood. Ffire wood." He jerked his shaggy head toward the forest and Jensen found himself nodding.

"Yes! I need to find fire wood, and check the snares. Let me get my walking stick, you don't know how handy I've found it. And my hat, of course, the long rays of the sun at this latitude can be quite dangerous, especially if you're not accustomed to it. Oh, my knife, and –" Jensen busied himself snatching up this and that necessary item and felt a warm glow all over as Jared just laughed at him again.




Jared began to arrive at Jensen's camp every morning, turning up while Jensen was reviving the fire, or wading out into the sea for his morning hunt. Twice, he joined Jensen in the hunt, the mastiff dogs splashing happily in the shallows as Jensen and Jared stalked the fish in deeper water. On those mornings, the catch was more than double and Jensen's admiration for Jared's accomplishments grew. He could not imagine that the boy from the diary – the laughing, sweet boy who had tumbled with puppies and picked wildflowers for his grieving mother – had grown so tall and so canny. He was silent when he wanted to be, barely rippling the water, focused and intent and moving with an utter precision that took Jensen's breath away.

They had so many fish the second time that Jensen hauled out the big cooking pot and his store of wild onions and roots, happily scraping and chopping and making a fine fish stew, all under Jared's watchful, lively gaze. That was also the day that Jensen decided that he needed to shave again, and he laid his kit out while the stew simmered, carefully propping his mirror and pushing irritably at the hair that fell into his eyes.

"I think I'm going to have to cut my hair soon. It's grown far too long while I've been here. I suppose you cut your own hair? I'm sure I'll make a hash of it, but soon I won't be able to see a thing." Jensen chattered at Jared while he wet his shaving brush and dipped it into the soap, and then worked it into a lather on his face. As he lifted the razor he became aware that Jared was sitting quite close, knees tucked into his arms and his whole body leaning in, intent on what Jensen was doing.

Jensen took a long breath and then slowly began to shave, wiping the razor clean on his towel, turning his face this way and that to see as much as possible in the too-small mirror he had salvaged. Jared seemed to become more and more absorbed as Jensen worked, and when Jensen was done, and cleaning the blade for the last time, Jared leaned in until he was only inches away from Jensen. Jensen turned and found himself nearly nose to nose with the staring boy. He sat frozen, staring back, while Jared lifted a hand and gently ran his finger down the now-smooth skin of Jensen's cheek.

"Ss...ssof. Sof?" he said, his voice low and husky, and Jensen shivered.

"Soft? Do you mean soft?"

Jared nodded, his fingers stroking again and again from cheekbone to jaw. They were warm – callused – light as a breeze, and it was as if every inch of Jensen's skin was electrified, wanting.... "Ssoft. Me." Jared's other hand came up, cupping Jensen's chin – cradling his whole face – and Jensen felt dizzy...breathless.

"You? What – I mean –"

"Soft. I...want. Want soft. Me."

Jensen blinked – gathered his scattered wits and put his hands on Jared's wrists. Carefully – slowly – tugged his hands down a little before Jared resisted and Jensen couldn't budge him. Jared's thumb was resting just under Jensen's lower lip, and he wondered – rather hysterically – what Jared would do if Jensen ducked his head down and.... "You want...do you want me to...shall I shave your beard off, Jared? Is that – is that what you want?" Jensen let go of a wrist and reached for Jared's beard. Jared flinched back for a moment and then stilled, letting Jensen lightly stroke the coarse, wavy hair. "You want me to shave this off?"

Jared's whole face lit up, and he grinned. "Yes! Yes. Shave this off. More ss....civil-ized."

"Yes, indeed! You will indeed feel more civilized. Although my grandfather had a great bee-hive of a beard, really, you should have seen it, it was quite terrifying to me as a child –" Jensen stuttered to a stop as Jared's fingers drifted up and covered his lips.

"Magpie," Jared said, and then his eyes went wide as he obviously remembered something – words, an idea – that he had forgotten. "You ch...chatter like a magpie."

"Yes –" Jensen said, lips moving behind Jared's fingers, and Jared threw his head back and laughed, rocking back and his hands slipping away. Jensen felt the loss of his touch like a sudden dousing of cold water, and he shook his head ruefully. "Yes, I do, it's really my worst fault –"

"Magpie, magpie, magpie," Jared repeated happily. He picked up Jensen's razor and held it out to him, grinning. "Shave this off. Magpie."

"You really do think you're quite clever, don't you," Jensen said, and Jared laughed again. Jensen shooed him away and arranged his kit – poured out the last of the hot water into the bowl and found the little scissors. "First we must trim it closer – the razor will never go through this gorse bush you've got on your face. Then we'll see...." Jensen, on his knees, straightened away from Jared a little, looking at him. "Then we'll see who you really are under there, won't we? See your face....."

"Soft like you...ors. Yours," Jared said, and tipped his chin up, waiting. Jensen took a long breath and leaned in.



Jensen let the razor glide carefully around the point of Jared's chin and down his throat, along his jaw and down again, slow and meticulous. Taking his time, his knees hurting a little in the sand and his heart pounding behind his ribs like a wild thing. Leaning in so close – putting his hand on Jared's cheek to turn his head – to tilt it this way or that. Pushing back the tangles of dark hair and being surprised – delighted – in the softness he found there. And trying, with every breath and heartbeat and touch of skin on skin to not...come to pieces.

Jared's eyes were closed, and he was humming to himself under his breath, a sort of nonsense tune that repeated itself endlessly and vibrated up Jensen's hand as he tipped Jared's head back, his fingers under his chin. He felt hot all over – shaky and breathless and quite terrified. Overwhelmed – overjoyed. He made a last, careful pass and studied Jared's face, gauging his work. Then he wiped his razor clean and picked up the towel – wetted a corner and stroked it over Jared's face, cleaning away the last remnants of shaving lather and stray hairs.

The revealed skin was paler, and so soft. The revaled features were quite...pleasing. Jared's mouth was wide, his lower lip full – his jaw sharp and square, his cheekbones high and well defined. He had three moles, like little dabs of paint, and Jensen tracked them with his gaze, not quite brave enough to touch, now that his legitimate reason was gone. Jensen let the corner of the towel drag down Jared's neck and Jared shivered just a little. Smiled, and Jensen saw the dimples in his cheeks and felt, again, that feeling of electrified waiting, as if something – something – were about to happen. Jared opened his eyes, and Jensen smiled automatically, helpless to do anything else.

"Good?" Jared asked softly, and Jensen nodded.

"Yes, it's...it's quite...good, you...you must look in the mirror," Jensen said, and Jared reached up and patted Jensen's cheek, quick and light.

"Thh. Thank you." Then he twisted in the sand, reaching for the mirror, and Jensen sagged back on his heels, that storm-sense feeling fading a bit, leaving him light-headed and rather disappointed. But in what – for what – he had no real idea.

"You're quite...quite welcome. You held very still," Jensen murmured, and then looked up sharply at the tiny, shocked 'oh' that Jared uttered.

He was staring into the mirror, his eyes huge. His fingers were running over and over the planes of his face and he pushed his hair away and opened his mouth – lifted his chin. Stared as if he'd seen a ghost and Jensen let the towel drop into the sand, scooting forward on his knees. "Jared?"

"I. This is...me, this is...I...Juh...Jeff...ery, Jeffery and...Father, Father...." Abruptly, Jared dropped the mirror and lurched to his feet. He floundered for a moment in the deep sand and Jensen could see that his eyes were swimming with tears – his cheeks already tracked with them. And then he was running. Running hard and fast, up the sand, into the trees, the dogs meeting him half way and then they were gone, all of them, and Jensen was left in the suddenly desolate camp, speechless.

It took three days for Jared to come back, and in that time Jensen vacillated between anger and despair, quite often in the space of ten minutes or less. On the second day, he realized that doing nothing but mooning about his camp all day was utterly useless, but he still couldn't bring himself to leave. In case. Instead, he undertook a grand sort of 'spring cleaning'.

He had stacked all the bits of flotsam and jetsam that had washed ashore under the elevated floor of his roost and covered it with a large piece of sail cloth. Now, he hauled it all out and gleaned through it, carefully organizing everything, and discarding things useless or broken. The pile that he eventually tucked back under the waxed cloth was smaller and tidier, and it made him feel a moment's grim accomplishment before being swamped, once again, in helpless despair.

He also rummaged out his entire nest and rearranged it, and replaced some spots of thatch that had worked loose in the storms. Lastly, he combed all around his camp, stacking up all the bits of driftwood he found and dragging off dead fronds, seaweed, and scraps of hide and bone that he had, heretofore, ignored.

Afterward, hot and disheveled and irritated, he bathed in the sea and trimmed his hair. But it didn't help. The third day found him sitting morosely beside his fire, empty of breakfast and hope. His snares had been empty and he hadn't the heart to go fishing, or the patience to soak some biscuit and make it edible.

"I may as well starve, as he won't return," Jensen muttered, feeling out of sorts enough to not care that talking to oneself, aloud, was extremely peculiar. "Seeing his own revealed countenance obviously brought back hideous memories of his dead family and now.... Well, now he'll connect the two, won't he?" Jensen jabbed viciously at the fire and winced when a spark landed on his knuckles. "I'll always remind him of that nightmare...he shan't be able to abide me, hereafter."

"And who would blame him?" Jensen got up and paced slowly back and forth, his hands clasped behind his back, his head bowed. "The unimaginable suffering, the loneliness, and now the horrors of the worst time of his life brought back to the forefront of his memory in the most...most hideous of ways...." Jensen stopped and bit his lip. "Perhaps not so very hideous. But certainly he was...was startled and dismayed. And it all comes down to me, and my...my negligence...."

Jensen sighed and poked his bare foot at the fire, warming his toes. "But how was I to know he would react in such a manner? Perhaps I should have weighed all the consequences first. Explored every path, as Grandfather would say." Jensen kicked petulantly at the sand, frowning.

"But – damn it all! Who would have thought a shave would be – would be his – undoing! It's not...it's really....bloody unfair! Even Grandfather would never have foreseen such a thing, I'm sure. It's quite ridiculous, really, when you –"

"Magpie," Jared said, and Jensen jerked around, badly startled. Off balance and wind milling in the soft sand and Jared's hands caught his arms, steadying him.

"Jared! My – my God! You startled me."

"Ssorry. Sorry for that." Jared had a small smile on his face – his still-clean face – and Jensen could see the shadow of a dimple there in his cheek, as if waiting to appear. Waiting for the chance to come out.

"Oh, that's...that's quite all right, I was.... I should have been more vigilant, Heaven knows what could have slunk up on me in my distracted state and –"

"Magpie." Jared shook him, ever so slightly, and Jensen took a breath.

"What? I mean – yes? You wanted –"

"Hush." Jared looked down – away – and then back at Jensen, amusement and something...else in his gaze. "I was...wrong. To run. To...hide away. I made you not...happy? Not happy. Sstupid. Stupid to do."

"Oh! Oh, no, you – don't say that, Jared. You're not stupid. It was...you had rather a shock and...and really, it's understandable, I mean, after all this time, so please, don't trouble yourself, I am – I'm quite – quite all right."

"No." Jared let go of Jensen's left arm. Lifted his hand to Jensen's cheek and stepped closer. Close enough that Jensen could feel the heat of his body – could smell the smoke-and-sweat smell of him, clean and tangy and earthy, all at once. He could see the little flecks of gold and green in his eyes, the shadow of his lashes on his cheek and the little scratch on his jaw, dark with old blood.

"Jared –"

"No, not quite all right," Jared said. His voice was so low, rough and furry and infinitely sad, and Jensen felt a bolt of some emotion – some sensation – from the crown of his head to his heels, making him gasp in a small, startled breath. Then Jared leaned in and pressed his lips to Jensen's mouth and everything.... Stopped.

Jared's mouth was warm and faintly wet, his lips rough. His eyes were open – Jensen's were, pure startlement – and Jared's hand slipped back a little, his fingers in Jensen's hair now, his palm hot and callused against Jensen's cheek. After one long, long moment, Jared pulled back, and Jensen simply gazed at him, unable to do anything else. "Better. All better. You're all better now, Magpie?"

"I...I.... What? I – um."

"Mother said. A kuh.... Kiss. A kiss makes it all better. Better?"

"Oh, yes. Quite. Yes, a k-kiss. Remarkable woman, your mother, yes, really very – intelligent, and –"

"Magpie. Jen." Jared shook him again, gently, and this time the dimple came out, deep and impossibly becoming. "Jen..ssen. Jensen. Better now."

"Oh, I – I –" A sudden, rather devious thought flashed through Jensen's brain and he succumbed to it without a moment's hesitation, rather astonished at his own artifice. "No, actually not, um...not entirely better. Not, um...perhaps you had better –"

"Yes," Jared breathed, and then his mouth was on Jensen's again and this time Jensen managed to close his eyes – to press his own mouth a little closer, to put his own hand on Jared's shoulder, surprised and intrigued by the expanse of warm, solid muscle under his fingers.

This kiss lasted longer, and Jensen was just wondering if perhaps he should move his lips a little – or tilt his head, as he'd seen girls do – when something wet pressed into his other, uselessly dangling hand. "Oh!" Jensen startled away, making Jared flinch, and looked down to see Turk's doggishly smiling face panting up at him. "Oh, it's T-Turk. Good – boy, good boy, good Heavens, Turk, your nose is rather cold."

"Cold and wuh...wet," Jared said. He had one hand at his mouth, his fingertips just brushing his lips and Jensen felt his gaze helplessly drawn there.

"Yes, yes, but then, I've heard that if a dog's nose should be warm and um – and dry, then you must immediately treat them with a dose of –" Jared laughed suddenly – still too loud, still rusty. Head tipped back and his mouth wide and Jensen stuttered to a stop, watching him – grinning himself, because he couldn't help it. He simply could not.

"Magpie, you don't even have any fish. No b-break...breakfast!"

"Oh! No, no I haven't had any, I was rather...out of sorts before, I didn't feel quite up to it."

"Let's get breakfast, Magpie," Jared said. He leaned down and scooped Jensen's fishing spear up out of the sand and gestured at Jensen. "Hurry up."

"What?" Jensen looked down at his trousers, waistcoat and shirt and felt himself blushing rather hotly. "Yes, yes, of course, let me just...." As he stripped to his breeches, Jared dashed past him into the surf, whooping, the dogs leaping after him, and Jensen felt decidedly...better.




On the fifth day after Jared had come back, he asked Jensen if he would shave him again. He'd been rubbing his cheeks for a day, looking sideways at Jensen, who had shaved the day before. Jensen wanted to say no – wanted to never see such misery in another human's face again. In Jared's face again. But Jared only looked at him, serious and still, the breeze blowing a lock of hair across his eyes for a moment and Jensen couldn't say no, after all.

He laid everything out neatly and then hesitated, soap and brush in his hands, and Jared leaned forward and touched his wrist, little stroke of callused fingers and blunt nails. "Jen-sen. I won't run away. Again. I won't run."

"I...I'm afraid I'm rather...I don't want to hurt you, Jared," Jensen said. But Jared only smiled, and turned his face up to the sun, eyes closed, his hands lax and open on his thighs. Calm, and so trusting. So Jensen knelt up, and opened the razor, and began.

It seemed doubly difficult this time around. Jensen was still rather dreading a repeat of the last time. Dreading the thought of Jared running away and never coming back. But there was something else, as well. This time Jensen was aware. Aware of how Jared's skin felt under his fingers. Of how his hair fell across his shoulders – how his lashes were a perfect fan, fluttering a little as Jensen worked.

Aware, too, of how close he must press to reach that difficult spot at the curve of Jared's jaw; how he must lean into Jared's heat; how his thigh touched Jared's knee, the back of his hand. By the time he finished, Jensen was breathing unevenly, flushed and too warm and... And very, very glad that he had dressed again after breakfast.

As he cleaned the razor for the last time – tidied everything away – Jared lifted the mirror up and held it. He studied himself in the little square, his fingers coming up to run along his jaw – his mouth. His gaze was distant – hollow – and Jensen sat down next to him and put a tentative hand on his shoulder.

"Jared? Are you all right?"

Jared flicked a glance toward Jensen, and then went back to the mirror. "I forgot. What they...looked like. Forgot...them. For so luh...long. I forgot I had...a family. They...you made me...not forget?"

"Remember? I made you remember. And I'm so – I'm so sorry, Jared, I am truly –"

"No. Magpie, hush." Jared put the mirror down – looked out at the sea that was glass-green and spun-sugar white that day, rushing up the sand with a long, hoarse susurration. "It's good. I shouldn't have forgotten. I was so...angry. I was angry, Jen-sen." Jared looked at Jensen finally, his eyes very wide - his lashes damp. "They left. One by one, they...they left and...I... I was angry and I was...ss...scuh...."

"Scared? Were you...you were scared, Jared?"

"Yes!" Jared dropped the mirror and pounded both his fists against the sand. "Yes, scared, I was scared. I was angry and I wanted...I wanted them to come back, I wanted them to stay and fight, I hated them for...for leaving me." Jared sagged a little, breathing heavily. He looked up at Jensen and his eyes were huge and bright, his lashes wet. "I hated them and I made myself...forget. I didn't want to th-think about them at all."

"I imagine it was rather a – a shock, then, to see me with your father's diary," Jensen murmured, and Jared sat up a little straighter, wrapping his arms around his knees and laying his cheek down, looking at Jensen. He sniffed.

"When I saw you take it, I wanted to stop you. But I...I was scared again. And I didn't...I didn't want you to read it. To see how I...ran away."

"Oh, but...I'm so awfully, dreadfully sorry, Jared, I should never have.... I knew it was private, I –"

"No. No, Magpie. It's all right. After...after I took it, you gave me.... You gave me presents. You said my name." Jared's eyes were bright again – dancing with affection and awe. "I almost forgot. I didn't want to forget me, too." He smiled, his cheek pressed up against his knee, his hair tangled across his forehead and Jensen felt something, warm and unfolding in his chest. Something...new. Wonderful. He couldn't help but smile back.

"Well, then. That's...that's all right then, isn't it? I would have hated to have never...never met you, Jared. I can't...can not imagine surviving as you did. It's simply...a miracle. An incredible miracle."

Jared bit his lip, his smile fading a little. "I stopped praying. After Father...I stopped praying. I wouldn't talk to God anymore if he...if he would let that happen. I was angry at him, too." Jared's gaze searched Jensen's face, his brows drawn down in a frown. "Does that make you...not like me?"

Jensen was startled into a little bark of laughter at that, and he reached out and squeezed Jared's shoulder, reveling in the feeling of the other man's skin and muscle under his hand. In being allowed to touch. "Of course not! I think...I think I would have been angry at him, too. It doesn't matter. I think...God hears you even if you don't mean for him to."

They sat in silence for a long time after that, watching as the sun slid down and down and finally into the sea. The sky above was a soft, deep blue, shading to colors of lilac and rose and smoky saffron-gold, while the sea glowed for a moment, a sullen garnet. And then the sun was gone, and the stars were there, vivid and blazing as candles, scattered so thickly there was barely room for the sky.

Jensen caught himself on a yawn and stretched a little. "Oh, it's been...a long day. I think I shall go to bed now. You could stay, if you liked."

Jared sat up, stretching his arms up over his head and yawning, as well. He looked over his shoulder at Jensen's little house up in the trees and grinned. "Will you pull the – the ladder up?"

"Oh, yes – yes, of course, I do every night. It only seems wise, you know; wouldn't want anything to –"

"I wanted to see in your house," Jared said, and he scrambled up, brushing at the sand sticking to his skin. Walking purposefully toward Jensen's nest and moving gracefully up the ladder. At the top he waited, peering inside, and Jensen hastily banked the fire and picked up the kit – climbed the ladder himself and then pulled it up behind him and into an untidy heap in the doorway. Jared was a darker spot of blackness in the small room and Jensen moved carefully to his little, hand-made bureau and found the tinder box. He lit the lamp and hung it from the hook in the center of the room.

"It's not terribly fancy – I'm not much of a carpenter, I'm afraid, but I got the idea from a book I'd read, and thought it would be safer up here than down below, you know. Fortunately a little tool-box washed up in another chest with some nails and things, and I was able to make something passing useful."

"I like it." Jared turned from examining the wall of tinned biscuit Jensen had accumulated, and went to the bed. It was about six inches off the floor on four sturdy legs, and Jensen had tightly laced the wooden frame with rope. On top of that was a mattress of sailcloth stuffed with cut grass, and a jumble of blankets that Jensen had been overjoyed to find. Jared undid the knot of leather at his waist and let the loincloth he wore fall to the ground, utterly unselfconscious. He crawled into the blankets, pulling and smoothing and finally lay flat, his gaze on Jensen.

Jensen couldn't quite make out his expression in the shifting shadow and light of the trembling lantern. And he was rather grateful for that, really. He stripped out of his own clothing, laying it all along the bureau top, his fingers hesitating over buttons and ties but finally – inevitably – doing what they must. Then he hastily blew out the light and fumbled his way into the bed, lying stiff and shivering on the edge.

Except that the ropes didn't really allow for that, and only a death-grip on the frame would keep Jensen where he was. The moment he began to relax, he rolled toward the middle where Jared was, his thigh and hip pressing into warm, yielding flesh. With a small sob of nervousness, Jensen scrabbled at the frame. And then froze as Jared's arm came over him, heavy and warm.

"Puh...please don't. Don't be so far away, Jen-sen. Please...."

"I don't...I don't know if...Jared, I c-can't...if you d-don't –"

"I want.... Jen-sen, I druh...dreamed. Someone...warm and...soft and...close to me, someone...my own...someone...please...." Jared's hand was stroking along Jensen's ribs, his chest. Gentle. Hesitant. So incredibly new and different, and Jensen surrendered with a shuddering sigh, rolling back into Jared's body and feeling – truly feeling – the lean, warm length of the other man pressed close to him from shoulders to calves.

"I think this might...might make God angry," Jensen whispered, and shivered as Jared's mouth touched the back of his neck – as the tip of Jared's tongue moved once over Jensen's flesh.

"I don't care. He sent you here like me; he made you be here so we can...we can do what we like. He's not allowed to be angry at us if he makes us be here alone." Jared's hand continued to stroke, slow, lower and lower, and Jensen let out a soft cry, his own hand seizing Jared's. Holding it tightly, he twisted in the blankets, turning until they were face to face. Faint moonlight, filtering through the trees and the thatch, illuminated the curve of Jared's cheek – the waves of his hair.

"I want.... Would you kiss me again? I want...want you to kiss me again, Jared. Please kiss me."

"Yes...yes, I –" Jared's mouth suddenly covered Jensen's and this time it wasn't a dry press of mouth on mouth. This time it was something more – something wetter, and deeper – something that sent a current of electric sensation all through Jensen's body, and he wrapped his arms around Jared's shoulders, feeling dizzy and breathless and giddy. Terrified, and he wasn't even sure of what – why. He knew – knew – that Jared would not hurt him.

"Mm...Magpie. I want...I wu-want...." Jared's hands were pulling Jensen closer still – his thigh was sliding, heavy and smooth as a python over Jensen's. His mouth, hot and wet and sliding over Jensen's jaw, his throat, and Jensen let his head fall back, a small, guttural sound coming out of him that made Jared gasp and pull at him frantically, his body twisting over Jensen's.

"Yes, please, Jared...." That feeling of something approaching – something electric and huge, tingling on the edge of all his senses – was swamping Jensen now, making his chest ache. Making his belly knot in waves of rippling heat. He felt as if he were flying apart – as if he were falling from some great height – and his heart pounded as his soul seemed to lift away, soaring and diving. An insubstantial swallow, aloft in the warm, fragrant night.

"My someone, my own someone," Jared murmured, and Jensen could only whisper 'yes'.




In the morning, for the first time since he had been cast ashore, Jensen did not get up with the sun. Instead, he lay curled in his nest with Jared, back to chest and hands entwined, breathing each other in in slow, even breaths that gently cajoled Jensen to sleep again, just a little more. Jensen felt warm all over, his muscles soothed and relaxed, his skin sensitive and alive, feeling every press and breath of Jared's against him. He felt wanton, lying abed naked with this strange, beautiful boy. Wanton, and horrifically shy, so that he daren't stir an inch for fear that Jared would...would....

"Jen-sen. You're so quiet," Jared whispered, his lips just brushing Jensen's shoulder, and Jensen shivered, unable to stifle a tiny gasp.

"I...I was afraid to wake you, I'm not sure how to behave in...in this particular situation."

"Ss...situation?"

"I've never...woken with someone in my bed. I mean, I fell asleep with Grandfather once, but he was ill and I think that hardly counts as we were both dressed and I was, I was in a chair, mostly, I just slumped down, rather, and –"

"Magpie," Jared laughed, his whole body shaking against Jensen's. "Don't worry. You don't...there's nothing you need to do. Just..." Jared moved somehow closer, and Jensen let himself relax back into the heat and solidity of the body behind him. Let his eyes drift shut, and his heart slow, and soon he slipped, sweetly and naturally, back into sleep.

When they finally woke for good and all, Jared went off with the dogs to check the snares, while Jensen built up the fire and then – in a fit of daring – stripped down to his bare skin and went for a bathe. He floated serenely in the water, the waves lifting him up and down, the sunlight warming him, until he heard the distant sound of Jared hallooing and stood up.

Jared was trotting down across the sand, some kind of small game slung over his shoulder and the dogs racing along before. They splashed into the water and waded to Jensen, who petted them and praised them lavishly while Jared flung his catch down and stripped as well. He plowed through the waves, grinning, and caught Jensen up in a hard hug. Then he held Jensen by the shoulders and pushed him back a little, looking down at his nakedness and then up again through long, dark lashes.

"Yes, I know, I – it seemed rather foolish of me to wade out half dressed when...when.... Well, after all, you've seen –"

"Magpie. You're beautiful," Jared said, and his words were like a caress, making Jensen sway a little, his lids fluttering half shut.

"I...I've never...you...th-thank you, I...." Jensen opened his eyes – forced himself to look eye to eye with Jared and not flinch away – not stutter. "You are, as well, you...Jared, you make me feel...." Jensen took a huge, shaky breath – leaned forward and pressed his lips to Jared's, the action feeling so natural now. So very correct. "I love how you make me feel."

Jared's answering look – his sudden, fevered touch was reply enough, and Jensen never noticed the sand grinding into his knees, or the waves that hissed and slapped over their bodies, half drowning them as they embraced.


Late in the afternoon, they walked up to the headland that lay north-east of Jensen's camp and looked down over the wide sweep of bay and beach and stone that had been the first, inhospitable landing that Jensen had found. He told Jared how he had dragged his spoils from the sea and then carted them up and over when there proved to be no fresh water nearby – how he had camped there for many nights, hoping that his vantage would allow him to spy a fellow castaway, or another ship. How, finally, he had resigned himself to a lonely life and abandoned the high and windy place for a more secure shelter below.

Jared told him, haltingly, a few stories of his own adventures when they had first been cast ashore, but it was clear it pained him, and Jensen gently hushed him.

"Some day, Jared, you can tell me. Not now. Now is just...for us, all right? Now is just for us."

"All right, Magpie." Jared smiled at him – let out a great breath and caught Jensen's hand fast in his. "For us." The sky out over the sea was darkening, the sun obscured by heavy, bruise-black clouds, and the warm breeze cooled by degrees, until they were both shivering. The sea churned, cream and slate, and silent lightning shivered across the horizon. They turned and began to make their way down again, hungry and wanting the security of their camp – the roost. Climbing, slipping, laughing, helping each other along, they made their way home.


In the early hours of the morning, just as the sun was sending up the first pale, lime-yellow shafts of light through the blown-ragged remains of the storm, a ship slipped into the bay. Her rigging was tangled – her sails torn – and the calm mirror of the bay was greeted with cries of thankfulness from the bruised and exhausted crew.

In the roost, Jared and Jensen slept, skin to skin and hand to hand, safe and warm.