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"Always go at them," Jack muttered and raised his hand again.
The door opened and there Stephen was. "God in Heaven, Jack." He rubbed at his temple, his mouth set peevishly. "I'd rather you wake me directly than summon me by pacing."
He hadn't even bothered to button his collar before opening his door and the shirt hung open around his sharp clavicles. Whatever Jack had planned to say was lost, his attention captivated by Stephen's easy nakedness. The time in Sumatra when Jack had found him stretched out on shore, his lean body tanning in the sun, the fine dark hairs down his belly, his member drowsing soft and pink against his thigh. He’d scarcely dared breathe, lest Stephen vanish like a fata Morgana. He'd mistook it for English prudishness. A little sun would set you up, he'd said with a lazy stretch. Jack had turned away red-faced while Stephen had slipped his shirt back over his head. The moment had passed.
The Dr. Maturin here frowned and pressed the back of his hand to Jack's brow. "Not feverish," he murmured in his quiet physician's tone.
His touch was detached, professional, unsentimental. It brought a shiver to Jack regardless. "No indeed, that's not what I woke you for."
Stephen gave the barest huff of a laugh and walked Jack back to his cabin. "Of course, you know better than I. What shall I cure you of this time, my dear?"
"Oh pish," Jack said, grasping for any of the twenty versions of this conversation he’d rehearsed. The door was open, he was through it, and Jack was too late to do anything but shut it behind them and just... stand there. They'd been in private so often, and this time was no different to Stephen. Jack halfway reached for his violin. It would have offered something to do with his hands.
"Go on, tell me the symptoms." He suppressed a yawn. "I assume from the hour that you're not sleeping well."
"Wretchedly." Jack shook his head. "Stephen, this really isn't—"
"Appetite?"
"Fine, thank you."
"Sleeve up, please."
Jack rolled it away and waited as Stephen felt his pulse. Oh, his poor fingers. Seeing the badly regrown nails always made Jack's stomach twist. He'd held him after they rescued him from the French — kissed him, but only as Hardy had kissed Nelson. Jack couldn't begin to guess if he'd been in love with Stephen then. It's simpler with women; one is introduced, one shares a dance, and one either likes or doesn't. No room to be caught off-guard. Another matter entirely was his intimacy with shipmates. Always a drill the same as any other, to keep the reflexes sharp and the head clear, and dreaming of far-off bawdy houses the whole time. He'd never thought he’d sigh when a man wasn’t in a room where he expected him, or find himself pierced through by his rare little smile. By God, he wanted Dr. Maturin. Not as a means to an end — specifically, irreplaceably him. He was all Jack could think of when—
"Elevated," Stephen said with another frown. "Nerves, I'd say, but I've never known you nervous."
Better a fool than a coward. "I've fallen in love."
"With whom?"
Jack blushed like a midshipman on shore leave. "With you, of course."
"Impossible." Stephen rolled Jack's sleeve down matter-of-factly.
"Well, I'd rather like a second opinion."
He didn't laugh, but kept busying himself with his medical bag.
Jack blinked, a cold prickle spreading over his skin. He hadn’t dared think Stephen would accept, but he'd avoided considering how ruinous a refusal could prove. Stephen would never betray his confidence — no fear on that account — but if Jack's affection could drive him away, perhaps it would have been wiser to say nothing.
Perhaps, but Jack wasn't made for silence. "Blast it, Stephen, why is it impossible?"
"If you were lovesick, you'd certainly have lost your appetite." He looked up warily. "I'm quite certain you've missed the mark."
Good Lord, Stephen's hand shook where he rested it. Jack kept his voice as even and gentle as he could, though his insides were rapidly turning to quicksand. "If I'm no more to you than an old friend, then of course I won't speak of it again." He chewed on his lip. "But I'd be grateful if you wouldn't call me your dear anymore."
The doctor heaved an impatient sigh.
"Please, Stephen. A quick rejection's best."
"You really do mean it," he muttered. The furrow between his brows dug deeper. "Most unfortunate. I must somehow have influenced you -- and how have I grown so incautious?" He met Jack's eyes again. "We've both suffered some impairment to our judgment from being too long at sea."
Jack doubted his hearing even as his heart beat faster. There wasn't any other way to interpret his words, or the wistful look in Stephen's eyes. He had never been an open book. Any veiled longing in his expression was there because he permitted it to be seen.
A big, stupid grin spread across Jack's face. "Maybe, but my feelings haven't changed ashore."
Stephen nodded dismissively. "An ill-favored bastard like me, without a single unstained garment to his name. You'll forget me in the company of women, sure."
"To tell you true," Jack said, feeling like the most loathsome creature to be speaking of previous amours, "Not even in the arms of women."
Stephen's cheeks went pink with undisguised pleasure, but he shook his head. "It's no good. I never told you that I fought for Ireland in ninety-eight. I'm a Croppy, for God's sake."
"Ah," Jack said. "That does complicate matters."
Stephen stood still and dignified before him. His jaw was set unapologetically, but in his eyes there was the most wretched look of yearning, like the command he'd been promised had sailed off under a different captain.
Jack gathered his thoughts. "You know, in ninety-eight I was fighting at the Battle of the Nile."
"With Nelson, I know."
"Well," Jack said, permitting himself the ghost of a smile, "if I was fighting for the king and you were fighting against him, doesn't that rather make it an even wash?"
Stephen looked at him in alarm. "Maybe you do have a fever."
"And perhaps we could leave His Majesty out of it from here forward." Gently he took Stephen's hand. "My dear fellow, I've repressed it for as long as I can bear -- any more will drive me mad. If you dare tell me that I'm not sick enough with love for you, I'll fast for a week."
"I couldn't advise it," Stephen said reflexively. His gaze lingered on their joined hands. They'd seen a corpusant one gloomy night at sea and climbed up like reckless boys for a better view. The eerie violet light had played off Stephen's cheekbones and sparked in his wide, wondering eyes. Jack felt that spark in the touch of their skin. Stephen must have too.
Jack ventured his thumb over Stephen's bony knuckles. "What would you advise?"
Stephen stared at Jack in transfixation and terror, the naturalist writing from muscle memory rather than tear his eyes from the corpusant. Then, rising on tiptoes, he pressed his lips to Jack's.
It was over in a moment; just an experimental little thing. Their second kiss was slower and more wanton. "I never dared hope," Stephen murmured, his lips grazing Jack's stubbled jaw. He twined his fingers in Jack's hair and had at him boldly, sucking hungrily on Jack's lip, their tongues entwining in languid caresses. As graceful a lover as a duelist. Jack felt himself growing harder with every throbbing heartbeat.
Stephen's hands were busy at Jack's neckcloth and collar, but he only broke their kiss to pull open Jack's shirt. "Aren't you magnificent," he breathed, running his fingers through the soft golden hair revealed. He pressed closer, letting Jack feel him hard against his leg, making him gasp when Stephen rubbed a possessive hand over the front of Jack's breeches. At sea, Stephen was always elbow-deep in gore or nose-deep in a book. Jack had only dreamed of the quiet man of science, 'cello held between his skinny thighs like a lover. He hadn’t imagined the ardent, single-minded focus in Stephen's eyes.
Stephen bit his lip. Such a subtle movement, but Jack felt it in his breeches. “You want me.”
It wasn’t a question. "To distraction,” Jack said anyway. “Come to bed.”
He slipped out of reach. “Undress for me first.”
Jack's eyes went wide. A landsman giving orders to Captain John Aubrey of His Majesty’s Navy? And on his own ship! As fired up as he already was, the expectant tilt of Stephen's head sent a current coursing through him. He stripped off his breeches, shirt, and stockings as quickly as he could. His fingers fumbled like mad on the buttons, but eventually he stood before Stephen naked and entirely at attention.
“And your hair."
Jack pulled at the ribbon and shook out his pigtail, barely noting Stephen’s sigh. Jack had never been self-conscious, being taller and broader than many men. First-rate, he fancied himself, a proud ship of the line among frigates. Even so, he found himself nervous. “Take me to bed and I’ll show you a thing or two.”
One corner of Stephen's mouth turned up. “I won't be rushed. Now, where do you keep that sherry?”
"Damn the sherry," Jack said, a little embarrassed of the desperation in his voice.
"Oh well, I'll have a glass after." Stephen came closer and brushed the loose waves back from Jack's throat. He kissed slowly -- achingly slowly -- from Jack's ear to his collarbone. When Stephen traced his calloused fingers down over Jack's chest and finally took him in hand, his legs almost gave out under him. Stephen caught him in another kiss and began to stroke. Just as in music, he took the tempo faster than Jack's usual. His cock swelled more at the image it conjured of Stephen in private, maybe thinking of him. Efficient in everything, even pleasure.
Jack thrust recklessly into Stephen's grip until he was unbearably close. “Stop or I’ll never last the night.”
“Then don’t.” He sucked Jack's earlobe into his hot mouth. “Come right here in my hand.”
"Oh fuck," he managed. It felt too good anyway. Why not fire until the shot runs out? Jack only clung to Stephen for support, stifling his gasps in Stephen's shoulder as he drew the life and soul out of him. Jack's teeth closed on something -- Stephen's shirt, or maybe his flesh. Either way, he didn’t cry out. Neither did Jack as he spent. Both of them were far too well-practiced in maintaining what little privacy they were afforded.
Stephen smiled wickedly and wiped his hand on Jack's clean shirt, just to pique him. "By all means, my dear. Show me something."
Jack just drew him over to his cramped and lonely bed, sinking down onto it. He'd spent so many nights alone here, imagining Stephen beneath him, beside him, over him, joined with him any possible way. Now that Stephen stood before him, his lips parted in lust, Jack was too dazed to speak. His eyes settled on the hard outline down the leg of his trousers.
Of course Stephen noticed. “Have it out, then.”
Jack unbuttoned him and took him hard and hot in his hand. Before Stephen could give him his orders, Jack ran his tongue up his length and filled his mouth with it.
The cry Stephen stifled was immensely gratifying. Jack licked and sucked for everything he was worth, pressing his tongue at the sensitive part underneath the head, playing with Stephen's balls the way Jack liked it done. It seemed to go over well, with Stephen's soft gasp and caress on his cheek. Well then, how about this? Jack slid his hands up Stephen's thighs, grabbing his muscular ass and pulling him into his throat. A bit of a challenge, but Jack was determined.
Stephen chuckled softly. "Salope, t'as vraiment le feu au cul." He tilted Jack's chin up and drew him forward slightly. "Try it like this."
The angle was better. Jack worked more and more of Stephen in, reveling in the wet, lascivious sounds he was making.
"Oh God," Stephen breathed, "just like that. Take it." As he started to fuck him, his hand found Jack's throat -- holding him gently, lovingly, but with an edge of danger in it that Jack responded to eagerly. He pictured himself bound like Odysseus to his mast, halfway out of his mind with forbidden desire and begging wantonly for what he needed.
Stephen's breathing grew ragged as he kept thrusting into Jack's mouth. Jack met his eyes hungrily. I'll take as much as you can give me and still be ready for more. Jack could only assume he took his meaning, for Stephen closed his eyes tight and spent everything he had down Jack's throat.
Stephen panted, leaning on Jack's broad shoulder. “Damn me."
“Lie down, love." Jack stole the shirt off him. "You seem a bit faint.”
Stephen's look suggested he didn’t appreciate the medical advice. He took it nonetheless, stretching out in Jack's bed, his chest still heaving. “Don’t dismiss it as flattery if I say my compliments.”
"Oh, I can't take all the credit." Jack tossed the shirt over his shoulder and bent to kiss Stephen's naked, sweat-scented chest. “While you’ve been observing your birds and beetles, I’ve made a study of many very talented ladies between Lima and Constantinople.”
“Perhaps there’s some merit in your sort of natural philosophy."
"And you've never..." Jack trailed off.
"With women? No, I dare say I never had the least interest." Stephen seemed lost in thought for a moment, but then laughed. "You know, my first time was with a sailor I met by the docks in Tarragona. Another Irishman. I thought him the most exciting person I'd ever met, and that it must be terribly romantic to see the world."
"Well," Jack said lamely, "now you know how much of it is blue and wet."
But Stephen turned to him, a mischievous sparkle in his eye. "Perhaps I've always had a weakness for tanned and worldly men."
"You've got the horn for Cape Horners, eh?" Jack said, far too satisfied with the joke to let it go unsaid. And Stephen did give it a chuckle, bless him.
He propped himself up on his elbow. "Be a good lad and fetch the sherry for us."
Jack did as he was told, showing himself to advantage as he retrieved the glasses. “You could stay," he said as he poured. "Until the morning watch.”
Stephen's sea-gray eyes glittered in the candlelight. "And tomorrow night?"
"If you like." Jack's face felt hot and he downed his drink quickly. "I wouldn't want to cross the bridge before the horse, as it were."
"No," Stephen said and smiled his secret smile. "I should like it of all things."