| fic: The Waiting (R) |
[Jul. 10th, 2005|09:10 pm] |
Although I've written a lot in another fandom, this is my first Aubrey/Maturin fic. This winter I was given the first two books and devoured them; I was unable to get the third book until recently, so my brain decided to imagine its own continuation.
Title: The Waiting
Author: Isis
Rating: R
Note: About 3500 words. Set after Post Captain, and contains spoilers for that book and for HMS Surprise, although it's not really consistent with the latter as I'm only a few chapters in, and I wrote most of the story before I started reading HMS Surprise. Much heartfelt gratitude to my beta readers ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=92.1) fabularasa (who is responsible for introducing me to the series), norah, and franzeska.
Summary: Jack waits for a ship, and Stephen waits for Jack.
"It is the waiting that I dislike the most," said Jack Aubrey, pacing the parquet like a caged beast, the latest Admiralty letter crumpled in his hand. Now and again he whirled abruptly to the window and paused a moment; but his eyes focused on the far distance, and the greenery of the Dover landscape could have been the sands of Arabia for all the attention he gave it. One, two, three, turn. Stephen Maturin wondered if the distance Jack measured with his feet was the distance of his only recently-vacated cabin on the Lively, or perhaps the remembered breadth of his cabin on the Sophie. One, two, three, turn.
Stephen shrugged. "Then you must find pursuits to occupy yourself until the ship is ready. Visit your young lady. Spend your Spanish gold. Or," he added with a meaningful glance toward the book in his hands that he had been attempting to read, would be reading but for Jack's restless pacing, "there are some excellent books on the shelf. For myself I find Lyttell's natural history quite absorbing, but I imagine there is something there that will appeal to you." Although Jack's taste in reading was narrow, the rooms they'd taken belonged to a bachelor admiral who was currently at sea, and Stephen felt more than justified in making the assertion.
"But it ain't right, Stephen. Delays, excuses, problems. They don't mean to give her to me. I know damned well what's going on."
It was an unexpected admission; although Stephen had suspected for some time that such was the case, it was unsettling to hear Jack give voice to it. There were more post captains than ships, that was the nut of it, and despite his great run of luck with prizes Captain Aubrey was in bad odour with the Admiralty. Lord Melville's patronage had run out its value, and with Captain Hamond's return to the Lively, Jack was left in a sort of limbo. Vague promises of a ship - the Blackwater, the Louisa May, the Fortitude - were used as defence against giving him another temporary command, but with each ship's fitting-out there came the reasons why one or another of the five-hundred-odd names on the list, admittedly all ahead of his own, ought to have precedence, and there was nothing for it but to wait.
"At least the need for another prize is not as pressing," said Stephen. The worst of the debts had been paid, although Jack was not the wealthy man he would have been, had the Crown not taken the bulk of the Spanish treasure. "You are no longer in danger from the bum-bailiffs and tipstaffs."
"Ah, but more fearsome than them all is Mrs Williams," countered Jack.
"A formidable foe, to be sure. Does she threaten to clap you in irons?"
"To keep me from them, more's the pity. 'Why, sir, you have said it yourself,' says she; 'a captain's not a captain without a ship,' and she don't care a fig for the swab without the pound-notes in pocket. To her the worth of a husband seems to be in relation to his distance."
"And is that true of wives as well?"
Jack's answering smile was irritatingly dreamy. "Sophie's a fine woman at whatever remove. We got along famously on the Lively, when I took her and her sister to the Downs; and I have no doubt we shall suit once her mama's whims are pleased."
"Ah. So she'll sail with you on this future post-ship."
"I should say not," said Jack. "You know how I feel about women on board." He took a few more strides across the room, turned back toward Stephen. "But I wonder…I wonder."
"What is it?"
"When I'm on the quarter-deck, sometimes, standing at the rail. I look at the foam on the waves, or at the curve of the staysails, you know, the way they billow out to the side; and of a sudden Sophie comes to mind, playing an air, or that sweet smile of hers."
Stephen forbore to roll his eyes. Sometimes Jack seemed as though he were still a stumbling young man who had discovered love for the first time, and thought himself its inventor. "Never say you'll give up your mistress for a wife."
A frown creased Jack's brow for a moment before it cleared. "Ha! You mean the sea, of course, and she's a jealous one and no mistaking. There I was talking with Sophie at Admiral Haddock's dinner, and she was as charming and sweet as any woman could be, but it wasn't five minutes of talk about hair-ribbons before I was thinking of the clean way they raised sail on the Lively, and how quiet we crept up on those Spaniards."
"It's the way of all men, and all women, I imagine. Mrs Williams has the truth of it," he said lightly. In fact he'd wondered himself, wondered if the coarseness he'd observed in Diana Villiers at the last had perhaps been there all along, her remembered vivacity and honesty merely artefacts of their infrequent visits together. "Perhaps all women are sweeter and all men more convivial at a distance. Familiarity only breeds contretemps."
"Ha! I must remember that. But then how is it," said Jack as he crossed back from the window and lowered himself into the chair opposite Stephen, "that we get along so well in this small house, you and I?"
"The company of men, joy, is a very different thing than the company of women."
"And a good thing that is. Can you imagine women close on a ship as we are, and not tearing at one another's hair?"
It occurred to Stephen to point out that he and Jack had very nearly come to pistols, which was a bit more serious than hair-tearing, but upon reflection he decided that was a subject best left behind them. Instead he said, "I mean that there exists among men something different than between a man and a woman. A different sort of cordiality that does not strain courtesy, that allows us to live together like this without, as you say, tearing at one another's hair."
"But you are not altogether a sea-going man. You don't have the excuse to keep a woman at a distance. Or perhaps that will give me the excuse to continue to enjoy your company, because I must confess, nothing would please me more than to ensure your presence on my ship. If those damned Whigs ever see fit to give me one, that is."
"Well," said Stephen. "For myself I should not settle for a woman I only desired at a distance. I thought, for a while, that I had found an exception, but it turned out she only desired me at a distance."
Jack nodded. "It is a sad thing that we must have only one imperfect sort of companionship with men, and another with women."
Stephen schooled his face into a blank mask. "So you propose, then, that paederasts are to be admired, for finding both sorts in the same person?"
The splutter that Jack made was a reward in itself, and Stephen had to raise his book to hide his smile. Really, considering his position as captain of what could only charitably be called a diverse collection of men, Jack had a remarkably undevious mind. At least in some things, Stephen corrected himself, thinking of how fantastically devious he could be at military tactics and the minutiae of sailing. But when it came to the human mind and the human heart, Jack was the most straightforward of men.
"Damn it, man, you know what I mean. You can't call that perfect companionship. Only men too long deprived of women, taking advantage of frightened boys."
"In some cases, yes. But there are men - you understand, as a physician I study every sort of deviation - men who desire other men as you desire your Sophie -"
"That is no fit comparison!"
"I beg your pardon. As you desired Mrs Harte, then - come, Jack, do not look so scandalized; that is hardly news. But what I meant to say," said Stephen, choosing his words carefully, "is that there are men for whom a male companion is hardly second-best. Some men consider the female sex distasteful."
"The more for us, then," said Jack cheerfully.
"And some," continued Stephen as though Jack had not interrupted, "take pleasure in both the masculine and the feminine. It is not as unusual as put about in this country. Such a man may love his friend, and also…love his friend. A harmony to which most cannot aspire."
"Tosh. I have been in the Navy all my life; you can't tell me that the fumbling of sodomites counts as love. Why, it cannot possibly be equal." Jack rose and began pacing again. One, two, three, turn. "One's got to be the windlass and the other the handle - it don't work with two of the same."
"There are methods of providing equal pleasures to equal practitioners." Jack turned suddenly, before his third pace, and frowned at him, and Stephen felt his heart stutter in his ribcage as though he had been caught at his spy-work. He held up a hand. "I have only theoretical knowledge, my dear. As a physician."
"Ah. Of course," said Jack, and resumed pacing.
Stephen returned to his book and attempted to read, but it was really quite useless, what with Jack's restlessness and his own unease. He could still hear the rush of blood pulsing through his veins, unnaturally loud and fast; it would take an extra drop of his tincture tonight, if ever he hoped to sleep. He had not intended the conversation to go quite as far as it had done. He could not resist baiting Jack on occasion, but God save him if Jack ever noticed the barbs beneath the hook. It was enough - more than enough - that they were friends.
Lost in his own thoughts, he was unaware that Jack had stopped his pacing until a shadow fell across the open page. "You are standing in my light," he said, and looked up.
"I was wondering," said Jack, "what sort of theoretical knowledge you might have."
Stephen laid his book down with over-deliberate care in an attempt to hide his discomfort. "To begin with - no, this is not fit parlour conversation."
"But I am agog to hear it. Please, go on."
He could hardly bear to look at Jack, the picture of courtesy, leaning against the doorway to the hall with an expression of vague curiosity. The thought crossed his mind that Jack had twigged to his intent, and had turned the tables, and was now baiting him.
Well. He could play that game, he supposed. He nodded to Jack and stood, clasping his hands behind him. "To begin with, let us consider the kiss. Despite the undeniable differences between the sexes, the mouth is quite similar - apart from size, of course."
"And whiskers," Jack added helpfully.
"And whiskers, yes, but they are not in the mouth. And let us assume that one has shaved recently," he said, briefly touching a hand to his own smooth chin. "In a kiss, both parties are equal participants and derive equal pleasure. There can be no distinction between a kiss shared by a woman and a man, and a kiss shared by two of the same sex."
"Nonsense. One is a giver and the other a taker. The man presses his lips upon the lady's, like so -" here Jack held up his own hand and pursed his lips against it, in demonstration - "and the lady, if he is lucky, permits him to kiss her." A wink. "And if she is not a lady, permits a bit more."
"Perhaps that is what passes for a kiss with the ladies of your acquaintance. I assure you that there are those who give and take in equal measure."
"I can't imagine such a one."
"Then you must kiss an equal," said Stephen. There - the gauntlet was thrown.
"Ha! There never was such a paragon. If this is your theoretical knowledge, I believe practical knowledge takes you by the lee."
"If you are quite certain," said Stephen. He moved slowly enough that had Jack ducked away it would have been easy to stop, and smile, and share the jest; but Jack did not duck away, and their lips met. And then it would have been easy - or at least so was his intention, though the pounding in his chest had grown louder and he feared he was trembling - it would have been easy to press only lightly on Jack's lips with his own, to call Jack's bluff with no raising of the stake.
But Jack was apparently not bluffing. His mouth was hot and urgent upon Stephen's, his rough hands pulling him into an embrace that Stephen, mindful of his earlier assertion, returned in as equal measure as he was able.
After a moment Jack stepped away, his face ashen. "My God. Stephen. I do not know what to say."
There were many things that he would have liked to hear Jack say, but one look at his stricken countenance and Stephen knew he was unlikely to hear any of them. It had been a gamble - a daring, ridiculous gamble - and it had not paid off.
He forced a smile. "Say, perhaps, that I have proved my point to your satisfaction."
"My satisfaction?" Jack sounded incredulous. "That is the entire - no, I will not concede that there is no difference. My God."
"My dear, I did not intend - forgive me, Jack, it was ill-conceived, an unconscionable jest." He reached out to touch him on the arm; Jack flinched as though he had been struck.
"No, I - it is not - Stephen, I believe I will go riding," he said abruptly, and strode out the door.
Stephen watched him go. "That did not go very well," he finally muttered to himself, sinking back into his chair. He could not help but relive the conversation in his mind, hear Jack's words again and again. Feel Jack's lips - no, he would not think of that. Deliberately he put these thoughts aside and returned to his reading, but his mood was too black for even Lyttell's prose to ameliorate.
##
It was very late when Stephen at last doused the light and climbed into his bed. The evening had not improved his humour in the slightest; he had had to improvise an excuse to a disgruntled Killick as to why Jack was not present for supper, and then he had spent several hours in the drawing room rehearsing a speech to Jack that he had no wish to give. He would apologise again. He would tell him that it had been a mistake, a sorry mistake, foolery that had gone too far. He would offer to find other lodgings - no, he would insist on it. He would beg Jack's forgiveness.
But Jack had not come home at nine, nor at ten, and with every passing hour Stephen's spirits sank lower. Finally it occurred to him that perhaps Jack was loitering outside, watching the light, reluctant to enter until he could be assured he would not have to see him or speak with him.
He lay in the dark, straining for the least sound of the door. Finally there was a noise - a bang, and a crash, and the thumping of heavy footsteps. Not the whispering steps of a man wishing to slip unnoticed into his bed, and from this Stephen deduced that Jack must have been drinking.
When his door was flung open his first thought was that Jack had become so drunk as to mistake his room. It would be ridiculous to feign sleep. Instead he sat up in bed and fumbled for the lamp. "Jack. Are you quite all right?"
"My God, Stephen," said Jack, falling heavily on his knees next to the bed. The odour of wine was not as heavy as Stephen had expected. "You must forgive me for being - you must forgive me, my friend. No, do not light it. I am not fit to be seen."
"But what has happened? What have you done?"
"You know as well as I do what I have done. I am ashamed of it. I pressed you when I should not have done, and I have well learnt my lesson."
"You pressed - my dear, this is nonsense. I am entirely at fault -"
"No!" The moonlight fell on his face, showing hair in disarray, eyes lucid and anguished. "I did not know - I did not know!"
"You must stop this at once," Stephen said crisply. "It was a foolish game that should not have been played."
There was a moment of silence, so thick and heavy that Stephen fancied he could hear the clock ticking in the drawing room below. Jack drew in a breath, let it out; a cloud drifted across the moon, throwing his features into shadow. Another breath, and he stood. "Yes, of course. A foolish game," Jack said, and there was a strange quality to his voice. He turned to leave.
He had not taken three steps to the door before understanding burst upon Stephen like a sudden rainstorm. "Jack, no. Not a game. Never a game."
Jack did not turn around, but neither did he take another step. Encouraged, emboldened, Stephen pushed back the covers and slipped out of his bed, crossed to where Jack stood as though he were riveted to the floor. Gently he embraced Jack, laying his head against Jack's broad back. "Do you not know my heart as well as your own?"
"Stephen," whispered Jack. "Will you kiss me again?"
"I should do so with great pleasure," said Stephen; Jack turned to meet him, and a great pleasure it was indeed. The taste of claret on Jack's tongue did not mask the essential taste and smell that was Jack Aubrey, a taste that seeped into his bones and set his body afire. From the hard press of the body against him he could feel that Jack's blood was running as hot as his own. When they stepped apart he took Jack's hand and drew him toward the bed. "Will you stay?"
"I suppose I must. You have more of this theoretical knowledge of yours to demonstrate," said Jack. But there was a tremor in his voice rather than the usual swagger, and Stephen stopped short.
"I will not pretend, joy. I have wanted this for a very long time. But if you are not of the same mind we shall think no more of it."
"Damn it, Stephen, that's not it at all." Jack sat heavily on the bed. "This morning I thought I knew myself. But you have confounded me with a kiss." He began to unbutton his clothes. "And now I cannot stop until I have discovered the rest of this strange country."
"Not so strange, when you are welcome. Here - let me take that." Jack did not take long removing his clothes; Stephen folded them neatly next to his bed and slipped out of his own dressing-gown, then returned to the bed.
"Uncharted waters, then."
"We will explore them together," said Stephen, and drew Jack down close beside him. Jack's gasp was one of pleasure, not of dismay, and his caresses grew bolder, matching Stephen's stroke for stroke. The moans he made were each worthy of a Locatelli sonata, thought Stephen; the unconscious thrusts, the arch of the body under his hands were as arousing as anything Jack was doing to him, as arousing as anything anyone had ever done to him.
And Jack clearly delighted in his discoveries, murmuring, "Ah, Stephen, you have a prodigiously sharp collarbone," as he traced it first with his fingers, then with kisses. And then: "Oh, that's good!" And then: "Ah - yes, my God, yes." And then no words, nothing but fast, harsh breaths; and then a cry as he spent his pleasure in Stephen's hand, and that was the sweetest sound of all.
Later, much later, when they were both sleepy and sated and curled against each other, Jack mumbled, "Tomorrow I shall go down to the yard again. See if they've got me a ship."
"Hush. Now sleep, or I shall send you to your own bed."
Soon Jack lay snoring, taking up most of Stephen's bed, but Stephen remained awake, watching the moonlight play across Jack's face. Dear Jack, in his arms at last. Tomorrow there might be regrets, second thoughts, uneasy memories. But for now he could think only that his own waiting was over. |
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