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“Is there any chance you’re gonna shut up once tonight?” Jack asked, cigarette hanging from his lips. He dealt a few cards out in front of him, arranging another game of solitaire.
“There’s a chance.” John replied, his wrist hanging above him. It was cuffed to the radiator mounted on the wall of their small motel room.
“Good, then take it.”
“Is there any chance you’re going to say something that isn’t sarcastic to me tonight?”
Jack raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips, mockingly thoughtful.
“There’s a chance.” He mused, mimicking John’s tone as best he could.
In his peripheral vision, he saw John roll his eyes at the faded green wallpaper, silently transferring his annoyance from Jack to the impassive floral print; at least it was more likely to listen to him than Jack was. A quiet sigh from John quickly set a muscle in Jack’s jaw twitching.
Jesus he was infuriating.
John had been riding his ass about anything and everything since the minute they’d begun travelling together. He wouldn’t let up about the smoking, the drinking, the red meat or whatever else might bring an ounce of pleasure to a person’s dismal little existence. Anyone that devoid of joy was just as much a miserable bastard as Jack was, and it pissed him off that John insisted on pretending otherwise.
“Why can’t you just be real with me, Jack. Why don’t you tell me something about yourself?”
Jack placed a card on the table and looked up from his game.
“If I do, will it shut you up?”
John shrugged. “It might.”
“I don’t like those odds.” Jack muttered, going back to his cards.
“I only mean that it might, because you might find that when you start talking, you might like opening up to somebody, and you might want to keep doing it.”
Jack might want to be the fucking Monopoly Man too; that didn’t mean it was gonna happen. He flipped over the deck, but couldn’t make any matches, so he tried again, to much the same effect. After a minute or so of stubbornly expecting a different result from the same move, he gave up. Huffing in frustration, Jack scrapped the game, gathering the cards back into his hand.
“Fine.” He grumbled distractedly, shuffling the deck. “What do you wanna know?”
“Hmmmm.” John threw his head back, considering the question. “Gosh, when you’re being emotionally distant, I have no shortage of questions. Now that you’re beginning to let me in, I can't think of anything good.”
“That’s never stopped you before.” Jack muttered around his cigarette, tapping the cards into shape on the edge of the small coffee table.
“Okay, how about where you went to school?”
“Police Academy, happy?” He began to deal a new game. “Good talk.”
“I meant before that.”
Jack rolled his eyes, chuckling knowingly. “I see.”
“I beg your pardon?” John asked, confused.
“I just said I see is all.”
“What do you see, Jack?”
Jack hated the way John used his name like that. It was a cheap trick, trying to force a connection where there wasn’t one, to make him see John more like a person, more likely to let him go, or at least to lower his guard. Coming out of John’s condescending, holier-than-thou mouth, it made Jack feel weirdly guilty, like a kid sitting outside the principal’s office. He had to fight the urge to start working on his alibi.
“Jack, what do you see?” The man just would not let up.
“I see why you asked me the question.” Jack shrugged, enjoying John’s puzzled look. He hid a shrewd smirk behind his hand as he took another drag of his cigarette. “So where did you go, Yale?”
“This isn’t about me.”
“Oh, sure it isn’t.” Jack let a stream of smoke escape his lips, jabbing his cigarette triumphantly towards John. “Did I get it right, was it Yale?”
“Harvard, actually.” John seemed torn between his pride and embarrassment, clearly aware that Jack was mocking him.
“Yeah no shit.”
Jack laughed, shifting back to his game and struggling once again to find anything good to put down. Frowning, he slipped a Queen out from the middle of the waste pile and onto one of the columns, breaking the stalemate and finally allowing him to play some cards.
“That’s cheating.”
Jack turned to find John craning his neck to get a look at the game. He shrugged.
“It was a bad deal. Wasn’t anything else I could do.”
“It’s still cheating.” John insisted. “It’s against the rules.”
“So?” Jack snapped, irrationally defensive. “It’s my game, I can change the rules if I want to.”
John shook his head. He tried to gesture towards Jack but found his movements hampered by his handcuffs.
“And here I thought you were supposed to be the honest man. What happened to the guy I met who’d never taken a payoff?”
There was a buzzing coming from the ice machine just outside their room. Its whining pitch grew excruciatingly loud as Jack stared at John incredulously.
“It’s a game of fucking cards!”
“Alright, if you think integrity has nothing to do with the way you interact with yourself, that’s your right.”
Jack stood up, pistol in hand; it was unloaded, but that infuriating bastard didn’t need to know that.
“Listen here Harvard, you’re a piece of cargo to me, nothing else, got it? Now if you don’t sit down and shut up like I told you to, I’m going to find a suitcase, stuff you in it, and lug you back to L.A. that way.”
John didn’t seem particularly cowed by his display, but he nevertheless made the best conciliatory motion he could. Jack sat down heavily, blinking angrily at his cards. Try as he might to concentrate, John’s words kept ringing in his ears until finally he scrapped the game and started again. He kept his eyes on the cards, but he could feel John’s smug expression burning a hole in the side of his head.
The silence between them stretched out longer this time, with nothing to disturb it but the buzz of the ice machine, the rumble of cars on the highway and the low hum of chatter seeping through the thin motel walls.
“So, let me get this straight…”
Jack groaned, but inwardly he was a little thankful to John for breaking the silence. Listening to the thousand monotonous sounds from the dismal world around them only served to remind Jack how uncomfortable and lacking his current situation really was. That was probably one of the reasons John insisted on continuing to make conversation anyway. As soon as Jack had the thought, he dismissed it, this was no time to go around understanding the guy.
“You grew up in Chicago-”
“New York.” Jack interrupted, flicking ash from his hand.
“Pardon?”
“I lived in Chicago, I grew up in Brooklyn.” He explained.
“Why?”
“Why did I grow up in Brooklyn? I guess you’d have to ask my folks.” Jack laughed. Sure, it wasn’t a great line but John did walk straight into it, which satisfied him in its own way.
“Why did you move to Chicago?” John elaborated slowly, as if Jack hadn’t understood the question.
“My wife’s from Chicago, she wanted to be closer to her parents.”
“Ex-wife.” John swiftly corrected.
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “That’s what I said.”
“No you didn’t, you said wife.”
“Okay, well she was my wife at the time so what the hell does it matter?” Jack gave an agitated shrug, as if he could physically shoulder away his discomfort.
“It matters, Jack.”
“What are you now, my therapist?”
“I’m not, but I don’t think it would hurt you to see one.”
There was nothing Jack could say to that. Never in his life had he had a prisoner so difficult to deal with. He didn’t mind them fighting back, calling him names, spitting in his face – so long as they weren’t trying to relate to him. Jack shuddered and turned away. On the other side of the room, John began humming to himself. It was alright to begin with, because at least it meant he wasn’t talking, but Jack soon found it unbearable.
“Would you cut that out!” He snapped around his cigarette.
John looked surprised, but Jack was willing to bet it was an act.
“Oh I’m sorry, am I bothering you?”
“You’re damn right you are.”
“Well I apologise wholeheartedly and I promise not to do it again.” John intoned seriously, but Jack could tell he wasn’t done. “After all, given that we’re in such close quarters together it would be obnoxious to continue to do something that my travelling companion explicitly expressed he disliked.”
Jack eyed him suspiciously. He rested an arm on the back of his chair, game forgotten for the moment.
“You sound like you’re trying to make a point.”
“Me? No, I’m not saying anything.” John shrugged innocently. “I was simply ruminating on how we ought to treat people close to us. Although, I do suppose someone might take that as a hint about an unsavoury habit they may choose to engage in.”
Jack took one last drag on his cigarette before snuffing it out in the ash tray. He savoured John’s look of pleasant surprise; clearly he hadn’t expected Jack to actually respect to his thinly-veiled criticism. Jack’s chair made a dull scraping noise against the thin motel carpet as he stood. Taking a seat on the bed near the patch of floor John occupied, Jack seemed thoughtful as his hand discreetly made its way to the leather jacket he’d discarded there earlier.
The bed’s frame was so low, and the height disparity between them so significant, that even with John on the floor, they were almost eye to eye. Jack opened his mouth as if to continue their conversation, just as his hand closed around the item he’d been searching for. Raising the pack to his mouth, Jack used his teeth to pull out one of the cigarettes, grinning as he lit it with a matchbook from the nightstand. He exhaled the smoke in a steady stream; it blew out towards John and dissipated to reveal his unimpressed expression.
“That was petty and rude. Just because I said I didn’t like you smoking near me doesn't mean you have the right to deliberately try to give me lung cancer.”
“Oh?” Jack feigned surprise. “I thought you weren’t saying anything. I thought you were just ruminating.”
John seemed uncharacteristically fed up, his agreeable mask slipping into genuine aggravation.
“You’re a very difficult man to get to know, you know that?”
“I’m beginning to figure it out.” Jack was still feeling pretty pleased with himself. Leaning back on his elbows, no longer interested in blowing his smoke at John, he exhaled towards the ceiling. “Why are you so damn interested in getting to know me anyway?”
At that, John was silent long enough that Jack propped himself up to study him curiously.
“Well, when you’re going to die in less than a week it becomes a bit more of a priority to make a connection with another human being.”
“You’re not gonna die.” Jack responded uneasily. “I’m gonna see you safe inside. You’ll be fine so long as you stick with me.”
It surprised Jack a little, how earnestly he meant those words. Despite all the trouble John had given him, Jack didn’t actually bear any ill will towards the guy. Even the trouble Jack could understand, John didn’t want to go to jail, and he definitely didn’t want to be back in the mob boss’ sights.
There was more to it than that though. Despite how much of a sanctimonious pain in the ass he was, there was something about John’s idealistic naivete that spoke to Jack. That stubborn commitment to integrity - even when it was dangerous, even when he was being ridiculed for it - had set Jack thinking about being driven out of Chicago. It wasn’t a subject he liked to think about.
“So where’d you grow up, Harvard?” Jack asked without thinking.
The question surprised them both, but it was a welcome distraction from their respective reveries. The corner of John’s mouth quirked upwards and Jack looked away, leaning back on his elbows again so he wouldn’t have to look John in the eye.
“My family’s from Pittsburgh.” John answered, simply.
“Steelers fan,” Jack nodded, “could be worse.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Jack blew another stream of smoke towards the ceiling.
“I’m just saying, after that game with the Rams you could do worse than the Steelers. It’s a compliment.”
John’s laugh was muffled towards his chest. “A compliment? About a football team from the town I happened to grow up in?”
“Yeah, a compliment.” Jack waved his hand dismissively. “Learn to take one.”
“I’ll take what I can get then.” The smile was evident in John’s voice. “I haven't lived there for years though, at this point I consider Manhattan home.”
“Course you do, where else are you gonna scam a gangster out of his money?”
“I can think of a few places.”
“I’ll bet you can.”
John acknowledged the jibe with a nod, then sat back, trying to manoeuvre into a more comfortable position, which proved difficult with his hand cuffed to the radiator.
“This wasn’t exactly how I intended my career to turn out.”
“What did you want then?”
John shrugged. “I was always good with numbers, and accounting was supposed to be a safe profession-”
“Not the way you do it.” Jack chuckled and John couldn’t help himself but laugh too.
“I suppose not. At the end of the day, all I really wanted was to provide a good home.”
Jack sat up, putting his cigarette out in the ashtray on the bedside table as he appraised John sceptically.
“Really, that’s all you wanted? Wife and kids, picket fence, nice quiet life?”
John looked surprised to be challenged on the claim, fidgeting defensively.
“Why not, that’s what you want, isn’t it?”
“Yeah that’s what I want,” Jack agreed, “I’m asking if that’s what you want.”
“I just said it was, didn’t I?”
“You did. But you also stole fifteen million dollars from one of the most famous organised crime syndicates in the country. Smart guy like you, I’m sure you could have found a way to keep your name out of the papers, but then no-one would know who dropped all that charity money out of thin air, so I guess it was worth the risk. I don’t know about you, but that doesn’t seem like the actions of a man dreaming about suburban bliss.”
John was stunned, and momentarily lost for words. For a second, Jack could see a hint of the cunning mind behind that doe-eyed face, and he was pretty sure it wasn’t just numbers he was calculating.
“Alright, I’ll give you that one. You don’t get to be the primary financial analyst for a mob-owned consultancy firm by just being an accountant, and now I guess I’m the accountant. I didn’t know who I was working for before, and I certainly didn’t feed my name to the papers, but I won’t lie and say I’m not a little bit fond of the notoriety. I would prefer fame rather than infamy though, had somebody given me the choice.”
Jack shook his head. “I don’t get it. A world where everybody’s looking at you, and talking about you all the time is not one I want to live in. I don’t understand it.”
“You don’t, do you?”
John looked at him for longer than he would have liked, and shrewder than he would have liked too - as if he was staring at something about Jack that the man himself couldn’t see.
Alright, that was about as much as Jack could take, he was clearly starting to crack. He stretched his neck to the side, rubbing the tired muscles in his shoulder as he stood. John’s gaze followed him up but Jack refused to meet his eyes. In an effort to avoid whatever it was that was happening, Jack cast his gaze around the room, hoping for anything to divert his attention from the intensity that had settled between them. He found it in the form of a small countertop clock sat atop a spindly shelf beside the door.
It was later than he’d expected it to be. He’d lost all sense of time of late; the days had seemed to grind on forever, and yet end far too quickly, ever since he’d dragged John out of his high rise apartment and halfway across the country. His whole body was exhausted, and crying out with the hope that this would all be over within a day or so.
“We’d better get some rest if we’re gonna get you back to L.A. in one piece.”
“Yeah, and what about after that.” John muttered.
Jack ignored him as he kicked off his shoes and pulled his socks off a moment later. John frowned as he watched Jack getting ready to sleep.
“Hang on, you’re not going to leave me here all night are you?”
Jack surveyed his prisoner, handcuffed to the radiator, cross legged on the floor, fully dressed in dust-coated clothing.
“I don’t see why not.”
“Well because- because I’m not an animal that’s why.”
Jack stood by the bed and contemplated sleeping in his shirt and trousers, but the dirt and debris that coated them were too stiff and scratchy to guarantee him enough rest to be able to put up with John for another full day. He tugged his shirt over his head, not looking at John as he answered.
“It’ll do you good to sleep rough once in a while, it’s character building.”
“And what use is building my character, if that character is just going to be sleeping with the fishes in less than a week?”
Jesus, this guy did not let up. Jack lifted his gaze to the ceiling, wondering why he of all people had been saddled with the most persistent egghead in the world.
“Alright calm down, I’m not gonna make you stay down there. But you gotta quit saying you’re going to die, I told you I’m not going to let that happen.”
Begrudgingly, he fished his keys from his pocket and undid John’s bindings. John gave him another one of those looks that Jack was sure he would soon begin to dread, a look that said more than he wanted to hear. John stood up.
Jack grunted. “Don’t think you’re putting one over on me, either, you’re still gonna be locked up so I can get some shut eye, cause there’s no way I’m letting you out of my sight without a pair of these.”
Jack held up the loosened cuffs. A smile touched John’s lips.
“Fair is fair.”
He began stripping off his own clothes and Jack had to look away. Maybe he would take the floor instead then, if John insisted on sleeping in the bed.
“And we have to talk about your phrasebook. ‘Sleeping with the fishes?’ What, did you get all your lingo from a 1930s gangster flick? You worked for the mob, you should know better.”
“I didn’t know I was working for the mob, they don’t exactly talk like Vito Corleone in the accounts department.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw John begin removing his trousers and quickly turned further away. He heard a laugh behind him. If Jack didn’t know better, he might think John was enjoying how uncomfortable he appeared.
A moment later, John’s amusement was no longer his biggest concern. Instead, he found himself standing at the head of the bed, brow furrowed. It seemed that he hadn’t exactly thought his plan through. There was no bedhead, and neither the bed frame nor the nightstand looked particularly sturdy; in short, there was nothing to fasten a pair of handcuffs to.
Jack had no choice, he would either have to make a possibly-condemned man sleep on the floor, tied to a radiator for an entire night, or he was going to have to…
Jack turned to find himself met by John’s bare chest, it was pale and lightly dusted with fair hair. He blinked and looked up at the ceiling, once again sure that John was laughing at him. He steeled himself. This was a job. It was what he was hired to do and he was good at it. So he was going to handcuff himself to this nearly-naked man, and he was going to do it because he was a damn fine bounty hunter and would deliver his charge no matter what.
He held his hand out for John’s wrist and John reluctantly obliged. He clearly wasn’t pleased to be cuffed again, though he seemed to appreciate that Jack had chosen the opposite wrist from before. When John saw where Jack intended to place the other cuff, however, his expression changed completely. John shifted his weight to his other foot, eyes burning into Jack’s forehead as Jack diligently avoided his gaze.
“I have another question for you, Jack.” John said softly as the lock clicked into place.
They were too close now. Jack felt hot all over , and he was sure his cheeks were burning red. The whole room was too warm and John’s presence suddenly seemed oppressive, overwhelming.
“Another damn question. I think we’ve had enough questions.” Jack growled, sounding less grizzled than he’d meant to.
“If that's how you want it.” John shrugged.
Jack swallowed, ears hot. “What’s the question?”
“No, you didn’t want any more questions, you don’t have to hear it.”
“Just tell me.” Jack didn’t know why he was pushing the point. All night he’d been trying to get John to shut up with his never-ending questions, but there was something different about this one. Jack was equal parts curious and anxious about what it was going to be.
“I said you don’t have to hear it.”
“And I said just ask me the fucking question! Why do you have to make things so goddamn difficult all the time?”
“Okay.” John relented, infuriatingly calm in the face of Jack’s agitation.
“Okay? Alright, well do it then.”
John took a step closer and Jack felt the hair raise on his arms.
“Have you ever kissed another man, Jack?” John inquired, his voice a low rumble.
Jack looked up askance, finally meeting John’s eyes. He took half a step back but couldn’t go too far, not now that they were cuffed together.
“No!” He exclaimed. “What? What the hell are you talking about? No.”
His assertion couldn’t be firmer, though a small part of Jack’s brain was trying hard to remind him that it wasn’t exactly true. There had been one time – maybe a couple, maybe more – when he was younger – much younger he might add – when he and a buddy had… rehearsed. They were both kids and worried about how to deal with girls, not that it was going to become an issue for a few years yet. He hadn’t thought about that in years, he wondered what the guy was doing now.
Jack shook his head, rattling the memory loose. Right now there was a different guy he ought to be worrying about, he reminded himself, as John put his hands up as much as he could in surrender.
“It was just a question.”
“I’ve had just about enough of your damn questions.”
“Then I’ll stop.” John responded simply.
He slipped into the bed, scooting over to the far side, leaving Jack enough room to climb in after him. Jack stayed where he was, wary and hesitant. A few moments passed, their cuffed hands hanging absurdly in the air between them until Jack satisfied himself that he was being ridiculous. There was no reason to let John get to him like that. He was a professional damn it. Throwing his keys on the nightstand, Jack switched off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness as he got into bed.
He drew the motel sheets up to his chest; they were thick and scratchy on his bare skin and Jack tried to focus on that physical discomfort. At least that was something to blame. He lay there, brow furrowed and jaw clenched as he pretended to be mad at the cheap polyester.
“What kind of question was that?” He snapped finally, as if their conversation had never ended.
“You asked me to ask it.” John retorted immediately, as if he too had anticipated the argument resuming.
“Well yeah but I didn’t know what-” Jack glared at the dark ceiling like he thought John would somehow see it. “How the hell could I know you were gonna come out with something like that?”
“You couldn’t. But, I do have to point out that you were the one who pressed the point. I was going to let it go.”
“Let it go! Why’d you let it in to begin with?”
“I was curious.”
Jack felt the material drag slightly as John shrugged, and pulled the sheets tighter around him.
“You were curious? Oh great, you were curious.”
“Yeah.”
“Well next time you get curious,” Jack fished around for a clever suggestion but, finding none, continued anyway, “how about you just don’t.”
“That’s sounds like a sad way to live, Jack.”
“Do I sound like I give a shit?”
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing.” John exclaimed, though by the tone of his voice, he wasn’t all that surprised. “You want me to stifle my own curiosity?”
“When it comes to- when it’s about- you know what you- Yes!”
Silence followed Jack’s outburst as John did as requested, disengaging from the conversation and finally shutting up. Almost as soon as he got what he wanted, Jack started getting mad about it. Some part of him hadn’t wanted John to stop arguing back; it was better than arguing with the voice in his head.
The noise outside their room was so loud it seemed like the cars on the highway were speeding right through their thin walls and across their threadbare carpet. It was as if the motel was nothing but cardboard, barely standing upright, just waiting for a strong enough gale to send it toppling to the ground. Why then, next to this roaring cacophony, was John’s measured breathing the loudest thing Jack had ever heard?
He didn’t think John was asleep yet. Jack himself was certainly wide awake, so much so that he may never drop off again.
“Have you?” He whispered the question into the dark, half-hoping that he’d been wrong, and John was asleep after all. No such luck. The sheets between them rustled as John turned to look at him.
“I have.”
“Oh.” Jack replied. It was all he could think of to say.
Jack’s heart was beating so fast and so wildly against his chest that he was sure John couldn’t help but hear it. The cuff fastened to Jack’s left hand moved slightly, as if John had shifted position, but John hadn’t moved. The metal tugged again, so slight that he couldn’t be certain he hadn’t imagined it. A few moments later he felt it again, and now Jack was sure it was John’s hand sliding towards him.
He should say something, Jack thought sensibly as the sheets crinkled and bunched up under his fingers. John’s hand continued its leisurely journey ever closer and Jack continued to say nothing, even as he continued to tell himself he ought to. Why wasn’t he saying anything? Time was running out to put a stop to the electrifying anticipation of John’s movements – that is, if he even wanted to.
No, Jack admonished himself, that wasn’t him talking, it was John. What game had John been playing to put those sorts of ideas in his head just moments before slipping into bed with him? Why now? And why was the prospect of John’s touch enough to send pre-emptive chills down his back? Sure, Jack wasn’t exactly getting laid on the regular, but he wasn’t this hard up was he? Most girls’ dream guy was not a half-alcoholic, ex-cop with a price on his head and a bad attitude, but it wasn’t like he hadn't had any expressions of interest, he just hadn’t been interested back. So what changed?
With achingly slow care, John’s fingers finally brushed gently against Jack’s. Jack inhaled sharply, his skin tingling where they’d touched. He fought the urge to flex his hand, in case doing so frightened John off. Feeling briefly like somebody else had control of his body, Jack allowed his fingers to fall against John’s, boldly lifting his thumb to lightly graze the downy hair on the back of John’s hand. John’s response was immediate, forging a delicate trail from Jack’s hand, to his wrist, and just as gently, up his inner arm.
This was nuts. That was the one thing the warring factions in Jack’s brain could agree on. To state the obvious, John was a man. To state the even more obvious, John was an ass. Hadn’t Jack just spent near a week arguing with this jackass non-stop? If Jack was going to swing that way – and as John’s hand crept up to his chest, dragging Jack’s along with it, he had to admit it was looking more and more likely he would – surely he could have done better than Jonathan Mardukas.
Jack’s idea of a good time was not exactly a white collar criminal with a moony grin and a holier-than-thou sentiment for every occasion. Even if he was tall and kind, with an endearing helplessness and a talent for looking into a bounty hunter’s soul. Jack didn’t know a lot about that community, but he was sure as hell betting that he was a hotter commodity than The Duke. His train of thought was interrupted by John’s fingers dragging through the forest of hair covering Jack’s chest. His breath was quickening every second.
As John’s fingers began to travel lower, Jack’s stomach lurched.
“Wait.” He gasped breathlessly, and John’s hand paused in its descent, resting at Jack’s naval.
“What is it?” John whispered, concern touching his voice.
Jack wasn’t sure. He didn’t even know if there was anything wrong. He just needed a second to think.
“Why are you doing this?” He asked, hoarsely.
He felt John shrug beside him. “Why not?”
That was a good question. Jack could remember having had some objections before, but he couldn’t for the life of him remember what they were.
“I’m still not letting you go.”
“I didn’t think you would.”
“Right.”
“Right.”
Jack fidgeted uncomfortably, unable to think far beyond John’s hand hovering on his stomach.
“So, you can…” He coughed meaningfully but John’s fingers stayed where they were.
“What can I do, Jack?”
The noise outside hadn’t lessened, but Jack could no longer hear it. The only things he could hear were the sounds of his own heavy breathing, and the unmistakable smile in John’s voice. John didn’t seem nearly as nervous as Jack did. He was annoyingly calm actually, confident in a way he hadn’t been for the majority of their journey.
“Do you want me touch you, Jack?”
Jack was glad it was dark, that way John couldn’t see the heat rising uncontrollably to his cheeks. John was doing it again, wielding Jack’s name like a weapon, throwing the lasso around his waist and dragging him in hand over hand. Jack could pretend it wasn’t working, but that wouldn’t change the fact that the rope continued to tighten every time.
The few seconds after John posed the question felt like an eternity. Finally, Jack nodded, then realising John couldn’t see him in the dark, swallowed heavily. God he didn’t want to have to say it.
“Okay.” He murmured through gritted teeth.
John tutted and Jack could have punched him.
“Now, see the problem is that isn’t a declarative statement. What is that you want me to do, Officer Walsh?”
Jesus Christ. John was playing tug-o-war with that lasso and Jack was losing, badly. Maybe if he hadn’t sounded so self-assured, or his hand wasn’t still so distractingly positioned, Jack might have had a chance. His hips stretched upwards reflexively, the cotton fabric of his boxers and the weight of the duvet awkward against his sensitive prick. This bastard was really gonna make Jack spell it out for him. He took a breath.
“I want you to touch me.” Jack admitted. Embarrassment, tinged with excitement, flooded Jack as the plea left his mouth, every word fighting not to be voiced.
John was more than ready to oblige. His fingers slipped under the waistband of Jack’s underwear, rewarding and offsetting the humiliating clumsiness of having to say what he wanted out loud. This was one way for John to get him to express his feelings, Jack supposed, the thought almost making him chuckle. He shivered as the cold metal of their handcuffs pressed against him, goosebumps swiftly prickling Jack’s bare skin.
John’s hands were strong, but they weren’t rough like Jack’s. His palms had been softened by too many hours in front of a calculator, too many days shut up in an office overlooking Manhattan, or Vegas, or wherever it was he split his time between doing math and defrauding gangsters. His hands were bigger than Jack’s. Not by much, but enough that the sensation of his fingers travelling down Jack’s groin to rest at the base of his cock, was at once strange and familiar.
Jack caught himself studying John’s hands, turning them over in his mind, concentrating on them, so that he wouldn’t have to concentrate on what John was doing with them. He inhaled sharply as John’s soft palm began to stroke him. Jack’s own hand, bound to John’s by the police-issued handcuffs, hovered helplessly at his waistband, rocking with the gentle tug of John’s movements.
“How do you feel, Jack?”
“Can’t you shut up for one goddamn minute of your life?” Jack’s breath was coming in short, laboured gasps, but that still couldn't stop him snapping irritably at John.
John stifled a laugh. “I just want to know that you’re enjoying yourself.”
Enjoying himself? Was Jack enjoying himself? His cock certainly seemed to think so, and the rest of him had been pretty open to persuasion up until John had opened his damn mouth.
“I’d be having a better time if I could get some peace and quiet.”
“If that’s what you want, I could always stop.” John’s hand stilled as he suggested it, and Jack automatically grabbed for John’s wrist.
“No!” He exclaimed hoarsely, ashamed at the speed of his reaction.
John said nothing, wordlessly resuming his languid strokes. Jack could just imagine his insufferable smile though, spreading smugly across his pompously round face. If Jack thought he was red before, by now his cheeks might as well have been a neon sign advertising his embarrassment; he was half-surprised their heat hadn’t sent the whole room glowing. That was it, he was going to have to deploy some long-overdue counter measures, think of something else, pretend it was someone else in bed next to him.
The first face that came to him was his wife. Ex-wife, he reminded himself. No that wasn’t going to do, if anything it made this whole thing even weirder, which Jack hadn’t thought was possible. He shut his eyes tight, willing the notion away. It would have to be something different, even if Jack had to make someone up, someone nice, a lady. Imagining a girl might at least start to untangle the nervous knots that had been twisting in his stomach from the moment John had asked if he’d ever kissed a man.
Okay. A lady. That shouldn’t be too hard. Jack racked his brain, trying to conjure up a picture of any woman he knew. John’s hand was moving faster now, and Jack was having trouble concentrating. Every time he thought about Johns hand, he thought about John, and whatever semblance of a woman he had conjured up would float away into vapor, leaving Jack helplessly clutching at the air where it had just been. God, why could he not remember any women? An actress, a waitress, the model from the bus stop ad of a now-defunct real estate agency?
What’d women have, he asked himself. Hair? That seemed right. Long, flowing, dark hair. Anything but a neat, ivy league business cut grown slightly too rough at the edges. Stop it, Jack. No, he was thinking about a beautiful young woman with a kind smile; a kind smile and mischievous eyes, tall and clever, with strong hands and – fuck. He was still thinking about John. Putting aside the obvious, for the life of him, Jack could not understand what it was about this annoying, mawkish, pain-in-the-ass of an accountant that made it impossible for Jack to get him out of his head.
Fuck it. If that was what it was gonna be, so be it. Jack opened his eyes, better accustomed now to the dark, and turned his head to look at John, only taking a moment to make out his shape. John wasn’t looking at Jack, his attention was focused somewhere beyond him. John’s free arm was suspended over Jack’s body, reaching for something – reaching for…
Jack didn’t hesitate, snatching his keys from the bedside table seconds before John’s hand closed around them. John’s fingers scraped the back of Jack’s hand uselessly as he closed it into a fist, flinging the keys to the other end of the room. They hit the wall and slid down to the carpet below with a dull thud. Batting both of John’s hands away, Jack tucked himself back into his boxers and slipped swiftly out from under the covers. He flicked the lamp on as he stood, shaking his leg and rearranging his stance; annoyingly, but unsurprisingly, still hard.
“You slippery, no good, sonuvabitch.” Jack yelled, pointing an accusatory finger at John, still in bed. John’s hand hung in the air, held aloft by the handcuff binding it to Jack’s.
His expression was difficult to read. There was definitely chagrin at being caught, as well irritation that he hadn’t succeeded, but Jack couldn’t pick up anything else behind the indifferent, self-effacing smirk plastered on his face. It was the same aloof expression he reserved for talking about his predicament; as if he could somehow supress it with a dry irony until it stopped being distressing. Dammit, Jack thought grimly. John had spent the night trying to get inside Jack’s head, and now Jack seemed to be unwillingly repaying the favour.
“You can't blame a guy for trying.” John shrugged, the movement made awkward by their handcuffs.
“Watch me!”
“Now Jack-”
“Don’t you “Now Jack” me.” Jack’s crooked mouth curved downwards as he mimicked John.
“Hey-”
“It’s the same shit every time with you, what are you allergic to telling the truth? Now I get why you’re an accountant, it’s not the brains, it’s the cunning. All those sneaky tricks and loopholes, you wouldn't know straightforward if it hit you in the face. It was either that or a lawyer, anywhere else you’d be dead in the water.”
“I did take a few semesters of law.” John muttered to no-one in particular.
“Why doesn’t that surprise me.” Jack huffed a heavy breath, his brow furrowed deeply.
“Oh right, because you’re above all that aren’t you, Detective Mosely?”
A shadow of that stupid enigmatic half-smile still lingered on John’s face. It was hard to admit, but the thoughts that had been running through Jack’s head only minutes ago hadn’t stopped. If anything, these moments John had, when the harmless exterior slipped and revealed the shrewd mind behind it, did something to Jack he couldn’t articulate.
John wasn’t like Jack, he couldn’t punch or intimidate his way out of problems. What he could do was think his way out of them. It might have been impressive if John wasn't also the person creating those problems.
Jack scoffed. “That’s different, I’m doing my job.”
“I see,” John complained as he climbed out of bed to face Jack, “so it’s okay when your job is on the line, but not when my life is.”
“You think you’re pretty smart don't you?”
“I do.” John didn’t try to deny it.
“And you think I’m dumb.” Jack thrust a thumb into his chest for emphasis.
“I don’t think you’re dumb, Jack.” John’s voice was quiet, and so matter-of-fact that it caught Jack off-guard.
That look was back. That thoughtful, observant look that made Jack feel more exposed than he already was, standing in the middle of the room with next to no clothes on. Jack made a disbelieving noise.
“Sure you don’t. That why you weren’t just trying it on with me, right? You don’t think I see through your little ruse?”
“That’s,” John shook his head, trying to find the words, “that’s not what it was.”
Jack tried to laugh but it came out sounding more strained than he’d meant.
“No? You’re not trying to get in my head, confuse me with all your stupid questions, and your-, your…” Jack gestured at the bed, unable to finish the sentence.
“I didn’t do that to trick you. I did it because I like you!” The words left John’s mouth like he was surprised to be saying them.
He frowned at himself, but continued anyway.
“Somehow, despite your bull-headedness, your filthy habits, and your stubborn unwillingness to let anyone get to know a thing about you, I like you. Frankly, given that my life is about to be over, I’d like to spend my last few days with a little human connection from someone I like.”
“Stop saying that you’re gonna die.”
“That’s what you got from that?” John was incredulous.
Jack ignored him. “So what was all that business with the keys?”
John’s head cocked to the side, almost bashfully, as he looked down at Jack. “I saw an opportunity with the keys and I took it, you got me. I can’t help it. It’s better than being dead.”
Jack growled and took a step closer, the chain linking their cuffs clinking softly.
“Stop that.”
“You can take away my freedom of movement, but you can’t take away my freedom of speech.”
“Like hell I can’t.” Jack was right in front of him, fists balled. “I’m not gonna let you keep talking like that because it ain’t gonna happen.”
“What are you going to do, fight me?” John sounded sceptical, which suggested he didn’t know Jack as well as he thought he did.
“Don’t push it.” Jack warned him.
“You’re really trying to take away humour from a man on the gallows?”
Jack pushed at John’s chest with his free hand, nothing hard, just enough to make a statement. John, not expecting it, still stumbled back a step. He eyed Jack warily.
“I don’t want to fight you, Jack.”
“No, you don’t.”
After a beat, John straightened up to his full height, unrounding the perennially slouched shoulders that always suggested he was apologising for taking up as much space as he did. He was a good few inches taller than Jack, but what Jack lacked in height, he made up for in a stocky strength. John chest was pale, his stomach soft and a little round. Jack had a few more pounds than he used to, he’d admit, but he’d also spent the last ten years purposefully running headlong into fights with guys half his age and twice his size.
Without warning, John lunged at him. The effort was clumsy, but John’s gangly limbs caught Jack regardless, sending him backwards. Jack dug his heels into the motel’s thin carpet, holding his ground, his shoulder braced against John’s chest. He pushed forward and heard John grunt, then stepped to the side and moved around him, folding John’s arm behind his back. John took a step backwards and Jack hissed as his leg brushed roughly against Jack’s still tender groin. Taking advantage of Jack’s momentary distraction, John wriggled out of his grip.
Before he could get far, Jack stuck out his leg and succeeded in sending him stumbling. His victory was, unfortunately, short lived however as a second later John’s erratic movements pulled violently at Jack’s handcuffs, jerking him forwards until he lay sprawled and winded on the ground. Jack’s fall also interrupted John’s momentum, and he too was immediately yanked back by his restraints, tumbling into a heap on top of Jack. Jack’s breath came in short, ragged bursts and was resisting his attempts to catch it. He coughed croakily.
“That’ll be those cigarettes catching up with you.” John informed him matter-of-factly, from the tangled pile of limbs lying across his waist.
Jack wasn’t sure if he was going to agree or argue, but whichever it was going to be, it vanished as only a wheezing sound escaped his throat. The worst thing about it was not that Jack wasn’t able to say his piece, but that he’d inadvertently proved John’s point. John stirred, beginning to recover, which must have been easier to do when you didn’t have a six-foot accountant on your chest, weighing you down.
He propped himself up on his hands and knees, one arm on either side of Jack’s head.
“I think I win.”
“Beginner’s luck.” Jack grumbled, trying and failing not to look up into John’s soft brown eyes. John smiled and Jack’s stomach flipped involuntarily.
“You’re impossible, has anyone ever told you that?”
“Yeah, about once a month. Usually yelling out the back of a cop car.”
Jack rolled to the side without warning, knocking John’s arm out from under him and flipping John onto his back.
“There, that’s better.” Jack grinned crookedly down at him, their roles now successfully reversed. John, slightly winded, caught his breath quickly and now gazed up at Jack curiously.
“What are you going to do now, Jack?”
For a such a simple question, it was impossible to answer. Mostly because, looking down at John’s foolish, idealistic face, Jack knew exactly what he was going to do, and he really didn’t want to have to say it out loud. With barely a second of hesitation, Jack ducked his head down and pressed his lips to John’s.
It was rough, and it was clumsy; Jack had apparently forgotten everything he knew about kissing someone, now that someone was a man. He was lightheaded, almost dizzy, and his heart was beating a furious tempo against his ribcage. Somehow this seemed far more scandalous than what they’d done before, though it might just have been because the lights were on now. Jack was rattled, he’d lost his breath again, and this time he was pretty sure it wasn’t because of the cigarettes.
Leaning back from John slightly, he allowed his lower lip to graze the peach fuzz speckling John’s chin, and drew a shaky breath. He wanted to return, but that inch or so between their mouths suddenly seemed an insurmountable distance. He was stuck, lungs still woefully bereft of air; the sound of John’s steady breathing almost mocking his own inability to draw in breath. The courage, or foolishness, that had briefly overtaken him had vanished. Jack wasn’t sure whether he had the will, either to go back for more, or stand up and stop this madness for good.
And then John’s hand was on Jack’s arm, sweeping up his shoulder and into his hair. His fingertips traced a pattern on Jack’s scalp, and suddenly Jack’s chest didn’t seem quite so tight. All at once, sound rushed back into the room, startling Jack who hadn’t even noticed it melt away. He pressed his lips again to John’s, closing the gap between them.
Outside, a patrol car blasted its siren as it sped down the highway. For some reason the noise made Jack imagine what on earth Eddie or Marv would say if they could see Jack now. He wondered if he could spin this as some kind of advanced bounty hunting technique. Hell, if it managed to keep John in the room all night, maybe it was. He leant closer, grinning into the kiss.
Goosebumps prickled their skin, melting away where they touched, but soon springing back as they shivered in the cool night air. There was a tug at the handcuffs, and a moment later John planted his hand on the floor, lifting himself into a seated position. Jack rose with him, unwilling to surrender the kiss as he leant back on his heels, his legs straddling John’s. Freed from the burden of having to prop himself up, Jack’s hand went straight to John’s cheek. His skin was soft, but a few days’ worth of bristles had roughened the terrain under Jack’s thumb.
John leant forwards, his mouth widening slightly as he deepened the kiss. Jack responded altogether too eagerly, hurtling into the new sensation so forcefully he almost bowled John right back down to the floor. John’s tongue was in his mouth, causing another tremble of strange familiarity to shudder through Jack’s frame. He shivered, involuntarily clenching tighter against John’s long legs, toes curling on the thin motel carpet.
To his annoyance, John was not suffering the same lack of control, and seemed nothing less than composed. It was unbelievable. Here was the most tightly-wound, neurotic son of a bitch Jack had ever met, and now, at the same moment Jack’s anxiety was tying him in knots, John was shockingly calm. He supposed it was because this wasn’t John’s first rodeo. As soon as he had the thought he wasn’t quite sure what to with it. It almost surprised him how violently his mind opposed the notion of John kissing someone else.
Inevitably they both needed to come up for air. John used the brief opportunity to stand, forcing Jack to stiffly clamber off him, to rise as well. He got clumsily to his feet, only to find John looking curiously at him, his back to the bed and the bedside lamp bathing his soft features in an orange glow.
“I’ve been wanting to do that ever since I met you.”
“What, kiss me?” Jack asked incredulously, reflexively wiping a surprised hand across his mouth.
“No.” John answered lightly, his lips twitching. “Hit you.”
“Right back at you hotshot.” Jack shrugged, throwing a crooked smile around the room. “Isn’t all that violent stuff beneath you, though? Didn’t take you for much of a rough and tumble guy.”
John returned his shrug, though his smile was thinner.
“I’m not violent by nature, that’s true. But I thought hey, why not give it a go while I’m still around to try it.”
Jack’s jaw clenched. John noticed and sighed, his eyes futilely searching for an answer somewhere over Jack’s right shoulder.
“Look-” he began, but Jack didn’t let him finish.
“You listen to me, right fucking now.” Jack wasn’t loud, but he didn’t have to be. “You say that shit one more time, you’re gonna be headed to L.A. in a fucking suitcase. One more word like that and you’re checked luggage buddy.”
“You don’t-”
“No. I wanna hear you say it. I want you to tell me, right now, that you don’t think you’re going to die.”
John looked down, his lips pressed tight, but his silence wouldn’t deter Jack.
“Tell me you believe it.” He demanded, again.
“Alright, I believe it.” John answered coolly, eyes flicking upward to meet Jack’s.
That just wasn’t going to cut it. Jack shook his head vehemently, pushing John’s chest hard enough that he stumbled backwards and sat heavily on the bed. The handcuffs tugged Jack forward but this time they didn’t trip him, he was already closing the gap between him and John. He stabbed a finger at John’s chest.
“Not like that. Say it like you mean it.”
He waited in silence as John quietly deliberated.
“What do you want from me, Jack?” He asked finally, a defeated little smile crossing his face.
“I want you to know that I’m gonna protect you, idiot.” Jack answered, immediately. “I want you to get it through that thick skull of yours that if Serrano wants to get at you, he’s gotta get through me, and he isn’t getting through me.”
John said nothing for a long while, though Jack could swear he saw something shift behind those thoughtful eyes. In the quiet of that room, Jack could hear only the rise and fall of his own chest and worked to calm his breathing. Once he had, the room fell completely silent, and even the world outside seemed to finally have stilled. Jack quickly grew uncomfortable with the quiet, but he’d be damned if he was the first one to break it. He’d said his piece, now it was up to John to say his. Unfortunately for him, John never seemed to play by his rules.
“Don’t you want to come back to bed, Jack?” He asked, in lieu of acknowledging Jack’s declaration.
Jack swallowed. He knew this was an attempt to distract him, and he was not about to let it, at least not yet.
“Depends, we square?”
A small breath escaped John as he quietly laughed, familiar hints of frustration marking his face. He looked everywhere before he looked at Jack. When he did, it was as if he were taking him in for the first time.
“You’re a good-looking guy. You know that?” He asked out of the blue.
“Some people used to say so.” Jack hedged carefully.
“I’m sure they still do.”
Jack rubbed at the back of his neck. He never had been one to take a compliment. Criticisms were easier by far; he just ignored them and went on with his day. Unlike compliments, they didn’t have the tendency to get stuck inside his head, spinning round and round until he successfully talked his way out of them.
“I…and you’re…”
“Don’t hurt yourself trying to respond in kind.” John’s thoughtfulness had taken on a decidedly playful edge, though Jack suspected it was at his expense. “I know it’s a chore for you to express anything that isn’t sarcastic. Not to mention, I’m not exactly the rugged type.”
“I was going to say that you…” The heat rose up Jack’s cheeks and into his ears, shutting him up before he could say anything else. “Never mind.”
John cocked his head curiously. “Oh, well now of course I have to know.”
“I said never mind. Forget it.”
John wasn’t dissuaded by his gruffness. If anything it seemed to spur him on.
“Officer Walsh,” he mused, “could you have been about to say something nice to me?”
“Not likely.” Jack grunted. He hoped John might mistake the redness of his ears as a trick of the lamplight.
“I think you were. And I think that’s a very healthy thing to do, you’re finally letting down your walls.” John’s head bobbed up and down, muppet-like, as he sermonised.
“Yeah, yeah. You know the more you talk, the less nice I have to say right?”
That cracked a smile on him. “I can see how that could happen,” John laughed.
“But it’s not gonna stop you is it?”
“Not a chance.”
John leant back slightly, the mattress springs quietly groaning as he held up his weight on his free hand. He inclined his head, tipping it towards the empty space beside him.
“Why don’t you come back to bed.”
He hadn’t addressed Jack’s concerns; Jack knew he hadn’t, and John knew that Jack knew it. The question was whether Jack was going to say anything about it. His whole life had been one long run of stubborn doggedness, and it had never brought him anything but trouble. But now, when a little stubbornness was what he needed, he couldn’t even find the will to resist being asked to bed a second time.
Jack twisted to turn off the lamp, moving slowly toward the head of the bed. With a solid click, the room darkened, and Jack gingerly allowed himself to sit; one leg tucked underneath him, the other still hanging off the bed, toes grazing the floor. Opposite him, a light streamed through a small window set high on the wall. If Jack were to guess, he’d say it was the headlights of a big rig, some trucker stopping through on a rest from his cross-country haul.
The light was in Jack’s eyes, but John had his back to it, forcing it to bend and glow around him. Great, if he wasn’t already sanctimonious enough, now the bastard even had his own halo. Looking at him then, Jack struggled once again to resolve the man in front of him, with his reputation in the papers. He just couldn’t imagine John getting caught with his hand in the cookie jar. If he ever was, he’d probably just leave the last cookie in there anyway, and a fiver to buy a new pack, all the while lecturing Jack about the etiquette of fair cookie distribution. Besides, he was probably only taking the cookies in the first place to feed a gang of orphans, or a stray dog he rescued off the street. The bastard.
Jack came back to his senses to find John examining him just as closely. He wondered how little he actually understood the man opposite him, and whether John understood him any better, or if they were both just groping blindly in the dark. Well, that was a different thing, but still.
“What are you going to do now?” Jack asked, his voice far steadier than expected. It was bizarre how quickly you could become used to something, even this.
“What do you want me to do?” John’s answer was as unhelpful as ever.
An annoyed huff escaped Jack. It was equal parts irritating and comforting to find out that no matter how touchy-feely this whole thing got; no matter how much he turned out to actually care for this guy; there was never going to come a time when John didn’t frustrate the living shit out of him.
“Always with the fucking questions. I should have left you back in New York.” He grumbled, shaking his head. “You’re not gonna have any problem in court, you know that? They won’t be able to get a sensible word out of you. You’ll probably send your prosecutor round the bend, and they’ll have to ship him off instea-”
John leant forwards abruptly, drawing him into a kiss and breaking off Jack’s tirade just as it was picking up some real steam. It shouldn’t have felt so surprising, given everything that had happened, but it did. This time, something was different, or maybe he was. It was like a switch was flipped, like a floodgate had opened in Jack’s brain, letting this moment crash over him unchecked. There was nothing he could do but close his eyes and let the current take him.
Jack had never been kissed like this in his life. There was a tenderness to every action, and John’s touch was so gentle it stole Jack’s breath; it was as if Jack were a delicate object John seemed careful not to break, even as he demonstrated his reverence. Jack tried to recall any other time someone had made him feel that way, but he came up empty. One of John’s hands cupped the side of Jack’s face, the other, Jack was shocked to find intertwined with his own. He couldn’t even say when it had happened.
There was generosity in every move John made, a sense that this was just as much for Jack as it was for him, possibly more. It sparked something in Jack; an affectionate defensiveness, tinged with competition, flared in his chest. He was tipping over the edge, finally giving in to an idea he hadn’t yet been able to admit to himself; that there was a very clear reason he was so drawn to John. There was nothing so likely to trigger his protective instinct, or his sense of justice, than an argumentative, idealistic, goody two-shoes with a sense of moral responsibility a mile wide, and a cunning streak just as long. He was going to protect this hapless, impossible, crafty son of a bitch if took him to the end of the earth, and if he went over, so be it.
At least, that was the thought clouding the forefront of his mind when John pulled back, a small sigh escaping his lips. Instantly, Jack felt silly, scolding himself for being so dramatic – acting like he was Humphrey Bogart sending Ilsa off on her plane, and not a washed up ex-cop sitting in a motel room in his boxer shorts, opposite an indicted accountant wanted for embezzlement. He’d known the guy less than a week, and now he was about to uproot his career to become some knight in shining armour?
Complaints continued to twist through his mind, but try as he might, he could not concentrate on a single one of them. He was too busy watching John examine their intertwined fingers, turning over their cuffed hands. The big rig’s lights went out, plunging the room into sudden darkness. Jack blinked a couple of times to clear the neon flashes muddying his vision. He could barely make out John’s imprint in the dark, but that couldn’t stop him feeling John lift their hands to his lips. He couldn’t see it, but he knew John was looking at him. One by one, John pressed a soft, but purposeful, kiss to each of the knuckles on Jack’s hand.
When he’d finished, Jack withdrew his hand, and John reluctantly let it slip through his fingers.
“Ask me what I’m going to.” Jack demanded, his voice hoarse.
“I thought you didn’t want me asking anymore damn questions.” John replied. His good humour faltering slightly against Jack’s serious tenor.
“What are you going to?” John asked dutifully, his voice softer now.
Jack rested his hand on John’s bare shoulder, his palm rough against the soft skin.
“I’m going to keep you safe.” He declared, his tone firm enough to head off an argument before it began. He pushed lightly, guiding John down until he lay flat on the bed, Jack leaning over him. “But first I’m going to kiss you.”
John started to say something, but before he could, Jack made good on his promise. Ducking his head down once again, he kissed him, finally finding an effective way of shutting the guy up; one that would have been useful over the last week. As he drew back, he grinned crookedly down at John.
“That stopped your fucking questions, didn’t it?”
“Oh you think so?” John was slightly out of breath, but his retort was immediate.
“It better have.” Jack laughed. He kissed him again, not willing to give John any more time to catch his breath, lest he mistake it for an opportunity to keep talking. For a moment, they existed there, lost in their strange but unique kind of harmony.
Much later, in the grey darkness of the very early morning, both men lay next to each other, finally approaching something resembling sleep.
“I do you know. For now at least.” John muttered croakily into the silence.
“Do what?” Jack asked, his voice heavy, sleep already beginning to drag him away.
“Believe you.”
John waited for an answer, but Jack was already unconscious, leaving John’s hard-wrung concession lingering unheard in the empty air. John smiled wryly. All that effort Jack expended trying to get John to say that he trusted he’d keep him safe, and now he wasn’t even awake to hear it. It was poetic in a way; it suited the rumpled Sisyphean nature of the man snoring beside him.
It was better this way, John told himself. As much as he chastised Jack’s inability to express himself, that was one thought John hadn’t meant to let slip. He’d been struggling with it for some time, but he couldn’t afford to really start believing that one man could protect him from the whole Vegas mafia. That kind of thinking would make him lazy, and careless, at a time in which he needed to be on constant alert. He couldn’t just go around throwing his trust at this guy, just because he was handsome and cunning and far more idealistic than he knew, or let himself admit.
No, John was smarter than to fall for that. He would have to keep looking for his own means of escape, maybe not tonight, but soon. John rolled over, but his cuffed hand tugged uncomfortably at him, until he rolled back towards Jack. Some knight in shining armour he was, sprawled on his back with his mouth hanging open, snoring loudly until John managed to nudge him into stopping.
John tore his gaze away towards the ceiling, before closing his eyes firmly. He tried, unsuccessfully, to rid himself of the unhelpful thoughts clambering over each other in his mind; the ones that told him that he did feel safer when Jack was around, that he wasn’t sure how far he would have gotten without him, and that of all the people who could have got to him first, he was lucky it was Jack.
Most of all, he had to talk himself out, once again, of the idea that if anyone could stand between him and an entire vengeful mafia, that Jack Walsh could. He drifted into an uneasy sleep with that notion still lingering in his head, alongside a conviction he was hesitant to name, growing worryingly stronger every moment; that Jack Walsh just might.