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Jack Aubrey was standing by the mast glaring at the midshipmen when Stephen Maturin came up from belowdecks, glancing from Jack to his very busy crew, all of whom were carefully avoiding looking in the captain's direction. Jack's spine was ramrod-straight and his eyes were narrowed, one hand possessively on the wood of his vessel, the other on his hip.
"Everyone seems to be very productive today," Stephen observed.
Jack glared at him as well. He had felt somewhat out of sorts all afternoon -- truth be told, all week -- and his annoyance directed itself at Stephen, though he did not know why he should blame his friend and did not believe that the physician possessed any remedy that might aid him. "Have any of them said anything to you?" he demanded.
Stephen looked back evenly. "I hear a great many things, though admittedly most of those are about various ailments. Aches and pains, a mild fever, and a very nasty bump on the back of the head. The usual complaints of men at sea."
Glancing around, Jack lowered his voice. "The usual complaints of men at sea? Aches in...unusual places?" Stephen laughed uneasily, but Jack continued to scowl.
"I was actually just coming to speak to you about that, unless you prefer not to know," Stephen replied, grinning in the face of Jack's black mood as Jack waited, tapping his fingers impatiently against the mast. "Captain, the men seem to be having the typical aches and complaints that men at sea often report when they've been long away from port. A handful of them, at least."
The ease with which Stephen offered these comments only served to aggravate Jack's mood further. They were alluding -- at least, Jack thought they were -- to activities which were at best distractions from duty and at worst criminal behavior. He peered suspiciously at Stephen. "And they come to you about this? What do you do for them, Doctor?"
"I tell them that it's natural, and that hard work is a proper outlet for their frustration." Stephen's voice remained maddeningly mild as he glanced around the deck again. "In fact, they all seem to be, ah, finding a proper outlet quite well right now. Either that, or that expression on your face has them all terrified."
"What expression?" demanded Jack, studying the crew suspiciously. Then he glanced up at Stephen, catching a glimpse of his face in the physician's spectacles and seeing his own fierce brow. It troubled him to have scowled at Stephen so. In a more temperate voice, he asked, "Are you saying the men need more work, to keep their minds from baser things?"
"It might be a solution," allowed Stephen. "But, Jack, I'm sure that I do not need to remind you how a stretch of travel such as this can wear at a man's temper."
"Indeed?" Civility gave way once more to unexpected hostility. "And how does a man such as yourself remain untroubled at such times?"
For a moment Stephen's eyes grew wide, and Jack thought he glimpsed within them a tempest of feeling before Stephen's calm returned. "I read. I make notes on my patients and what I have learned about anatomy from treating them. I study musical scores."
"We haven't played together for three or four days," realized Jack.
"I was about to mention that, and suggest that we do play tonight. You seem like you need to relax."
Jack nodded, only somewhat mollified. "All right. Tonight, then." But the evening was hours away, and suddenly he wished to continue their conversation someplace where they could be alone, without fear of being overheard by the crew. "For now, shall we go down? I haven't had anything to eat since breakfast; have you?"
"No, I haven't."
Finally smiling, Jack turned away from the mast. "Well, come on, then."
"Yes, Captain, right behind you," replied Stephen.
Once below, Jack banged his fist against the galley wall to get the cook's attention. "There were eggs this morning, weren't there? And fresh bread. Dr. Maturin and I will be in the stern cabin and we would like both, if you please."
Stephen followed him into the cabin, taking a seat at the table. He studied Jack as the captain shrugged his shoulders uncomfortably within his coat, trying to loosen his infuriatingly tight collar. "Do you have any complaints, Captain?" his friend asked.
"Complaints?" Jack rose and banged open the cabin door, propping it so that the cook could come in directly with their food. "About the crew?"
"You seem to have been on edge lately." Stephen sat down at the table and looked at Jack, who glanced over at him, having forgotten that sometimes with Stephen, one had to state what was obvious to any sailor.
"We've not been making good time. This inconsistent wind is infuriating. And we can have no news while we are out so far."
"And this is troubling the entire crew?"
"It is certainly troubling to me."
"That may be so, but you will start to make everyone nervous if you continue to carry on as you have. Were you at all aware of your own behavior this morning?"
"My behavior? I asked the carpenters how quickly the main mast would be repaired and urged them to hurry. I told Tom that the shifts needed to switch more quickly. I had a fine conversation with Bonden about the wind. What on earth are you referring to?"
"Jack, I'm referring to your behaviour just as I went up on deck. Snapping, scowling at them..."
"Discipline, my dear doctor!" Stephen didn't appear terribly convinced, but nodded anyway. Just then the cook arrived with their food. Jack took the tray from his hands and dismissed him, setting it down on the table. "Whatever is bothering you, Stephen, I daresay luncheon will put you in a better frame of mind."
"Yes," Stephen said, "perhaps it will."
Jack ate heartily, most of the eggs and as much of the jam as was proper, given the careful rations made necessary by the slow pace of travel. Nonetheless it put him in a better mood, sharing the meal quietly with Stephen, who was eating at a much slower pace than Jack and seemed to be watching him.
When they had finished eating, Jack reminded him, "We were going to speak about crew discipline. I fear that it may be sorely lacking among some of these men, as well as a respect for naval conduct."
"Indeed?" asked Stephen mildly. "I'm afraid that is not my area of expertise. And I thought we had agreed that the unfortunate weather on this voyage was affecting their behavior and your own."
"But surely you must be able to see that some men exercise more self-control than others. Some grow rebellious, or sullen, or become incontinent with their desires. As the ship's physician, you know better than I do which men regularly become injured in fights, or which may come to you with certain complaints that might hint at indiscretions." After Stephen nodded reluctantly, Jack pressed, "Well? About whom do you have suspicions?"
"Jack, these men come to me in confidence," protested Stephen. "You do understand that I will feel that they can't trust me?"
"I'm not planning to clap them in irons. I only want to know which of them you think need looking after. A more careful eye, as it were."
Stephen nodded again, looking down at the table. "When one sees often enough..." He shook his head and glanced up at Jack. "Sometimes I'm not certain that the ability to perform duties and be obedient has anything to do with it."
"What is it that that they come to you complaining of, then? Surely they are not all frank about it."
"No, Jack, they are not. They speak of tension, frustration, things along that vein. When one hears it often enough, it becomes apparent what they are truly speaking about."
"And what can you say to them, within the bounds of decency and the law?"
"I tell them they would do better to put more energy and focus into their work. Perhaps they will work themselves so hard that they will be too tired for much else. It keeps some of them content, I believe. It's hard to say which are merely expressing their frustrations, or are -- finding relief -- elsewhere. I imagine there will probably always be some that work doesn't help."
"I see." Jack thought briefly of Sophie. During the first few days after setting out, he always missed her; and then, a few days into the voyage, the feeling always faded. "Well, what do you recommend that we do, then? You were only just complaining that my efforts to keep them busy would make everyone unhappy."
Stephen smiled a little. "There is a difference between keeping them busy, Captain, and terrifying them into doing their work."
"But I was not terrifying them! You may believe me, Doctor, that when I wish the men to be terrified, none will doubt my intent."
Stephen's smile had turned indulgent. "Of course, Captain."
"I do not understand why you are smiling." Yet Jack found himself smiling back. "Perhaps you are right that I was in a foul temper earlier, but I daresay the men have seen me so before. Jack leaned across the table. "Well, Doctor? What would you diagnose? Do I need to eat more oranges? Or sniff some of that ghastly medicine to release pent-up humours in my brain?"
"I think, perhaps, you merely need to spend a quiet night, reminding yourself that you can, indeed, have a quiet night."
"I had a quiet night last night," Jack said without thinking. "I read for two hours. I wrote letters. In fact it was so quiet and dull that I couldn't get to sleep."
"I imagine it is your lack of sleep that has made you so testy, today."
"Well, must I resort to laudanum?"
"No, I don't believe that is necessary. We will play tonight, and then hopefully, you will be able to sleep and be much more agreeable tomorrow."
The afternoon passed without event, and when Jack arrived at the stern cabin it was to find Stephen already waiting for him with a book open on the table, leafing through illustrations of insects. "Well, Did you want to play, or did you want to spend the evening getting drunk and reminiscing about important bugs you've collected?" he said humorously.
"I would very much like to play."
Jack picked up the violin and checked the tuning. "Something slow and melancholy, or something fast and torrid?" he inquired.
"Fast and torrid," replied Stephen, tuning his cello and then playing a few notes, tapping his foot to warn Jack before launching into a fast Handel movement. Stephen occasionally watched Jack from the corner of his eye as they played. When the song was over, he leaned back in his chair, letting the cello rest against his arm and shoulder. He smiled as he said, "You haven't played like that in some time, Jack."
"It felt good," Jack said, wiping his brow with his sleeve. "Did it sound good?"
"It sounded remarkable." Stephen leaned forward a little, looking up at Jack. "It sounded like you were truly enjoying yourself." He paused a moment, then asked, "Are you quite certain you've been all right?"
Jack leaned against the corner of the table, considering. There was no point in brushing off a question from the doctor, for he would only find an excuse to ask again. "I've been tired," he began, and then, "No, that isn't it. I haven't been sleeping altogether well. I'm exhausted, and yet I'm restless." He paused. "I suppose you're going to tell me to stop drinking coffee."
"That certainly is a thought," Stephen said.
Frowning, Jack looked over at Stephen fondly. "But you're right. I was enjoying myself. How do you suppose I can do that more often, instead of coffee? I can't very well play Handel when I'm supposed to be going over maps, or lecturing boatswains on keeping their men in line."
"True, though that might be something rather interesting to see. But, my dear Jack, if you're turning to coffee so much, there must be something troubling you."
"It's just to help me concentrate. I seem to get distracted more easily. I'm sure it's the slow pace of this trip."
Stephen nodded. "But surely you've dealt with lulls like this before. What did you do then that you aren't doing now?"
"I'm not sure." Jack pressed his toe against the edge of a floor plank that was sticking up. "Do I seem so different to you?"
"Yes, Jack. You do. And I'm concerned. It would be my responsibility to look after the health of the ship's captain even were you not my friend, but as one who knows you well, it seems particularly troubling to me now."
"But I feel so good right now." Jack smiled brilliantly at Stephen. "Can't we just forget my mood for awhile, and play another?" He lifted his bow again and stepped closer, still grinning. Instead of chamber music, however, he began to play a fast Irish reel. Stephen grinned back and played along with him, still occasionally watching Jack as the tune progressed, until they finished the reel, then, laughing, Jack began to play another, spinning around and faking a jig with his feet.
After a few moments, Stephen stopped playing, merely watching him and smiling. "You're not joining me?" Jack called, dancing behind his chair. "That doesn't seem fair at all."
"I'm rather enjoying myself," Stephen replied, laughing.
The violin needed to be tuned, and Jack found himself breathless; moving back to the table, he put it down, spinning back to Stephen with a grin. "These Irish tunes seem a fine remedy to my distraction," he exclaimed. "We shall have to play every night. Even during gales, if we ever get so lucky as to see a gale again." Jack laughed aloud once more. "But where have you been spending your evenings? I have not seen much of you."
"Reading, mostly. Making notes. Chasing about a spider that has been living with me since we left port."
"I suppose that, for you, a spider might be as interesting as an inn full of beautiful women," Jack taunted. "Doesn't the heat begin to bother you? And the stench, when there is no wind?" Jack sat down, stretching his legs out in front of him and crossing one ankle over the other. His foot jiggled up and down, and he did not look at Stephen. "You are the physician," he said finally. "Though I'm not entirely sure what you advise me to do, Stephen. I've tried throwing myself into my work, and I've tried not to let it consume me, but I am still distracted." Jack snapped his fingers. "I know! I'll give myself shore leave. I'll disembark tonight. Any suggestions as to where in these thousands of miles of ocean surrounding us I should go?"
"This is not what we mean by letting out bad humor," Stephen quipped
Jack sighed and rose again, retrieving the violin and, after brief tuning, beginning to play, a slower, more wistful adagio. He met Stephen's eyes with a sad smile, and Stephen looked back at him for a moment before dropping his eyes. The cello now sounded much more melancholy than before. When they had finished, Jack said, "They'll be complaining in the galley, you know. Belowdecks they prefer music they can dance to."
"They had music before that they could have danced to."
"And they did, I'm sure. You were perhaps the only one not dancing!"
Stephen didn't say anything immediately, and then cautiously he asked, "Did you want me to dance?"
"Why, certainly!" Jack said with a wide grin. "Surely you must remember a jig or two." Standing, he began to fiddle again, still smiling.
"Of course I do," Stephen said. It was another moment before he got to his feet, setting the cello back in its stand. He glanced at Jack, almost shyly, before he began to step to Jack's tune as Jack tapped his foot enthusiastically while he continued to play. After a moment he began to circle around Stephen, increasing the tempo. All the while Stephen watched him, a smile spreading across his face and colour rising to his cheeks.
"There!" Jack exclaimed, ending with a flourish and a sweeping bow over his bow. "You see, Doctor? We should dance!" Setting the violin back onto the table, he grabbed Stephen around the waist and swung him in a circle. Stephen laughed, his hands coming up to rest on Jack's arms. Jack thought for a moment that Stephen looked embarrassed, but of course he was warm from dancing in this heat. Reluctantly he began to let go, realizing only as he did so that his heart was still racing and he was a bit dizzy from the spinning. He stumbled forward again.
Stephen caught him in his arms. "Careful, Jack," he said softly, close to Jack's ear. Jack leaned against Stephen, regaining his bearings. Stephen felt solid under his hands, like a bulkhead; he savored the feeling, and looked into his eyes, still smiling. But Stephen suddenly looked away.
"I'm sorry, I've stepped on your foot," Jack said, and withdrew more carefully so as to avoid a repeat of his previous stumble. "Would you like a drink, old friend?" His mouth was dry, and he headed toward his bunk off the large stern cabin to find his private stash of brandy, a gift from before they set sail. Returning, he took out a pair of glasses from a cabinet and handed one to Stephen, then poured.
Stephen, sitting, took a small drink. He seemed to be grasping for something to say. "What shall we toast?" Jack asked him.
"Toast?" Stephen blinked at him, then laughed softly. "Oh, I apologize. My thoughts were elsewhere."
Jack pulled his chair close and sat. Unable to come up with an appropriate toast, he clinked their glasses together. "To your thoughts. Where were they?"
"Where they should not have been, I'm afraid," Stephen said, and took another drink.
Sitting back, Jack regarded Stephen with a smile, which then faded when he realized that his friend was, in fact, distracted. "Well, aren't you going to tell me? You've spent all day insisting that I tell you what was the matter with me when I didn't know myself." Jack leaned forward, head resting on a hand with his elbow on his knee. "After all this time, why would you keep secrets from me now?"
"Jack, please." Stephen looked at him. "I think it best if I keep this to myself."
"Well, you have me befuddled. You aren't still upset about before? I was not asking you to inform on your patients, merely to let me know where to look for trouble in my own crew."
"No, Jack, it's not that. Not at all. It is only that I was not entirely forthcoming with you."
"Not entirely forthcoming with me?" Jack's brow furrowed. "About what?"
"About myself," Stephen said softly.
"About yourself," Jack repeated, not understanding. "What do you mean? Are you ill? Or as wretched as you seem to think I am? Or..." Then his expression darkened, and he sat back. "Dear God, Stephen, you aren't trying to tell me that you've gone and gotten yourself entangled with one of those men? Some petty officer or midshipman?"
"No!" Stephen said quickly. "Of course I haven't, Jack."
"Well, good," Jack croaked. His throat had begun to close over and he loathed the feeling. "You understand it's not an issue of the law. I am happy not to hear about what happens belowdecks as long as it doesn't interfere with morale or discipline. But, you, Stephen! I should have to kill him, whoever he was."
Stephen took a drink, then asked, "Why?"
"Because...!" Jack found that he did not, in fact, have a solid answer to this question. "I couldn't bear to know that anyone was doing that to you." He shuddered, knowing that this was not a sufficient explanation, but he could not seem to articulate his distress. "Since it is not that, you never answered my question. What was it that you hadn't been forthcoming about?"
"That I have been very restless of late."
Jack took another swallow of brandy and settled back, relieved. "But why is that, if you're not bothered by the doldrums and the spider? And why have you been in your cabin reading, instead of playing music with me? I thought this morning that you must have grown tired of my company."
Stephen closed his eyes. "It is because I think I have grown entirely too fond of your company," he admitted. Then he laughed, softly and mirthlessly, and said, "Perhaps I should go now, and leave you to rest."
"Wait." Nothing that Stephen was saying was making sense to Jack; he wondered whether he had already had too much to drink, or if the dizziness from the dancing was confusing his thoughts. "You think you have grown too fond of my company, so you refuse to let me enjoy yours, even though we can both plainly see that I am much more pleasant when we spend time together. You think that I have been too hard on the crew, yet while you recommend that they work harder, you suggest that I work too hard. Frankly, Stephen, I am at a loss to guess what it is you hope for, but I do wish you would stay, for if I cannot talk to you, I shall certainly go mad on this voyage."
Then there was silence for two full minutes. "What kind of spider is it?" Jack asked finally.
"I'm sorry?"
"The spider that lives in your cabin."
"I'm not sure yet, I haven't caught it. It's quite swift, and only comes out when I'm already doing something else. I think it's taunting me."
"Perhaps it likes you, and is trying to hold your interest by enticing you." Jack grinned lasciviously.
"I will be certain to tell you when it starts writing sonnets for me."
"Oh, my dear, forbear, or I shall be terribly jealous and may step on it in a fit of spite." Stephen stared at him curiously until Jack chuckled nervously. "I'm not speaking at all well tonight," he apologized. "I don't suppose that it is really my business who writes sonnets for you, unless it interferes with ship's business."
"I would never allow such a thing to happen, Captain."
"I know that. I did not mean to suggest it." Belatedly he realized that Stephen had addressed him by his title. "Damn it, Stephen, you are standing on ceremony with me."
Stephen leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and looking at the floor. "My apologies."
"This is what's wrong," Jack said slowly, only grasping it as he spoke. "We haven't been right. I don't see you as often, and when I do, we're not the same together. Are you upset with me about something?"
"No, Jack! I'm not upset with you. Only with myself."
"Well, then, you must forgive yourself for whatever is bothering you; it is affecting my mood as well," Jack said lightly. After a moment he reached over and put his hand over Stephen's. "What is it? Do you really think, after all this time, that there is anything I would not forgive you for?"
"That's very hard to say," Stephen replied, cautiously turning his hand over under Jack's, so that their palms touched.
Jack ran his thumb across Stephen's fingers, which were smoother than his own, uncalloused from shipboard work and ropes. "Consider this a matter of ship's morale," he requested. "Like the other. As the captain, if a member of my crew is having any sort of personal difficulty, I must know." He sighed then. "Stephen, if it's -- I didn't really mean, you know, that I would kill anyone, if you were -- well -- involved in such matters. I suppose that it was just the shock of the idea. If you don't want to tell me, I understand that, but I wouldn't judge you for it so severely as you seem to believe. Unless you are spying for the French, there can be nothing unforgivable between us."
"My dear, you may rest assured that I am not spying for the French." Stephen met his eyes with a warm smile that seemed almost like the teasing of a lover. For a moment it was like seeing him clearly through a telescope, then suddenly the picture moved out of focus. Stephen was studying a spot on the floor when he spoke again. "I love you, Jack."
He assumed that this was meant as a friendly reminder, a preamble which would lead into some declaration or criticism of his own character, and waited for more. But when Stephen did not continue, Jack replied, "Surely you do not doubt my love for you. You are my dearest companion, and you know me better than my own wife."
"Not in the manner of which I speak." Still staring at a spot just past Jack's left arm, Stephen shook his head. "That is what I mean when I say that I love you."
Jack, meanwhile, stared at Stephen, finally grasping that the words were not meant to soften the blow of a confession but constituted the confession itself. He felt as if Stephen must think him terribly stupid not to have grasped this before, and yet it would have been an unspeakable insult to Stephen even to suspect such a thing, would it not? "I see," was all he could manage to say. His palm felt warm against Stephen's skin and quite of its own volition began moving up Stephen's arm, holding on as if Jack were afraid that Stephen would bolt from the cabin if he did not keep a firm grip. Somehow he was still not entirely sure that Stephen could be telling him what he thought he had heard, and he felt dizzy again, as if they had just spun around together dancing.
Though he still would not look at Jack, Stephen swallowed and began to explain. "I'm not sure, really, when it started. Quite some time ago. Everything came clear to me one night though -- that night, with Tom and a few others, when you were singing." Stephen's eyes remained distant, but he no longer looked down, rather gazing off in the distance as if his memories could take form there. "I sat there, in awe, and I couldn't think about anything else. Only you. I've wondered, since, how long I truly felt that way, before that night, because surely these things don't just strike one like a mythological dart from Cupid's bow. They take time to grow, evolve, develop themselves."
Jack kept nodding as Stephen spoke, his thoughts in turmoil, though not his understanding that if he said or did anything unseemly or unkind, Stephen might rise and flee, and Jack could not abide that. A flutter was growing in his belly that he thought must be from an excess of nervous vapors, but this did not seem like the moment to ask Stephen for a medical explanation. "It must have been before that night, for surely my singing would not win me any admirers," he attempted to joke, looking down and feeling the heat on his face spread down his throat.
"Oh, certainly it would," Stephen replied. He smiled a bit. "But I do suppose I have been admiring you for quite some time now."
Jack felt the flutter again, more sharply, low in his belly. "We are very different sorts of men," he began. "It's natural that we would have come to admire one another. That is, I have admired you as well, but Stephen..." Though he wanted to cover his eyes and hide the color in his cheeks, Jack dared not remove his hand from Stephen's arm, still half-afraid that Stephen would bolt from his presence. "Let me speak very plainly, lest I should be misunderstanding you entirely. Are you saying that you want...that you have wanted...that is, are you speaking of the sort of thing, the sort of congress among sailors...damn, this is difficult. The sort of thing we were discussing earlier today, or at least the sort of thing I thought we were implying, though now I am not certain that you took my meaning, or perhaps it is simply that I used terms that were too polite..."
Stephen sighed. Very carefully, he reached up with his free hand and touched Jack's cheek.
Jack had instinctively turned his head and nearly kissed Stephen's wrist when he realized that he still had no answer to his earlier questions and might be presuming a great deal, and moreover he had not stopped for a second to consider his own actions nor the source of them. His hand caught Stephen's against his face, trapping it there. "I only want to make certain that I am not misunderstanding you," he attempted to clarify.
"No, Jack," Stephen said softly, "you have not misunderstood. May I dare to assume, from the fact that you have not asked me to leave the cabin, that you are not utterly repulsed?"
Jack's fingers threatened to tremble over Stephen's; he wanted to pull them away, but he did not want Stephen to draw his hand away from his cheek, and that desire won out over the impulse to maintain his dignity. "I am not repulsed," he agreed reluctantly. "I am..."
He stopped to consider. He was surprised, perhaps even shocked, which might explain the uncommon slowness of his thoughts. There were many things to consider: the dignity of his person and his office, his wife, his family, Stephen's family, the laws of England, the laws of God as explained in the Bible though those had always seemed rather vague and terrifying to Jack, nothing by which one could actually plan one's life. And there was the fact that he had never thought, nor perhaps ever allowed himself to think, about whether or not he could have such feelings for Stephen, or indeed for any man.
If he did have such feelings for any man, Jack mused, certainly it would be Stephen, who was his beloved best friend and confidant, and without whom he simply could not imagine what his life would be like. So perhaps it was not altogether shocking if Stephen should have such feelings for him, and no insult to his character but a reflection of the passionate bond that already existed between them. No, not repulsed, he thought with certainty. And, rather than trying to put any of these damnably vague thoughts into words, he let his head drop the remaining inch into Stephen's hand and rested his lips against the base of his palm, where they would not have to speak.
Stephen released his breath in a long exhalation, as if he had been holding it. "I had convinced myself that you would indeed be repulsed," he said. "And I couldn't bear the thought of that, because you are so dear to me."
Jack shut his eyes against the spinning of the room, which had not ceased. He felt the tightness in his belly ease. "I suppose I should be repulsed," he replied. "I hope you do not think less of me."
"No, I most certainly do not think less of you." Stephen's voice went quiet again. "You do not think less of me?"
"No, of course not." Jack's mouth suddenly went dry and his voice trailed away. "Stephen," he began anew. "You are a married man. Have you done...well, have you thought...that is to ask, have you felt this before? Considered it with other men? You swore to me you had not -- oh, but that was only on this ship!"
"There have been a few others, in the very distant past. I considered it...I thought it was merely the exuberance of youth. There was no one else until you."
Jack felt absurd relief overcome him and closed his eyes again, pulling Stephen closer with the hand still clutching his arm, as if the body could make such choices independent of the mind or the spirit. He knew that he should feel corrupted by this interest, and that it would have been better for him if Stephen's attentions were focused on some other officer or a midshipman or cabin boy -- a ship's surgeon was not held to quite the same standards of behavior as her captain or first mate. Yet instead of feeling corrupted, he felt light-headed, as if he had drunk far more brandy than had passed his lips.
"Jack..." Stephen clutched at Jack's sleeve. His other hand slipped from Jack's cheek, and his arm slid around his shoulders. He was trembling a little as he leaned forward to rest his forehead against Jack's. Moving his own hand to Stephen's shoulder, Jack sat still and tried to focus on his eyes, but they were much too close. He could feel Stephen's breath warm against his face and smell the liquor on his mouth, sharp and oddly familiar; he and Stephen had gone for a drink together too many times to count, and had fallen asleep together in what some might have considered a disreputable condition on his sofa, without Jack ever sparing it a single thought.This did not feel evil to him; it did not even feel strange, and the thought made him smile.
Stephen returned the smile. "You mean so much to me, Jack." His fingers strayed to the back of his neck, very gentle, very careful, and seemingly without a single thought, he kissed Jack's nose.
Jack laughed at the tickling sensation and lifted his head before he understood that the gesture might be taken as an invitation. Their lips were mere inches apart and Stephen's eyes were very dark, seemingly enormous, like one of his specimens under a glass. Curiosity and fear warred in Jack, tightening the warm knot in his belly until he could not bear to remain still. It must be better to know, he thought, than to worry and fret with doubt. And without any further consideration he tugged Stephen toward him and pressed their mouths together.
Stephen's lips were very soft under his, and eager, and quite pliant. He leaned into Jack's kiss, and into the next, kissing him back tenderly. When they pulled away, Stephen once more rested his forehead against Jack's. Sweet, and strange, thought Jack, for Stephen's mouth was broader than any other he had kissed and he could feel the beginnings of stubble above his upper lip, but it was not terribly different from kissing a woman with whom one was somewhat familiar -- comfortable and exotic all at once. His belly no longer felt so painfully tense, though the heat was still there, shifting and seething dangerously, and it only worsened when he raised his hand from Stephen's shoulder to brush over his face.
Stephen turned his head, and kissed Jack's palm. "I have longed for this, Jack," he whispered, and kissed his hand again. "Please don't stop."
Ironically, those words had the very opposite effect than they expressed, for Jack realized suddenly that he had no idea what they were doing, nor where it was intended to stop, and he froze. Did Stephen expect him to embrace him like a woman? To touch him as sailors used one another, hidden under staircases and between sacks of food, without speaking? Or did he seek the very act for which every name Jack knew described a crime? He discovered to his horror that his rebellious body did not care, for the pressure in his loins was making itself felt unmistakably as arousal, and he shuddered, his hand clenching and releasing Stephen's clothing.
Stephen held his breath. "Jack? Jack..." He leaned towards him once more, stealing another kiss. "Tell me to stop, and I will stop..."
"Tell me where this is going," Jack whispered. "Tell me where it ends."
"I don't know where it ends, Jack. All I know is that I wish to kiss you, to touch you, most desperately."
Jacks hands moved together to Stephen's chest, curling and clutching at his clothing, though whether to hold him there or pull him closer, he could not have said. Now that he recognized the ache of desire for what it was, he was both more eager and more appalled, and the two characteristics warred in him. Part of him wanted to blame Stephen for drawing these feelings out, while another part knew that they had been there, unacknowledged, and had unquestionably been the trigger for so many of his recent outbursts.
Yet he had duty to which he had sworn an oath. "Do you want," he began, "Stephen. Do you want...to break the laws of God and man?"
Stephen closed his eyes, slumping back in his chair. "No...no, I don't." He covered his face with his hands, breathing out a sigh. "I'm sorry, Jack." He dropped his hands to his lap and looked at Jack, shaking his head. "And I surely will not ask you to do the same."
With Stephen gone, Jack's hands suddenly felt empty; though he had been too warm, he was now too cold, and he ached with want and confusion. He had never thought it a great sin to take pleasure where he found it with women in distant ports, and now that he was thinking about it, he did not find it a greater sin for men to take pleasure from one another. Swallowing, he reached out a hand to find Stephen's, again certain only that he did not want him to leave.
"As a physician," he began tentatively, "surely you must know more about this than I."
"This has absolutely nothing to do with being a physician," Stephen said, looking down at their hands. His other hand came up and rested on Jack's. "And I am glad it doesn't, for I am far too personally involved in this."
"I meant," Jack struggled to find acceptable words, "you know things. Practical things. The things upon which you lecture me, to which I do not listen nearly well enough. How the natural world works and all that. I do know the laws, Stephen, but tell me...is this natural? Does it happen, apart from corruption and weak temperament?"
"Yes," Stephen said, "yes, it does." He raised his eyes, and smiled a little tentatively.
"And how does it work, there?" Jack continued. "Is it that the weaker animals take on the role of the weaker sex? I remember your telling me that female mantises bite the heads off their mates in the act of copulation, so I am not certain who is the weaker sex there! Among men, you know how this is regarded...those with a taste for cabin boys are scorned enough, but those with a taste for being buggered..." And now Jack could not keep the automatic revulsion, cultivated over a lifetime, from his face.
Stephen looked away again. "Sometimes it would seem that it is about domination," he admitted. "Sometimes... it... seems perhaps, they do it merely because they desire it. Of course, many would deny this, and probably will staunchly deny it forever because of our own beliefs..." He bit his lip and shrugged.
"And what do you think?" Jack pressed. "Is it about domination?"
"I don't believe that it always is."
Glancing at his hand pressed between both of Stephen's, Jack moved to put his free palm over the stack. "But how is it for you?" He did not know how to ask what he needed to know without being blunt. "Do you imagine...dominating, or being dominated?"
Stephen licked his lip. "I have imagined... being dominated."
A slow thrill of horror, or perhaps not only horror, moved slowly down Jack's spine. "And that does not make you feel, how shall I say this and not cause offense, like less of a man?"
"No..." Stephen laughed softly, bitterly, and the line of his shoulders drooped. "Though perhaps it should."
"I'm sorry," Jack said, for it was obvious from Stephen's reaction that he had insulted him. "I meant no judgment by that question. I have never given much thought to any of this. There is so much to try to fathom at once."
"There is no need to apologise. I admit I am still a little amazed that you have not thrown me out the door."
"Stephen, how long have we known each other? How could you think that I would ever throw you out the door!" Jack exclaimed.
"Because to most men, this is vile, evil, unnatural..." Stephen shook his head. "Even if the man admitting to such a thing is one's closest friend."
"Stephen, you have been my compass for determining what is vile, evil and unnatural," Jack pointed out reasonably. "I trust your judgment more than my own in many such matters. Perhaps it is vile, evil and unnatural, but I will certainly feel no more virtuous if I choose to think so. And if I cannot trust you, I do not know what I can believe."
"Oh." Stephen seemed at a loss for words. His fingers tightened around Jack's hand.
Jack leaned forward, trying to ignore the discomfort of his lower body. "I need to know what you want," he told Stephen. "I apologize for being so frank, but I think I must get used to the idea or I don't know what I might say or do."
"I want to touch you, Jack."
"You are touching me. It does not repulse me, if that is what you fear."
"But I want to touch more of you. All of you."
Jack considered this. He felt uneasy at this admission, for Stephen had touched nearly all of him, at one time or another, in his capacity as physician. In point of fact, Stephen had seen him vomiting, bleeding and covered in diarrhea, and Jack realized that he might be somewhat flattered, upon reflection, that Stephen would want to touch all of him in spite of this gruesome intimacy; and for himself, he had no objection to the idea of Stephen's hands on him, for he could not imagine Stephen's hands bringing him suffering rather than comfort and safety.
"All right," he said, as if it were decided. "Is that all?"
Stephen appeared to be having difficulty breathing. "No," he said, barely audibly. Jack's eyebrows crept toward his hairline. "But if you merely wish to...wish for me to help you find relief with my hands, that will make me more than content, Jack."
Heat flooded Jack's face and his loins; he could not help barking a laugh as he turned away, wondering whether his body's reactions were as apparent as he feared to his old friend and doctor. "I asked what you wanted," he reminded Stephen, though he found that he still could not meet his eyes.
"I want no more than what you are willing to give me," Stephen replied.
"And if I cannot give you what you desire? What then? Will you seek someone else?"
Stephen hesitated, but then shook his head. "No, Jack, I will go to no one else, because... because I simply shouldn't."
"I'm glad." Jack knew that it was a selfish thing to admit, and to think, though he did wonder what Stephen would have done if he had done as he feared and ordered him from his sight. Would he have turned to another? Or turned his suffering inward? Tugging apart their stacked hands, Jack wound his fingers through Stephen's. "You will have to be patient with me," he sighed apologetically.
"I have always been patient with you, Jack," smiled Stephen.
"You have lectured me mercilessly," Jack reminded him.
"Yes, but with the utmost patience." Stephen was now grinning quite impishly.
"You are most fortunate that I am so fond of you, or I might put you in irons for that comment until you learned the meaning of patience," replied Jack, though he was smiling broadly as well.
"Oh, dear me, Jack, I promise to obey, then."
"You had better." And then, quite suddenly, Jack was seized by impulse, and he caught Stephen's face between his hands and kissed him soundly. A moment later he was abashed, because he knew beyond argument that he had felt that same impulse before, though he had not understood it and so had not acted on it.
Stephen's smile, though, was wide and forthright. He reached out and brushed the backs of his fingers across Jack's cheek. "Thank you," he said.
Hesitantly Jack returned the smile, feeling his face color under Stephen's touch. He stood, pulling Stephen upright with him. "Let me do this properly," he said, and kissed him again, more slowly, with his arm around his waist. The sensation was far different, standing upright next to a man, and he felt awkward, uncertain how to go about it.
But this was Stephen, who Jack had to admit had always been most patient with him, and for whom he would unthinkingly have given his life; surely he could give this small thing. He kissed him, and turned him slowly in his arms, until he realized that they had backed against the table where his violin still lay waiting for him.
"Might we play another tune? For I am feeling merry," he whispered. Stephen smiled and nodded, stepping away to retrieve his cello. They began to play the Corelli with such ease of harmony that Jack felt certain that, wherever this unexpected turn might lead them, it must bring them peace.