by Zakarrie C
Shut up.
Chance would be a fine thing… Just sayin’.
11. Phin
“Shall I cook some bacon while I’m making our cuppas…?” Phin asked, remembering that he hadn’t remembered to do either. “Or, do you want me to drive you home now?”
“Are you hinting that you’d like me to go?” Jack’s lips twitched with one of his twinkly smirks.
“No. I don’t think I’m very good at doing hinting. If I wanted you to leave, I would have said: ‘You’ve been here a long time, do you want to go home now?’”
“Good to know…” Jack’s grin was every bit as glinty as light glancing off glass. “I doubt that could be considered a hint in anyone’s book. I don’t need to go, put it that way, but I don’t want to overstay my welcome, which can’t really be called a welcome, when I wasn’t invited. At all.”
“I’m glad you came anyway,” Phin told him. At which point, Jack’s throat made the strangest sound, like a rusty gate hinge. “Oh, you must be starving, sorry…and I still haven’t put my pants on.” At the mention of the missing bacon, those blues blazed with the sort of hunger that could ‘eat a horse’. Phin would rather do dropping dead but that was beside the point, which was; putting some pants on, and feeding Jack. It was impossible to do concentrating in his presence; Phin’s marbles were too scattered to count, let alone sort. Pants. “D’you mind having it microwaved, it will be quicker?”
“I don’t mind how it’s cooked, I could eat it raw, to be honest.” Jack…did not fib. Weirdo.
“Eww, that’s just wrong. Like orange. Sadly, raw sausage is far too right…which is just fiendish, when I shouldn’t scoff it, or I’ll get tapeworms.”
“Tapeworms…oh gawd—” Jack spluttered a snort that segued into a coughing fit o’the chuckles.
“You’re a very noisy guest…it’s going to seem very quiet when you’ve gone,” Phin noted. Aloud. Oops. “I don’t mind the racket, though,” he added, quick as a fox jumping over a lazy log—not a brown one—honeyed grey, he decided. Then quite forgot to do concentrating on seemliness. “I like your snorts ’n’ splutters and slurpy sounds. Even your grumbly guts.” A snippet of info that prompted yet more yukking it up. Jack really was strange—but in a good way—not in a Jaws music sort of way.
“I don’t slurp!” he snortled.
“You did!” Phin insisted. As fact.
“I haven’t had so much as a sip of tea, let alone a slurp.” After indulging in a sniff of affront, Jack added, “That was hinting, by the way.”
“Sorry, I keep meaning to make it, and put my pants on…um, that’s when you did slur—” Oh nooo. Phin’s face felt as if it was burning scarlet bright. And his ears.
“Oh…I, er…occupational hazard?” The flushing thing seemed to be infectious, but Jack still managed to rustle up a (rather rosy) quip. Unless, he hadn’t…and Phin just had jobs on the brain.
“You were very thoro-ooh no, I shouldn’t have said that, should I?” Phin wasn’t sure if his ‘eek’ emoji expression—or the least welcome compliment ever—set Jack off again, but he was still hooting away when Phin asked: “Was it shocking unseemly?”
“Unseemly? Oh fuck…I think it’s safe to say it’s far less seemly to invite yourself to someone’s campervan and embark on an obscene racket, ten minutes after saying hello.”
“You didn’t…you said, ‘Are you okay’?” Phin informed him.
“How remiss of me,” Jack attempted a solemn expression. It was rubbish, his lips kept twitching. Nooo, still no pants. “It’s probably a good job I don’t go visiting—” Jack forgot to finish his sentence when Phin shot off to the sink as if his (no) pants were on fire. The van would be next if matters progressed apace.
“Was that hinting?” Phin tossed over his shoulder while busying himself with cups and teabags and sugar and not facing Jack at all.
“Pardon?”
“Were you doing hinting? Telling me that you won’t be visiting again, in a kind way?”
“No. It was self-deprecation. Like an eye-roll at myself.” Jack explained, sending the blue skywards in illustration. A shade every bit as gorgeous as the gleam of sunlight through stained glass.
“Oh, okay. I’m glad.” Phin was beaming to himself while (finally) pouring boiled water onto their tea bags and Jack’s sugar mountain. “Um…could you pass me some pants from the second shelf in the cupboard?” he asked, rather than do turning around. Any time soon.
“Sure…sorry, about the last pair.” It was barely a breath later that Jack’s blowtorched Phin’s nape. Oh gawd, I’ll be stuck facing the sink forever. “Do you want me to visit again? Despite the din?” Jack’s velvet voice shivered across Phin’s skin in a crackle of static. “Turn around…” His murmur was as soft as the lips ghosting the curve of Phin’s neck…up, up, towards his ear. Every single hair on his body went as quivery as his knees.
“I…can’t…”
“Phin… I’d be disappointed if you weren’t.” Was a wicked whisper of breath. Scorching his earlobe.
Hard. Jack meant hard. A flicker of tongue almost sent Phin’s head shooting through the roof.
“You would?” he sort of gulped.
“Yes…” Jack enclosed the back of Phin’s hand (clutching the countertop) with his own, and slowly, so slowly, drew it downwards…behind. A pause. Was Jack giving him time to tug free? Phin was frozen in flames. That’s how it felt. Then. His palm docked on a stonking ridge of hard heat. Granite encased in soft fleece. “That. Has been like that since…you opened your eyes.”
“All that time?” Phin gasped, agog. Crikey, he would have combusted by now. “Jack, can I ask you a question?” he managed, despite the fact his very own hand was still there.
“Should I be worried?” His voice sounded like sexy Velcro. It might be best not to mention that.
“I’m not sure…” Phin frowned; he was too fizzy to think. “I don’t know what makes you worried. It’s not a tricky one,” he assured Jack. Who really didn’t feel worried. Strewth. “Just a ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer.”
“’Kay…”
“Might you let me make some racket, maybe?” Phin wondered. Oops. Jack’s breath snatched off, alongside his strangest sound yet. “S’okay, I don’t mind if…I mean, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“No…you didn’t—” Jack broke off when a new noise made a bid for freedom; the grind of gears after being stuck in the garage all winter. “I…Yes.”
“Yes, I can?”
“Yeess. You can.”
Yes!? Phin was so chuffed he almost did clenching his fists…but it would’ve been very hard to accomplish that mishap. Yesss! It was too-good-to-be-true. Too much anything was not good. He mustn't get too wound up. Yet.
“Now!? Or is that too soon? Waiting isn’t my best thing,” It was best to mention that, Phin decided. In a before-being-banned-from-the-zoo sort of way. He did fretting that things wouldn’t happen if they didn’t happen now.
“Yes…I mean, no, it’s not too soon.” Jack slammed his eyes shut and…gargled some more grit.
Where? How? Kneeling? Sitting down, standing up? Phin’s system let rip a hyperdrive adrenaline rush of anxious. An excessive one. Too much. Can you do this too much? Too fast? Frantic? Lavish? Loud?
“Jack?”
“I don’t know why I used ‘Jack’ earlier,” he groaned, rolling his eyes at himself again. “I rarely do…I’ve been called Jake for as long as I can remember…”
“You were a tad…distracted. I like both, Jake suits you too, it’s more…rakish. Less solid, not as safe as Jack.” Ja…ke looked a smidge staggered. Why? Ahh. “’Til you add Sparrow, o’course.” Phin grinned, having solved that and finally happened upon an exception that proves the rule and made some sort of sense. “At least they sound similar, I’m glad you didn’t tell me it was Herbert all of a sudden. I’ll try to do remembering and not make a muddle, but ‘Jack’ might be stubborn. I did manage earlier though, or you’d still be Foxy.”
“Foxy?!” Ja—ck let rip another splutter.
“Oops, sorry. It came from a dream I had last night, about a fox. Well, sort of…his colouring was wrong, and his eyes were as blue as yours. Which is weird, because only huskies have blue eyes. Anyhoo, when I woke up and I saw yours, I thought they were his for a mo.”
“I…was it a nice dream or a…nightmare?” Jack looked fretful, which was daft, when Phin was fine. Far finer than fine.
“Oh, it was brilliant. Most of mine are…dreadful. Full of dread. Chilling. They make me want to claw my skin off rather than suffer it but I don’t want to talk about that anymore,” Phin said-all-in-a-rush, which still made him sound like a loon, but for less long. “Last night I wasn’t scared at all. I thought Foxy was…a friend.”
“A friend.” Jack smiled, sort of sadly. It wasn’t upside down though, it just felt that way.
“I wanted to ask…um, I’m worried that I’ll do it too much.” Phin swivelled his eyes downwards so that Jack—Jake—might get his drift, as it were.
“I don’t think that’s possible, unless…you bit down.”
“I’m not going to do biting, I promise. No raw sausage scoffing mishaps.”
“I…There’s really no answer to that.” Jack clamped his lips shut, shoulders quaking as he tried to stifle his latest fit of the splutters.
Ja—ke laughed as if it was the last thing he might ever do. With his entire self…and yet, he never seemed to be laughing at Phin. Or picking him apart to find fault. Jake had never sneered, nor even done shooting Phin that look; the gut curdling, steel jaw trap one. The dagger-shooting glare of shame.
That’s why Phin preferred being on his own; it made him safe from eyes. Shutting doors was a relief. A huge, whole self sigh of relief.
So, why wasn’t his skin all scratchy yet, or his head screeching for silence? It was all most odd. Phin was starting to suspect that his own ‘Jack’ might just be too many exceptions that prove the rule to do counting…
12. Jake
Jake couldn’t actually remember the last time he’d laughed out loud. He sure as hell couldn’t recall having smiled inside. He was quite certain of one thing though; never had someone expressed a wish to blow him with such incomparable charm. Christ.
“Might you let me make some racket, maybe?”
As if granting Phin ‘permission’ would bestow a bloody kindness on him…when in fact, there was nothing on Earth Jake wanted more.
Liar.
Not listening.
Liar. Pants on fire.
Bugger off.
Now that…was nearer the truth. Just sayin’.
To top it off, as if all Jake’s Christmases—and two years of orgasms—weren’t about to come at once?
The bad puns are coming thick ’n’ fast now…
Pot. Kettle. Just sayin’…
Phin’s very next words after being given the go ahead: ‘Now!?’ Gaped as one might when handed the keys to a Ferrari and permission to take it out for a spin. ‘Or is that too soon? Waiting isn’t my best thing…’
It wasn’t Jake’s either… and it sure as shit (after sausages) wasn’t Jack’s.
You’re like a dog with a bloody bone, y’know that, right? Or a nagging old woman. A stingy-with-the-tasty-titbits one.
Foxy. Phin remembered his brief glimpse of Jack before slipping back into unconsciousness. Fuck. Jake was taking way too many risks. He was being stupid. Cretinous. He’d spent the last two years skulking in the shadows and being so goddamn careful to safeguard his secrets. Watching every step lest he respond too swiftly, move too fast. React in any way, to intimacies he should never have heard above the hubbub of chat at the bar. This while being an unwilling eavesdropper on the low buzz of conversation, as clear as crystal, from the far side of the pub…even on his busiest shifts. Mentally weighing what he should be able to lift, without arousing suspicion, of steroid abuse, at the very least. Jake was hardly The bloody Rock. Or indeed, that Momoa bloke punters kept likening him to. Until they were tanked up…when Jake morphed into ‘Momoa’s Mini-Me’. Strangely easy to shrug aside with a smirk…while feeding their nuts to the mutt after one twist of his fist. In his mind’s eye. Of course.
This frustrating list of limitations felt akin to being blinkered, cuffed, manacled and muzzled every minute of the day. Alongside a shot of cement in each ear. ‘Muting his senses’ was but somewhere to start: Speed, stamina, strength, agility, acuity of thought. Healing. A hunger as relentless as the limits placed upon it. As insatiable as the thrill of the hunt.
Two years spent shackled by self-restraint so ruthless it had driven Jake damn near demented. Hard-won steel-trap tenacity brought to its knees—literally—by one whiff of Phin on the wind. He’d as good as collared Jack at first scent. Jake hadn’t been far behind…having had no choice in the matter. Every single night since, he’d ridden shotgun to a stalker with Pepé Le Pew eyes and Deadpool’s disposition. Wylie Coyote couldn’t hold an Acme candle to Jack.
Not even Jake’s worst fears had prepared him for the fact that Jack had almost finished Phin off with one whimper. Albeit before licking him back to the land of the living. It had been a helluva night, even by their standards. Now this…unpassable test Phin couldn’t afford Jake to fail.
“Jack?”
Oh Christ…at least it was preferable to Foxy. Foxy.
I might be insulted if the bushy-arsed bastards didn’t have such a good rep for silky seduction skills.
Silky? You?
Yup…moi. Jacques Chacal at his service. Paramour par excellence…and I don’t stink of skunk.
Yup…quite the catch. Aside from being a sausage junkie with severe digestive issues. Oh, and the drooling…dog breath…fur…four legs…
I give bloody good tongue.
Just sayin’…I suppose?
Why bother stating the bloody blah-de-blah? Sorted with one slurp. So, suck that up, smug-mush.
*
“Jack?”
“Yeah?”
Jake suspected he might just remain Jack for the foreseeable: as long it suited Phin to ‘forget to remember’. The scamp could probably reel off every item ever entered on his list of things to remember to take no notice of whatsoever. The one he’d begun when bored of staring at the mobile above his crib after a splendid day drawing on the walls and smearing mashed banana on the dog.
“Um…where should I…?” Phin puttered to a halt; head cocked to one side. Like a pup in a pet shop window, hypnotising you with hope.
Oh hell…Jake should at least make some attempt to backtrack. Give Phin time to…what? Remain resolute? Was it even possible to persuade Phin to change his mind when dead set on something? It seemed a sure-fire way to watch puppy dog eyes turn pit bull.
The whiff of stubborn as scorched jam wasn’t a dead giveaway, then? I sure-as-sausage wouldn’t bet one on the poor sod who started that blanket wrestling match.
*
“Where would you want to…er, do it, if given the choice?” Jake was, apparently, fool enough to wonder.
“Oh…I only have one ‘where’ to do choosing from—does lying down count as a choice?”
Oh fuck. Jake sucked in a sharp breath, clamping his eyes closed, which made matters worse; the mental image transposed itself on the back of his lids. Might that be…safer? Who was Jake trying to…fox? He could spring to his feet from flat on the floor as fast as he could from a crouch. Perhaps, if Jake lay with his head and shoulders tucked under the table, then gripped the two metal poles supporting the end not fixed to the wall? Maybe wrap his arms around them to nestle one in the crook of each elbow? Something to hold onto…rather than inadvertently scalp Phin, or worse, break his bloody neck. This was a very bad idea. Jake very much feared he was about to do it, regardless.
“No problem, but first…” Jake bent his head to press his lips to Phin’s pounding pulse; steeped in the scent of cinnamon spice. As irresistible as he was inimitable. When Jake smudged his mouth toward the gentle curve of
Phin’s jaw, he turned his face, smearing Jake’s lips closer to his own, which parted in anticipation. Of a kiss that tasted of…all we’ll ever want. A thought that may have blown Jake’s mind, had the melding of their mouths not beaten it to the punch. Oh, the taste of him… Mulled wine on a winter's night, a ruby rich sweetness that could thaw the coldest of hearts. If Phin let them close enough to warm their cockles with that smile. So why Jake, who could never prove worthy of such privilege?
“Jack,” Phin snatched his head back to gasp, “Please…”
It was all Jake could do to comport himself at a plausible speed to the table. All-but dragged there by the scruff of his neck, like a recalcitrant pup.
