I'm Yours - JRed8 (JStar8) (2024)

Chapter 1: Introduction

Chapter Text

The club is packed, every corner full of someone doing something, and all of them looking for, or already in, a relationship. I don’t want that, don’t want to get attached to someone who is just going to leave, by choice or death. I just want to have fun. Isn’t that the whole point? Isn’t that the reason for the rainbow strobe lights and the deeply thumping loud music, raising everyone’s heartrate? People bump into me from all directions, laughing drunkenly, plainly horny, whether they are clinging to new partners or old. I’m one of them: my belly warmed by the gin I’d had when I arrived, my balls aching with desire for release. I just need to find someone who isn’t looking for commitment.

Then I see him. It is a testament to how crowded the club is that I hadn’t seen him come in, because he stands out like a sore thumb. He is the oldest person in the club tonight, technically old enough to be my father, if I’m not wrong, and I am one of the older regulars. The man sighs like he’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders and swirls his drink in the glass. He looks like he needs someone to remind him to relax every once in a while, and I arrogantly think I might just be the one.

So I have daddy issues. That happens when your mom dies at five, your dad bails at ten, and your grandfather dies just days after you turn eighteen. You spend a lot of time, consciously or not, looking for a parental figure, someone to fill the void.

The older man wouldn’t have come here if he was planning on bringing someone home with him; it’s plainly not his scene. I wonder if it was once. The man frowns at his drink, without so much as sipping it, and rubs his eyes. I just want to take him home and put him to bed; he looks like he needs sleep. Maybe I shouldn’t bother him; maybe he’ll realize he’s not up to partying tonight and he’ll go home and go to sleep.

He looks up briefly and I recognize the look. He’s thinking about his job, about the customers he has to cater to and their ridiculous, stupid, whiny, needy, difficult requests. He breaks his back to fulfill those requests and no one appreciates it. No wonder he’s exhausted. Someone seriously needs to fulfill his requests and appreciate him. He’s a fine specimen of a man, after all.

The only risk is that this isn’t a strictly gay bar. I watch him a little longer. His eyes seem to linger more on the men than the women, but that could be just my own hopes.

He pushes off the wall he’s leaning against, gulping down the rest of his drink. I watch, hoping for his sake that he’s calling it a night. He moves toward the bar, not the door. Now or never. Fortunately, the DJ changes to a new song, something bouncy and full of bass. Everyone around me seems to instantly regain their high spirits and files out to fill the dance floor with loud cheers and bouncy steps, making it easier for me to navigate.

I head for the older man, intentionally running smack into him. He whirls, looking like he’s about to bark out something unkind at me for bumping him, but then his eyes meet mine and he freezes. Honestly, so do I. He’s even more handsome up close. He’s definitely buzzed, but the appreciative glint in his eyes as they roam my figure suggests he, at the very least, swings both ways, so he’s probably not going to freak out if I do something bold.

I smile, as friendly as I think I can manage without looking creepy. It’s a fine line; I’m not always good with people. Too much time spent trying not to get attached.

For a moment, the older man remains frozen and then he starts to stammer. “Oh, sh*t! I-I’m sorry! I, uh, I didn’t see you,” he manages to get out, like I didn’t barge into him. “And I’ve, uh, had a bit much to drink, so…you know. I, uh, I’m not—”

I chuckle; I can’t help it. He’s adorable when he’s flustered.

“What?” He demands.

I shake my head and lean in close to his ear, wanting to be sure he can hear me over the music. The rest of our night depends on it. I see the flush creep down his neck as he feels my breath on his skin and I know he’s thinking about the possibilities. “You’re cute when you stutter,” I purr. I’ve been told it’s pretty damn seductive. It works, sending shivers down the man’s spine.

I could regret this, but now’s the time to find out. I press closer, placing a hand on his belt. It’s still all innocent. It won’t stay that way for long, but I need to be sure he knows what’s coming and that he wants it as much as I do, and he’s been drinking. More than I have, if I had to guess. “I’m Mac, by the way,” I continue in his ear. “What’s yours, Cowboy?”

He swallows and barely manages to get it out. “J-Jack.”

God, that stutter, especially with his Texan drawl. I snake my arms around his neck, pausing with my lips only a fraction of an inch from him, giving him time to realize what’s coming and signal he doesn’t want it. I run a hand gently through the short brunette fuzz he probably thinks is hair. I wonder if he’s former military or just hoping no one will realize he’s balding, if he keeps it short. Hard to tell in this light, and it doesn’t matter to me anyway.

J-Jack’s eyes go wide and he tenses. His muscles’ rigidity say he’s not sure. His erection, pressing against my thigh, suggests he’s not uninterested, but I need more than not sure and not uninterested. “I-I,” my cowboy stutters, but can’t seem to say more.

“Shh,” I whisper against his cheek, mouthing his jaw until he gasps in pleasure. I smile and pull back to let him see the lust in my eyes, and to see it in his brown eyes. “Let me take care of you,” I beg, sliding to my knees.

I watch him; no one around us is going to care if we do this right here in the open where they can see. Some of them will probably enjoy it. The rest are too drunk to even know what is happening. But Cowboy Jack isn’t that drunk, and he might still object.

When he doesn’t, I pull his pants and boxers down together. A flash of something like jealousy flashes in Jack’s eyes, and I’m not sure why. It vanishes when I lick up the side of his already hard shaft, replaced by need. He throws his head back, groaning, though I can’t hear it over the music. I don’t need to; his body will tell me what he likes louder than his voice ever could.

I hum along the side of his co*ck until I can hear the little needy whimpers falling from Cowboy’s lips. I work my way down, making sure his whole dick is lubricated and slick before taking him fully into my mouth. He gasps, fisting his hands in my hair. I relish the tug as he fights for control he no longer has. He doesn’t need to know he’s not in control. He just needs to enjoy. I relax my jaw instinctively, letting him set the pace and depth.

I do my best to smile up at him through my eyelashes. Some guys who aren’t used to being sucked off worry that it is only good for the receiver. I doubt J-Jack is overly experienced in this sort of encounter, so I want to be sure he knows this is my kind of fun. I can see his mouth moving, but hearing anything is just about impossible. Well, hearing anything other than the cat call from someone put together enough to realize what I’m doing.

I hum in pleasure, adding more suction as I match my timing to Jack’s thrusts. His pace is getting rough now, driven by need, not thought. My eyes are watering and I fight my gag reflex so Jack can get deeper into my throat, even though my muscles ache with the pounding of his hips as he hunts for release. What I can make out of the words coming out of his lips, amid the loud bass, which seems to rumble louder now that I’m on my knees, is almost all profanities, some I’ve never even heard before. I can feel saliva starting to drip from the corners of my mouth, but he’s close now, too close to be worrying about anything like that.

Cowboy’s muscles tighten as a final warning that he’s almost there. I pull back from him, hearing the wet pop as we separate with honest reluctance, but he’s a stranger in a bar. We didn’t talk about this, not really. Not about important things, like communicable diseases. Until we do, my limit for risky sex stops this side of swallowing.

I lurch to my feet, taking his glistening co*ck between my hands. “Cum for me,” I whisper in his ear, wishing my mouth was too full of him to say the words, but they do the trick. He chokes, gasps, and comes hard against my stomach. I feel it seeping through my shirt and respond the only way I can: slamming my lips into his with more need than I’ve felt maybe ever. My new favorite Texan responds just as powerfully, and I’m soon pressed up against a wall, feeling him already starting to recover. God, we need to talk, because if we’re doing this all again, I want to swallow, but hell.

I jump, using the wall for support and my arms around his neck to get the leverage to wrap myself around him. Gravity is the weakest of all forces. While not scientific, lust is one of the strongest, and it is roaring through my veins. Jack finally grabs my ass, grinding into me, pulling me harder into him, and I moan. This is exactly what I want.

“You’re mine,” Jack growls possessively against my lips. “And only mine.” It sounds like commitment. It sounds like a relationship. Still, I smile and kiss him back, because yes. Yes, I am.

📎

When he calms down a bit, he leans me into the wall, using it to bear some of my weight. I should put my feet down and bear my own damn weight, but I don’t ever want to let go of this man. We stop kissing long enough for him to run a hand through my bangs as he tries to get a good look at my face. I look back, noticing the pinched look in his eyes. The alcohol, the lights, the noise, the intensity have probably all conspired to give him a headache. Plus, he’s exhausted. I knew that before I came over, and a blow j*b, no matter how intense, won’t fix that. “Somewhere quieter?” I suggest in his ear.

He nods immediately and starts toward the door; reluctantly, I lower myself back to the ground. He stops to pay his tab and soon we’re out in the parking lot, both stopping instinctively to breathe in the cool night air. He leads me to a gorgeous GTO. He shoves a set of keys into my hands. “You’re not drunk, are you?”

“No,” I assure him. Not on anything but him, at any rate. “Sure you want to let me drive your baby?” I ask. Guys can be protective of their cars when they’re driving something straight off the lot. This is a masterpiece.

“Better you than me, at this point, an’ I hate to leave her.”

“I’ll take good care of her,” I promise as we get in. “Your place or mine?” I ask as I turn her on. Mine’s not really made for company, but, at this point, any bed will do.

“Mine,” he says, and I shiver with the memory of him saying that before.

He gives decent directions. From what I can tell, the exhaustion is hitting him harder than the booze.

When we get inside, he turns lights on automatically. Finally, he looks at me. It’s messy, for both of us. He didn’t go to that bar planning to bring someone home. I didn’t go planning to get brought home. I certainly didn’t plan on wanting anything more than a quickie or a one night stand. But everything’s different now, has been since our eyes met.

“I should, uh, do something for you, for the shirt at least,” he mumbles, anxiety in his voice, but the exhaustion winning out, now that he’s home and letting his guard down a bit.

I shake my head, closing the distance between us in two steps. The desire to just put him to bed and make sure he gets some sleep is back. I put one hand on his shoulder and run the other through his fuzzy hair. He leans into it, eyes drifting closed. “Just let me take care of you tonight,” I repeat.

He hums. I don’t know if it’s agreement or appreciation, but it works for me.

I start to guide him toward the bedroom, or at least what I think is going to be the bedroom. “Shower or sleep first?” I ask.

He blinks, already on the edge of sleep, but his shirt is tracked through from pinning me against him and he’s as sweaty as I am. Shower.

I get us both clean, but take the extra time to massage his back and shoulders. I could do better, but I don’t want him to fall asleep in the shower. I’m not sure I can carry him. He moans in pleasure all the same.

“Thanks,” he says as I wrap him in a towel.

“You’re very welcome, Cowboy.”

He reaches for my arm and I realize he’s trying to convince me that he wasn’t just thanking me for the towel. I kiss his cheek with a gentle smile. “I know,” I assure him. “C’mon. Past your bedtime.”

“What time is it?” He asks, probably to contradict me, because it’s not all that late, objectively.

“Past your bedtime,” I repeat, giving him a push in that direction. I watch from the bathroom doorway as he roots in a drawer for a new pair of boxers. When he doesn’t put anything else on, I decide that’ll work for me, too, and dig mine out of the pile of clothes on the bathroom floor.

I hang up my towel and then go get his and hang it up, too. I figure he’s asleep as I move to the bed, and I wonder if this is really a good idea or if I should go out to the couch or see if he has a guest room. I’m wrong. As soon as I sit down on the edge of the bed, his hand snakes out, reaching for me. I put a hand on his forearm, letting him know I’m there. He grabs it and gently, but insistently, pulls me over until we’re cuddled up together.

📎

We wake in a tangle of limbs that could have been awkward but feels very natural to me, like we’re meant to wake up together just like that all the time. Jack doesn’t seem surprised by the company, so I figure he remembers at least the important parts of the night before. Honestly, for all his claims that he’d had a bit too much, he doesn’t seem all that hungover, either.

We both move easily around his room and the bathroom, and somewhere in the process he throws a t-shirt at me, remembering mine’s not fit to wear. Without any conversation, I find myself trailing him down the street in the opposite direction of the bar. Two blocks down, he turns into a diner, pauses in the doorway, and looks at me. “Okay with you?”

“Perfect,” I assure him.

We “meet” each other over breakfast, asking about work and roots and all the things you usually know about a guy before you start sucking his dick—or letting him suck yours—and it’s just so easy. Relationships are never easy for me, so I am a little bit on edge, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Jack pays. I try to argue. He gives me a pointed look, mostly focused in the direction of my belly and clearly a reference to last night, which was a situation I got myself into completely willingly and which absolutely does not obligate him to buy me breakfast, but the conversation is closed with him. I get the sense, again, that he’s used to being in charge, at least in a relationship like this.

The other shoe drops when we get back to his place, and he goes to the GTO instead of inside. So this is it. It was just a one night stand to him. I’m sure I look disappointed. I feel lost. I’m trying to make my voice work around the lump in my throat, to at least try to get his phone number and a “maybe” on seeing him again, when he grabs my shoulders and pulls me close. He kisses me hard and then stands back, still holding my shoulders. “I’m not trying to get rid of you, Mac. I’m also not trying to hold you hostage and I thought you’d maybe want clothes of your own. Thought I’d take you back to your car and you can get what you need and then park here so you can go whenever you think you need to.”

I nod. That makes sense.

As I settle in the car, I ask the question I’ve been wanting to ask, but didn’t want to put Jack on the spot with in the diner. “Are you gay?” I blurt out, which isn’t exactly how I meant to come at it.

Jack glances over at me with a smirk. “Anything for you,” he teases, because how could I doubt it after last night? He’s attracted to me, at the least, and what else matters?

Nothing, admittedly, and I almost drop it, because it doesn’t matter. But I want to know. “No, I mean, are you gay or bi or label-defiant, or exploring, or…” I try to think if I’ve heard any other labels that might apply to the man in the driver’s seat.

“If those are the options, label-defiant sounds like a good one. ‘Unlabeled’ might be more accurate,” he says. “I can’t say I’d ever found ‘The One’, but I also can’t say I was really looking, even enough to have an idea of what ‘The One’ might look like.” Jack takes his eyes off the road long enough to shoot me a look. “Until it blundered into me all clear blue eyes and golden blonde hair, purring like a f*cking cat in the cream.”

“Hey, there was absolutely no blundering,” I retort, taking offense, or pretending to. “There was a very intentional getting of your attention.”

“You have my attention,” Jack says dryly.

I grin. I probably had his attention when he laid eyes on me. I definitely had it when I went down on my knees. Everything that happened after that… was not blundering, anyway. Probably wasn’t merely getting his attention, either, but water under the bridge, wouldn’t you say?

I watch the road go by for a minute, considering what Jack’s said and implied. “Was last night the first time?” I ask, curiously. He’d said unlabeled like he meant he didn’t know exactly yet, but he hadn’t reacted like his attraction to me came as a surprise, either.

“Now you’re just trying to make the old man feel incompetent.”

“What? No! I didn’t…” I gulp, trying to get my bearings. The last thing I want is him taking my defensiveness for agreement. I wasn’t passing judgment. “I’m not,” I say. “I didn’t mean to imply anything. You just said ‘unlabeled’ and it made me wonder if that was the first time you’d been that involved with a guy.”

“Relax,” Jack soothes, his voice placating and apologetic. “I’m kidding with you. You’re cute when you’re flustered, too. I know you meant no ill will, or any comment on my performance last night. And, no, it was not the first time, but it was the most public by a good long ways.”

“Sorry,” I say sheepishly. Then I amend myself. “Sort of.”

Jack laughs. “I’m not. At all,” he reassures me. “I could have stopped you.”

We’re both silent for a minute before Jack asks, as we turn into the club’s parking lot, “What about you? You seem pretty comfortable in your own skin.”

I snort. That’s awfully mild for a guy who went down on a complete stranger in the middle of a crowded establishment. “I identify as gay,” I confirm. “Definitely not my first time, though I’ve never approached a complete stranger who I wasn’t positive was at least interested in the possibility before. Then again, I hadn’t laid eyes on someone who seemed worth the risk before, either.”

Jack gets out as I do and looks as reluctant to let me leave as I feel. “So, uh, you know how to get to my place, or do you want me to wait here, so you can follow me back?”

“This club isn’t even close to on the way from my place to yours,” I admit. “I think I know how to get there and if I don’t…” I wave my cell phone, implying I’ll use GPS.

Jack looks at the phone like it would never have occurred to him to use his phone’s GPS to navigate. I hadn’t thought he was that old. He nods. “You need the address?”

I rattle off what I think it is. Jack looks impressed. “Yeah, that’s me. Okay…” He’s stalling. So am I. “Look,” he says, “don’t take forever. I might think you’ve decided not to come back.”

“I’m coming back, Cowboy,” I promise, giving him one last kiss before I get in my Jeep to head home and undoubtedly break my personal record for packing a weekend duffel.

As I drive, I let my brain process. Unlabelled is a telling term, especially given how many years Jack has had to decide on the appropriate label. He obviously isn’t in a rush to pick a label, which means he isn’t likely to be quick to agree to one for us, either, which doesn’t bother me all that much, but is good to know going in. It also suggests that, while he probably isn’t completely in the closet with everyone in his life, he probably isn’t that far out, either, and might be slow to introduce me to the rest of his life. I don’t have a whole lot of “rest of my life” to introduce Jack to, but I’ll have to remind myself to have patience with Jack, who might need to give some people time to adjust the idea that he has a guy in his life before he forces me on them.

📎

Jack and I are apart a grand total of 36 minutes (not that I’m counting). Our reunion very nearly ends with both of us naked on the floor, ten feet in the door. Jack is pacing, waiting for me. I should tease him about it, because it’s ridiculous, but I would’ve been pacing, too. It’s scary how intense this is, how fast, but, at the same time, we’re both consenting adults, so why waste a minute second-guessing something good? Something amazing?

“Let me give you a tour,” Jack says, grabbing my duffel. I give him a look that suggests I am perfectly capable of carrying my own bag, thank you. He ignores me, saying instead, “I wasn’t a very good host last night.”

“You were tired.”

“Exhausted,” he agrees. “Thank you. For all of it, not just the surprise at the bar.”

“You’re still welcome,” I reply, looping an arm around his waist as he shows me around. It’s not a huge place. Kitchen, living room, master bedroom (he drops my duffel on the bed) and bath, a utility room with a washer and dryer. I see my shirt on top of the pile next to the washer. Lives already mixing. It’s strange, but exhilarating.

There’s another door at the end of the hallway but, the way Jack’s talking, it sounds like the tour is probably over, so I figure it’s access to a storage closet, attic, or basem*nt. Jack hesitates noticeably, as if he’s trying to make a decision, and then he opens the door.

The room would be considered a guest room on a real estate listing. Since the only bathroom is the one off the master bedroom, it’s more practical to consider it an office or den. In Jack’s case, it is a toy room, one that makes Jack make a lot more sense to me, or at least it will make Jack make even more sense to me, once I get past the initial surprise that I hadn’t guessed before now.

“Good to know,” I murmur, realizing Jack’s probably anxiously waiting for a reaction while I’m already analyzing the deeper implications. I look at him out of the corner of my eye, trying to figure out my next move. “So… top or bottom?” I ask after some thought. I think I know, but certainty will help.

His answer is immediate and firm, clearly non-negotiable, and exactly as I expect. “Top.”

I consciously step back into the flirty mood that caught him up last night. “Oh, good,” I purr, patting him on the cheek. He looks as stunned as I felt when he opened the door.

Leaving him to figure out what to make of that, I step into the room, eager to see exactly which ways his tastes run. I rub my hand appreciatively over the face of a paddle, tramping down on the urge to make him use it on me right this second. Overall, his tastes seem to run in the same veins as mine. Pain for pleasure’s sake, not pain for the sake of pain. Mostly sensory and sensation stuff. More gags than I’m interested in, not nearly enough blindfolds. But there is nothing insurmountable that I can see in my perusal.

I lick my lips in anticipation and jump as Jack runs a finger down my spine. I didn’t even notice him come in.

“Like what you see?”

“Very much,” I agree. “Mostly.”

He nods. We both know we can work with mostly. “Couch,” he suggests, but it’s kind of an order, too, testing the waters.

“Yes, sir,” I say automatically. This we do need to talk about beforehand. Walking up to him in the bar and negotiating consent on the fly is one thing; what this room proposes is entirely another.

📎

The weekend is amazing. Sweet and fun and everything I’d never thought to dream of. After dinner Sunday, we both know it is time for me to go home, much as I want to stay and go to work straight from Jack’s Monday morning. I’d packed for the possibility, but we both know that if I don’t go home Sunday night, I won’t go home at all. Appealing as that thought is, we both know we aren’t ready. Lust falls apart at the first fight, and that is all we have. We need to back off and build something stronger and deeper.

Slowing down doesn’t mean we take it slow by any means. The pace is still fast—would be too fast for many; including us, in other circ*mstances—it is just not breakneck.

When my lease comes due two months later, we discuss it, but there’s no uncertainty in either of our minds that I’m moving in with Jack. The only caveat is that we’ll revisit it in six months, when Jack’s lease comes up, because, having never reached the move in together stage with anyone else, I’m not sure his place will ever feel like anything but his place. I can stay at his place, I can even live at his place for a few months, but, long term, I want a place that feels like it is mine, and, at the time, I don’t know how quickly it will start to feel like our place. By the time his lease comes due, we are finally really settling into our life together and moving is the last thing either of us has any interest in, so we stay.

My suspicion that Jack would be slow to label our relationship pans out, but I find he’s more ambivalent about the label than resistant. When I introduce him to someone, any of the words I might choose—boyfriend, partner, lover, dom (if we’re in that sort of situation)—are comfortable to him and he won’t try to change my word choice or correct it. When he introduces me, he never ventures beyond “This is Mac” and “He’s mine,” which, admittedly, also suffice.

I do learn, when other people try to suggest a label, that he is very uncomfortable with “Master”. Correcting the first woman to use it to “Dom” would have just elicited a blank stare; to her they would have been interchangeable. To me, they’re close enough that I would have nodded that she’d gotten it right, but would never chose that word myself. To Jack, it seems like a non-starter, though he never says why.

Jack’s work is a job, not a passion. I meet his coworkers incidentally, not because he’s trying to keep them from me, or me from them, but simply because there is no need for introductions. I interact with his family much as he does. When there is reason to be in contact with them, he includes me unflinchingly and transparently. Some of his relatives ask more questions than others, and I follow his lead in keeping to the broad strokes until we’re asked for more. By the time I would have had to worry about it, I didn’t have family to worry about, but I’ve known enough non-hetero-normative people to know that letting each relative determine their own level of need-to-know and respecting it is generally the safest route. Soon we have more meaningful relationships together than either of us had before we met, which makes all the rest easy.

Chapter 2: Broken

Chapter Text

Jack always tries to tell me I am the smart one, but when it came to ways to make me squirm, or, better yet, writhe in pleasure, and especially to beg (according to Jack my voice gets just so adorably sexy when I beg), Jack becomes amazingly inventive.

At the start of the summer, I had noticed a project of his in the freezer. He’d taken one of those ice cube trays that makes long thin ice cubes to put in a water bottle and drilled rivets along one end to hold a little plastic stick—probably intended for making lollipop—in the water as it freezes. When I had asked him about them, he had said he was making popsicles. Since the liquid version was clear, and the solid mostly so, I had raised an eyebrow. “With what, vodka?” They were clearly not flavored with any sort of fruit juice.

Jack had merely smiled and patted my cheek. “They’re a treat, but not a snack, if you catch my drift,” he had explained.

I hadn’t been inclined to like them. Ice on a stick in my ass? It just hadn’t sound all that great.

Jack’s always patient when I poo-poo a new idea without even giving it a try, because I can’t logic my way into deciding it will feel good. He didn’t try to persuade me, until one night when I lost to him at poker. He had smiled then and said he thought it was time for a popsicle. I’m certain I flinched, but he’d won the poker game fair and square.

The day had been overly warm for so early in the season, and I hadn’t quite figured out the tweaks our old AC unit needed this year, so the condo hadn’t cooled off much since we had arrived home. Cooling off before trying to sleep hadn’t sound like a horrible idea—though, somehow I had doubted Jack playing with me was going to cool me down any—so I had gone along with it.

I must say, the man is a f*cking genius. Three for three, absolutely. I squirmed. I writhed. I begged—oh, god, did I beg that night. Jack had laughed, f*cked me with the icicle, then properly, until I couldn’t think straight.

So, much as I want to blame the blistering heat today, and the AC unit that really should have been replaced last year, but I was so damn convinced I could nurse along another year, I know the reason I’m hot and flushed right now has nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with hearing Jack in the kitchen, cracking a couple of regular ice cube trays and some of his popsicles into the big glass bowl, and with his order that I cover the ottoman with a beach towel and be kneeling (elbows and knees) on it when he got there.

It’s going to be a good night.

Aren’t they all?

I shiver with anticipation, hearing the freezer door slam and Jack’s steps coming my way. Jack’s eyes glide appreciatively over my body. I never thought much of my looks—I mean I knew plenty of people thought I was attractive, but never really saw it myself—but when he looks at me like that…I see it. I see it in his eyes.

Jack dips his finger in the bowl he is carrying, wetting one finger in the ice melt, and drags it down the length of my spine. My whole body shudders. “Please,” I whisper.

“Anything for you, Mac,” Jack whispers back, setting the bowl down on the floor in easy reach. He’s teasing me, but I also know he means it, like no one in my life before him ever has.

It had been easy to walk up to someone I’d never met in the bars and get a quick release, have a little fun, because I never expected a relationship that meant anything with anyone. Not after my father walked out on me when I was ten. My grandfather told me it wasn’t my fault Dad left, but I never really believed him. It was because I reminded Dad of Mom. It was because I was gay. It was because I accidentally nuked the football field. It was all of that at once. It was none of that. It didn’t matter why. He’d still left, without even saying goodbye, and he’d never come back, never so much as called. If he couldn’t stand to be around me, who else would? I’d lived my life since not expecting anything, but since that first time I sucked Jack off, he was slowly making me believe again.

I blink, hearing my name again, and realize Jack is holding one of the popsicles to my lips. You know what happens if you lick a steel pole in the winter? That can happen with ice cubes fresh out of the freezer, too. If you think it hurts your tongue, you’ve never had it happen in your ass. But, if you just suck ‘em a bit, so they’re just starting to get melty around the edges, it’s safe.

I suck in the popsicle, wishing it is Jack. It will be soon enough, but he isn’t hard yet. A glance at his face as I let go of the ice shows more concern than arousal. He squeezes my shoulder gently with his free hand. “You okay?”

I nod. “Just thinking about the past while I was waiting for you.”

Jack knows enough that his eyes get sad. “I ain’t leavin’ you,” he reminds me.

I don’t want to talk about it, not when we could be doing so much more entertaining things. “Remind me,” I suggest.

📎

Jack’s been playing with me long enough for my mind to spin off from coherent thought into just the sensory stuff—hot and cold, soft and hard—when he says he can’t take it anymore. My brain is a little sluggish from his hands and mouth and plenty of ice, but he apparently means it, because, before I’ve quite caught up, he’s in front of me, boxers and jeans shoved down, pushing between my slack lips.

He plainly realizes he’s being rougher than is necessary as I almost choke on him and he stills, fingers in my hair gently massaging my scalp, which makes me want to make him feel as good as I do. Once I get sorted out, I think I do at least a decent job of making him happy. He says he’s never had anyone better, anyway, which is nice to hear, whether it is true or not.

When he’s done, Jack meets my eyes as I lick the last taste of him off my lips. I know he can see there that I’m thinking about ten things at once. He’s learned, over our time together, that it’s not about him, not that he’s not doing a good job, or that I’m not excited or engaged. I’m just always thinking about ten things at once. Every once in a while, though, he goes to lengths to try to get that number down, for a short time, and it’s so nice when the hurry in my brain all slows down into one normal thought process. I’d get bored, if my brain went that slow and could only focus on one thing at a time all the time—though I can’t say that to many people, because I know that’s how it is for most everyone else all the time—but it’s freeing to be able to take a break from my brain sometimes. If I’ve learned to read Jack’s eyes at all, this is going to be one of those times.

His smile makes me tremble with anticipation. “Let’s play a little game,” he says, circling behind me. He opens something—I hear the plastic hinge top pop—but I don’t look back to see what it is. Probably some kind of lubricant, since he hasn’t f*cked me yet and I seriously hope he’s planning to.

Jack traces a broad circle on my back. In the wake of his fingers, I feel a tingle that suggests whatever he opened is some kind of temperature play chemical. “Can you still feel that circle?” Jack asks.

I nod. It’s not much, but it’s there.

“Good,” he murmurs, and I can hear him smiling. “Now, then, the rules.” He puts a fresh ice cube right in the center of the circle, on my spine, sending an automatic shiver down the length of it. “If the ice moves outside the circle, I’m going to get the ginger out of the kitchen and cane you. If you keep it in the circle, you can decide what we do the rest of the night—pick the movie, pick the play, all of it.”

The ice will get more slippery as it melts, but it will also get smaller, so I’ll have more time to recover. Jack isn’t going to play fair, though, I’m certain. “How long?” I ask, more curious than anxious. For me, the cane hurts more in the morning than in the moment.

Jack thrusts a new popsicle in deep, pulls it almost all the way out, and then in again. “Until this is all gone,” he murmurs. Ten minutes, maybe less, depending on how worked up he gets me. How hard could it be, right?

How hard could it be to hold still while he’s teasing my balls with ice? How hard could it be to hold my body still while he’s kissing me that way that makes me understand how a person could forget their own name? How hard could it be to hold still while he’s tickling my ribs? f*cking impossible, that’s how hard. But, physics is kind of my thing, so I manage to recover and course correct each time.

Jack chuckles. He doesn’t care who wins this game—he’s just enjoying making me squirm for him. And he still hasn’t f*cked me, and that’d be really nice about now, though God knows how I’d keep still for that.

Jack leans over me, not quite touching my back—I’d have called foul—until his mouth is up near my ear. I’m already bracing myself. Jack has this way of talking—part of it’s the Texan drawl, but part of it is all him—and it turns me on so bad when he whispers in my ear. And he knows it. “Mmm, how about a bet?”

“A bet,” I echo weakly, trying to hold myself together.

“Option number one, you tell me to forget it,” he says. “After all you won,” he continues, tapping the ice-free plastic stick against my crack as proof, “and it’s not exactly fair of me to change the rules at this point.”

He starts nibbling on my ear lobe, so it takes me a while to realize he hasn’t told me the other option(s). “Or?” I ask, panting as he starts blowing on the sensitive damp skin behind my ear.

“Or I f*ck you.”

“God, yes. Please.”

Jack chuckles, and I can hear it in my ear, but I can also feel it all down my back; he’s that close now. “Don’t you want to know the terms?”

No, not really. Just f*ck me already.

Jack’s tongue follows the swirls of my ear and I moan. He does it again. He’s playing with me, I realize. He wants me to beg. For the terms, or for him to f*ck me at any terms. I doubt he cares.

“f*cker,” I accuse.

He laughs harder, licking my ear again. “Well, yes, that’s the general idea.”

He stops, and I’m so turned on that’s almost worse. “If you agree, the game’s still on. New ice cube. If you should lose it, I won’t cane you, and you’ll still get to decide what we do after this, but I won’t let you come.” My whole body goes tense. I could come right now! He’s going to f*ck me and not let me have a release if I move? Jack leans back in closer. “All night,” he warns.

I gulp. I’m already harder than granite and I know what having him inside me is going to do to me. “That’s cruel,” I whimper. Especially because he knows the terms don’t matter. I need him so badly right now, there’s no way I’m going to refuse.

He licks my ear again. He really is a f*cker. “I’ll make it worth the risk if you don’t lose the ice cube.”

I stand corrected. That is cruel. Making me think things like that when I’m supposed to be holding still. But it’s not like I can refuse. I need it too much. “f*ck me,” I whisper.

“Are you sure?” Jack asks, feigning concern. “It could be a long night…” he taunts.

f*ck you. If I pull this off, I probably will, but that’s beside the point. “Damnit, Jack,” I say out loud. “You’ve been playing with me for, what, an hour already? f*ck me.”

He grins as he puts a fresh ice cube on my back and I flinch from the cold. The lube is cold too, but I’m used to that. “Closer to an hour and a half,” he answers as he works it in.

No wonder I can hardly see straight.

📎

We went to bed a while ago. Jack is snoring, but I’m still awake, which is exactly backwards.

Jack was in the Army straight out of high school. He said his grades weren’t stellar, he didn’t have a career plan, and his father had served, so it just sort of happened. He’s also quick to say he made it out better than a lot of guys he served with. I don’t doubt that, but there’s still hell to pay if you startle Jack—especially if there’s a loud noise involved—and it takes him a long time to fall asleep at night. He says it is part needing to feel safe, despite the lack of sentries or other perimeter watchmen, and part not believing that he won’t have nightmares, even though he hasn’t had them in years.

Me, I fall asleep fast, usually. Some nights, though, my brain forgets to power down.

That isn’t really what’s happening tonight, honestly. I’m just thinking about this evening, the ice and the game and the bet and all. And maybe wondering if doing such a good job of holding still was the wrong move. The wrong not move, technically. Because if I’d moved a little more, Jack would’ve gotten out the ginger and the cane. Sure the ginger burns and the cane hurts (more in the morning), but…the whole experience is kind of nice, you know? Or you don’t, and you think I’m crazy, or sick, or abused, but, well, to each their own.

So I’m lying awake wondering if I should have lost so that Jack would cane me.

His arm, which was wrapped loosely around my shoulders, drifts down the length of my spine. “Why are you still awake?” He asks sleepily. “Everything okay?”

“I’m fine,” I assure him. “Just thinking.”

Jack frowns, snugging me closer. “About your dad leaving again?” He asks, compassion and concern tangling in his voice.

I shake my head, closing my eyes and hoping he can’t tell I’m blushing in the low light. “I was just wondering if winning was a mistake.”

“You’re wondering if win—” Jack starts to say it back to me, as if saying it again slower will make it make sense, and then he drops it, evidently deciding it just won’t compute.

I nod, but I can’t look at him. My cheeks burn. “You didn’t cane me,” I remind him. “Because I won.”

Jack’s hand slides further down my back and he squeezes my butt playfully. It’s an odd sensation to want to wince from not wincing. If he’d caned me, squeezing the stripes like that would’ve sent a hot little reminder jolt of pain up my spine. But he didn’t, so there’s no pain, which hurts in a different way. It’s confusing, for someone who likes logic.

“Well, now, my company happens to be on summer hours, which means I can leave at two tomorrow, and weren’t you saying your boss is giving away thank-you half-days for that big project y’all wrapped up last month? And doesn’t all that mean we could both be home early enough tomorrow to properly prep some ginger and put your wondering to a rest?”

“We could?” It comes out like a question. It settles in my soul like a promise.

“Mm,” Jack murmurs, squeezing my butt again as he pulls me closer. “If you’re a good boy and get some sleep tonight.”

I fake an obedient snore. Jack snorts and slaps my ass lightly. “Smartass.”

But the agreement does calm me down and it’s not long before I really am asleep, snug in Jack’s arms.

📎

Work is a disaster. My boss agrees to the half day, but as soon as anyone else finds out I’m leaving at noon, Monday is impossibly far away. People who I swear would’ve been fine with me taking three days to do the task for them any other time suddenly need “this one thing” before I go, and no, Monday morning will not do. I want to scream at them that it’s next business day, for f*ck’s sake, but that would be unprofessional, and probably get me fired, so I don’t. Barely.

I do what I can, hang on to my sanity (barely), and tell my boss what I didn’t get to before I leave. She gives me a sympathetic smile and tells me to enjoy my weekend. I don’t growl at her, because it’s not her fault, but I want to.

By the time I get home, I have a raging headache and a foul mood. I don’t even want to see the letters W, O, R, or K for the next two and a half days. The only thing worse than that would be ruining Jack’s weekend just because my Friday morning went to pot. So, I pop some ibuprofen for the headache and start preparing dinner—an Asian dish that won’t mind the excess ginger—in our slow cooker, so we can enjoy our afternoon and have dinner whenever we get around to it.

It’s a good thing Jack’s already planning to cane me, because that’s one of the things that will stop my thoughts chasing each other all over the inside of my skull like they’re doing now. I can use the caning to shove off all thoughts of work and panicky idiots until Monday.

Jack gets home a few hours after I do—long enough for me to have a mask in place and have gotten rid of the headache—and laughs when he peeks in the crockpot. He kisses me. “I’m going to change into something more comfortable.” His work makes him wear a button down and tie most days, which really isn’t his style. “If you’re still angling for a caning, you should probably do the same.”

I check that the crockpot is set low enough that it won’t burn our dinner even if we forget it for a long while. Then I grab the ginger I prepared, and left soaking in a glass of water, out of the fridge and follow Jack to the bedroom.

He watches with clinical appreciation as I strip. He finishes changing into a t-shirt and jeans as I lie down across the bed, putting one of those small decorative pillows no one ever knows what to do with under my hips to raise them to a better angle for Jack. I lay my head on my arms and try to relax.

Fortunately, Jack’s always been able to tell when I don’t want to talk, so he pads over to the bed silently. I barely feel Jack slide the dripping ginger root in, or his warm-up strokes with the cane. I think he can tell I’m disengaged, because he grabs my butt cheeks in both hands and squeezes them together, forcing my ass to clench around the ginger. As my intestinal lining makes firm direct contact with the oil in the ginger, I start to feel the burn, enough to grab my attention, anyway. I feel the next stroke from the cane, too. And the next, and the next.

Every few strokes, Jack sets the cane down across my ankles. He twists the ginger inside me, or squeezes my butt to make me clench on the root, or rubs the cane stripes, which sends a second flash of fire down the line. It helps me focus, as does the growing hurt from a sound caning. But it takes a long time for my brain to totally clear, and longer before I think it will stay clear.

Once I reach that point, I can really relax and give myself over body and mind to the sensations, to the whippy lines of fire each time the cane connects with my rear, and to the warm burn inside from the ginger.

Not long after that, Jack pauses again, but this time he sets the cane down on the bed, a signal that he’s not planning to start again. He strokes my spine, from the back of my neck all the way down and back up, sending little shivers rippling through me. Then he reaches for the ginger, twisting it in deeper for one more second before pulling it out. It’s spent, so the last little twist does very little to increase the burn.

He tosses it in the garbage beside the bed—I hear the thunk as it settles, even though my eyes are closed and my head’s still down on my arms—and then he reaches into the nightstand drawer, where I know there’s a bottle of ointment. Jack would never hurt hurt me, never do anything that would leave permanent damage. That doesn’t mean he’s afraid to lay down some deep bruising if we’re both in the mood, and I certainly was today. The ointment will help keep the skin healthy, and help the bruises heal faster. Jack rubs it in as I muffle groans in the comforter. No way around it, rubbing bruises hurts, but it’s part of the experience.

Jack knows it’ll take me a couple minutes to wrap my head around anything other than the caning. He lies down beside me, an arm across my shoulders, just offering steady presence.

After a few minutes, I’m ready. I roll to my side, careful not to move Jack’s arm off my shoulders. I lean in to kiss him. Jack answers hungrily, pulling me closer. I move easily, scrabbling to get closer, answering his hunger with my own.

📎

We eat at the counter, because Jack knows the last thing I want to do is sit on the lightly padded wooden chairs. After, we binge watch too much TV. I spend the evening on my side, curled up against Jack. By the time we go to bed, I’m sleepy and content, looking forward to the weekend with my lover.

I fall asleep, as usual, with my head on his shoulder, and his arm around my shoulders. Jack usually sleeps on his back, but tonight he fell asleep cuddled up to me, his other hand on my hip, which is fine, until we shift in our sleep and his hand slips down onto my bruises. My shout of pain wakes us both.

Remember when I said there was hell to pay if anyone startled Jack with a loud noise? It’s twice as bad if you startle him awake with a loud noise. A reflexive coil that has my head tucking toward my chest is the only thing that keeps me from adding more bruises to my collection. I stay low—Jack’s strong, and, uncontrolled, he’d be scary—putting a gentle hand flat on his chest. “Jack, shh. It’s me, Mac. You’re okay.”

He gasps, breathing hard, and scrubs his face with one hand. “What happened?” He asks raggedly.

I shake my head. “I’m not sure. I think your hand slipped off my hip and onto a stripe from the cane.”

“Aw, sorry,” Jack says. He scrubs his face again. “You mind if I hit the lights?”

“Go for it,” I assure him; I can tell some memory from the war is bothering him.

I close my eyes against the temporarily blinding light, not opening them until Jack practically shouts, “Holy hell, Mac!”

He’s sitting up, his hand hovering just beyond my hip, not quite touching my skin. He looks at me with something like horror in his eyes. “Why the f*ck didn’t you stop me?”

“When?” I ask, honestly puzzled.

“When I turned your ass f*cking purple.”

I shrug. “Work sucked. I didn’t want it to ruin our weekend, but my brain…” I shrug again. “The cane helps focus my thoughts; it just took longer than usual. It didn’t hurt that much in the moment, honest,” I attempt to reassure him.

“It will, probably for longer than the weekend.” Jack moves his hand to my shoulder. “I should use more ointment.” I wince, but nod. “Roll over,” Jack urges as he turns the other way to get the ointment out of the nightstand.

I settle on my stomach, pulling the pillow under my chest. As Jack starts to spread the ointment on my cane stripes again, I bite my lip, not wanting to cry out. Too soon I taste blood and realize I have to stop. I release my lip and press my face into the pillow, letting the tears leak into the pillow. When the inevitable mewl of discomfort escapes all my efforts to keep it from Jack, he strokes my side gently. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, sounding almost as pained as I am. “I’m so sorry, Mac. I don’t know how I didn’t realize—”

“‘S okay,” I grit out, hating the guilt I know he’s feeling.

“It’s not,” he replies fiercely. “Do you need me to stop for a minute?”

“Please don’t,” I tell him. “It’ll just be harder when you start again. I’m okay.”

“Bullsh*t,” Jack retorts, but he continues to spread the ointment as gently as he can. It hurts too much for me to keep up the debate with him.

When he finishes, he picks me up, tucking me against his chest, much as we were while we were watching TV, but closer. He wipes away the tear tracks down my face, kissing my forehead. “I’m sorry, Mac. I’m so sorry I hurt you. I didn’t mean to.”

“I know you didn’t,” I promise, letting him rub my back, for his comfort and my own.

I find myself drifting, more than half-asleep, snuggled into his chest. “I’m going to fall asleep,” I tell Jack, starting to try to make myself move.

Jack holds me tighter. “Good,” he whispers. “I gotcha, just relax.”

📎

Jack is even more tender and loving than usual all weekend, and he keeps after the bruising, so that, by the end of the weekend, I can actually sit for short periods in a well-padded seat and my gait doesn’t give away how sore I still am. In other words, I’ll pass for normal at work, which is a blessing.

I find him staring out the window into the darkness, an untouched glass of whiskey forgotten in his hand. “Jack?”

He runs a hand over his hair as he turns to me. “Why didn’t you stop me?” He asks again.

I don’t know what he wants from me. Well, I do. He wants to make me promise I’ll stop him next time. But he knows I would have stopped him, if I wasn’t enjoying it. And he knows making me promise is trying to remove his responsibility for his own actions, which isn’t fair to me. “Jack, you know I don’t feel it much in the moment,” I remind him. If I’d known I was going purple, that it was too much, I would have stopped him. I hadn’t known.

“Mac, you didn’t just not feel that!”

“Yeah, I did,” I correct, putting my arms around his neck. “Work was awful. I was in a foul mood and the only thing worse than how bad my morning was would’ve been ruining your day and our weekend, too. I needed the cane, Jack. Wanted it hard enough that I would focus on that and not on work.”

“Mac…”

“I’m sorry,” I say honestly. “I didn’t want my morning to mess up our weekend and it found a way anyway.”

“Nah, Mac, it’s on me at the end of the day. I have to control myself.”

“You do, Jack. I have no doubt. I know you think you went too far, and I hate it that you feel any guilt about Friday. I’m sorry I put you in a position where you’d feel bad about anything that happened between us. I hope you know that, if I’d realized what was happening, I wouldn’t have let it happen.”

Jack finds a spot for his glass and wraps his arms around my waist, pulling me against him. I tuck my head into the crook of his neck. Jack shifts one hand up to the back of my head, sliding his fingers into my hair. His other hand slips under my shirt to rest on my back, his thumb rubbing gently. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs above my ear.

“I’m sorry,” I parrot back. I don’t know what else to say.

We stand there, taking comfort from each other for a while longer. “Next time, please tell me what’s going on,” Jack requests. “Cheering you up from a bad mood, or distracting you from work crap… I love taking care of you. I love you. Don’t pull away when you need me most and try to deal with everything alone. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere, no matter what. Let me be here. Let me love you.”

Until he says it like that I don’t even realize that’s what it’s about, that I keep my weakest moments from him because I’m afraid he’ll leave, afraid he’ll abandon me, just like everyone else that matters to me. It’s not fair to him. It’s not fair to us. I feel my eyes burn as they fill and don’t try to stop the tears. I know Jack will feel his collar getting wet. I know it will worry him. I hate worrying him. But he’s right. I need to let him worry about me. I need to let myself be worried about. I need to let myself know I’m not alone.

📎

“Jack!” I answer my phone the second it rings.

“Hey, Mac,” he says and my heart beats faster just hearing the sound of his voice.

“I miss you so much,” I confess, my voice wavering more than I like. I shouldn’t be this desperate for him; he’s only been gone four days.

“I miss you, too,” he says quietly.

“When are you getting home?”

“Tomorrow night, but real late. Don’t wait up.”

I snort. No way in hell is that happening.

Jack chuckles. “I’ll wake you,” he assures me, “but the flight isn’t supposed to land until after midnight, then gate stuff and baggage and getting home. And that’s if the flight’s on time, and when is the last flight of the day ever on time? So don’t wait up, okay?”

“No,” I say honestly. “I just want you home. I really miss you!”

“I miss you, too,” he repeats. “I’ll be home tomorrow night.” It probably sounds cold to anyone else, but I can hear the control in his voice. He’s holding onto the facts—he misses me, he’ll be home tomorrow night—because, if he doesn’t, he’s going to fall apart and he can’t do that on a work trip. “One of us should be awake for the welcome home, don’t you think?” He continues.

“Jack!” I squeal, my mind going all sorts of dirty places.

“What are you going to do tomorrow night?”

“Not wait up,” I relent, pouting.

“Good boy,” Jack teases. “I mean before that.”

“I dunno. Friday night without you? I guess I’ll probably go over to Encontras.”

Jack groans. “Do you have any idea how hard I’m going to be on that flight, thinking about you in the club, with the bass thumping and everyone dancing and flirting and drinking and what strangers might be eyeing you?”

I grin, letting my voice get flirty. “I might be willing to remind you what I can do about that.” I hear him gasp in a harsh breath and I know his eyes probably rolled back at that. “If you remember that stutter, Cowboy,” I bargain.

“M-Mac,” he grinds out. I swear I can hear him freeing himself.

“Almost, Cowboy, almost,” I purr.

“I love you,” Jack growls in a tone usually used to convey the opposite sentiment.

I drop my pretense. “I love you, too. Come home quick!”

“As quickly as I can,” he promises.

The silence lingers. I don’t want to whine any more than I already have, but I really miss him. I also know he doesn’t want to be at the conference; he’d rather be home here with me. Complaining will just make both of us more miserable.

“Did you stay in tonight?” He asks. “Reading?”

“Yeah.” I can read for hours, at least when Jack’s not around.

It sounds like Jack’s licking his lips, but I’m sure that’s just wishful thinking. I probably just didn’t hear what he’s trying to say. “What?”

“Mmm, nothing,” he replies. “I’m just thinking about what I’d be doing if I was home with you.”

I don’t mean to moan, but I do know exactly what Jack would be doing by now. He isn’t an avid reader; an hour tops, and he’s bored, which always ends the same way.

“I never mean to interrupt,” he confesses. “I know how much you like to read. I always tell myself I’m going to behave and let you. I’m going to just be with you and enjoy that, but that innocent hand on your side, under your shirt, always starts kneading your hip before I even realize it, and then…” Jack trails off.

My whimper is pitiful, full of need and longing. I know what happens next, what should be happening right now, if he wasn’t so far away, and I want it.

“Have you put your book away yet?” Jack asks, sounding like he’s trying not to laugh at me. He knows I’m going to lose control before long, and he knows most of my books are borrowed from the library or friends and coworkers, so we can’t have any fun until we protect the book from it.

“Yeah,” I manage, anticipation making me hard, because he wouldn’t ask if he wasn’t planning on some fun.

“Good, that’s real good,” he murmurs and the praise shouldn’t shoot straight through me like it does.

“Jack,” I whimper. I want to tell him no, that he can’t tease me like this when he’s not here to finish it, but I don’t want him to hang up.

He lets the silence linger, no doubt wanting to be sure I’m hard and aching for it. “It’s okay,” he tells me gently. “Let it out.”

Usually he says that when I’m bottling up my emotions, especially about getting abandoned, and maybe that is what I’ve been doing all week, and why him being away is hitting me so hard, but he’s obviously also referring to a more specific “it” right now, and I obey immediately, shoving my sweats down enough to grab it, stroking roughly.

“Slow down,” Jack says in my ear as I cradle the phone between my face and shoulder. “Calm down. Don’t rush it; go slow, so you can enjoy it.” I’m already panting heavily, but I manage to slow my movements.

Jack alternates dirty teasing with directions. When he falls silent to let the anticipation build, knowing I’ll instinctively stop, waiting for his next command, my eyes close and I moan deeply.

When I get close, I realize how badly I want him in person. I should have stopped this before it started. “Jack,” I cry.

“Shh,” he coos in my ear. “I’m here. Stop for a second.” I whimper. I don’t want to stop. “You get tense when you’re anxious,” he tells me. “Just try to relax. I’m with you. Can you stoke your belly, right below the button? Real light, up and down.”

I obey and sigh as the feelings ripple through me.

“That’s it, Mac, just like that. You’re doing great, and you’re real close, aren’t you?”

“Mmhm.” I know he can hear the need.

“How about I help you with that?” He asks, and I nearly come right then. It doesn’t take much, and I’m stroking up with it, like Jack says to, and it’s roaring through me. I think I shout. I wonder if Jack comes, too.

I don’t know how long it is before I can hear Jack again over the roar of the blood in my ears. I don’t know if I passed out from the intensity. It wouldn’t surprise me. Jack’s whispering sweet nothings over the phone, until I get out a breathless, “Jack.”

“I’m here,” he promises. “I love you.”

“I love you. I wish that was you.”

“We can do it all again tomorrow, in person,” he offers.

“Please,” I beg, before the twin feelings of being sleepy and sated wrap me up in their arms and tug me toward oblivion.

“Good night, Mac,” Jack says in my ear, and it almost sounds like he’s speaking inside my head.

“Good night,” I respond drowsily.

📎

I swirl the whiskey in the glass in front of me. It’s Jack’s favorite whiskey. I can’t stand it. Yet this is my third glass of it tonight, and Encontras runs a generous bar. Add in the beer I had with my coworkers, and I’m on the equivalent of my fifth drink before eight o’clock. I contemplate going home, but I miss Jack too much and it’s still hours before he’ll get home. Another glass of whiskey and at least I’ll sleep, like Jack wanted.

Suddenly, someone is in my space. I tense reflexively as he puts a hand on the back of my chair and one on the table beside the glass and leans in. “Hi, Stranger.”

His voice penetrates the drunken fog that’s beginning to envelop me and I bolt to my feet, nearly cracking our skulls together. “Jack! What are you doing here? When did you get home? How? You said you wouldn’t be home until real late!”

I babble on, giving him no time to answer. He lets a brief chuckle escape and then kisses me until my mouth stops asking questions and starts answering his kiss. When he pulls away, because we both need to breathe, I bury my face in his chest, arms around his neck.

Jack holds me close, rubbing my back. “I promised I would come home as quickly as I could. The last speaker at the conference called out sick. The others went out to see the city, but I just went on to the airport. I figured I might be able to catch you at lunch and talk a little. When I checked in, the airline said they’d overbooked the midnight flight, but they had one leaving in an hour that they could get me on, if I hurried. So I hurried and got home. Your Jeep’s at home, but you weren’t, so I figured you’d done like you said last night and come here.”

“You could have just called,” I murmur.

“And wait while someone else brought you home? No.”

I nuzzle his neck.

I don’t realize tears are leaking out of my eyes until Jack lifts my chin and rubs the tears off my cheeks. “I’m home now,” he whispers. “I’m home.”

I nod, trying to collect myself. Jack rubs my hip with one hand and murmurs in my ear, “When I walked in and saw you sitting over here in the corner, looking miserable and so out of place amid everyone enjoying their Friday night, I couldn’t help but think about a time when I was in this club in that sort of mood.” Jack’s hand moves to my belt and he undoes it without stepping away from me. “Let me take care of you.”

I can’t speak, but, unlike our first time here, Jack doesn’t have to figure out whether I consent or not. I feel his hands, so close to where I want them, as he undoes the button on my jeans and lowers the zipper. He pushes my boxers down a little and tucks the edges of my jeans out of the way. We’re in a corner, and he’s being discreet. Chances are no one will even know what he does. Jack’s not as bold in public as I was that night.

I moan as his mouth slips over me. His tongue strokes me as he adjusts. My hands run though his fuzzy, short-cropped hair. Jack’s hands slide into my jeans, grabbing my hips. He pulls me harder into him with each thrust.

He sucks harder. I groan. He squeezes my butt, pulling me into him again. “Jack,” I get out. He pulls back until just the tip of my dick is between his lips and looks up at me. He runs his hands up the back of my sides and back down. When I say nothing more, he swallows me deep again. He adjusts his angle somehow and I can’t help it; I explode down his throat.

He holds me tight to him, until he’s taken everything I have. Then he slides back, letting my spent dick fall from his lips. Gently, he tucks me back in and fixes my clothes before standing up, his hands never leaving my body. He rubs my back with one hand as his eyes settle on my unfinished glass of whiskey. He snags it with his free hand and takes a hearty gulp before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

His eyebrows raise. “That’s my whiskey.”

I nod.

“You hate this stuff.”

I nod again.

“You got drunk on alcohol you hate.”

I hesitate, because—even drunk—that sounds wrong, but nod again. Jack sets the glass down and I reach for it. He covers it with one hand. “No,” he tells me. “I’m cutting you off. You’ve had plenty enough tonight and you know it.”

I nod in response to that, too.

He sits down in my chair and pulls me down in his lap. Someone else had asked for the second chair a while back, so it’s not like I really have another option, but it’s not like I want one, either. I lean back against him, content to just let him hold me, with one arm around my waist.

He doesn’t gulp the whiskey, but he doesn’t take as much time as I’ve known him to as he finishes the glass. When it’s empty, his hand brushes through my hair. “Let’s go home,” he suggests.

📎

I barely remember Jack getting me out to his car, or into our home, or stripping me down to my boxers and more or less shoving me into bed. I do remember the pounding in my head when I wake up. Jack rubs my back. “If you’re going to puke, please don’t do it on me,” he murmurs quietly.

I blink my eyes open, flinching from the brightness, but the curtains are drawn, and it’s fairly dark in the room. Jack brushes my hair out of my face. “I made breakfast.”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” I murmur.

“You remember what happened the last time you took ibuprofen on an empty stomach? So are you going to come try to eat some toast, or suffer through the hangover without painkillers?”

I groan, but roll out of bed. Dizziness makes me stagger, but Jack gets an arm around my waist, steadying me, even as he’s still getting out of bed himself.

The breakfast he made is fairly bland in both taste and smell, which I appreciate, even while hoping he had something more appetizing before I woke up. He coaxes me into eating some toast and orange juice before he gives me the painkillers. I manage a little more food before my stomach refuses.

I put my head down on the table, waiting for the wave of nausea to pass. “I hate your whiskey,” I mutter.

“You aren’t supposed to drink it by the quart,” Jack retorts, but his hand on the back of my neck is steadying.

When I lift my head, Jack slips an arm under my shoulders and lifts me bodily to my feet. “Where are we going?” I ask, not resisting as he walks me through the house.

“Shower.”

Mm. Good call. I’m still pretty hungover, and Jack doesn’t seem to mind, so I let him start the water and adjust the temperature. I lean into him as he slides his hands into my boxers and down my hips until gravity grabs the shorts and they drop to my feet. He puts me in the shower and I close my eyes, basking in the hot spray.

Within a minute, Jack has stripped, too, and stepped in with me. His hands are warm and gentle on my body as he washes me.

📎

By the time Jack gets me dressed in sweats and settled on the couch, I’m starting to feel half-human again. I cuddle up against him as he starts a movie we’ve both been wanting to watch.

It’s not half as good as I expect and I start to lose interest. Jack still seems to be watching, so I relax into him and just enjoy that we’re together. Jack’s hands move to my shoulders and start to rub them. I don’t care how boring the movie is, I’m not moving away from that.

Jack keeps working on my shoulders even as he watches the movie. I close my eyes, leaning into him. Toward the end of the movie, Jack’s hands start to move down onto my back and I lean forward, bracing my arms on my legs, and letting my head hang loose. When the movie ends, Jack turns the TV off and pulls me over his lap almost in one move. I hum in pleasure as he massages my back all the way down to my hips.

My muscles are loose and relaxed when Jack stops. He leaves one hand on the small of my back. I’m resting my head on the couch’s armrest, turned in his general direction. “This isn’t how it was supposed to be,” I admit.

“How what was supposed to be?”

“Today. Last night. You were at a conference that undoubtedly reminded you of all the reasons why you hate your job all week. And then you were on a cramped plane. You were going to get home really late, exhausted and just done, and I was going to take care of you. I was going to welcome you home, like you hinted Thursday night. And maybe make you breakfast in bed. Take you to the beach tonight for the sunset, you know? It wasn’t supposed to be this. Wasn’t supposed to be you taking care of me.”

Jack’s hand on my back traces a circle around one of the vertebrae. “Are you under the illusion I don’t enjoy this? Don’t enjoy taking care of you?”

“No, but I had all these plans in my head. And then I got drunk instead.”

“On whiskey you don’t like.”

“You keep harping on that,” I say.

“I’m concerned,” Jack admits. I roll to my back so I can see his face. “Mac, I know you missed me. I know I missed you. I know people that matter to you leaving you is a sore spot, even when you know they’re coming back. But drinking too much alcohol you don’t even like, all alone, is a big step onto a slippery slope. I understand you not wanting to be apart from me, but you being so dependent on me that you get self-destructive when I’m gone is a problem.”

“I was just drunk, not self-destructive,” I protest.

“Mac, you were drunk already, and planning on more, before 8 o’clock. What if I hadn’t gotten here early?”

“We both know Ricky wouldn’t have served me another,” I point out. He almost refused me the one Jack drank.

“That’s not the point,” Jack maintains. “What if I didn’t get home at 1 or 2 or whatever? What if the flight was delayed or we got bumped because of the overbooking?”

“I guess I’d have had to adult,” I retort sullenly. Sometimes I have no idea what he wants from me. “Jack, I missed you and I got drunk. It’s just not a big deal. I wasn’t going to drive and I was at Encontras, where the regulars know me and wouldn’t have let anything too bad happen. What do you want, to spank me for getting drunk without permission?”

Jack smirks down at me. “That hardly seems like a deterrent, since you’d enjoy it.”

Guilty. I consider rolling back to my stomach just to see if he’ll give in, but he’s still got the serious look on his face.

“It’s not the drinking, not really,” he admits, and I can hear the frustration in his voice. “Just…I worry about you, Mac. All that hurt you hold in, I worry what it’s going to do you—to us—someday.”

I have no idea what to do with that. I can’t do anything with that. I lost everyone who mattered before I graduated high school. I can’t not be hurt. I don’t know any other way to be, but if me being me worries Jack all the time, makes him frustrated and not happy, then…. Then he’ll leave, too, and I just can’t face that.

I turn, hiding my face in Jack’s side. His free hand comes to rest on my hair without conscious thought, simple caring. I choke back a sob. I have spent so long not getting attached that I’ve forgotten how much it hurts at the end.

“Mac, talk to me.”

I shake my head against Jack’s side. Not yet. Just let me have a little longer with this delusion that someone will both care and stay.

“Mac,” he persists. “Come on; let’s talk about this.”

“What’s the point?”

“Of talking? The hallmark of a stable relationship?”

“We aren’t in a stable relationship. You just said it’s over.”

I risk a glance up when Jack goes stiff. He looks like I sucker-punched him. “Mac,” he says slowly, his voice dangerous. “You need to tell me exactly what you just heard me say, because ‘it’s over’ wasn’t part of it.”

I sit up, looking away. “Not in so many words, but that’s what it means. I’m broken.” I can’t hide the bitter pain. “And you don’t want that. It worries you. Frustrates you. Upsets you. Makes you not happy.” Jack flinches from each phrase like I slapped him. “And if I don’t make you happy, why would you stay?”

“Why would I—why would—why would I stay?” Jack stammers out, his voice rising on each iteration. “Because I f*cking love you!” He shouts at me, tears in his eyes.

Now I’ve done it. I’ve hurt Jack somehow, and pissed him off, too. And I have no clue at all how to step back off this ledge.

Jack rubs his mouth, like he’s trying to stop himself from saying something he’ll regret. When he does speak, his voice is quiet, honest. “Because I love you, Mac,” he repeats. “I stay because I love you. I stay because I can’t imagine living without you anymore. I stay because I want to be with you. Because I love you, Mac.”

“But—”

“There is no but,” Jack interrupts me. He manages a half-hearted smile. “Except your cute one, of course.”

“Jack.”

“You’re right,” Jack agrees. “We can joke about that later. Mac, how many times do I have to tell you I’m not going to leave you before you believe it? That hurts. Does that make any sense to you? It feels like you don’t trust me.”

“I trust you.” So much it hurts.

“To leave you, like your father did.” His voice is every bit as bitter and pained as mine.

“Everyone does.” The wind’s gone out of me, and my voice is just flat.

“See, that’s exactly what I was talking about earlier, when I said I worry,” Jack says earnestly. “You’re so convinced that loss is inevitable that you can’t fully enjoy what’s right in front of you. I so wish better for you, wish I could fix it all for you.”

“Can’t fix dead,” I reply, a lesson I learned young. “And broken’s not much better.”

“I’ll take you alive over you dead any day.”

“For now,” I say, because that’s my truth, but it does cross my mind, in passing, that Jack’s last comment suggests he worries about suicide, and so I should tell him that’s not on the table.

Jack just shakes his head. “God, I wish I knew why your dad left you,” he mutters.

“He left because I—”

Jack interrupts. “I know why you think he left. I wish I knew why he really left. I know it wasn’t your fault, and every reason you’ve ever told me is just you blaming yourself.” Jack takes a deep breath and then drops it, because there’s nothing either of us can do about my dad. “I’m sorry I shouted at you, Mac. You didn’t deserve that. I’m sorry I can’t fix things for you so that you don’t have to constantly be afraid that any wrong move on your part will make me leave.”

“I’m sorry I can’t blindly trust you to stay,” I tell him. I say it because it’s the only thing I think he wants to hear that feels honest. I say it because I want him to not be mad at me anymore, or frustrated, or upset with me. I say it because I want—need—him to stay.

Jack moves first, sliding over until he can wrap his arms around me and tuck my head into the crook of his neck. I nestle there, trying to take comfort from his steady presence, trying to trust. “I do try, you know,” I venture.

Jack strokes my hair, and then my shoulder and arm. “I know you do, Mac. And if you ever want to talk about it, I’m always here.”

“Talk about what?” I ask warily.

“About what—and when—broke you so badly. About how you felt when they died, when he left, about who else hurt you and left you that you decided the only safe thing to do was to have no meaningful relationships at all. I don’t know—it might help. Either you to heal, or me to understand what I’m seeing and all the ways it isn’t you not trusting me.”

I know he wants me to agree to talk about it. The guarded, jaded part of me, screaming “No surrender!” wants to refuse unequivocally. The parts that trust him most wonder if he’s right, that it might be a good idea. The scared parts are terrified. “Maybe,” I hedge. “Someday.”

Chapter 3: Father's Day | Safeword

Chapter Text

Work calls me in early on a Sunday afternoon for some sort of emergency with our top priority project. The lowly analyst ordered to call me in doesn’t understand the actual problem well enough to tell me what I’m getting dragged in for, making me gripe to Jack that it could be something simple I could just talk a tech through over the phone. But I won’t know if that’s true or not until I get in there, so….

“Think about it this way: at least if it’s a simple thing you won’t have to work long; if it’s not a simple thing, you could be stuck there a while.”

“Well aren’t you full of cheerful thoughts,” I retort.

Jack squeezes my shoulder. “Go save the day. I’m going to head out, too, spend a little time with my old man.”

I look at Jack. “That’s right; it’s Father’s Day, isn’t it?”

Jack nods. “I don’t know whether to say, ‘hopefully, I’ll be home before you’, or the reverse.”

“Don’t say either. Go visit with your Dad. Don’t worry about the time. If I get home, I’ll start dinner. If it’s late, I’ll text you and see if you want me to pick up something.”

📎

The work emergency is at least worth my while, but I’m still grumpy about being called in on a Sunday, so after dinner, Jack pulls me over his knees to exorcise my bratty mood with a light spanking. While he does, he tells me about his afternoon at his dad’s grave. I know it’s mostly because I’m drifting toward subspace, even though the play is as mild as we get, but Jack’s words are just grinding in the relationship he still has with his father, even after death, that’s so much better than anything I have or did have with my, presumably still alive, dad. The realization that it’s Father’s Day probably doesn’t help, either, and it’s all hammering at me in a not good way.

Finally, hating myself, I gasp out a single word that has two immediate effects. One, Jack immediately stops what he’s doing, and, two, he looks at me with uncomprehending astonishment.

Tears already on my face, I slip off Jack’s knees onto my own. I know Jack’s probably replaying everything, trying to figure out how I could safeword over a fully-clothed light spanking when I don’t over a thorough ginger caning on bare skin. I doubt I’m even pink from the spanking, and I certainly won’t be in five minutes, yet I called out over this and not over things I will be feeling for days? I understand his disbelief.

When he figures it out, Jack gets upset. “Oh, Mac. I am so sorry. I wasn’t thinking. It’s my job, as the top, to think about every aspect of a scene, about the situation I’m putting you in—physically, mentally, emotionally—but this was such a light scene physically that I just didn’t and that’s on me. I’m really glad you recognized that you were at your limits and made me realize it; I’ve always worried that your anxiety about upsetting me might keep you from using your safeword when you need it, so I’m really happy to know you will, and really sorry I put you into a place where you needed it.” Jack pauses for breath and then continues, no less anxiously, “What do you need now, Mac? Do you want some space?”

“No,” I whimper. Don’t leave! I don’t know if I get that part out verbally or not.

Jack slides down to the floor next to me, gathering me up in his arms. “Alright. Alright,” he soothes. “Then I won’t go anywhere,” he promises.

I’m trying to stop the crying, and haven’t completely succeeded when Jack moves. I squeak out a noise of protest. “Hey, easy, Mac. It’s okay. I’m not leaving and I’m not making you move anywhere. I just want the blanket off the back of the couch; you’re tactile, especially when you’re emotional. I thought warm and soft might help.” He shifts again, reaching for the blanket just beyond his fingers; I let him, though I have to bite my lip to do it.

Jack wraps the blanket around me, and then rocks me, the whole thing making me feel like a kid, but, then, that’s probably what I need when it was thinking about my dad ditching after Mom died that set me off. “There; that’s better, isn’t it?”

I nod against his chest. “Just, why did he have to leave?”

I’m not sure Jack can even hear me, with my face buried in his shirt, until he responds, “I don’t know, Mac. I wish to God I had answers for you, but I do know this: it was not your fault.”

📎

Jack continues to rock me in a blanket-wrapped ball. Slowly, I get control of the tears. “I’m really sorry, Jack,” I tell him. “I didn’t want to, but…I had to.”

“I know,” Jack rubs my back. “I know you had to. You don’t have to apologize for that. I already did and will keep doing so, because I’m the one who did it wrong, not you.”

“But…that barely even counted as a spanking. You weren’t hurting me.”

Jack chuckles without humor, shifting me closer. “When people—even scene people, like us—talk about safe words, and the situations where they’ll be used, we use physical scenes—a caning gone too hard, edge play, some kind of restraint failure: the knots slipping too tight, choking on a gag—because those are the scenes we can all agree on and identify readily as being out of bounds. But the truth is, Mac, safe words are there for when the intensity of a scene goes beyond what the sub can bear. An attentive dom is going to know when the physical intensity is getting too high, which means chances are good a sub’s going to need their safe word most for mental and emotional intensity. Mac, you’re right: I wasn’t hurting you physically. We both know that. Hell, this ‘scene’ is more physically intense than that one.”

I nod, another apology on my lips, when he continues, overriding the “sorry” beginning to emerge from my mouth.

“But, Mac, you’re also wrong. I was hurting you. You are so submissive—it’s always whatever I want; putting yourself less than last—that you never would have even considered using your safe word, let alone voiced it, unless you were in severe agony. I know that, and I think you do, too.”

“Jack…”

“No, Mac,” he insists. “Tell me what you were feeling, what you were thinking in the seconds before you used your safe word. Tell me you weren’t in pain. Tell me you weren’t hurting.”

I won’t say he hurt me; I won’t. But, I can’t lie to him, not without making him angry, if he finds out, and he will, because the guilt will eat me, and he reads me too well. I can’t hide from him. “Jack, please, don’t make me,” I plead.

“You don’t have to say it, if you don’t want to,” he assures me, “but I need you to admit it to yourself, and forgive yourself for using your safe word. That’s what it’s there for. If you beat yourself up, and hang onto self-recrimination over the proper application of a safe word, you won’t use it as quickly the next time you need it, and you’ll be hurt worse. That’ll hurt both of us, and our relationship. I don’t want my thoughtlessness today to do that to us tomorrow. Help me, Mac. Help me fix what I did.”

I let myself remain in his arms, calming slowly. Coming to a decision, I look up at Jack. “Finish it, then.”

“Finish what?”

“Spanking me, or use the crop, if you’d rather.”

“I’m not going to punish you for using your safe word! Did you not hear a word I just said?” Jack demands, staring at me with almost as much disbelief as his gaze had held when I first uttered my safe word.

“I’m not asking for punishment,” I assure him. “I’m asking for a scene. Help me prove to myself that I used my safe word because I had to, and that it hasn’t changed anything. Help me prove to me that I didn’t ruin us. Help you prove to you that you didn’t ruin us. Please, Jack?”

He swallows hard, before nodding slowly. Without really removing his arms from around me, he begins to peel off the blanket, and then my clothes, rubbing my body as it becomes exposed. “Over the back of the couch, then.”

“Yes, sir,” I say as automatically as ever, bending over the back of the couch to raise my hips. I fist my hands in the cushion as Jack’s hand lands with a solid smack.

“Are you okay, Mac?” He asks, not sounding as collected and controlled as usual.

“Yes, sir,” I whisper, probably not as confident and certain as usual myself.

His hand lands again. It doesn’t even really hurt, but it feels like we both expect it to. Jack manages to give me a dozen swats, enough to color me a little. “Enough,” he says, and it’s one part an order from a dom, and one part him begging, and one part asking.

“Yes, sir,” I reply, almost all the words I can form.

Jack wraps me in the blanket again, and scoops me up in his arms. I usually don’t let him carry me, but this has been a strange evening. He dumps me gently on the bed, letting the blanket fall open. Jack’s hands run over my ribs. “Now the fun part,” he murmurs. I shiver at the sound of his voice. “Now, I’m going to f*ck you until we both forget anything except each other.”

“Yes, sir,” I agree readily.

📎

I wake with a gasp, and almost immediately hear my name. “Mac, you okay?”

“Jack,” I breathe. I’m sure he can hear the hesitant relief in my voice.

“Are you okay?” He asks again.

I double check. The dream felt that real. “Yeah, I’m fine,” I confirm.

Jack is silent for half a second. “I’m going to turn on the light,” he tells me, “because you don’t sound like you’re convinced, let alone convincing.”

I’m not surprised. I avert my eyes as he turns on the bedside lamp.

“Mac?” Jack presses again, once we’ve both blinked through the sudden brightness.

“It was just a dream.” As Jack pointed out, I say it more to remind myself than to explain anything to him.

“Want to tell me about it?” Jack asks gently.

That depends on whether I can trust Jack not to get mad at me for my dream—let’s face it, my nightmare—version of him. It’s Jack, so I probably can trust him at that, if I frame it properly, which has the bonus of giving him some more background, which will put him in a good mood before we get to the not so good part.

I roll to my back and stare up at the ceiling, considering where to start. “I don’t remember if I’ve ever told you any stories about Kevin,” I begin. “The guy who introduced me to BDSM?”

“I figured someone had to have,” Jack says, “but, no, the name’s not familiar.”

“There’s not a whole lot to tell about him. We were good friends and I’m eternally indebted to him for introducing me to the scene, but, once he did, we figured out pretty quickly that I was going to want a level of intensity that he just wasn’t ever going to be comfortable with, and the sexual relationship fell apart at that. At the time, it felt awkward to both of us to continue any kind of relationship. If I saw him again now, though, I think we’d be good friends.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know. I was at MIT when we were together. We separated before I graduated, so I didn’t keep up with him after I came back out west. I assume he’s still in the Boston area, but I don’t really know. He’s not what I was dreaming about anyway, just necessary context for how I ended up in the relationship with Isaac.”

“Let me guess. Isaac was a bit higher intensity than Kevin,” Jack speculates, pushing up on one elbow to see my face.

I smile over at him. “And you say I’m the smart one. Though ‘a bit’ is being generous.”

“Noncon?” Jack asks seriously.

“No…not really, anyway. I had a safe word, and he listened, if I used it. When I used it. But he kind of saw soft limits as a roadmap, not a boundary. And you know how it is, my pleasure comes when and only when you will it, and more from your pleasure with me than from my own physical pleasure – that’s sort of a sub’s lot, right?”

“Not sure that’s how I’d put it, but I take where you’re coming from.”

“You’re the sort of dom where, if you’re happy with me, happy with the scene, you’re going to make sure I’m taken care of physically, too. Isaac was more of the … ‘when I will it, and mostly I don’t’ type.”

“You have regrets?”

“Not as many as I probably should,” I admit. “Honestly, Isaac taught me a lot about where my limits really are, and about what I really wanted—and didn’t want—in a partner. I think he’s part of the reason I fell for you so hard so fast. Even in a single weekend, less than forty-eight hours, you showed me you were all the things that I wanted and none of the things I didn’t. Toward the end of the time I was with Isaac, I had gotten all the clarity I was going to get out of that kind of relationship about what I like and don’t like, and came to realize that there was a lot more didn’t like than did like, and not enough reward for putting up with the didn’t likes. It never really went to noncon, but it definitely got into reluctant consent a lot, and extricating myself from that relationship took some doing. I don’t know how intentional it was, and how much was that I suck at relationships, but he kind of took my attempts to say I wanted out like any other ‘no’ during a scene.”

“I’ve known more than a few doms who don’t figure it’s a sub’s place to be the one doing the breaking up,” Jack admits. “They seem to figure a sub is theirs until they’re done with it. Always felt to me like they were forgetting the sub was still an actual human being.”

I nod, blinking to keep my eyes from filling. “That’s what made me just walk away from Isaac—when I stopped feeling like one.”

Jack rubs my arm soothingly. I reach for his hand, wanting the connection.

“Everyone’s got that ex, right?” I say bravely, “The rotten apple in the bushel that teaches you what you are looking for by contrast to what you’re not looking for.”

“Sure,” Jack agrees. “Get me drunk some night and I’ll tell you about Sheila.”

I make a mental note to do that before bracing myself to tell Jack about the actual dream. I rub my thumb in a circle on the palm of Jack’s hand. He rolls to his side so he can go back to rubbing my forearm soothingly with his other hand.

“I dreamed…us,” I start. “Which should have been a nice dream; usually is. But this dream you were more Isaac than you, but still you, which was worse, I think. And I remember being confused by some of it, because you were doing stuff to me in the dream, kinds of play I know you’re just not into. Stuff you avoid because it doesn’t appeal to you not just because it’s limit-adjacent for me. Needle play, pain to break not to cross over into pleasure, that sort of stuff.”

“You think it’s because of what happened on Sunday?” Jack asks, sounding guilty.

“No,” I tell him. “I really don’t. I’ve had dreams about Isaac before. This one just shook me a little harder because I was seeing you in that role, which messed with all my ability to logically process what I was dreaming and also all my emotions.”

I feel Jack nod beside me, but I don’t look over. “It’s common enough to dream a new partner in an old relationship, or vice versa,” he says.

“Sure. I’ve had dreams like that before. I just haven’t had a relationship like this one before, one I was this invested in. But it was just a dream. I’m fine and we’re fine and it’s okay.” I think I sound like I believe it this time.

“Maybe I should kiss it and make it better, just to be sure,” Jack offers helpfully.

“That’s not a bad idea,” I say, trying to sound contemplative, even as I know blood flow throughout my body is rearranging itself.

Jack rolls over fully, to put his lips near my ear as he whispers, “Just tell me where.”

Oh, we are never getting back to sleep, I think, not entirely reluctantly, before I indicate the first place Jack can “kiss it better”.

Chapter 4: Mission City | July 4

Chapter Text

Some years the anniversary of my mother’s death washes over me and settles painfully in the pit of my stomach with the realization that I’ve survived another year without her, this much more of my life than I had her for. Other years, it hits me harder than a steamroller. This is shaping up to be one of those years. The sun hasn’t even crossed the horizon yet. I’ve already paced the house twice.

I’m starting to worry I’m going to wake Jack, so I go out on the deck. The air is damp with last night’s rain, which came on a cold front. It’s barely 50° out, practically freezing for L.A. It doesn’t keep me from sitting in the corner of the deck, knees drawn, and my head down.

Despite my almost all-consuming misery, it is impossible to miss the sudden wash of heat at my side. “Mac, it’s me,” Jack says quietly, putting a hand on my back between my shoulders. I bob my head a little to show I heard, but I don’t want him to see me cry, and I don’t have words for him right now.

A breeze makes me shiver, raising goosebumps. “You’re freezing out here,” Jack observes. “We don’t have to talk, if you aren’t ready, and I’ll give you space, if you’d rather be alone, but can you please come in and get warm? Please, Mac?”

I hardly ever deny him anything, for fear he’ll leave. When I’m already vulnerable, like this, well, he didn’t even have to say please. I follow him inside, let him stick me in a shower and leave clothes on the counter for me. The part of my brain still functioning beyond the inward-turned ball of misery knows seeing me this miserable is tearing him apart, so making everything as easy as possible for me, caring almost too much, is the best way he has of coping with his feelings about my feelings.

While I’m in the shower, Jack cooks breakfast, all my favorites. “Thanks,” I manage quietly, around the lump in my throat that isn’t all about my mom.

Jack gives me a squeeze around the shoulders. “Eat up.”

He waits until I’ve finished eating to reach across the table and rub my arm gently. “When was the last time you went to visit her, went to the grave?”

“The funeral,” I answer, hating how lost and childish my voice sounds.

“Would you like to visit?”

I know Jack’s already seen my immediate, instinctive, physical response, so there’s no point denying it, but my dad always got angry when I asked and my grandfather never asked, so I feel like this is a trick question, a trap. Except Jack never does things like that to me. He’ll play with me physically—sexually—but never emotionally. “Is that okay?” I ask tentatively.

“Of course it is, Mac. Do you want me to drive? I’m not sure your head’s in the right place to be behind the wheel right now.”

I can’t argue with that, so I just nod.

📎

It’s a long drive to Mission City. Jack lets me retreat into my own private misery for the first stretch, but, after a few hours, he breaks the silence. “I don’t know if you know it, but your whole face lit up, like a kid on Christmas, when I asked if you wanted to visit your mother’s grave, which makes me wonder just how long you have been wanting to go there.”

The answer’s out of my mouth before I can even consider stopping it. “Since the funeral.”

Jack’s quick glance at me is sad, and something else that I’ve learned over our years together is compassionate. He returns his eyes to the road before speaking. “I know you’re pretty wound up already, so if you don’t want to get into this now, you don’t have to answer, but why haven’t you been, if you’ve wanted to for so long?”

When we first got together, I spent a lot of time trying to figure out what about me would finally make Jack leave, what it would be that I’d do wrong. Jack spent most of that time trying to figure out how to convince me he wouldn’t leave, no matter what mistakes I might make. I don’t think either of us were completely successful in achieving our objective. If I learned anything about what I could do that might be grounds for leaving, it’s not being honest about what I’m feeling. He knows I won’t always come out with it unprompted, like he wishes I would, but if he asks, it matters more than anything to him that I tell him the truth. And, even though he said I don’t have to answer, he’s also always reminding me that talking is the hallmark of a stable relationship, so the part of me that’s still afraid he’ll leave figures I have to answer, if I want this to stay a stable relationship.

The part of me that’s at least trying to learn to trust, even if the only person I can trust is Jack, has learned that, when I do manage to trust him with a part of my brokenness, he holds it with more care than I can ever imagine anyone having for a busted thing, and, when he gives it back, if he can’t fix it, he’s at least made the brokenness its beauty, not its pain. That part of me wonders what he might be able to do with even this.

So, for once, the two parts of me, while still diametrically opposed, are in complete agreement about the correct course of action. “I asked Dad about going to visit her after the funeral. He always got real angry. He told me the Mom I knew wasn’t there. She was dead and she wasn’t coming back. What was left of her—the physical body we buried—was just rotting, getting eaten by worms and bugs—so we weren’t going to visit that.”

Jack winces. “How old were you again?”

“Five.”

Jack grimaces. “That’s a harsh version of the truth for a kid.”

I shrug. “I learned real quick that going to the cemetery wasn’t allowed, and even wanting it was just childish delusion. So, even after he left, I never asked again, him or my grandfather. I don’t know if my grandfather felt the same way or just assumed I didn’t want to go, didn’t want to be reminded of losing her. By the time I could’ve gone alone, I figured Dad was right—that going to a cemetery to visit someone who is buried there isn’t something that’s done. I mean all those graves in all those cemeteries and when do you ever see anyone in them, except for a burial?”

“Other than when I took you with me to visit my old man’s grave?” Jack asks practically. I’m starting to sense Jack has a very different opinion than my father about how okay or not okay it is to visit a grave.

“To meet him, you said, and you never took me again.”

Jack sighs. “If you wish I had, I’m sorry, Mac. I think you know I never intend to do, or pressure you into doing, anything that makes you uncomfortable. You seemed really uneasy the whole time when I took you to Dad’s grave, so I didn’t try to make you go again,” Jack explains, pulling into a rest area. It’s earlier than I thought we would need gas, but I’m not driving, so I don’t second-guess Jack until he parks in a spot near the picnic area, nowhere near the pumps.

“Jack?” I venture. “Is something wrong?”

He turns the car off and shifts to face me, reaching out to squeeze my shoulder. “Nothing’s wrong, Mac. You haven’t done anything wrong,” he reiterates. “I just can’t look at you while I’m driving and this conversation, and maybe this whole road trip, is turning into something different than I thought it was when we started. I just need to see you, to make sure I understand what’s really going on; that’s all.”

“I’m sorry if I was awkward at your dad’s grave. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to be there, it’s just that I have no idea how I’m supposed to be in that situation.”

“You don’t ever have to be anything but you with me.” I tilt my head in acknowledgement, but not necessarily belief. Jack shakes his head, reading my disbelief. “I mean it, just like I meant it when I said I never want to pressure you into doing something that makes you uncomfortable. So, I just want to double check here. Are you sure you want to visit your mother’s grave?”

I nod. I’ve been certain of that since we buried her. “I do,” I assure Jack verbally. “I just…I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, or how I’m supposed to act or feel when we get there.”

Jack gives me a reassuring smile. “My parents taught me there’s no wrong way to grieve, that whatever you do, however you act, or feel, if it feels right to you, it’s right and good. “And I will stay right with you, as long as you want. If it will help, I can suggest some things I might do, in your place, and you can decide what feels right to you.”

“Please,” I agree, frowning at the return of the lost, childish note in my voice.

Jack pats my shoulder and straightens in his seat. “You want anything, while we’re stopped?”

“You’re out of soda,” I point out.

“So I am,” he chuckles.

“I’ll go get you another, and something for me,” I offer, reaching for my seatbelt.

“Thanks. How about grabbing something to snack on, too, at least Oreos or something like that?” He requests. “I’m going to pull around the fill the tank while we’re here.”

I nod and start to jog toward the rest area proper as he turns the car back on.

📎

Jack lets me off the hook the rest of the trip, talking about normal stuff. A few miles from the exit for Mission City, he asks, “Did your Mom like flowers?” I nod. There were always flowers in the house. “Do you want to take some flowers to her?”

“Is that a thing people do?” I ask uncertainly.

“Yeah, sometimes.”

“Okay.”

“Okay, you heard me, or okay, we should stop at a florist?”

“We can stop,” I decide.

“What were her favorite flowers?”

“Crocus.”

Jack smiles fondly. “My Gram loved them, too. She was the kindest, sweetest woman you ever knew, except the week after the last crocus of the season croaked.”

I chuckle. “Did she introduce you to the puns, too?”

“Nah. I’m just mentioning it because it’s late in the year for crocus. I don’t know what a florist might have in the greenhouse, but what are you going to do if they don’t have any? I know you’re usually quick on your feet, but I figure you’re a little off your game today, so maybe you want to consider your plan B ahead?”

I nod but don’t offer anything. I only had five years with her. I have no idea what her second favorite flower was, at least until I walk into the florist shop. I don’t know the name of them, but I remember seeing them all over the house.

Jack smiles when I return. “Our moms would’ve gotten along. Those were her favorite flowers.”

I nod. “I, uh, I noticed a lot of your family had them around when we were there in May. And it was Mother’s Day that morning you snuck out of bed early and told me to go back to sleep.”

Jack nods, eyes on the road. “I’m sorry I ditched you, Mac, but I needed to do that alone. Mother’s Day is the day that usually hits me the hardest. It’s been years—a lot of years—since I was in Texas on Mother’s Day.”

“Is she buried there?” I guess. I know his Dad’s in L.A.

“No,” Jack tells me. “My Mom was…” He trails off with a chuckle. “Vain. And took the same science class your dad did. Rotting, decaying, becoming food for creepy crawly things? Yeah, not her scene. She was also a firm believer in that old Wesleyan quote: Do all the good you can … to all the people you can, as long as ever you can. She figured cremation was a waste of a perfectly good body. So, organ donation, and then the remains went to some future surgeon in Medical School. She figured it might even be the surgeon who would save me, life and limb, while I was serving overseas, and—for all I know—she was right about that.”

“But, then, where did you go, if there isn’t a grave?”

Jack smiled. “To a place we shared. Mac, the spot doesn’t matter. They’re just as much here in this car on this anonymous stretch of highway as they are anywhere else. A headstone just helps us, because our brains aren’t really wired to handle things beyond what we have experience of. Specific physical places and objects ground us, not our passed on loved ones.”

📎

Once we’re parked at the cemetery, Jack asks if I’m ready. As I get out of the car, I hear him say, “I guess that’s a yes,” and realize the question wasn’t rhetorical. I mentally vow to actually answer him next time.

“Given that you haven’t been here since you were five, and only the once, I figure you have no clue which one of these is your mother’s, but, with your memory, I don’t want to assume anything.”

I look across the field dotted with headstones. I have no idea where Mom is buried. “I don’t know,” I tell him, shakier than I’d like. I don’t like not knowing.

Jack puts an arm around me. “You still okay?” I nod. “Good,” he says and then heads down one of the paths. He’s not scanning headstones like he’s going to methodically search the place; he’s walking like he knows exactly where he’s going.

His path takes us from the side entrance to the main entrance. Anchored to the stone arch entryway, Jack finds a weatherproof container with a binder inside. He flips through it, looking at me thoughtfully for a moment. “There we go,” he murmurs and I try to focus on the binder. It’s a list, names and some sort of coordinate reference. Jack puts the binder away, looking around to orient himself, and then leads the way.

He stays on the path when we reach the correct headstone. I take a step away from Jack. Two. I’m not sure I can take another, so I sink down on my knees, laying the flowers at the base of the cold stone. My hand shakes as I reach up to trace the second year etched deep in the stone.

I remember Dad tying my tie before the funeral. Mom always called me “her handsome little man” when I wore the suit; she liked it, so it wasn’t like I could argue against wearing it, but mostly I remember, every time I started to cry, feeling strangled, like I couldn’t breathe, so I had to keep stopping myself from crying. Everyone at the funeral said what a brave little boy I was, and how sad it was that I lost her so young.

Whenever Dad caught me crying after the funeral, he’d pat my back and tell me crying didn’t change anything. If my grandfather heard him, he’d yell at Dad, tell him I was a kid who’d lost his mom and to let me cry, and that it wouldn’t hurt him, either. Then Dad would get angry at him, and he’d be angry at Dad, all because of me. So I tried not to let Dad catch me crying.

The feeling like I can’t breathe is familiar and feels so appropriate as I kneel at my mother’s grave. I try to stop the tears, but I guess I’m not so brave anymore.

Memory after memory breaks over me like a tidal wave. I can’t control them, or the tears. I can’t breathe.

I remember Mom was always strong and bright and happy, but in that hospital bed she was pale and frail and weak; her hair, which usually hung like a bright halo of pure gold, turned to dead straw, limp against the white hospital gown. She never wore white. She said, with our pale skin, she thought she looked like a ghost. Seeing her in that hospital gown, I saw her ghost before she even died.

Shaking, I reach out to trace the year again, thinking the stone is something solid I can cling to as I try to keep my head above water in the onslaught of memories, but it’s no help as I remember the first time my eyes traced the numerals, all rough edged and new, upturned dirt piling up at the edges, dirt that will cover Mom after they lower the coffin in the ground; memories of the last time I saw her.

Drowning and desperate, I reach for my last hope. “Jack!”

Warmth and steadiness and calm wrap around me as tightly as his arms do. “I’m here,” his breath whispers in my ear. “I’m here,” he repeats as I grip his shirt hard, clinging to it like a lifeline in a hurricane. “It’s okay, just let it out.”

Like I have a choice! Memories of before, memories of after. Memories of my grandfather, already sitting on my bed when I wake up, looking twice as old as he had the night before, when I went to bed; memories of him telling me she’s gone. Memories of screaming, denying it for all I am worth. Memories of wanting my dad, but he isn’t there, still at the hospital with Mom. What is left of her, anyway.

Flooding, raw, memories on memories, until there’s nothing left. No more memories. I was only five. There are only so many memories; too many of them from before the magic point where they stick. No more tears, just red, stinging eyes. No more energy, no more anything. Nothing, hollow and empty. Etched out, like the stone from the numerals that form that horrible, horrible year.

I tremble in Jack’s arms, having no idea how to come back from this meltdown, and feeling much too spent to do it anyway. “It’s alright,” Jack tells me quietly. “That’s been a lot of years coming. I know you needed that and I know you’re probably completely wrung out.” I nod, leaning my head into his shoulder. He strokes my hair, the side of my face. “It’s okay. Just take your time; I’m here.”

📎

Later, when something tells Jack I’m starting to put myself back together, he says, “I’m sure you just want to curl up and sleep about twelve hours, but I’d like to get some food in you first. You haven’t had anything but an Oreo since breakfast. Is that okay with you, if we go eat?”

I nod. At this point, I’ll do whatever Jack says, and he knows it. He’ll be extra careful about what he says because of it. “Okay then,” he says, getting to his feet without letting go of me. “While we go find food, and eat it, can you think about what you want to do? Whether you want to just head home, sleep in the car, or whether you’d like to stay up here tonight, maybe do a little more visiting tomorrow. I imagine you haven’t been back to Mission City since you left. Either option is fine with me, so just think about it for me.”

📎

I’m still reeling and spent as we arrive at the burger place in town. Fortunately, Jack and I have had burgers and beer often enough that he knows what I’d order if I was more with it. By the time we’ve finished, I’m feeling much better, though still exhausted.

As we’re leaving, someone hails me. “Is that Angus MacGyver?”

I turn and recognize that older man walking toward us immediately. “Mr. Ericson!”

“It’s good to see you, Mac,” he tells me. “I always wondered if you would ever come back.”

“Other than you, there’s nothing good to come back for,” I point out, before realizing I’ve failed at introductions. “Mr. Ericson, this is my partner, Jack Dalton. Jack, this is Mr. Ericson, my high school science teacher.”

“Arthur,” Mr. Ericson introduces, shaking Jack’s hand. “That goes for you, too, Mac. After graduation, anyone still talking to me is old enough to use my first name.”

I smile. “Yeah, seems a little weird.”

“Speaking of graduates, how is Wilt these days? He’s never been back, either.”

“Boz and I lost touch,” I tell my former teacher.

“You two were inseparable,” he says, shocked.

I shrug uncomfortably. If Mr. Ericson doesn’t know what happened, I’d rather not tell him. I still want him to like me.

“Well, I won’t keep you,” Mr. Ericson says. “Great to see you.”

“You, too,” I tell him honestly.

As we walk back to the car, Jack asks, “What are you thinking about staying or not?”

“I don’t know,” I confess. Jack nods and doesn’t start the car, so I know he knows I’m still trying to put my thoughts into words. The good news is that he’ll wait me out, all night, if that’s what it takes. The bad news is that he’ll wait me out, even if I can’t find words. “I don’t know,” I repeat. “A good part of me wants to say we should stay, wants to answer all the questions you’re dying to ask, about Bozer, and Mr. Ericson’s class, and my childhood in Mission City.”

“But,” Jack prompts.

“That’s going to get deep and, after the graveyard, I can’t even contemplate doing that again. Maybe after I sleep, but maybe not, you know? It seems like a waste to stay overnight for nothing.”

“It’s your choice, Mac.”

I nod. “I know, and I know you’ll say we can come back whenever I’m ready, if we leave now, but it’s a long trip to make.” I fall silent, thinking still.

Jack waits, unendingly patient.

“Uh, if I give you directions, could we go over to a park I used to frequent? I’ll tell you about Boz, and we’ll see how that goes?”

“Of course,” Jack agrees.

📎

“So this Boz kid you were inseparable with in school that I haven’t ever heard a thing about,” Jack prompts as we walk through the familiar park.

“No matter what the difference, being different as a kid in grade school means being a target. For Boz, it was being the only black kid in our class. For me, it was—”

“That brain of yours,” Jack guesses.

I grin. “Until 5^th grade, we were both just outsiders, keeping our heads down, trying to survive, and really didn’t have anything to do with each other.”

“And in 5^th grade?”

“This bully—Donnie Sandoz—had me pinned up against the lockers for lunch money, which was a totally normal occurrence. Usually I gave up the money. If I didn’t have lunch money, I didn’t have to go to the cafeteria, which meant I could hide out in a corner of the library and read ahead in my science textbook or plan my experiments for the afterschool lab time Mr. Ericson let me have. But that day, I didn’t have any lunch money to give him. My grandfather forgot to put the check with the permission slip for the planetarium field trip and I wasn’t missing out on that, so I turned in my lunch money with the slip. Donnie didn’t believe me and he was going to take it out of me in flesh and blood when Bozer showed up and punched him in the nose. Broke it, actually. We were pretty tight after that, even had a treehouse out in the woods that we called the Lab.”

“Until graduation, right?”

“Around then,” I agree. I frown at the memory; it wasn’t my finest hour. “By then my grandfather was dying, so I didn’t have anyone in my life to talk to, except Bozer; no one to tell me that I was being an ass.”

“What happened?” Jack asks, sounding like he thinks I’m being too hard on myself.

“I made it impossible for Boz to stay, so he left. I was young and dumb and just figuring out that my disinterest in Darlene Martin—undisputed hottest head cheerleader in the school—wasn’t because I was a geek and a nerd and a dork—”

Jack laughs at my description.

“But was because she was a she. And in my naïve perspective, I never let myself consider the possibility that I could become attracted to someone who wasn’t attracted to me, who couldn’t be won over with the right amount of wooing. Bozer and I already spent all of our time together and it just seemed so natural, so obvious, to me that he was supposed to be my first boyfriend, first kiss, first everything. As you might recall, I can come on a little, um, strong sometimes.”

Jack’s eyes go wide. “You didn’t—you didn’t try to do that to him, did you?”

“No, not that I didn’t think about it. But my behavior toward Bozer never went far enough south to border on criminal. It did go far enough to make being just friends impossible, and Bozer isn’t wired for being something more than friends with any guy, even me, so all that was left was…”

“Being less than friends,” Jack finishes.

“I lost the best friend I ever had because I hadn’t learned, even after everything with Mom, Dad, and my grandfather, that I can’t always have everything I want.”

“And you never found a way to make it right with him? Kiss and make up, you know?”

“I just told you that’s basically what ended things between us. I don’t think ‘kiss and make up’ would have helped.”

“Now you’re just being cranky. You know what I mean, Mac. Did you at least learn something from it?” Jack asks, half teasing, half dead serious.

“Then or since? At the time, it ground in all the same lessons of my childhood: Anything I want, I cannot have. Everyone I care about eventually leaves. And it’s all my fault. Since then, yeah, I’ve matured enough to have the correct answer to your question: that, if I expect people to respect my orientation and level of interest or disinterest, I have to respect theirs.”

Jack nods, taking my hand as we continue to wander the park. He coaxes stories about Mr. Ericson’s class, the Lab, more of the stories about my friendship with Boz, and even a bit about The Incident out of me. If he guesses that I chose the football field instead of Mr. Ericson’s classroom as the location of my experiment on isolating the radioactive isotope of potassium from bananas—which immediately became known throughout Mission City simply as The Incident—because losing the field to a small nuclear meltdown didn’t strike me as any great loss, particularly because all the worst bullies played for the team, he doesn’t comment on it.

We sit in the grass under some oak trees to watch the sunset, staying until the mosquitoes figure out they can get a taste of SoCal from us. As we walk back to the car, Jack says, “I know I’ve already said it, but sometimes I feel like I can’t say it enough with you: I never want you to feel like you have to do something that makes you uncomfortable on my account, so it’s all still completely your call, but it has been a long day, and we are a long way from home, so I think we should find a place to spend the night up here. We can still take as much or as little time leaving in the morning as you like.”

Jack’s been amazing, without a single word of complaint, all day. He drove all the way up here. Asking him to drive all the way back, without sleep, is suicidal, and the only thing I’d be good for is falling asleep at the wheel before he did. Besides, even more than sleep, the one thing I could use right now is to be held close and cuddled more than would be decent in public. “Yeah,” I agree and remember to tell him what I want. “I could stand a bed to be cuddled in about now.”

Jack smiles, wrapping an arm around me to pull me close. “All night, I promise,” he vows, kissing my temple. “I’m real proud of you; I know a day like today is way out of your comfort zone.”

📎

Warm. Dark. Unfamiliar bed. Familiar company. Jack’s breathing is deep and even, almost sleeping. Almost. One of his hands is woven through my hair at the back of my head, the other is on my back making slow, soft circles. A whisper of a voice drifts over my ear, almost too quiet to be heard. Almost.

“It’s alright. I’m here.”

With that comes the realization, much belated, that I’m crying. If Jack’s damp shoulder is anything to judge by, it’s been going on awhile. “Sorry,” I apologize.

“Nothing to apologize for,” Jack replies. His fingers play over dense muscle between my shoulder blades. “Your muscles are so tight right now,” he murmurs. “Your whole back and shoulders, right up into your neck. Figures, with the hours in the car and all the emotional stuff at the surface. I’ll give you a massage, if you want to roll over.”

“No!” It’s panicky and raw and a completely incomprehensible reaction, but Jack takes it, doing exactly the right thing: holding me even tighter. “Shh. It’s okay,” he says over and over until I manage to nod against his shoulder.

“Sorry,” I repeat.

“Still nothing to apologize for. Can you tell me what’s going on?”

Usually, even from Jack, it’s a polite request to do exactly that, but this is an honest question. He’s not sure I can, which is fair, because I don’t know, either. “It’s just—” My voice is shaking. I stop, clenching my jaw in a failed attempt to steady it.

Jack’s hand circles my back. “It’s okay. Maybe another time.”

But…. “I want to tell you, it’s just…”

“Hard for you, after so many years of not having anyone you could trust with your fragileness,” he says understandingly.

“Scary,” I suggest, not so much a contradiction as an addendum.

“What about it is scary?” Jack asks gently. “That I might leave? That I might hurt you? That you might hurt me?”

“All of that,” I confess. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s learned,” he differs. “Do you remember ever feeling like you could be honest about what you were feeling?”

“When Mom was alive, I guess,” I murmur, a little uneasy, but trying to be open with Jack.

“The first time you were honest about how you felt and it didn’t go well for you, was that with Bozer?” I shake my head. Bozer was the last straw, not the first. “Then when?” Jack asks.

“When my grandfather and father fought because I cried.”

“What were you crying about?”

“Mom. I told you, at her grave, didn’t I? About Dad telling me how crying wouldn’t make her not dead, and my grandfather telling him I was a kid who’d lost his mom, and it wouldn’t hurt him—my dad—to cry, either?”

“No, bud,” Jack says, sounding like he’s amused but trying to hide it because he knows this is serious for me. “Other than my name the once, you didn’t say a thing at her grave. You just cried, all the tears you didn’t cry so they wouldn’t fight, I think.”

I shrug; he’s probably right. “Dad was always honest with me. He never told me anything that didn’t make logical sense.”

“But comforting wasn’t his strong suit.”

“He wasn’t you, for sure,” I say, but what did I have to judge against? “Nothing changed, whether I cried about Mom or not, except how many people were angry.”

“So you didn’t cry.” I nod. “Is that what you were sorry for, when you first apologized? You thought I might be mad because you were crying?” I nod, burying my head in his shoulder, just in case I’m right. “That makes sense,” he admits, “that you’d apologize if you thought I was mad. I’m not, though, okay? I’m not mad at you, not for crying, not for any reason. When you’re with me, crying’s allowed, understand?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know if you understand?”

“The rules all changed,” I try to explain.

“When, Mac?”

“When we met, I think. I’m still trying to work it all out, but I think that’s when it actually happened, regardless of when I figured it out,” I answer. “Trust, commitment, visiting Mom, crying, worrying people, upsetting them. Upsetting you. I feel like all the rules are different with you.”

“Meeting you was life changing, Mac. I’ve said it before, and I know I usually say it when we’re kidding with each other, but that doesn’t make it any less true. It’s not a bad thing, either, Mac. It’s a sign this thing between us is real and important. Lasting.”

I tilt my head on his shoulder in acknowledgment. “But now every time I am trying to figure out what to do or say, I have my original set of rules that say, if I want you to stay—and I really do—I need to do whatever. And then I have your rules, that always seem to say you’ll be upset if I do that, and the original rules say that’s bad.”

“Which leaves you in that spiral I hate so much,” Jack acknowledges. “And both your sets of rules say that’s bad, so it starts to feel like you can’t get it right, no matter what you do. Is that it?”

“Mostly,” I agree, glad he seems to at least understand, though I suspect he’s about to fall back on his usual stance, that boils down to “But why can’t you just trust me to love you and not leave?”

Jack is quiet for a couple seconds, probably deciding whether he wants to risk me bursting into uncontrolled tears a third time in a single day by saying it out loud. The soothing way he has started rubbing my shoulder feels preemptive. “You don’t stay in that spiral forever,” Jack observes finally. “You eventually decide what to do. How?” He sounds honestly curious, not frustrated, like he usually is when we have these conversations.

I’m not sure I can word it in a way he’ll like, but trying feels like the right thing to do. “Usually, I end up figuring that your rules have no meaning or validity, unless I believe you are honest with me. If that’s so, then so is the part where you love me and you won’t leave, even if I don’t always follow all your rules, so it’s safest to follow the original rules.”

“That makes sense,” Jack says, sounding like he’s surprised. I’m a little miffed he thinks I would be illogical about anything, but I let it go as he continues. “I think you know I get frustrated sometimes because it feels like you don’t trust me to stay unless you behave in some arbitrarily perfect way. Yet every time we talk about it, you’re adamant that you do trust me, and I never could balance that in my head. But now, I think I get it. I always figured the hardest thing would be getting you to trust me not to hurt you, because that’s the important level of trust in most relationships, but you’re not most people, and this isn’t most relationships. Trusting me not to hurt you was never a thing for you, was it?”

“Not after you didn’t freak out when I approached you,” I agree. Jack would never hurt me.

“The trust that’s hard for you is trusting me to forgive you. The trust you put in me every time you risk upsetting me by sticking to your rules.”

I swallow, my eyes burning. I didn’t expect him to really get it. I feel like I’ve said everything I said in this conversation plenty of times before; I don’t know why this time is different, but I’m glad. “Yes,” I tell him.

“I do love you, and I won’t leave,” he says, probably because he doesn’t know what else to say. We don’t have our standard stances to fall back on in this conversation.

“I know, and I try to let that be enough to opt for your rules. It is getting easier,” I offer, hoping that helps, too.

“Good,” he replies, running both hands over my shoulders and back. I can tell he’s still itching to give me that massage.

“I’m sorry.”

“There’s still no reason for that,” he says absently.

“About the massage,” I clarify. “I want it, I do, but I just…. I broke all the rules today. Yesterday. Whatever. All the rules with the direst consequences, leaving consequences. So I just really need you not to leave right now, even the twelve inches for a massage. It’s not lost on me how ridiculous that is, but I’m still too …raw, I guess, to make myself be more rational about it.”

“You just need me to do what I promised, the one thing you explicitly asked of me all day: hold you and cuddle you all night.” I nod, feeling weak, but still comforted by his presence. “That’s fair,” Jack agrees.

It’s on my lips to thank him for that, but he’s starting to say something else. Based on the way Jack’s arms tighten around me, I think I must have cringed—afraid of the other half, because good things always come with bad things. “But your muscles really are tight and another ten hours in the car isn’t going to make that better. So, whenever you are up for it—whether that’s today, or tonight at home, or tomorrow, or later this week—don’t let me forget that I meant to do something about that for you.”

“Thanks,” I say quietly, because I will want that, later. Maybe it could be all good things, just this once?

Jack runs a thumb along my jaw, kisses my temple. “Do you think you’ll be able to sleep again?”

Maybe better than I have for a long time. “Yeah. I’m okay, Jack,” I tell him, running a hand along his collarbone.

He tucks the blankets cozily around us both. “Sleep, Mac,” he murmurs and I do.

📎

We both wake up early, despite the interrupted night. As I shower, I ask myself the question Jack will ask as soon as he’s fully alert: what do I want to do? There’s so much more I want—maybe even need—to try to share with Jack, but, as I dry off, I realize there’s not that much I need to show him.

I suggest that we take a short walking tour of Mission City that lands us at a place I remember serving a good breakfast, and then we’ll head home and I’ll try to share more, unless Jack wants me to drive part, or all, of the way home.

“I don’t mind driving,” he says, his favorite understatement ever. I offered because it’s only fair and because it is an easy way to tell Jack I’m not at a point where I think I can share any of this and do anything else. I knew Jack would wave off the offer. He much prefers to be behind the wheel, not just in the GTO, and not just with me, so I know it’s not just about his beautiful car or that he thinks I’m a bad driver.

Following my suggestion, we reach L.A. early enough that Jack insists on taking me out for a nice dinner and we still get home early enough that I can’t quite justify crawling into bed, though that doesn’t stop me from sprawling across it, as I try to muster energy or enthusiasm to go watch TV or a movie, or to tease Jack into having sex or something.

Jack sits on the corner of the bed. “You’ve got that look like you maybe don’t have it in you to do anything, even zone out on the couch,” he observes.

“Mmhm,” I agree pleasantly.

“What about this?”

I turn my head to see what “this” is. It’s our bottle of massage oil. We give each other plenty of shoulder and back rubs without it because a) we both enjoy them a lot and b) we’re both too lazy to go find the oil every time the mood strikes, but I am not about to object to the special treatment. I nod to answer his question.

After a moment, in which I don’t move, Jack chuckles and squeezes my calf gently. “So are you stripping down or hoping I’ll help you with that?”

I consider taking him up on the offer. Jack undressing me is almost always the start of better than average foreplay. But I’m not sure I really have the energy to enjoy a lot of foreplay and sex, and certainly don’t have enough energy to make sure it’s good for Jack, which is the least he deserves after everything he’s done for me this weekend. Deciding to just take the night one moment at a time, I get up and shuck my jeans and then my shirt, tossing them in the hamper. Leaving my underwear on is another signal for Jack that I’m not sure I’m up for anything more than the massage, though I feel guilty that I’ve just been take, take, taking all weekend and giving nothing in return.

“Jack,” I start, even as he begins to work the warm oil into the muscles at the base of my neck.

“What is it, Mac?” He asks softly, his hands slowing but not quite stopping.

“I feel like I should be doing this for you, everything you’ve done for me all weekend, but I also know I wouldn’t do a proper job of it right now. I’m just so drained and I keep looking at the clock and thinking I’m supposed to be at work, and some degree of coherent, in twelve hours and I don’t know how that’s going to happen.” Especially if that is what I just came up with when I was trying to basically tell Jack I’m grateful. I apparently suck at “thank you”. “And,” I start to say, figuring I’ll get to the grateful part, but, again, what comes out is a bit more self-centered. “Ahh, Jack, that feels so good.” Once I’d started talking, he’d gone back to massaging my shoulders and he was clearly right about how tight they were and how much I need this because it feels absolutely amazing.

“Shh,” Jack murmurs, a smile in his voice. “It’s supposed to feel good. Just relax into it and let me loosen up these knots.” As he gently massages my neck, easing the tightness and pressure I hadn’t even noticed gathering in my skull, Jack speaks again. “As for the rest, if you still feel the same way in the morning, you could call in.”

“I’m not sick,” I protest.

“I don’t know about your company, but mine calls them ‘mental health days’, and, anyway, you never call out, so no one is going to judge you, if you need a weekend from your weekend. Especially one like this. I hope you don’t feel I pushed you too hard.”

“I don’t,” I assure him. The last thing I feel is any frustration or resentment toward Jack for this weekend. But the comment starts my brain spinning, at least as much as it can when I am already drained and Jack’s doing his best to take me to relaxed unthinkingness.

Jack’s kneading my lower back—doing an excellent job of loosening my muscles and a pretty good job of keeping me from thinking too hard—when I finally manage to put words to my thoughts. “Jack?”

“Yeah, bud?” He asks, slowing his massage again. That’s when I realize he keeps slowing because he’s not sure if I’m okay, after last night, when I freaked on him over just the suggestion of a massage, something he knows I love, under normal circ*mstances.

“It’s okay,” I tell him, “it’s not about the massage. That’s awesome, as always, especially the times when you’re actually trying.” Jack’s hands go back to what they were doing, but I can tell his focus is still on me, on what I’m trying to say. “Jack, is it normal for two people who both experienced the same events, together, to have completely incompatible interpretations of it?”

“What do you mean, Mac?” Jack asks slowly. I can’t blame him. The question’s a minefield; he’s right to duck it.

“Just…this weekend. It turned a lot of things on their head for me. Social norms sort of stuff, things I thought I learned from my dad, about being an adult, a man. It raises the question—was he not normal, or are you not?”

Plenty of people would get offended by the implication, but I knew Jack wouldn’t, at least not before hearing me out, which makes it easier to ask. He chuckles at my question, hands steady as they work up my side. “I would never try to tell you I’m normal, Mac, but in terms of the sort of social norms I think you mean, things like the permissibility of visiting your mom’s grave, or crying, or being in any way imperfect? Yeah, your dad’s take on it is the minority opinion.”

“Mm,” I say with a deep sigh that is part just reaction to the massage and part not sure what to do with that revelation.

“Your family went through a lot when you were still real young. I’m sure he was trying to do his best by you. Nothing that came out of this weekend has to make you think he’s a bad person, and absolutely none of it makes you one.”

“No, not bad, just abnormal.”

Jack laughs at me. “Mac, you’re a gay man in a BDSM relationship and most times you’re not just the smartest person in the room, but twice as smart as the next smartest person. A) When did you ever think you were normal? B) Why would you want to be normal, anyway? It’s boring as hell. C) I already told you I’m self-aware enough to know I’m not normal, so do you really think I mind some abnormal in my partner?”

I chuckle, because no, of course not. There is no way Jack minds him some abnormal, in me or any other part of his life. “No, I know you don’t… and it’s not that not being normal bothers me so much, it’s just, well, not knowing what normal is when I thought I did.”

Jack works down the other side of my body. “Anything I offered this weekend, to indicate where the lessons you learned as a kid don’t match what I learned growing up, was offered in the hope that it’d be freeing, not destructive.”

“And it probably will be, once I manage to absorb it.” I drift into silence for a bit. “It’s just,” I start but can’t quite finish that, either. “Are you done with my back? Can I roll over to face you?” I ask, thinking that’s maybe part of it.

“Of course you can.” As I roll over and sit up, Jack smiles warmly. “I’ve been ‘done’ with your back for a while, but it was keeping you relaxed—it seemed to be, anyway—and that helps you open up sometimes.”

I nod, leaning into the arm he puts around my shoulder. “When you asked—or, I guess you didn’t ask. When you said you hoped you didn’t push too hard, and you sounded like, if anything, you might feel guilty about what you did this weekend, and you brushed off me saying I felt like I owed you the massage more than you owed me…it all painted a vastly different picture of the weekend than the one I have, but we both lived it together, so that doesn’t make sense, does it?”

“It can,” Jack offers. “You know experience has two parts. One part objective, one part subjective—interpretation. If we had a vastly different experience of the objective, that doesn’t make sense, but if it’s the subjective we differ on, that happens. Look, Mac, when we got home tonight you were pretty wrung out and I could tell you were still working on some things, which meant you were probably confused or uncertain, all of which are states I know are deeply uncomfortable for you. You don’t always offer up how you feel, so I wasn’t sure if you were making an ‘it was worth it’ judgment about the weekend. If you weren’t, the next most likely possibility was that you’d feel I pushed you into this unpleasant state.”

“It was worth it; I think it was, anyway.”

“I’m glad you feel that way,” Jack says, sounding genuinely pleased. “Mac, do you remember the 4^th of July party?”

📎

Jack kept his expression carefully neutral. Mac was so excited about the Fourth of July party they’d been invited to and there wasn’t a lot Jack wouldn’t do for him, but this was a big ask, bigger than Mac realized. That wasn’t Mac’s fault, and Jack couldn’t let him blame himself.

“And we’ll be able to see the fireworks!” Mac enthused. L.A. put on a great show, Jack knew. “We can barely even hear them from here.”

Exactly, Jack thought. It had been a selling point for him, but Mac didn’t know that. They’d talked about some of the things that Jack still struggled with from his Army days, but Jack had never brought up fireworks, which sounded like mortars, because, well, that’s what they were.

Mac faltered, realizing the enthusiasm was entirely one-sided. “You don’t want to go.”

“The party sounds like it will be a lot of fun,” Jack admitted honestly. “I’d just as soon skip the 4^th of July part, though, and I can’t untangle the two.”

Mac sighed and sat down with Jack. “So, what are we going to do? I really want to go, but you don’t. Should I just go alone?” It was a party with their scene friends, so going without Jack wasn’t going to be as much fun.

“Maybe,” Jack admitted. “Or we can both go, because I do want to go to the party. I’ve just had some bad experiences with fireworks since I was deployed, so, if I’m planning to be somewhere I will hear them, that’s a challenge, but it’s not insurmountable. If you can agree to two things, I’d be willing to try 4^th of July again. It’s been a lot of years; maybe it’ll be better now, with more space. A lot of things are.”

“What two things?”

“One, we are both outside, where we can see the fireworks, before they start, and we stay, together, until they’re done. Two, you understand that I may not want to stay real late at the party after the fireworks.”

“Of course, Jack. We can leave whenever you want. We can even come home before the fireworks, if that’s too much. I didn’t know they were a thing for you.”

Jack shrugged uncomfortably. “I didn’t know you missed them. The fact that we can’t see or hear them here was a selling point when I was apartment hunting.”

📎

Mac’s fingers were laced through his, but otherwise Mac was just standing beside him. Jack found Mac’s presence grounding, but not suffocating, as he expected he’d feel if Mac were closer, or had an arm around him. Jack took deep breaths, reminding himself that he knew fireworks were coming, and that was all they were.

Jack stiffened as the first rocket climbed into the sky. Mac squeezed his hand. As it burst into a dazzling red globe, Mac said, “You know they use strontium carbonate to make the red ones, at least that red. We’ll probably see some lithium carbonate reds later.” Jack smiled as Mac relayed all the sciency stuff about the display. Jack didn’t understand more than a word in three, but it was a soothing reminder of what, exactly, he was seeing and hearing and what the fireworks weren’t.

Mac looked sheepish at the end of the display. “Sorry I nerded out through the whole thing. I usually try to control it better, but fireworks are really cool. I used to build homemade ones for myself and a friend, when we were kids.”

“No, Mac, don’t apologize. You were perfect. Having your voice in one ear, telling me exactly what the fireworks were made of, and how they work, helped balance out the old soldier, who hears that sound and thinks, ‘Mortars! We’re under attack!’ I needed that, even if I didn’t really understand most of it.”

Mac nodded. “How are you feeling? Time to go home?”

“I’m alright. We can stay for a bit, if you’d like, but let’s go back in, because we are under attack now,” Jack said, smacking away another mosquito.

Mac chuckled and led the way, passing Jack a fresh beer as they passed a cooler. “Thanks, Mac.”

📎

They mingled for a while before ending up talking to another Dom and sub couple. Sherry was excited to show off her new collar, which was a gorgeous choker-style necklace. Usually, Jack could handle such discussions, but on the heels of the fireworks and the memories they stirred, all he could think about was his worst mission overseas, the one with real slaves, including a fifteen year old who had died in his arms, her neck still collared by a black bruise, even though Jack’s team had removed the steel one.

Jack needed to get away, from the conversation and the memories, but he didn’t want to be rude and he doubted he could be polite about excusing himself at this point, which wasn’t fair to Sherry or Dave. Or Mac, for that matter. Jack traced a pattern over Mac’s hip with one finger, where his arm was around Mac’s waist. He drew it again and a third time, before he felt Mac stiffen and knew Mac’s brain recognized the signal but couldn’t remember what it meant.

That wasn’t a surprise. They’d talked about limits, safe words, and safe gestures the first weekend they’d met, focused on protecting Mac during their bouts of play. A month later, when Jack had admitted one of the hardest things for him about his Army history was when something triggered him in public and he just needed to step away, but couldn’t find a graceful way to exit the situation, Mac had suggested that Jack ought to have a safe word, or—when Jack admitted he wasn’t usually verbal at those points—a safe gesture, too. They settled on the pattern Jack was drawing on Mac’s hip, which was why Mac’s brain recognized it was important. Unfortunately for this moment, Jack hadn't needed to use his safe words or gestures since that initial conversation, so Jack couldn’t be surprised Mac was coming up blank.

Jack traced the same pattern again, hoping. He knew the second it clicked for Mac.

Mac turned to Jack with a bright smile and concern in his eyes, offering his empty beer bottle. “Didn’t you say you saw water somewhere? Would you mind getting me some? I have to stop with this stuff, if I’m driving.”

Jack nodded, relieved to have the out without offending Sherry or Dave. Jack also knew Mac didn’t expect a water bottle any time soon, so Jack slipped away, leaving Mac to finish the conversation with their friends. He dropped Mac’s empty in a recycling bin as he made his way back out to a corner of the deck, breathing in deep gulps of the cool, quiet night.

📎

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been out there when Mac joined him, kissing his cheek softly. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Thanks for covering for me back there.”

“Of course. Was it the fireworks?”

“Probably, but no; it was Sherry being so excited about her new slave collar.”

Mac nodded like he understood, even though Jack had never talked about anything even close to bordering on that horrible mission. “Of all the labels, the only one I’ve ever seen you refuse is ‘Master’,” Mac pointed out.

Jack nodded. “And it’s not even ‘Master’ I’m refusing. It’s the idea of that making you a slave, my slave. We like to believe, in the United States, that slavery ended with the Civil War, but it didn’t. There are still real slaves, in this country and around the world, not consensual partners doing their thing. This one mission when I was deployed…a terrorist group was financing their operations via the female sex slave trade. We raided their compound, freed the women, but there was this girl. Couldn’t have been more than fifteen. She’d been forced to service so many men the night before that she was still bleeding from everywhere. The steel collar and chains weighed more than she did. We took them off her, but she still had a bruise around her neck, marking her like the property they thought she was. She died in my arms. I know it’s nothing like that for Sherry. That new necklace is very attractive, and doesn’t really keep her from leaving whenever she wants. Dave doesn’t use her like those women in that compound. If it gets rough between them, it’s only because they both want it that way. If it goes further than she wants, she can safe word out, just like I did from that conversation. But that mission just completely ruined that vocabulary and kind of play for me. Usually, I can appreciate the distinctions between ‘it’s not for me’ and ‘their relationship isn’t anything like the horrors I saw overseas’ but tonight I just couldn’t. I kept seeing that girl, dying in my arms, and I just couldn’t.”

Mac tucked a half-sobbing Jack into his side and held him soothingly.

When he quieted, Mac offered, “How about I take your home, Cowboy?” Jack just nodded against his shoulder.

📎

I nod; of course I remember the party. “Do you remember the conversation we had the morning after, how you were a little bit worried you pushed me into a situation I wasn’t emotionally ready to face, a situation you knew might be too much, based on what I’d told you about my past before that? And you felt bad about nerding out on me during the fireworks, even though that was the only thing that got me through them? Does any of that sound anything like how you just described thinking I feel about this weekend?” I nod, cozying up to his shoulder. “And you remember what I said, about how no one—even the people the Army pays to know how to deal with those of us who come home a little different than we left—had ever dealt with my issues from deployment as well as you did that night? And you insisted that you didn’t do anything extraordinary, just like I’m telling you I didn’t do anything special this weekend.”

“Yeah.”

“So you know how it is, then. How sometimes it’s things that seem little to you, things that are no big deal for you, that mean everything to someone else. How you can get focused on where your own actions might have been questionable, even though you were doing what you thought was best at the time, and lose sight of where you were being exactly what someone else needed you to be in those moments.”

I nod thoughtfully. Jack’s right; it’s just taking my exhausted brain time to realize it.

“So, yeah, what did I do this weekend? I took my guy on a road trip he maybe wasn’t 100% positive was a good idea, and I convinced him it’d be okay to get into a situation that left him sobbing uncontrollably, and I got what I wanted out of it—a whole lot more of his back story, his personal life, than he’s ever been willing to share before. It can feel a little selfish, when I got everything I wanted and you’re crying in your sleep. But, I also know there are other ways to tell it. What’d I do this weekend? I took my guy to his visit his mom for the first time since she died, and I supported him and gave him the space he needed to feel and work through what he need to feel and work through, and I listened while he talked about a lot of things he probably hasn’t ever felt safe talking to anyone about before. And in that version, I sound like a hero, world’s best partner. So which is it? Am I a selfish bastard who pushed you over the edge for my own gain, or a hero who went with you into the hard parts of your life?” Jack shrugs. “I’m human, so, realistically, a lot of both.”

“But mostly world’s best partner,” I tell him, finally getting the grateful part out.

Jack smiles, kissing me deeply. “I’m really glad you think so,” he says before kissing me again.

📎

By morning, it’s not the confusion about what’s normal anymore, nor the conviction that Jack and I experienced the weekend in ultimately contradictory ways, that is paramount in my thoughts. It’s the nagging sensation that—in general, not just this weekend—I am taking more in this relationship, and Jack is giving more, than the reverse. It’s troubling, except I know it’s a common sentiment in D/s relationships.

For subs, like me, the freedom from the modern world’s demands for instantaneous decisions and the constant whir of thoughts and weighing of outcomes, is a large portion of the draw. It’s incredibly liberating to give all that up and just do as I’m told, do whatever—be whatever—Jack wills. For the rest of the world, that’s a hard concept to wrap their minds around, because how can giving up my free will possibly be freeing? Isn’t that contradictory? Doms are not immune to this way of thinking, even though they should know better. In fact, they’re more prone to it than the average, because the idea of relinquishing that control is so foreign to them. For Jack, and many like him, making the decisions, controlling the play, isn’t the burden, it’s the pleasure. For him, it seems he’s putting relatively little in, and getting all the pleasure; it’s my body, my mind that have to endure our play. Yet, for me, it seems the same: I’m putting relatively little in, and getting all the pleasure; he’s doing all the work, all the planning, all the safe guarding – I just have to show up and do what I’m told.

And I know both Jack and I are who we are, in play and out of it. I know others who become a whole different person when they play, but neither Jack nor I is like that. We are who we are, and, consequently, our relationship is what it is, both in play and out of it, which means those same truths that we’re both putting in and getting out equally likely apply just as much to our non-play relationship as they do to the play.

In the end though, it’s not that logic that reassures me. It’s not knowing that Jack would find the whole notion ridiculous, if I brought it up, and tell me it’s not a competition; if we’re both happy, who’s counting? It’s not Jack’s point from last night about how sometimes the action that seems almost trivial to one person can seem monumental to another. It’s actually the memory of the day after that Fourth of July party that calms my turbulent thoughts, because with the memories comes the realization that, when Jack needs me most, I put my whole self into giving him what he needs, just as immediately and unflinchingly as he does for me. Neither of us can help it if I need it more often, and, as Jack would quickly tell me: that’s not a competition.

📎

I wake early. Well, not precisely early, but not late, and Jack’s fond of taking advantage of days off work to sneak a little extra sleep, so waking up at normal time means I’m awake a few hours before I can reasonably expect signs of life from the man next to me. Usually, I’m perfectly capable of entertaining myself until Jack gets up, but, given all that transpired at the party, I have no idea what sort of headspace Jack might be in when he wakes, and I wonder if it’s wise to leave him alone.

In the end, I decide that I’ll probably be back from my run before he wakes anyway, and he knows what he needs far better than I do, and he hasn’t been hesitant to tell me when he needs something, so, if leaving him alone were a catastrophically bad idea, he’d probably have mentioned it. I settle for leaving a note on the nightstand to remind him of what he’ll already know, if he wakes in an at all coherent sort of state: that I’ve gone for a run and I’ll be back soon.

By the time I’ve showered after my run, I can tell that, if Jack isn’t actively awake, he at least has been, and is therefore probably closing in on actually waking up for good, so I walk over to the bed, sitting near his hip, and lean over to kiss him. Jack smiles lazily up at me. “Do we have any plans today?”

“None at all,” I assure him.

“Mmm. So you’re coming back to bed?”

I smile. My brain makes idleness nearly impossible, which makes conventional styles of lazing around unlikely. As Jack well knows. Based on the knowing smirk stealing across his face, I suspect he’s about to offer a compromise along the lines of “at least for a f*ck,” but I have a better compromise in mind, so I speak before he can. “Maybe,” I say in the flirty voice I know he likes so much. “After I cook breakfast.”

“Oooh. Breakfast in bed. I like the way you think.”

“I know you do,” I tease him, patting his cheek in a way that should have gotten me a swat on the rear, if I wasn’t half way to the door before he fully processed what I’d said and done.

Breakfast in bed, naturally, includes Jack’s preferred morning pick-me-up, just as I guessed he was hoping before I proposed breakfast in bed. Jack drags me back into the shower with him, when we finally make it out of the bed, to the net that it’s nearly noon before we both make it out of the bedroom fully dressed.

By then it’s much too hot outside to contemplate leaving the air-conditioning, so we settle in to binge watch some TV. We’ve fallen pathetically far behind, not quite finished with two of our regular season shows, and not started on any of our summer shows, so there’s plenty queued up to satisfy our desires for a quiet day in.

Jack drifts off during a show he puts up with for me. I stroke his shoulder absently as he snoozes and I watch. I’ve just caught up on it, and am debating starting another show that Jack probably won’t mind missing or turning the TV off and reading for a little while when Jack shouts something indistinct.

“Jack?” He seems to be still asleep.

He shouts again, clearer this time, and I realize my earlier confusion may have been because he wasn’t shouting in English. That almost certainly means he’s having a nightmare, something from his deployment.

“Jack!” I repeat, more firmly this time. “Come on, wake up. It’s just a dream. You’re safe, home with me. With Mac.” I continue to stroke his shoulder, hoping it offers some comfort, but slowly, not wanting to scare him when he wakes.

He wakes up hard, as he always does from the nightmares, eyes wide and gasping for breath.

“Shh, Jack; it’s okay. I’m here,” I soothe.

He collapses back against me, relieved, with a simple, “Mac.”

“Yeah, Cowboy. I’m here; everything is okay.”

He nods, a little shakily, but he’s already pulling his breathing back under control.

“You good? Want to talk about it?” Sometimes he does; sometimes he doesn’t.

Jack sighs, rubbing his face. “Nothing more to say about it than I did last night, at least if I want to stay on the good side of the Espionage Act.”

“The nightmare was about the slaves your team freed, then?”

“More about the ones we didn’t, but yeah. There’s no victory in a raid like that, you know? As many as we saved, we have to live with knowing there are that many times that many more that had been trafficked before that and probably no one will ever find or free them. Battle’s cleaner.”

“I hear that,” I admit, though I know I can’t really ever understand what he experienced.

I hold him for a while before he reaches for the remote and starts a new show, leaning into me as it begins. It’s one of the ones I watch mostly for Jack’s sake, so my mind’s free to wonder if there’s anything more I can do for Jack, to try to figure out what he maybe wants from me.

I think I get my answer near the end of the show, when he starts kissing my neck during a commercial break, and I see him adjust his position to accommodate his growing arousal. When the show ends, I smile and offer an easy, “Sir?” to let him know I’m up for absolutely anything he might desire.

Jack recoils, almost pushing me away, with a firm, “No!”

It lasts only a moment; I haven’t even really recovered from the shock when Jack wraps his arms around me and pulls me close, a look of horror on his face. “God, Mac, I didn’t mean it. Not like that. I wasn’t rejecting you; I’m not leaving. I promise.”

“Jack, it’s okay, just take a breath, okay?” I try to calm him.

“I can’t believe I did that,” he confides. “Especially to you. I swear I’m not leaving and don’t want you to.”

“I know,” I promise. “I know, okay? You’ve got to calm down.” He’s hyperventilating, and if he goes into a full scale panic attack, I have no idea what to do. I’m not the one who’s good with emotions—my own or anyone else’s—but it’s Jack, so I’m not going to pull away.

Jack nods as rapidly as he’s breathing. “Yeah, I know. Me being upset upsets your everybody-leaves-place. Just give me a second here. I’m not upset with you, okay?”

“Okay,” I say, whatever is going to reassure him. “But I’m not worried about me right now. I’m worried about you. Are you good? Never mind; I know you aren’t. What do you need from me?”

“Nah, Mac. You don’t gotta do anything. I’m sorry I pulled away!” Jack says for what feels like the millionth time, still panicky.

“How about you start breathing like normal again and then we’ll talk about it,” I counter, because yeah, I might be freaking out a little, because I’m way out of my depth, and I just need him to calm down.

“Breathe. Right.” He says, like he’s just realizing he’s hyperventilating. He closes his eyes. I start drawing random little circles on his back with one finger, mostly to calm myself. “Don’t stop,” he mutters at one point.

“Won’t,” I promise, weakly, glad he sounds almost in control again.

📎

Much later, he finally pulls back a little to look at me. “I am so sorry, Mac. I can’t believe I pushed you away like that.”

I shake my head. “I only meant to imply I was up for whatever you wanted; whatever would help release that residual tension from the nightmare.”

Jack nods. “I know. And you were right on the impulse, just wrong on the implementation and how the hell could you have known? I was aroused, so of course we’d do something with that.”

I nod. “That’s what I thought. What’d I get wrong?” I venture.

“Nothing,” Jack says, trying to reassure me. When it doesn’t, he sighs and says more honestly, “Seriously, Mac, you did nothing wrong. But… no obedience, no orders, not tonight.”

Then it makes sense. It was the sir that was wrong. He doesn’t want a compliant slave; he never did. That “sir” is my usual address for him during play is irrelevant tonight. He’s right – I could not have possibly known better – and yet it makes perfect sense that that was wrong.

And also means the rest of the night is going to be a little interesting. We’re bound to play, or at least have some sort of sex, because it’s one of the ways Jack does bleed the extra tension from nightmares like that or a panic like he almost just had, but now I can’t really ask what he wants, and he probably won’t tell me, so I’m just going to have to read his body and hope I don’t screw up again.

Jack starts the next episode of the show, because doing anything else right now would feel false and forced. We settle into each other and try to focus on the show. I doubt either of us really concentrates all that well until the show is well begun.

📎

When I get up, during a commercial, to go to the bathroom and refill our drinks, I strip to my boxers and stop by the playroom to gather some cloth restraints and lube, which I simply drop to the floor near Jack’s feet. His raised eyebrow drifts to a speculative grin as I rejoin him on the couch like it’s nothing out of the ordinary.

I tickle his side as the show finishes, ensuring the first flash of arousal prompted by the gifts at his feet would blossom to something more entertaining (for me) than the show. When Jack turns the TV off, I slip off the couch onto my knees. If he’s not going to tell me what he wants, then sucking him off is a good guess.

Jack grins but turns me until I’m facing mostly away from him. He binds my ankles together, and then my wrists, which is going to make a blowj*b a bit more of a challenge, but I doubt Jack’s worried about the effort it’s going to take me. He takes the long end of the cloth around my ankles and loops it through the binding on my wrists, pulling them down to my ankles. My shoulders roll back, to relieve some of the pull, as he ties off the final knot and indicates I can turn back.

I wait a few moments to see if he’s going to help me with his clothes. He ruffles my hair with a smirk and I grin back. If that’s how he wants it. I lean in, nuzzling his crotch, less with any intent to undo the button on his pants and more just for stimulation. His hand in my hair tightens, as do his abdominal muscles. I keep at it until he moans.

When his head is thrown back, I start actually trying to get the button undone, which is not without more stimulation for Jack. Once it pops free, I shift forward to grip his zipper with my teeth and pull it down slowly. Jack groans. “Mac; please!”

I grin up at him. “If you’re going to make this hard for me, I’m not above returning the favor.” I lick my lips, eyeing him, and trying to decide how best to get to the good part without my hands.

Jack shivers with delight but then stands and shucks his jeans. He reaches for his boxers. “Wait,” I tell him. “Let me, please.”

Jack looks at me for a second and then moves his hands away. I nuzzle his belly just above the waistband teasingly for a bit, before I reach for the elastic with my teeth. The scrape of them on the sensitive skin of his lower belly makes Jack hiss with pleasure.

I start to pull the boxers down but “accidentally” lose my grip. Twice. Jack gives me a look as I tease my way into a third grip. “Don’t make me get the crop,” he threatens, which is tempting, but not really where I think either of us wants to take this scene, so I obediently pull his boxers all the way down this time.

I lick and nose his inner thighs until he starts to tremble, mostly because I’ve decided that, since I can’t fully straighten on my knees, the angle’s too awkward with him standing. When his legs start to feel rubbery, Jack obediently sits back down on the couch, or, rather, collapses. I immediately start to lick his erection.

Jack relaxes back, letting me do what he knows I do best. I focus on the task at hand, or, rather, at mouth. In a few seconds, Jack’s groaning, hands tightening and tugging at my hair. His hips are bucking in moments. My throat burns from the pounding and my shoulders are starting to ache from being pinned back. I ignore it all, focusing on the only thing that matters right now: Jack’s moans of pleasure, getting louder as he gets closer.

He explodes down my throat and I swallow hard, taking it all, and then start a gentle rolling suck that pulls more from Jack than he thinks he has to give me. “Aah, Mac,” he mumbles, untangling his fingers from my hair, but not moving them away from my head.

I finally release him, sitting back on my heels, and smile contently up at him. I lick my lips for the last traces of Jack’s org*sm as he sinks back into the couch. After a second, he leans over to pick up my drink glass, and offers it to me. I drink greedily.

When I finally pull back from the glass, Jack sets it down. He starts to lean back into the couch again, but my shoulders are starting to ache in a pretty serious way. “Jack, can you just undo the knot between my ankles and wrists? At least for a little, while you’re recovering?”

Jack sits up immediately. I never ask him for a break. I don’t really believe in them. If it’s too intense to bear it without a break, I pretty much figure it is too intense, full stop. He immediately undoes the knot I asked him to release, and the binding around my ankles. I shrug him off when he reaches for the one on my wrists and just roll my shoulders, trying to loosen them.

“Why didn’t you say I pulled it too tight?” Jack asks.

I roll my eyes right along with my shoulders.

“Okay, fair point,” he replies, as if I answered verbally, because the answer is obvious. He’s the Dom. It’s not like he’s never tied me up that tight on purpose. How was I to know he didn’t mean it this time?

I start to turn back to face Jack fully, but he shakes his head and motions for me to turn fully away. As soon as I do, he starts to massage my shoulders, easing the painful tightness with experienced hands.

When he lets me turn to face him, my shoulders feel much better and I can see Jack’s considering the rest of the scene and that my knees are the next thing he’ll need to care for. I try not to roll my eyes. It’ll be a long while before kneeling on our carpet really bothers me. To ease his mind, I shift to sitting, my legs off to the side, so I’m not bearing weight on my knees. The alternative is Jack bringing me up onto the couch with him, and if he’s going to do that, he might as well untie my wrists and end the scene, which I already told him I don’t want.

I rub my cheek on his knee, thinking of the cat he accused me of being when we first met. Jack runs a hand through my hair affectionately. “Come on up here, Mac,” Jack coaxes.

I hesitate, not wanting the scene to end, but, despite Jack’s “no orders, no obedience” directive, I’m still a submissive at heart. I scoot up onto the couch, managing to swallow back a squeal of surprise when he pulls down my boxers as I shift. He laughs. “Don’t worry, I’m not done with you.”

I smile, and then gasp as Jack squeezes my balls. He strokes my shaft until I whimper with need. He gives me a kiss, running his thumb over the head of my co*ck. He trails his kiss over to my ear. “Not yet,” he whispers in my ear, taking his hands away.

My hands instinctively pull forward, straining to replace the contact he removed, but they’re still bound behind me. Damn him for wanting me to squirm and beg, anyway. “Jack,” I groan.

“Soon,” he promises. “When you really need it.”

“I need it,” I try to convince him.

“You will,” he promises, leaning over to pick up the lube I’d forgotten I brought him. With a gesture, he gets me to make my ass available to him.

“I need…” I mumble as he works the lube into my opening. He’s taking extra care to rub my prostate as he introduces more lube, which I know is absolutely intentional. He wants me to want my own release, and, probably, to know I won’t get it until he’s had his.

Jack plunges into me as soon as he is satisfied with the amount of lubricant he’s applied. “Jack,” I gasp. He reaches around, even as he sets a fast pace, and resumes stroking my shaft, working to make me beg even harder.

“With me,” he instructs quietly.

“Please,” I agree pitifully.

When we come, together, both shuddering, we find ourselves completely spent. Jack fumbles for the binding at my wrists, and, this time, I don’t resist. Freed, I rub my wrists briefly, and then snuggle into Jack’s side.

📎

“Mac?” Jack asks softly, pulling my thoughts back to the present. “How are you feeling this morning?”

I shrug. “It’s going to take a long time to absorb everything, I think. But I will,” I offer.

Jack nods. “Are you going to work?”

I nod. “The mental health day idea is tempting, because I’m still emotionally exhausted, but honestly, Jack, I don’t think I’m going to feel any significantly different tomorrow, or a week from tomorrow. A day is one thing. A week… is different.”

“I understand that,” Jack agrees. “I’m proud of you,” he adds, kissing my cheek. “I’ll check in at lunch time, okay?”

“Thanks,” I murmur. It’s reassuring in a way I can’t explain, knowing that I can vent or breakdown or whatever I need in a few hours, depending on how I’m feeling.

Chapter 5: Katie | Isaac | Therapy

Chapter Text

It’s like the weekend in Mission City washed out all my walls. It’s easier to talk to Jack about the past, and the present. Jack shares more of his past, too. He’s better at listening the way I need him to, too. He seems to know when to push and when to just let me come to it, knows when to talk and when to just hold me.

At least until I catch the bug that’s been going around the office. I power through Friday, feeling miserable, only surviving on the promise of two days to hide in bed and get over it.

Except, I don’t.

Oh, I hide in bed, or the couch, all weekend, but the getting over it part doesn’t happen, so, Sunday evening, I do my least favorite thing in the world, and call for a doctor’s appointment. They don’t have one until end of day Monday. I’m taking a sick day anyway, so I don’t raise much of a fuss.

“Do you mind giving me a ride?” I ask Jack. “Cold meds and driving,” I offer as a potential explanation, knowing I should tell him all of it, but this bug is winning too much right now.

“Of course I will, Mac. Long as I don’t have a meeting or anything, my boss shouldn’t have any problem with me taking off early instead of lunch. I’ll text you Monday morning once I’ve gotten it approved.”

“Thanks, Jack,” I respond, tucking myself back into a ball of misery in bed.

📎

I wake up when Jack’s alarm goes off, long enough to take more cold medicine and drink half of the lemon tea Jack brings me. He stocks the nightstand with water, Gatorade, toast, more cold medicine and my cell phone. Jack squeezes my shoulder before he heads off to work.

The next time I wake up is when Jack texts to say his boss approves the change of schedule. I finish the tea and make myself eat some of the toast. I set an alarm for an hour before he’s due home, and, when it wakes me, force myself to get up and take a shower.

The steam makes me feel half-human again, even though I’m dreading the appointment.

📎

Jack squeezes my knee as I sink back into the seat of his car after the appointment. “What’d the doc say?” He turns the car back on and heads toward home.

“Flu’s been going around. Gave me a prescription and said to sleep and hydrate.”

“Okay. And?”

I shake my head. “No and.”

“Then what’s all this?” He asks, waving one hand in my general direction. “That’s your trying-to-bury-your-emotions-but-it’s-not-working look.”

I shake my head, but this time it’s not in negation. “Jack…not here, not like this.”

“Alright,” he agrees. “We’ll get your meds and head home.”

📎

When we get home, I settle into the corner of the couch while Jack unpacks the groceries he bought while he was waiting for me. I barely notice when Jack sits down next to me until he rubs my shoulder. “Mac, you want to tell me what’s going on?” It’s his gentle voice.

“It reminds me of my mom, when she got sick and,” my voice breaks on the end of it, “and died.”

“Aw, Mac,” he murmurs, wrapping arms around my shoulders. “I’m so sorry.”

“Jack, don’t,” I tell him.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t try to fix it. Unless one of your army buddies is at DARPA now and they’ve figured out a way to bring the dead back to life, you can’t fix it.”

“No, I can’t fix it,” Jack agrees. “But I can help, I hope.”

“I hope,” I agree, too. “Help by listening, okay?”

“Absolutely,” Jack promises as a deep cough rattles my whole body. “But how about I listen in the kitchen while making you another mug of that tea that seems to help with the coughing.”

I nod, pushing wearily to my feet. I don’t notice Jack grab the blanket off the couch until he tucks it around my shoulders when I sink into the chair at the kitchen table. He sets to work on the tea, and dinner, I think. “I hate going to the doctor’s,” I confess. “You know how it is with moms. They don’t get to call in sick, so, you know, she was never sick… until she was, and then she died.”

Jack nods.

“And I was five, and so the logic processing…wasn’t all there yet. The first time I got sick after she died, I was terrified that I was going to die, too. And, my Dad—well, you nailed it when you said he wasn’t high on the good at comforting scale. Plus, I think her dying blindsided him, too. So, he dragged me to the doctor’s office for every slight little thing. By the time my dad left, I was pretty well settled on hating doctor’s visits. My grandfather was better at caring, but he didn’t ask and, you know me, I didn’t come right out and tell him that I was terrified because I didn’t want to get sick and die like Mom did. I just told him I didn’t want to go, which I think he just took as me being stubborn, and he pretty much answered it with ‘I didn’t ask if you wanted to; I told you to do.’”

Jack chuckles. “Yeah, heard my fair share of that line. Think they teach it in the Air Force,” he says, putting the mug in front of me and pulling the chair around to sit next to me.

“Yeah. I go once a year, but I hate it. Then, when I’m actually sick…. I know it’s not the same. This is just regular sick, just the flu. I’m not dying, but….” I shrug helplessly.

Jack rubs my back briefly. “And how much of wanting me to drive you was about this and not the risks—mostly limited—of driving under the influence of cold meds?”

I frown. “I know I should have told you earlier. At least on Sunday. But this flu has me so miserable and I just couldn’t figure out where to start. You always are better about figuring out where to start. And I knew you would notice.”

“So you found a way to tell me what you couldn’t find a way to tell me,” Jack supplies. “I appreciate that, Mac. I know it can’t be easy, trying to break decades of habit about retreating into yourself when you’re hurting. Thank you for trying so hard.”

I nod, leaning my head into his shoulder until a timer goes off. He pats my shoulder. “Let me go take care of that.”

📎

Jack coaxes me into eating; my appetite’s been shot with this flu bug. He makes me clean up and change before he tucks me into bed, wrapped snugly in extra blankets and dosed up on the prescription flu medication. “Thank you for sharing what you were dealing with, Mac,” Jack offers.

I frown apologetically, knowing I should have shared sooner.

Jack shakes his head, sitting on the edge of the bed. He lays a hand on my blanketed arm. “You know I want you to share everything, which is a lot more than you’re comfortable with. Or at least, than you were comfortable with a month ago. You know I understand all of that. What I don’t think you understand yet is that I don’t need it to be easy for you to be happy with you. If I’m bothered that it’s hard for you to share, it’s because that struggle is evidence that you’ve been hurt, and you know that upsets me, just like it would you, roles reversed. I’m not mad at you; I’m mad at what life has put you through. Am I making any sense?”

I’m not sure he is, but I know exactly what he means, so I nod. It’s a distinction I didn’t see when we first met. The distinction between being upset with me and being upset for me. I hadn’t had upset for me since before things fell apart with Bozer.

“I don’t expect it to be easy for you, Mac. I wish with all my heart it was easy for you, but I know it’s not. I just expect you to try, and you do. You try so hard. Even when you think it’s too hard and you can’t, you find a way or let me force it. If I have to drag it out of you, as long as you don’t mind, then that works for me. Okay, Mac? I meant every bit of that thank you. Get some sleep and feel better, alright?”

“Thanks, Jack.”

📎

Jack smiles warmly as he welcomes me home. “How was work?”

“Fine,” I answer. Being over the flu does wonders for a guy’s mood and perspective on a work day. “Katie says ‘Happy Birthday’.” Jack’s birthday was yesterday.

“Well, thank her for me,” Jack says before it occurs to him to question any of it. “Though, how’d she even know?” Katie and Jack have met, but they don’t know each other.

I shrug. “I made her sit during the team meeting, since Adam’s on vacation.” The look of confusion on Jack’s face makes me realize that when he met Katie, it was at a work event where it would have been inappropriate for me to tell him everything I know about Katie. “Sorry. I never told you, did I? Let me start at the beginning.”

“I don’t think you have to go that far back. Start after the part where Katie’s one of your coworkers and you have a team meeting every Monday,” Jack offers.

I nod. “By the beginning, I mean the part where Katie and her husband are possibly even kinkier than we are.”

“I can see where that might be relevant to her wishing me a happy birthday.”

I smirk. Of course he can. “So our team’s supposed to have fifteen people, but the conference room table only has twelve chairs. Katie and I stand, by choice, and whoever gets there last. Zack quit, so no one but us has to stand until we hire his replacement. This week, Adam’s on vacation, so one of us has to sit, or it’d be awkward. Obviously, I didn’t want to sit.”

“A birthday spanking is traditional,” Jack reminds me.

“At either of our ages, the cane was a bit ambitious, don’t you think?”

“I switched down to a hand spanking,” Jack protests.

“Halfway through!” I retort.

“Not even,” Jack counters.

I snort. He’d appreciate how close it was to halfway more if it was his backside still smarting.

Jack’s mood sobers suddenly and he frowns. “Mac, are you griping just to gripe, or are you trying to tell me something honest here?”

“I’m fine,” I assure him. “Just don’t get any older!”

“I’ll work on that,” Jack says with a snort of his own. “In the meantime, back to your story. You didn’t want to sit, so you made Kinky Katie take the last chair, which is why she’s wishing me a happy birthday. She say it in the same snarky tone you get when you don’t want to do what I said?”

“Oh, yeah,” I confirm. “I think we all develop some degree of Sub Snark, because it’s all we’ve got.”

Jack grins to himself the way he does when he’s cooking up some kind of naughtiness. “When you thank her for the birthday wishes, invite her and her husband over for dinner some night. If you two are conspiring to get around our intentions for you, her husband and I ought to at least know each other.”

I shake my head. “I am not passing along that invitation.”

“Not tomorrow, perhaps,” Jack agrees with a chuckle. “But someday, you will, and I look forward to that day. Until then, Mac, how in the world do you learn something like that about a coworker? You see her at a club or something?”

“No, not exactly.”

“Something like that doesn’t come up in watercooler conversations,” Jack argues.

I blush, because it pretty much did.

“Really?” Jack asks. “Okay, this story I definitely have to hear.”

“It’s really not much of a story,” I deflect.

Jack laughs at me, and holds one of the pepperonis from the pizza he’s making next to my cheek. “Want to guess which one’s redder?” He asks sarcastically. “Or are you going to tell me how kink comes up at work?”

“Not without incentive,” I tell him flatly.

“Oh, I’ll give you incentive,” he promises. I’m not sure whether he’s planning on an interrogation scene or just teasing me until I beg and then telling me he’ll f*ck me once I tell him the story. I’m not sure which I want. I am certain Jack’s going to let me think about it, anticipate it, for a while. He’d do that just for kicks; he’ll definitely let me stew if it means he gets to eat dinner first.

So we eat, and Jack lets me wash the dishes and have to hunt him down. He’s in the toy room, absently running a blindfold through his fingers. “So,” he begins, “are we doing this the easy way or the hard way?”

I kneel submissively to let him blindfold me and grin up at him. “Frankly, I assumed, either way would be the ‘hard way’ for me before it was over.”

“Likely true,” Jack admits. “Any preference, then, now that you’ve had time to consider the options?”

I shake my head as Jack helps me stand and tells me to strip.

📎

Though I’m face-down to the spanking bench—my hips up over my spread knees, my shoulders down, and my wrists bound forward of my head and shoulders—I realize a great deal of the more sensitive areas of my body are still exposed. I realize it long before Jack proves it to me. With the blindfold, I don’t see him coming, don’t know what’s in his hands, until it’s too late. The feather dances down my spine, eliciting a surprised squeal.

Everywhere ticklish is exposed, even the soles of my feet. I had been surprised when Jack bound my ankles up to my thighs to expose them. He tries to be careful about doing anything I’ll still be feeling in the morning on a work night, especially early in the week. I thought maybe the crop, but even that would be pushing it. Any other type of bastinado is out of the question on a work night. This, on the other hand. The feather teases across my feet, my spine, my ribs, under my arms, the sides of my neck. Jack also seeks out a few areas that, while not generally ticklish, are sensitive enough to respond well to the light teasing strokes of the feather, and there’s little I can do to protect my balls or butthole from him, bound firmly in place as I am.

When Jack tires of tickling me, he changes tactics. I have no idea how he manages it without me hearing anything that gives away what he’s planning, but I have no clue it is coming, so the invasive cold provokes a shriek when he slides one of his popsicles deep into me in one smooth motion. He pulls it back until only the tip is resting in my opening and then thrusts it in fully. He repeats the action three more times—varying the speed and depth as he withdraws and inserts it—before leaving it pushed firmly in to the hilt.

The ice cubs I expect, after the popsicle. At times he uses the ice directly on my skin; other times he uses just the drops of frigid water, melting off the cubes as he holds them over me. Before long he’s worked the feather back into the mix.

Between the arousal, and the cold, and just the sheer enjoyment—we’ve been busy, and then I had the flu, so we haven’t had time in weeks to indulge in a long bout of pure play; no punishment, no point, not really, just raw play—I’m trembling, panting out heavy breaths, and wondering if there’s anything I can do to make it better, other than just encourage Jack to drag it out as long as either of us can stand. I gasp out his name.

Jack strokes the feather up my shaft teasingly before responding. “You’re ready to tell me the story, then?” He says. I suspect he’s got one eyebrow co*cked, because he has to know it’s too early and I’m having too much fun to give in already.

I stretch as much as the bonds allow, not to test them, just to alter the pressure in my shoulders. Bound as tightly as I am, it makes very little difference. We’ve been doing this for so long, Jack has an intuitive sense for how long I can handle a particular position. The stretching is going to make very little difference, but at the same time, it’s going to make all the difference that matters. My only objective is to make sure the time I can actually handle the position is just slightly longer than Jack’s sense of how long I can handle it, rather than slightly shorter, because if he has to break scene to deal with me cramping or hurting from being left in tight bondage for too long, it’ll ruin the whole thing.

“What story?” I ask as innocently as I can manage. If I weren’t blindfolded, I’d have tried a few “innocent” blinks for effect.

Jack chuckles, at my answer certainly, but likely also at the image I make as I attempt to stretch out my shoulders from within the stringent bonds. “Oh, this is going to be fun,” he informs me, not that I doubted it. He pulls the popsicle back, checking how much has melted before twisting it back in.

📎

Much later, Jack’s got me in a new position. I’m on my back now, with my ankles drawn up near my hips and my legs splayed. My hands are bound to my ankles; Jack had me holding them when he started the bondage. Though there’s no strain on my shoulders in this position, I won’t last long in this position. My hips are already starting to feel the strain.

Of course, it is unlikely Jack ever planned to leave me in this position. He’s certainly not going to keep up this particular activity for long. We have a wand-style toy that, mechanically, is basically an electric toothbrush with interchangeable heads. Tonight, Jack’s got a hard rubber ball with a nubbed surface on it. The wand allows him to deliver a concentrated vibration to a particular spot, which, at the moment, is the surface of my prostate gland. He’s got the wand’s power up almost as high as it will go, and it’s doing its job. Combined with that, Jack brought out our e-stim kit tonight. It’s a rare type of play for us, and Jack’s got it on the lowest setting, and he’s using just two of the contact pads, one on the outside of each of my testicl*s. It feels like I would expect a dozen bumble bees buzzing together to feel, if they were buzzing inside my balls.

I am, of course, hard as f*ck, which is the whole point. Jack wants me aroused, wants me hard, wants me desperate for release, so that when I ask for it, he can tell me no. This is the incentive I demanded. But I won’t get release until he gets the story, and if he keeps this level of stimulation up for any length of time, I will reach org*sm, so the stimulation—and likely the position—are going to be short-lived.

No sooner do I reach that conclusion than Jack alters the game. He adjusts the settings on the electrical components, upping the current noticeably and switching from the constant buzzing to a rhythmic pulsing that ripples through my whole body. I start to squirm, seeking some slight stimulation to finish getting off. I’m so close. I know Jack’s smarter than that; he won’t have left me access to enough to stimulation to get off before he’s ready for me to, and he’s not ready yet, but it doesn’t stop me from trying.

The feather ghosts across the head of my co*ck. I’m sure it shakes in response. I can’t think about anything other than wanting to come. Jack does it again. I gasp, panting for breath. “You keep short-circuiting my brain like that, I’m not going to remember the story when the time comes,” I warn him.

Jack laughs openly. “Fine,” he declares, turning off both devices and removing them. He begins to adjust the bondage immediately, letting my hips flatten back into a relaxed position. He binds my feet to the bench, and then adds another set of restraints just above my knees. It does nothing to change my position, just prevents me from pulling against the ankle restraints with any strength. He binds my wrists to the bench as well, flat and relaxed, near my hips, but not touching any part of my body. This position I could stay in for days. There’s no strain anywhere, except my still hard co*ck. Jack pats my cheek familiarly and then moves off.

He does not start a new activity immediately. I assume it’s because he wants me wondering what he’s got planned, why he needs me in such a comfortable position. I assume because that’s exactly what I’m doing. It takes me a good long time to realize that’s exactly what he’s doing. All he is doing.

I should have known. I commented that over-stimulation wasn’t going to give him what he wanted and he gave in. That should have been an obvious red flag, but I’d ignored it because I’d already known he was going to stop soon. The only reason he would give in would be to prove to me exactly who is in control of this scene, would be if giving in would give me a sense of victory right up until the moment when he made it very obvious that he’d given in because it served his greater purpose.

I knew when he added the binding above my knee that the purpose was to keep me from pulling against the ankle restraints, I just didn’t know why that mattered. Now I do. The point was to make sure I couldn’t pull against any of the restraints enough to get any real sensory stimulation. With the blindfold, there’s no visual stimulation. Jack’s choice not to gag me was likely originally simple respect for my dislike of them, but now it also means there’s no taste, either. No strong smells. No sounds. Jack hasn’t moved, as far as I can hear. I’m not sure he’s even still in the room, beyond knowing that if he’s not, he’s in the hall, watching through the open door. He would never leave me immobilized and go out of sight of me for more than 30 seconds. Safety first, even in a position this stress-free.

I told him over-stimulation wouldn’t get him what he wanted, so he switched to under-stimulation. He’s not going to do anything until I give in. He’s going to leave me to lie here, wondering what’s next, knowing nothing is next, alone with just my thoughts; the only thing registering to my senses is the aching of my erection.

I hold out as long as I can. I think it’s about half an hour. I’ll have to ask Jack later, and hope he doesn’t laugh at me, and tell me it was something like “Seven and a half minutes, you wimp.”

When I can’t bear it anymore, when I’m ready to beg for something, anything to at least take my mind off the arousal, I sigh. “Okay, okay. You win.”

“I always do. You’re smart enough to know that,” Jack replies. I’d guess he’s leaning up against one of the walls.

“For the first part of this story to make any sense you have to be able to visualize the layout at work. There’s the main hallway, and then there’s another hallway that runs parallel to it. There’s one opening between the two hallways, and the bathrooms are at either end of the second hallway. Got it?”

There’s a pause and then a “Yeah,” that makes me think Jack nodded before remembering I can’t see it.

“So if you’re coming from the opposite end of one hall, you just have to cross over, and you can see what’s coming at you fairly easily. But if you are headed for the same end of the hallway as you’re coming from, you have to do a u-turn completely blind.”

“You run into her, or she ran into you?”

“She ran into me. I did what anyone would and grabbed onto her to keep us both from falling down in a pile. She was wearing a belt. You know as well as I do, Jack, you’re not going to mistake the curve of pelvic bone covered with muscle, skin, fat, and clothes for the steel curve of a chastity belt only barely concealed by clothes. I know my eyebrows went up. I was stunned; I hadn’t had any hint before that. But, like you said, it’s not exactly watercooler conversation, so I didn’t say anything, and she just apologized for running into me, and we both went on with our days. I suspect she was trying just as hard as I was to pretend nothing had happened. I mean she had to be wondering—if she saw my reaction, she had to know I’d felt something that wasn’t flesh and bone under her clothes. Would I say something to her? To anyone else? To everyone else? Would I understand? Would I freak out? I mean, if I had no clue about her, I don’t think she had any about me, besides the obvious.”

“Which part’s the obvious part?” Jack asks, amused.

“The gay and dating you part,” I answer absently. “Anyway, neither of us said anything about it until the end of that week. You remember when you put your gram’s monkey bread in with my lunch as a surprise?”

“And you broke her china container, which I am never going to live down, thank you!”

I frown; I still feel guilty, even though I know Jack’s just teasing and his gram admitted that shipping something fragile so far was recipe for disaster. “Yeah, that time. I was so upset when I dropped it and it shattered, not just because that monkey bread is delicious. I couldn’t believe I’d been so careless, so my reaction just slipped out before I could even think about censoring it. ‘Oh, f*ck, Jack’s going to spank me for that.’ And then I heard a noise behind me and I was mortified that someone had just heard me say that at work, until I turned and it was Katie.

“She came in to the kitchen area to wash her lunch dishes like she had intended. She turned the water on and kept her voice real low while I cleaned up the mess. ‘So about earlier this week,’ she started.

“‘You were wearing a belt. And based on how you’re walking today, I’m guessing a pair of exercise balls in front?’

“She flinched. ‘Uh, yeah, but, um, what about you?’

“I just shrugged, dumping the pieces of china in the trash and, sadly, the monkey bread, too. ‘It’s rare I’m wearing anything but colors here. But, at home, yeah, neither of those things, personally, but…other things.’

“‘You do mean something more than recreational spanks, right, because that sh*t doesn’t count.’”

“I chuckled, because I totally got the point she was making. I’d just called her out for wearing toys to work. She wanted to know if I really got it and would keep her secret or if my knowledge posed a risk to her. ‘It does when Jack does it,’ I replied. ‘But yes, we’re also talking about more. I’m sorry if I left you wondering earlier this week; I just didn’t know what to say and how to do it appropriately at work.’”

Jack comes over to me, apparently satisfied that I’m holding up my end of the bargain. He wraps his hand around my still stiff co*ck and begins to stroke it. If he thinks I’m the best ever at sucking him off, I’d certainly nominate him as the hand job expert.

I moan in pleasure but owe it to him to finish the story. “She couldn’t even look at me as she dried the dish. ‘You aren’t the only one. Look, I won’t tell anyone, if you don’t.’

“I nodded. ‘I assumed that was understood from the get.’ So, yeah, it basically was a watercooler conversation. Since then, when one of us has to sit for the team meeting, we can usually negotiate it in a glance, who has a better excuse. If I just want to stand because I can’t sit still, but she wants to stand because of whatever toy she’s got tucked away, then I sit. Today, I wanted to stand because of last night, so it should have been just a glance and she sat. Except she had a new plug that she hadn’t adjusted to yet, so she really did not want to sit, either. She came over to have a quick debate, which your birthday won for me, so thanks for that,” I explain.

“Well, you’re welcome,” Jack jokes, continuing to stroke me and rub my balls. God, but I’m hard. “But, you did hold out on me for hours, and you and Katie conspired to do an end run around your doms’ intentions for you, and you did break gram’s china and did a disservice to her divine bread.”

“Guilty, but you already spanked me for two of those.”

“Your point being?” Jack asks mildly.

I’d shrug if I could. I don’t really have a point, just making an observation.

“That’s what I thought,” Jack says, as if I answered, and sets about loosening the bondage without finishing the hand job.

“Hey,” I protest. “I told you the story.”

Jack chuckles. “I’ll take care of you, when we’re finished here. Don’t tell me you’re not enjoying every bit of this.”

Since he’s right—I can’t deny I’m having as much fun as he is—I say nothing as he finishes loosening the restraints. “Over,” he orders simply.

I roll obediently, taking a few moments to try to find a way to lay on my stomach with a hard on. Jack lets me try for a moment before slipping a wedge cushion under my hips, raising them enough for me to find a good position. Jack quickly tightens the bondage again, leaving me in almost the exact same position I was in before, just inverted.

I hiss as he starts to spank me. His hand is light; this is still just a playful scene. If he meant this to be a decent punishment scene, the blows would be coming harder and faster, and he’d have come up with a better excuse for it. This is just because we both like it.

I may not have wanted to sit at the meeting this morning, but by the time I got back from lunch, I wasn’t even flinching when I settled. Jack’s had me on my back much of the evening, and that hasn’t bothered me, but now that he’s spanking me, even lightly, over last night’s not-so-light spanking, I’m reminded that I’m still recovering.

In a normal scene, I’d keep quiet. Our agreement on gags boils down to “don’t tempt me”. Jack’s fondness for gags is more practical than aesthetic. He likes them to keep his subs from bothering the neighbors. As long as I’m quiet, there’s no need for a gag, and he yields to my dislike for them. The hiss, though, is an in-scene message. I wasn’t expecting the light spanking to sting quite so intensely, which means that Jack isn’t expecting it, either. The hiss will just let him know that if he wants this scene to remain playful and fun for both of us, he may need to keep this spanking short. It also tells him I’m nowhere near uncomfortable enough to make him stop, or to safeword, so it’s ultimately his call what he does with the information; I’m just keeping him informed.

📎

After just a dozen swats to my stinging bottom, Jack stops. He undoes the bondage, but not the blindfold, so I stay where I am, lying mostly comfortably on the bench. Jack taps on a vertebra, at my hips, and then another a few higher, working slowly up my back. The percussion echoes through me, providing a sensation unlike anything I’ve felt before, but one I instantly like.

“I’m not sure I believe you’ve told me everything,” Jack muses as he reaches the back of my neck.

If we were having an out-of-scene conversation, I’d roll my eyes. In-scene, the statement is actually a question. Jack wants to know if I want to keep going or not. I don’t really want him to keep spanking me. I definitely want him to do like he promised and bring me to org*sm. We have to work in the morning. So, probably we should finish this up soonish, but… Yes, I want this to continue.

“I’ve told you everything about how I found out about Katie’s kink and she found out about ours,” I assure him. “Sir.”

Jack lifts my arm, guiding me to standing. “Then convince me.”

I know what that means, in the context of a scene like this, especially when I’m looking for relief and he probably is, too. I promptly sink to my knees, seeking forward with my hands until I find his legs. I run my hands up them slowly until I reach his hips.

I make short work of his belt and slacks, and don’t take much longer ridding him of his boxers. I feel him step out of all of it and kick it aside as my hands move inward, stroking his dick and confirming he’s hard, too.

Knowing the whole evening’s been foreplay for both of us, I don’t spend a lot of time on it before I swallow him down. His hands tangle in my hair before I’ve even got half of him in my mouth, and he bucks immediately into a high tempo face-f*cking. I try not to gag and focus on matching my breathing with the thrusts so I don’t run out of air.

I bring Jack right to the edge, and just when I think I’ve got him there—another thrust, maybe two—he pulls away. I lean forward, trying to find him again, figuring I’ll lick him a bit and take him in again, but Jack stops me with a chuckle and a pat on the head. “You’re very convincing,” he says drily, and I blurt out a laugh.

I sit back on my heels, turning my face up to him, mouth slightly open to take him back, if he wants. Instead, he pulls me to my feet with hands under my shoulders. He puts something in my hand – a bottle, with a flip top, I determine as I examine it by feel. I tip it over and squirt out a little of the contents. Lubricant.

Jack usually likes to get me ready, and it is foreplay, the way he does it, but every once in a great while, he just wants to watch me lubricate myself for him, likes me to do it knowing he’s watching, knowing we’re both thinking about what’s coming next in a different way than when he prepares me.

When I finish with that chore, Jack slides in easily, and we both moan. As much as I just want him to get me off, it feels so good to have him hard inside me, filling me. He sets a pace that’s slightly more controlled than the one he was using on my throat just moments ago, but he pulls my hips into his with every thrust, so he’s achieving a much deeper, firmer thrust than he will go after when going at it too hard might result in me choking and accidentally biting down in an instinctive attempt to stop the invasion.

It feels like every time he pumps into me, he pumps more blood to my throbbing erection, making me harder each time. Just as I’m beginning to gasp and think I can’t bear it, and wondering if I dare use my unbound hands to my advantage, Jack’s right hand slides forward from my hip and wraps around my co*ck. He gives me a gentle squeeze. “Jack!” I groan.

He does it again, moving his other hand to stroke up and down the length. “Don’t tease me,” I beg. “Come on, Jack, please don’t tease me.” I barely even notice myself begging uncontrollably as he matches the rhythm of his stroking to the f*cking he’s delivering, using the down strokes of the hand job to pull me back into him as he thrusts into me.

I’m so close, and I can tell he is, too, and my only concern is that he’ll finish before I do and leave me like this. “Please, oh, pleasepleaseplease,” I mumble incoherently. I’m not sure whether I’m begging him or my own body at this point, I just know I need.

Jack leans forward, pressing his chest into my back more firmly. “That’s it,” he whispers in my ear. “That’s good, Mac. You’re going to be good for me, aren’t you?”

I nod almost frantically, getting desperate.

“Good, that’s good. You’re going to show me how good you are, show me how much you love all this, right? You’re going to come for me, so hard, because you need it so bad, aren’t you?” They’re not really questions; they’re directions, orders. “Yes, you are,” Jack affirms for me, nipping at my ear lobe. “You’re going to be so good and come so hard.” He gives me another squeeze as he’s stroking down toward my body, and it’s more than I can take.

I come, gasping for air, feeling like I haven’t breathed in ages. Jack tightens his hold on me, milking every last drop from me, and also simply holding me upright. I’d reached blindly for the bench, and braced myself against it early on, but it’s not enough as my knees are going rubbery; if Jack’s arms weren’t around my waist, I’d be a puddle of spent nerves on the floor.

Jack continues whispering in my ear, even as his hands leave my limp dick to rub lightly over the rest of my body. He tells me how good I am, how much he enjoyed it, how much he knows I enjoyed it, how I must feel all better, now that I got that out of my system, and he’s right on all counts. And just as I’m starting to calm down and the post-sex energy slump begins to creep in, Jack comes deep inside me, and I smile wearily but contently, feeling his fluids filling my channel.

He withdraws quickly, but doesn’t let me go, plainly aware that I can’t stand on my own. He shifts my weight so I’m leaning mostly into his left arm, freeing his right hand to undo the blindfold.

I blink, dazed in the sudden light, and then he turns me and I instinctively wrap my arms around his neck and cuddle into his chest, tucking my head into the crook of his neck sleepily. “Come on,” he murmurs gently. “Time I put you to bed.”

“Yes, please,” I mumble back, barely changing position as we stumble to bed and Jack tucks us safely under warm soft blankets. I’m sound asleep in seconds, and I sleep deeply and soundly until our alarm goes off the next morning.

📎

I watch Jack anxiously as he goes to the bar. I have no idea what he’s up to. His drink is still half-full, on the table next to mine. Mine’s getting low, but he didn’t ask, and he doesn’t get me refills without asking if I want them. Mostly I just know I don’t really want to be alone at the table with Isaac, even as I understand why Jack wants to get away from him.

Why did I have to be polite? Why couldn’t I just pretend I didn’t recognize one of the group that came over from the convention center? Why couldn’t I just tell him off? Why didn’t I get up and walk away with Jack? It’s not like I’m getting anything out of this “conversation” except grating reminders of exactly why I left Isaac, and how hard it was to extricate myself from him. I’m falling back into old habits too quickly for my own taste.

Jack returns from chatting with Ricky at the bar, empty-handed. He puts a light hand on my shoulder. “Tomorrow’s a work day, so we could call it a night.”

I school my features, lest Isaac sees through Jack’s ploy. It’s ridiculously early for us to call it a night, even on a work night. I’m one drink in, Jack’s one and a half. Besides, if it were an order, Jack would have said we should call it a night. Could means it is up to me, means he thinks it is a good idea for reasons that have nothing to do with the excuse he’s presenting, and everything to do with getting me the hell away from Isaac.

I rise, considering what to say as we take our leave of Isaac. I don’t want to lie, so I can’t say it was nice to see him, or that I hope to see him again. “Good night, Isaac. Enjoy your time in Los Angeles.”

“You miss it,” Isaac didn’t raise his voice, even as we began to walk away. “You may have suppressed it, told yourself otherwise, but you are a submissive fa*g. You can’t deny who you are forever.”

Jack’s arm around me is the only thing that keeps me steady. “Don’t turn back,” he advises, barely audible.

I don’t nod; I just obey.

📎

As we approach the car, I know I should pull away from Jack, separate to my side of the car, but I don’t want to. I also know, if I don’t pull away in the next step or two, Jack will. I don’t want that, either. So I do the only other thing I can. Instead of turning away from Jack, I turn into him. He immediately wraps both arms around me. “It’s okay,” he tries to soothe me.

I hide my face in his chest because I can’t look at him and verbalize the chaotic thoughts in my head. “What if… what if he’s not wrong?”

Jack’s voice sounds like he’s smiling indulgently. “About you being the most submissive person he or I have ever met? He’s not wrong. About you not being able to deny who you are? Also true, and something you already knew, or you would never have come out of the closet as gay. That you miss him, the way he treats you? Mac, don’t be ridiculous. You’re shaking and it is not with desire.”

I nod slowly, but don’t pull away from Jack’s shoulder.

After only a minute, Jack urges me toward the passenger door. “Come on, Mac. Let’s go home and we’ll get you sorted out.” I don’t want to pull away from him, don’t want to move yet, but heaven help us all, if I’m—if we’re—still in the parking lot when Isaac comes out. We need to get out of here.

Jack puts me in the car, buckles me in, but doesn’t move away. It takes me a second to understand. Jack knows that anything that happens that gets my thoughts spiraling is likely to trigger my fear of abandonment. Times like this, he moves away at the wrong moment, steps out of reach, or out of sight, and I’ll lose it completely. He doesn’t want that, even though he knows we need to get going.

Reluctantly, I do what he’s waiting for me to do and make the first move, pulling away from him. Jack backs off, crossing around the front of the car—always in sight—to the driver’s side. Before he starts the car, he reaches over to set a hand on my knee. “What do you need, Mac?”

“I’m not sure…I don’t know.”

Jack knows me – better than I know myself too often – knows how distressed I can get about not knowing something, no matter how simple or complex or unimportant. “Okay, we’ll figure that out together, too,” he reassures me.

📎

As we climb the stairs from the parking area to our apartment, Jack tries again. “Mac, what do you want right now?”

It’s the same question, but somehow Jack’s on the right track, because I have an immediate answer. Probably not one that helps, but an answer nonetheless. I know he’ll hear the pain in my voice, even though I keep it to a whisper. “I want to feel human again.”

“Hmm,” Jack hums. “I can work with that.” I’m glad he can, because I can’t.

As he unlocks the door, he ushers me in. “Just relax. I have you covered tonight.” I drop to the couch. Jack smiles approvingly and squeezes my shoulder, but doesn’t sit with me. I hear him make his way back to the bathroom, and then around in the back of the apartment. I lean my head on the back of the couch, eyes closed, and try to let everything Isaac-related fall away.

I’m not convinced it’s working when Jack sits beside me. “I ran a bath for you,” he announces. “Before you can feel human, you need to relax.”

He’s probably right, so I let him lead me to the bath. “Are you joining in?” I ask, not sure which answer I want.

“I wasn’t,” he says hesitantly. “I was going to set up part two of my plan to help you feel human again. But if your abandonment complex is kicking up, I certainly can.”

I shake my head. It’s not that. “I’m okay, I think. Just…” I look away. I know now what I wanted the answer to be when I asked. But I don’t know how to ask for it.

“Just what, Mac?” Jack encourages.

I know I have to blurt it out or I’ll never say it. “Could you stay long enough to get me ready for this bath? I…uh, I like it when you undress me.” Love it, actually. A lot.

Jack chuckles and strokes my cheek. “Mac, that would be my pleasure.”

📎

Once Jack makes sure I’m settled in the tub and at least trying to relax, he leaves me to it. I’m curious about step two of his plan. I didn’t give Jack much to go on. He says it’s enough, but it’s not. At least for me, so I have no idea what he might be setting up. I want to go find out what it is, but Jack was right when he said I won’t be able to feel human again until I relax, so I have to do what I’m supposed to be doing and relax.

My thoughts continue to spiral chaotically. I try to pull them under control. Jack’s going to be sweet all night. The earlier I can put myself together, the more of it I can enjoy. It’s not easy, with Isaac’s insinuations. Jack’s rationalization makes sense, to a degree, but he was the one who pulled me away from Isaac. I didn’t walk away.

I don’t like how Isaac treated me, then or tonight. Jack’s right about that. But why do I let myself get into situations like that? A polite greeting is one thing, but I let the conversation continue. I should have shut it down far sooner, just as I should have gotten out of the relationship with him far sooner. Am I so submissive I have no backbone of my own? I’m clearly so submissive that it’s going to take Jack to drag me out of my latest funk.

The water cools, so I get out. There’s a towel on top of the clothes that I’m almost certain wasn’t there when I entered the bathroom. I have been so lost in my thoughts I didn’t even hear Jack come back in. The towel is warm to the touch, confirming my thought that it wasn’t in the room when I stepped into the bath. The clothes underneath it are my comfiest. Of course.

📎

Jack’s not in the bedroom, or anywhere in the back of the apartment, including the toy room, but I’m not surprised by that. He may have gone in there for toys or cloth restraints, but we won’t wind up in there tonight. He’s not in the living room, either, which is more of a surprise.

I find him in the kitchen. He smiles pleasantly. “Here,” he says, pressing a mug into my hands.

I take the warm mug. Hot chocolate. Of course. I developed a weakness for it at MIT. I thought I was going to freeze solid my first winter, give the glaciologists something unusual to study. Then one of the women in my general sciences course came in one morning and put a thermos on my lab bench. “Drink. I can’t stand you looking so miserable every day.” It’s not cold enough in Los Angeles for me to crave it like I did there, but it’s a comfort drink.

Jack sits first, with his own mug. It’s a calculated move. I haven’t given him enough to work with, so he’s not sure how much space I do or don’t want. Instead of trying to figure it out, he’s putting himself in space, and letting me position myself around him, which means I’m free to pull the other chair up right beside him. He puts an arm across the back of my chair, again leaving me space to move into it or not, until I lean in. Then he cuddles me close, because then he’s certain I want it.

“Part one of my plan was getting you to relax,” Jack explains after a while. “Part two is getting you to feel like you, getting you back in your own skin, not the skin he tries to put you in, not the skin you think I want you in, just yours.”

“So, hot chocolate.”

Jack nods. “There’s more in the pot, if you want a refill.”

I do. Of course I do. “Do you want a top off?” I ask him.

“I’ve still got plenty,” he tells me. I’m not surprised. He’s never mentioned living anywhere cold, and he’s never developed much of an affinity for hot beverages. Even coffee’s more about the caffeine than the warm for him.

I refill my mug and notice there’s still some left over. Because Jack knows I always make a little more than I’m expecting to drink, and use it the next couple days instead of creamer to sweeten my coffee.

We don’t talk much. I suppose there’s not much to say that Jack didn’t say earlier this year, when I had the nightmare about Isaac, or earlier tonight in the parking lot at Encontras. When I finish my second mug of hot chocolate and Jack finishes what I realize was likely only a partial mug from the start, we get up.

“Go get cozy in the bedroom,” Jack tells me. “I’ll be right in, as soon as I’ve cleaned up here.”

I stand frozen in the middle of the kitchen. A good sub obeys. A good sub doesn’t argue or negotiate. But a good sub can ask for clarification, to be sure he’s being properly obedient. “I don’t understand,” I say uncertainly. I don’t understand what Jack wants. I also don’t understand why my voice is shaking. “Am I supposed to be in the bed?” Because this is the end of Jack’s plan, because I didn’t give him anything to go on, so there’s nothing to do but sleep it off like a bad nightmare? “On the bed?” Because there’s a part three to his plan, some sort of play or sex or both forthcoming? “Over it?” Because I wouldn’t argue I might deserve a punishment to teach me not to have even what I thought was going to be a polite, civil conversation with Isaac ever again. “Clothed? Naked? Somewhere in between? I—I don’t understand what you want.”

I frown. My chaotic thoughts just found voice.

Jack puts both hands on my shoulders. “Mac, of course you don’t, because it wasn’t an order. This isn’t a scene. It’s just us, just some TLC for you. If you’re starting to feel the exhaustion that’s bound to hit you soon, then sure, tuck yourself in, and I’ll be right in to join you. If you’re still too wound up to sleep – and that reaction suggests it’s at least a possibility – then I was thinking on the bed for a massage. How much you’re still wearing when I get in there is completely your call and what will make you feel most comfortable tonight. I’ll work with or around whatever you decide. But, I repeat, it wasn’t an order and this isn’t a scene, so if you’d prefer to stay here while I clean up the dishes, then we’ll go to bed together.”

All of those at once? Emotional exhaustion creeping in, but still too wound up to sleep, and maybe not wanting to be away from Jack. I walk down to the bedroom because I think I maybe need the time to gather myself so I don’t have a meltdown over nothing. I slip the t-shirt off, but leave the sweats, and sprawl on the bed.

📎

Jack comes in a while later. It feels like far too long to just wash up the hot chocolate mugs and pot, but that’s probably my anxiety talking. He sits on the edge of the bed and puts a hand on my shoulder. “Are you still awake?”

I nod against my arms, turning my face to him.

“So part three of my plan for tonight is a massage, like I said. I’ll be honest with you, Mac, my hope is that you’ll drift off while I’m at it, because I think that’s probably your best chance of falling asleep tonight. So I wasn’t going to use oil, because then I don’t have to clean up or move you if you do fall asleep. That all sound good?”

I nod again. I’m quiet for a little while, letting my muscles respond to Jack’s hands. “Are you going to f*ck me?” I ask eventually.

“Like I said, my hope is that you fall asleep during the massage, so sex wasn’t a part of my plan for the night. That said, you should know by now, any time you want it, I’m more than willing to oblige. So we’ll see, at the end of the massage. If you’re still awake, it’ll be your choice. If you’re not, I was planning to set the alarm a little early, in case we need to talk or anything in the morning. So, there’ll be time for that later, if we don’t get to it tonight.”

“Okay,” I murmur, feeling oddly like the answer is exactly what I needed to hear, but that I’d had no idea what answer I was looking for or expecting when I asked.

📎

My internal clock tells me it is early and not in the just a few minutes before the alarm way. I stretch but try to stay still, since I assume Jack is still asleep.

“Good morning,” he murmurs.

“You’re awake?” I ask, surprised.

“Apparently,” he says drily. “How are you feeling?”

“Human,” I assure him. “Horny,” I confess.

He leans up on one elbow. “And that bothers you because?”

“It feels wishy-washy.”

Jack snorts before he can stop himself and gives me a little apologetic look. He tries not to let me know when he thinks my emotional reactions are ridiculous, because he wants to encourage me to share my feelings, at least with him.

“After the massage, you said it was my choice and I told you I wasn’t sure,” I remind him.

“And now you are sure. What’s wishy-washy about that?”

“It feels like I changed my mind.”

“Okay. Supposing I agreed that you did—though I don’t think I do—why is that bothering you?” Jack runs a hand down my arm and I’m not sure which of us he’s trying to comfort. “I know you agree with me that no matter how many times a person says yes—to sex or anything else—they never lose the right to say no.”

I nod. That’s basic human decency, after all.

“So wouldn’t you also think that no matter how many times a person says no, they never lose the right to say yes, only the right to expect to be asked again?”

“It’s too early for you to try to out logic me,” I complain.

“Mac,” Jack frowns.

“Yes,” I agree with him. “A person can say yes or no in any situation regardless of past answers. I know I had a choice last night, and I have one now. That’s not the point.”

“Okay, then what is?” Jack asks. “That I’m taking too long to turn you over, apply some lube, and get to it?”

I smile, almost laugh. “That, too,” I tell him. “I’m obviously using the wrong words to describe what I’m feeling, because I completely agree with your arguments tearing it apart, but it doesn’t change how I’m feeling. It’s not even making me question if I’m being rational, like happens sometimes when you try to logic me out of a spiral. But I don’t have any other words right now, so… yeah, sure, turn me over. I do want that. We can talk about this later, if I find other words to explain why I feel like I shouldn’t want it.”

“Okay, if you’re sure,” Jack agrees, proceeding to do exactly what he suggested I was waiting for, exactly what I am, in fact, waiting for.

📎

Because we woke so early, we have plenty of time to take it slow and enjoy ourselves, and still be ready for work on time. Jack gives me a squeeze around the shoulders. “You good?”

“Yeah, I mean I wish it was a weekend. You did what I asked for last night, made me feel human, feel me again, but now…” I meet Jack’s eyes hesitantly. “I guess I want to be yours again, and know that means I’m not his again.”

Jack kisses me. “Definitely still mine,” he says against my lips. He steps back, a hand still on my cheek. Suddenly he looks down to check his watch. “We have a couple of minutes; come on.”

Puzzled, I follow him back to the toy room. We have a couple minutes, which is not long enough for anything that comes to my mind as we enter the room. Jack turns to show me a small plug he’s pulled out of one of the drawers. It’s small, comfortable enough to wear all day, but something to keep my mind on Jack. “I was going to ask what you thought about this idea, but based on the look on your face, I think you like my idea.”

“I do,” I answer immediately, adding a belated, “Sir,” as I pass him one of the bottles of lube scattered around the room.

He coats the plug and tugs my belt free. He notices me wince as he pushes the plug in, which surprises us both; a plug that small shouldn’t bother me at all. “Mac?”

“It’s not settled right,” I explain, discomfort radiating up my back.

“Alright,” Jack says, rubbing my hip. “Relax a second; I’ll take it out and try again.”

“Thanks,” I say, concentrating on relaxing the muscles that want to clench up in discomfort.

The second time, with extra lube, the plug settles comfortably. Jack fixes my clothes and gives me another kiss. “We’d better go, before we convince ourselves to go AWOL.”

📎

Jack smiles at me as he adjusts the oven timer. “You get caught behind that accident on 7?”

“No, I went around.”

Jack looks pointedly at the clock. “How far around?”

I shake my head. “I didn’t leave work until quarter of six. Sorry, I should’ve texted; I got caught up. A wire arced and then started to spark, just at quitting time, so I spent 45 minutes cleaning up after whoever plugged that board in without checking for loose wires.”

“I thought everything was plug and play these days. Is that only consumer electronics?” Jack knows he doesn’t understand my job, but he tries.

“It shouldn’t be, but you get what you pay for. There a handful of companies selling the boards we’re using on this project and they all sell at basically the same price. And then there’s one company that sells at half that price, which is great for our bottom line, but we see loose wires on about 15% of the boards.”

“So you’re getting half price boards because of shoddy manufacturing?”

“Nah,” I tell him as I go to the fridge. “15% is about industry standard. The manufacturing’s fine. If it weren’t, I’d fight with my boss about buying the more expensive boards. This company we’re buying from just has no quality assurance department at all, so the 15% with faulty connections are being sold instead of scrapped. Want one?” I ask Jack as I pull out a beer for myself.

It takes Jack a second to track the change of topic and nod. I grab him one and close the fridge. “We’re modifying those boards anyway, so the extra couple minutes it takes a tech to check the board and, if needed, fix it, is less expensive than buying at full price.” I open both bottles and hand one to Jack. “It’s a calculated business decision, and one I agree with, except when a tech doesn’t do their job, doesn’t check the board, and the resulting sparks and meltdown become my problem.”

“Poor planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on mine,” Jack quotes with a smile.

“Except where you and I both have job descriptions that boil down to ‘take someone else’s poor planning and don’t let it become an emergency’.”

Jack nods and raises his beer. “Here’s to no emergencies and plenty of beer.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

“You do that,” Jack advises, playfully tapping the back of the plug through my khakis, sending a delicious ripple into me. “Dinner’ll be ready in ten.”

“And then you’re going to do something more than tease me,” I suggest hopefully.

“Maybe,” Jack teases. I pretend to scowl at him. He smirks back. “Okay, I promise. I’ll do more than tease you…eventually.”

Oh Lord. It’s going to be that kind of night. The tease me until I beg kind of night.

📎

I hear the door slide open behind me. It’s probably Jack telling me dinner’s ready. “Dinner, Mac.”

“Yeah,” I reply. Even I wince from my tone.

“Woah. Okay, what’s on your mind, bud?” He asks, coming to stand at the railing beside me.

“Just thinking…about Isaac, and you, and me. Mostly me. Nothing all that new; we can talk about it later. Dinner’s hot.”

“It’ll keep.”

“So will this,” I reply, but I don’t move toward the door. Jack waits me out. “When I asked you in the parking lot if Isaac wasn’t right, I wasn’t really talking about me being submissive or gay. Like you said, we both know I am. We’ve both known that for a very long time. But I fell back into it so quickly, into feeling like his thing, even with you right there, which should have been more than all the reminder I needed that I’m not, that I’m human, that I’m me, that I’m yours. If I fell back into it that fast, and it took that long for you to pull me back out of it, which one’s the truth, and which one’s just an act?”

“You make yourself who you are every day by deciding what’s your truth and what isn’t,” Jack replies. “Hell, it’s all an act, for each of us. Who we think we are, who everyone around us thinks we are; only know the answer to that question in retrospect.”

I nod. He might be right. “Dinner’s getting cold,” I say, and head for it.

“It’ll keep,” he reminds me.

“It’s not like we can’t talk and eat. It’s not like we don’t do it every day,” I say over my shoulder.

“If that’s what you want,” Jack says slowly, “But, Mac, you do not have to bottle this up just because it might take a minute. We have all night for this. All weekend. As long as it takes, okay?”

“Okay,” I assure him. I’m not bottling it up because it’s going to take a minute, honest. I’m opting to eat first/during because it’s going to take longer than my stomach is willing to wait. That’s all.

Jack offers me a beer as he passes the fridge. I shake my head. Alcohol makes me more emotional. I’m already headed for an emotional minefield. All I need is alcohol to make me unintelligible before I get enough of this out that Jack can help me make sense of it.

“No beer? This might really take all weekend,” Jack observes, sitting down with a plate of food, but all of his attention still very much on me.

I nod, a little uncomfortably. I eat a couple of bites, reconsidering my wording on what I was about to say, realizing I need to word it in a way Jack can hear and not just react defensively to. “I love you, Jack, but I ask too much of you. I should be able to deal with my own emotions, and baggage, at least some of the time. I should have enough of a spine to walk away from Isaac myself when it became clear that it wasn’t going to be a polite civil conversation between exes who hadn’t seen each other in years. I should know who I am enough to know which of you is right. I should know who I am enough to know who the f*ck I am. I should be able to talk to the man I love about everything I’m thinking and feeling. But I can’t, and I don’t. Any of it.”

I expect Jack to say something, to try to convince me I’m better than that. Jack says nothing, prompting me to glance up from my plate. He smiles reassuringly. “I know what you are expecting me to say here. If you want me to say it anyway, I will, but Mac, you wouldn’t have been out on the deck working through this if you’re going to believe me about it.”

I suppose he’s right. And if I meant what I said, that I ask too much of him, asking him to lie to me about what I already know just to make me feel better definitely counts among the things I shouldn’t expect of him.

Over the next several hours, I keep working through my thoughts. At the kitchen table, while we finish eating and Jack does the dishes, then on the couch. I ramble, at times. Talk about losing Mom, about Dad leaving, about my dog, Archimedes, dying, and my grandfather, about screwing things up with Bozer, about Kevin, and Isaac, and some of the others since, and even where I was at the night in Encontras when I met Jack.

Eventually, I fall silent, not sure what else to say. Through it all, Jack just listens. Somehow he always knows what I need. Seeing I’ve said everything I have to say, Jack takes one of my hands, fisted anxiously in my lap, and flattens it between his hands, rubbing his thumb in a circle on my palm. “How long have you been working on this alone?”

It takes all my will power not to pull my hand away. “Really, Jack? We’re going to go back to having a ‘why don’t you trust me’ argument?”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “If that’s why you didn’t tell me you were working on this, we sure as hell are, but the question wasn’t meant as an accusation. It was just a question.”

I lean into him apologetically. “Sorry. I don’t know why I got defensive. We haven’t had that argument since Mission City. It just feels like the answer to your question should be obvious, so I figured it was a cover question.”

“If you think the answer’s obvious, you’ve been working on this since Isaac turned up in Encontras, the middle of last week.” I nod. Jack continues to massage my hand lightly for a while. He focuses on that for a minute. “Mac, you ever talk to anyone about any of this? Anyone professional, I mean?” He asks, meeting my eyes.

I shake my head. “Always tried to convince myself I wasn’t actually broken.”

“No shame in admitting life’s handed you a rollercoaster.”

“Life hands most of us a rollercoaster.”

“And more of us seek help dealing with it than we let other people think.”

“You’ve been to a shrink? I mean, not for your Army entrance psych eval.”

Jack shrugs. “Army’s better about recognizing PTSD is real than they used to be. Coming back from deployment, we’re required to talk to the Army’s people. On getting our discharge orders, too. Some of it helps, so, yeah, kept it up with a civilian doc after. I could give her a call, if you want, set up a meeting.”

I look away. “You think I’m that broken.”

“As broken as I am? Sure. The Army shrinks talked with us a lot about traumatic loss. When one of your buddies dies in battle, especially if you’re there, it’s a rough thing. And there’s no grieving. You let yourself get distracted like that and all that’ll happen is that you’ll join them. But the fact that you can’t grieve does not mean you don’t need to. Sometimes, by the time you can grieve—say the end of a deployment—it seems inappropriate to do so, because it’s been so long. But that need doesn’t just go away. It comes out in all sorts of awkward ways, no matter how much a guy keeps trying to shove it down. I see a lot of that in you. You’ve told me you didn’t cry much when your mom died because your dad and grandfather fought over it. I’m guessing that means you really didn’t grieve at all, just pushed it away. What about when your dad left, or Bozer? Or when you lost your grandfather, or the dog—what was his name?”

“Archimedes,” I answer weakly.

“I had to guess, I’d guess you didn’t let yourself grieve any of those losses, didn’t feel like you could. But just like me and my Army buddies, not doing it doesn’t change needing to.” Jack’s absent calming massage of my hand is creeping up my wrist now. He turns his eyes to it, probably wanting me to think his attention’s on that, not what he’s saying. “Mac, you want to know what I think?”

“Of course I do.”

“I think every time you talk—really talk—about any of the things you’ve been talking about tonight, you’re better for it. Steadier, more in control of your emotions, more of all those things you said you should be and do at the start of this. I think it’s hard for you to talk to me about this stuff a lot of the time. I don’t know if that’s because it’s just hard for you to talk about this stuff period, or if it’s because you’re on some level worried about how I’ll judge you. If the former, it at least wouldn’t be any harder for you to talk to a counselor. If the latter, it might be a whole lot easier, because you go into it looking to get something specific out of it, and what the counselor thinks of you at the end of it is irrelevant.”

📎

“It’s alright; I’ve got you,” I hear, even as my hands move to rub the sleep from my eyes. The sleep and the wet. Again. This is the third time I’ve woken up already crying since Jack convinced me to talk to a counselor two weeks ago. Jack, of course, swears up and down that he doesn’t mind, but, well, I do.

“You didn’t mention this when you were going on about the benefits of maybe talking to someone professional,” I accuse sullenly.

Jack chuckles, stroking my hair. “Well, yeah. Wanted you to actually consider doing it.”

“Screw you,” I retort, but it lacks venom. Talking to Tammy has been good, even if this keeps happening.

“Yeah, sure, if you want. That seems fair.” Jack’s comment manages to startle a laugh out of me. “That’s better.”

“Thanks, Jack. I don’t mean to be ungrateful.”

“I remember what the first couple of weeks are like. It gets better.”

“Yeah, and why should I believe you now?”

Jack chuckles. “Because I’m the one who knows you only get sulky when you’re exhausted. Come on, Mac, back to sleep. I’ve got you.” He wipes away the tears with a gentle hand and then cradles me into him. “Shh, now. Sleep,” he whispers again and again, his hands moving soothingly to the same rhythm as his voice.

Chapter 6: Birthday | Assault

Chapter Text

“Are you sure?” Jack asks me as we gather our things to go out. Some friends of mine with a house, and therefore a backyard, invited us over for a barbeque. If it weren’t my birthday, there’d be no question, but Jack knows it’s not the easiest day for me, being the anniversary of the day I learned my father wasn’t coming home.

I nod. “Tammy pointed out that if I’m feeling a negative emotion, like I do over my father leaving on my birthday, and I have a negative reaction to feeling that emotion—like when I get frustrated with myself for still letting it hurt twenty years later—then I have built a negative feedback loop, which can only result in a downward spiral. So, better to spend the afternoon and evening in good company than here sulking, right?”

“She’s pretty smart about these kinds of things,” Jack admits.

📎

There are more cars than I expect parked in the vicinity of my friend’s house, but he does like to host, so I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised he invited a crowd. Jack’s hand rests on the small of my back as we pass through the gate into the backyard. As we round the corner of the house, those already gathered raise a shout. “Happy birthday, Mac!”

If it weren’t for Jack’s steadying hand on my back, I might have gone down. It felt like a sucker punch to the gut. I don’t celebrate my birthday. I quickly throw on a sub smile; only Jack will know it’s 100% fake. It buys me time to let my brain recover from the shock and make sense of what’s going on. A surprise party. The kind of thing normal people do for normal friends who are turning 30. I’m supposed to be shocked, maybe embarrassed, but ultimately grateful that I have such awesome friends. I’m not supposed to be shocked to the point of tears. It’s not supposed to hurt.

Jack quickly wraps me in one of his great big bear hugs, as if he just wants to be the first at the party to wish me an individual birthday. He tightens his arms as I duck my head into his neck. His voice is an almost soundless whisper, right over my ear. “I’m so sorry, Mac. I thought you knew. Are you okay? Do I need to get you out of here?”

I roll my head ever so slightly side to side, the barest shake of my head, to not give away that we’re having a very quiet conversation, not just an exchange centered around “Happy Birthday”.

“Okay. You change your mind, just signal me.”

I nod, pulling back. “We’ll ‘celebrate’ at home?” I confirm.

“Of course,” Jack agrees with a smile. He doesn’t get a chance to say anything more as everyone else descends on us to wish me a happy birthday, but I don’t really need more. I know what “celebrating” will look like, especially after I endure a birthday party. My birthday spanking will undoubtedly be followed by a long massage, with the oil, and then a (hopefully) shared bath and a chance to talk, if I need to. This early on, I don’t know what I’ll need, but I should try to talk to Jack. He was right, when he suggested talking to Tammy, that as hard as it is for me to talk about stuff like my dad leaving on my birthday, I feel better when I manage it, and my next session with Tammy is several days away. I could call her anyway, but I hate to inconvenience her, of course, and Jack’s just as good at listening, plus it’ll make me feel good and him happy, if I talk to him instead.

📎

As Jack sits me down on his lap and begins unbuttoning my shirt, he meets my eyes more tentatively than usual. “I really am sorry that party came as a shock to you, Mac. I never intended to put you in that situation unaware. They came to me, wanted me to get you there, and I told them I couldn’t do that. I thought I talked them out of the ‘surprise’ part. Apparently, they didn’t grasp the ‘it’s a bad idea’ part and thought I just meant I couldn’t keep a secret from you.”

“I never thought you had anything to do with it, Jack,” I assure him, shivering lightly as his rough fingers move over the sensitive skin on my ribs.

“I still feel like I should have tried harder. I was trying to protect your privacy and not put all your personal business out there, but, Mac, what I wouldn’t do to have kept that look off your face.”

I nod. “I was trying to keep it off my face, too. They meant well. A surprise birthday party for a friend’s thirtieth is a thing normal well-meaning friends do, isn’t it?”

Jack nods. “It is, and you did a pretty good job of getting that sub smile on quick,” he assures me, dropping my belt to the floor on my shirt, now that he’s worked it loose. “That hurt me almost as much as that initial look, because I know what that smile means, how little pleasure there is behind it. ‘I’m doing this for you.’ I knew why you were hiding behind that smile, but I just wanted to grab you up again and tell you I would never ask you to do that for me,” Jack explains, motioning for me to stand back up so he can tug my unzipped jeans and boxers down.

I step out of them and drape myself over his lap for the spanking.

“I think you should count these,” Jack suggests as I settle in.

I consider it. I’m not a big fan of counting strikes. For many, it pushes them more quickly into subspace, by making them focus on the discipline, on the physical sensations, the pain of it. For me, subspace isn’t reached by focus, it is reached when I manage to lose focus on all the many thoughts rambling through my head. Counting forces me to keep some level of focus, but tonight my wandering thoughts are going to wander straight to my father abandoning me. Counting’s probably our best bet. I nod slowly. “Yes, sir.” I flinch, surprised, as Jack’s hand comes down sooner than I expect. “One, sir. Thank you.”

“Thirty and one to grow on,” I say a few minutes later, when Jack gives me the last two, one on top of the other. “Thank you, sir,” I finish the ritual.

“Good boy,” he teases gently, rubbing my hip. “Now, scoot, so I can get the oil.”

I laugh and move off his lap onto the bed, making myself comfortable for the massage.

📎

The soundtrack for that massage is Jack’s guilt over letting me get into that situation unaware. I want to growl at him, but that will just upset him, and I still don’t take doing that well, though I’m better at doing what I need to, when I have to, and at appreciating the difference between upset with me and upset for me. Instead of growling, I tell him, “Stop, just stop.” I frown into my arms as he stops the words and the massage.

“Mac, talk to me, bud. What’s going on?”

“That,” I tell him, hearing the guilt still too heavy in his voice. “When I demanded we celebrate properly after the party, self-recrimination wasn’t on my wish list. I don’t need or want your guilt, Jack. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s. It was… inevitable.”

“But I knew—”

I cut him off. “And I should have.”

“I should have tried harder to convince them against it.”

“Jack, the only way you would have talked Joey out of it would have been to tell him exactly why I don’t celebrate my birthday, especially with a damn party. Joey’s compassionate enough that it wouldn’t be the end of the world, if he found out, but he’s got zero discretion, so the first time he saw me, he would want to talk about it, sympathize. At full volume, in the middle of the breakroom at work? No, thank you. You did the right thing, there, Jack. What I’d have wanted you to do, if you’d been able to ask me before you acted. And I know your next argument. You asked if I was sure about going, but you didn’t make sure I knew what I was going to.”

“There was no reason to still have the barbeque, if they’d listened to me about surprising you. I should’ve known you didn’t know.”

“So should I,” I reply. “It’s not like we never go out on my birthday, but you never ask twice if I’m sure about something unless you can’t believe me the first time. Why wouldn’t you believe me about a barbeque? I should have known you suspected that gathering was something other than what I did. And then there were too many cars. I knew it, and I let it go. Had I questioned any of it, you questioning me, the cars, anything, you would have set me straight. I don’t blame you, Jack.”

“You shouldn’t have had to question me. I should have told you the second they came to me.”

“Very well,” I relent; if I don’t want his guilt, I want an argument even less. “You should have done, and I should have known. I still don’t want your guilt, just your hands, on my back. If I can’t handle a situation as normal as good friends throwing me a 30^th birthday party, I need to be self-aware enough to prevent it, to make sure the people in my life who might do that know better. It’s my problem.”

“We’re partners,” Jack reminds me, taking the hint to resume the massage. “Your problems are my problems.”

“Sure,” I agree. “Jack, I’m not backsliding. I don’t think I am, anyway. I’m not saying you can’t, or shouldn’t help me deal with my problems. I’m just saying they are also my problems; it’s not all on you to deal with them for me.”

“Alright, but don’t forget that I’m here for you.”

I nod on my arms. “I couldn’t have stayed at the party if I didn’t know that.”

After that, Jack finally lapses quiet and lets me just relax into his hands. The party had run later than I had anticipated a simple barbeque going, so it is late and I’m exhausted by the emotional energy it took to pretend the whole party wasn’t a knife in the heart. In no time at all, I’m beginning to drift in and out.

📎

I’m apparently out when Jack finishes with my back and goes to run the bath. I wake up alone and it takes everything I have not to go straight into an abandonment panic. I try to find my voice to call Jack back, because I know he’s not far. He knows me too well to leave me on a day like this.

Before I manage it, a gentle hand comes to rest on the back of my shoulder. Jack’s back. I nearly sob with relief. “Hey, Mac. You awake? I ran a bath.”

I nod, push myself up. Jack reaches out to dab a tear, probably from the relief of his return. He doesn’t ask; I don’t imagine he needs to. I start to go toward the bath but turn back when Jack doesn’t follow.

Jack smiles reassuringly. “I’ll be right in; I just want to clean up out here so we can go straight to bed after. It’s late.” I nod but don’t move. Jack doesn’t press it, just cleans up and comes with me.

He doesn’t comment until we’re both settled into the warm water. “I am not leaving you, Mac, and if I ever did, I’d like to think I’d have the decency to not do it on your f*cking birthday.” It’s a rare condemnation of my father from Jack. He knows I still love my father, so he tries not to badmouth him, even though I’m pretty sure he hates him.

“I know,” I whisper, laying my head in the crook of his neck. I try to let go of everything except the warm water and Jack’s warmth—physical and emotional—gently surrounding me.

📎

I jerk upright suddenly, sputtering. “Easy, easy; you’re okay, just breathe now.” Jack’s reassurances sound like they might be meant for himself as much as me. I cough weakly before managing to obey. “I thought you were just relaxing, not falling asleep.”

“I knew I was drifting, but I didn’t think I’d drown. Must be time we took this to dry land.”

“Yes, please,” Jack agrees. “If you don’t want me to feel guilty, try not to die on my watch, huh, Mac.”

“Wasn’t intentional,” I retort, dragging the towel over my face. My mouth obviously made it to the water line, but I don’t think I actually breathed in any water, just had some accidental/incidental water in my mouth and lungs. I’m fine.

“You okay, Mac?” Jack double checks as we move back to the bed.

“I am, Jack. As long as you’re here.”

“Always,” Jack promises me. “Is that what it was about, earlier?”

“Yeah. I woke back up and I was alone.”

“Your abandonment thing kick up?”

“Some,” I admit, “but I also knew you weren’t far, if I could just manage your name, or half of it, or even a panicked whimper, you’d be right back. And you were.”

“Always,” Jack says again, rubbing my back as he cuddles me into him for the night.

📎

My phone rang just as pre-boarding began. I didn’t recognize the number, which would usually mean I don’t answer and see if whoever it is leaves a message, but I’m about to be unavailable for three hours. “Hello?” I answer.

“Is this Angus MacGyver?”

“Yes, sir,” I answer hesitantly.

“Good. I’m Dr. Harding, attending physician in the UCLAMC emergency department.”

“Okay…” I say, still not tracking why a doctor at a hospital I’ve never been to would be calling me.

“I’m calling on behalf of Jack Dalton.”

I sit down hard. Jack!

“Mr. MacGyver, are you still there?”

“I-I’m here,” I manage. My voice shakes; no doubt my body does as well. “What…” I lick suddenly dry lips. “What happened? Is he okay?”

“He’s a bit banged up, but he’ll be okay. He specifically requested I assure you he is alive and intends to stay that way.”

I almost laugh hysterically, and fight down tears. Of course Jack would tell anyone he had call to tell me he was in the hospital that they had to reassure me. Of course he would think about me before whatever happened to him. “Of course he did,” I get out. “What—what happened? Why is Jack in the hospital?”

“Mr. MacGyver, unfortunately federal law and hospital policy prevent me from disclosing any further information about a patient’s condition without signed consent from the patient.”

“Wait, that doesn’t make any sense,” I say, completely at a loss.

“The law in question is called HIPPA, it stands for Health—”

“I know what HIPPA is,” I snap, and immediately regret my sharp words. “I mean about Jack. If he’s awake and coherent enough to tell you to call me, and to insist that you reassure me that he’s not going to die on me,” I choke on the phrase despite it all, “then why hasn’t he signed the consent? That doesn’t make sense. He never hides anything from me, much less something as trivial to him as his medical records.”

“I believe it was a question of timing. I was on rounds when I spoke with Mr. Dalton. I asked if there was anyone I could call for him, and he gave your name. I told him that I couldn’t openly discuss his condition with someone who is not legally immediate family without signed consent, and gave him the form, but I had to see other patients. If you are correct in your beliefs about his willingness to allow you access to information about his condition, he probably signed the form shortly after I left the room; however, I cannot provide you any more information than I already have until I have that form in my hands.”

I nod, even though he can’t see it. “Okay, that makes sense. Um, I’m about to board a plane here, but I’ll be there in about three hours. Can you tell him that, that I’m coming and I’ll be there as soon as I can?”

“Of course. Safe travels, Mr. MacGyver.”

📎

“Mac? Mac.” Katie’s voice is tinny and distant. I hear her talking to me, but it feels insignificant against the all-consuming need to be with Jack, to cling to him and know he’s not leaving me, too.

“MAC!”

I jolt a little and decide I need to deal with her, so she’ll leave me alone to figure out what to do. “What?” I demand shortly.

“Exactly,” she replies, looking at me intently. “What the hell was that call? You’re pale and shaking and clearly not hearing anything happening around you. What was that call about?”

“J-Jack,” I stutter, just as he did, when he introduced himself to me all those years ago.

“What about him?” Katie presses.

“He’s, uh, he’s in the hospital,” I rasp out, my throat dry.

“Oh my god. What happened?”

I shrug helplessly, fighting off tears. “I don’t know. Privacy. We’re not family.” It tastes so bitter on my tongue. If Jack’s not family, I’ve got no one.

“Is he okay? Going to be, at least?”

“I guess,” I say, but it comes out as more of a question. “The doctor wouldn’t say much. He’s alive, conscious, and put together enough to have them call me, but not so much so that he made them wait until I’m back in L.A. and can actually get there.” I look up at her, haunted. “I have to get to him!”

“Of course you do,” she soothes, patting my arm. “Look, there’s our boarding call.”

I balk. I can’t just go about my day as planned. I have to get to Jack!

“Mac,” Katie says gently, “I know you’re upset. I know you want to be with Jack right now, but, unless you’ve finished the teleporter, the fastest way to get back to L.A. is to get on this plane, like you’re supposed to.”

I gulp a shaky breath. That…makes sense. I follow her, only dimly aware of the other people around me. She stops one of our coworkers for some quiet conversation that results in he and I exchanging boarding passes, for reasons I don’t follow. We’re not all seated together; the six of us on this trip are scattered throughout the plane.

It makes more sense when we board. My new seat is the window seat next to Katie’s middle seat. “I know you, Mac. You don’t calm down; you distract yourself. I’m going to help.” I nod—it’s not a bad plan, for all it won’t work—and motion her into the window seat.

“That’s okay, Mac; you can have it.”

“No, I can’t,” I say, trembling for a new reason. “I, um, I’m a little bit acrophobic. Flying is a necessary evil. I do not need to be sitting at the window, seeing how we’re twenty thousand feet off the ground.”

Katie nods and slips into the window seat, closing the window covering firmly. “There,” she says as I sit down and buckle in. “Everything is going to be okay. In two and a half hours, we’ll be back in Los Angeles and you can go see Jack.”

📎

“I’ll drive you,” Katie promises. “Let’s just grab our bags. The hospital hasn’t called. That means nothing significant has changed in the past couple hours and nothing is likely to in the next few minutes,” she reasons. “I will get you to Jack; just hold it together a little longer, okay, Mac?”

I don’t nod, but I do close my eyes, taking a deep breath, before focusing on finding the correct baggage carousel.

“You don’t have to come in,” I try to tell Katie, when she takes the turn for visitor parking at the hospital instead of the drop-off pull out.

“Yes, I do. I am not leaving you alone until you’ve seen Jack.”

Jack would say the same, I realize with a pang. I nod mute acceptance, hurrying out of the car as soon as it is parked.

When I get a room number and directions to Jack, it takes more self-control than I thought I had to stop and turn to Katie. “Thank you.”

She squeezes my arm affectionately. “Of course. Tell Jack to get better quick, that’s an order.” I chuckle weakly at the notion of a sub giving an order to not-her-dom, via his sub. Then I hurry down the hall.

📎

“Jack,” I breathe out. He looks bad; bruised all over, swelling around both eyes.

He smiles warmly, though a split in his lip reopens. “Mac; you’re here.”

“Of course I’m here.” Where else would I be?

Jack nods. “Just thought it was earlier than it is. Must have fallen asleep for a bit.”

“Are you okay?” I ask anxiously, sinking into the chair beside the bed and scooting it closer.

Jack reaches for my hand, squeezing it. “I’m going to be fine, Mac. I’m not leaving you, not like this. I told the doctor to make sure he convinced you I was alive.”

“Alive, awake, alert, asking for me,” I report. “That’s all he’d tell me.”

Jack nods. “Yeah, sorry about that. When the doctor comes back, ask whatever you want. You’ll probably understand it better than I do. They’ve got the paperwork all filed now. Of course, we could fix the whole not family thing any time.”

“Jack, I am not having a conversation with you about something that matters as much as marriage when you can’t even look me straight in the eyes because one of yours is swollen shut, and the other is half way there,” I say harshly.

“Fair enough,” he says. “We’ll put a pin in that until the swelling comes down.”

I lean my head down on our joined hands as relief finally begins to flood my veins.

“Mac,” Jack says quietly, “It’s okay; I’m going to be okay.”

“I was so scared,” I whisper brokenly.

“I know,” Jack whispers back. “I know, and I’m really sorry about putting you through that, but I needed you here.”

“I’m here.”

“Yes, you are,” he agrees. “Thank you.”

I turn my head, cheek on our hands, instead of my forehead. “Jack, what happened?”

“A bunch of guys jumped me, wanted to talk about how our kind is ruining society for the next generation, when we’re not ruining them. You know the story.”

It’s ridiculous, but not surprising, to me that in this state and this day and age, there are still hom*ophobic people, and many of them still think we’re all pedophiles. “But…were you coming out of one of the clubs or something?” Jack’s not stereotypically gay. How would a bunch of gay bashers on the street even know? “Or did you know them?”

“I don’t know, Mac. It was dark, and they had something on their faces, and I’m fuzzy as f*ck about it all, to be honest. I thought I heard my name, like maybe they knew me.”

Dread fills me as part of Jack’s story registers. “It was dark,” I echo. “When did this happen? Last night? They didn’t call me until this morning.” Had Jack been unconscious, alone, unidentified in a hospital all that time?

Jack presses his lips together like he doesn’t want to answer. He squeezes my hand again. “Yeah, bud. I had to work late. Dustin f*cked up again. I was walking to the subway—the GTO’s rattling again and I didn’t want it to break down when you weren’t here to take a look or pick me up.”

“I texted you,” I say guiltily. “It was late; I thought you’d gone to bed. I texted you and you didn’t answer.”

“Mac, no, come on; don’t blame yourself for this. It wouldn’t have changed anything. If you’d called and woken a neighbor, they’d have seen both the GTO and the Jeep in the lot and told you I was home. Even if you somehow divined from 1500 miles away that something was wrong, where would police have started looking for me? If they even took your call seriously? Mac, nothing you could have done would have changed the outcome.”

“But you were alone all night?”

“Most of it, anyway. Wasn’t moving real well. Doctor said a torn MCL and busted ribs on the other side will do that to a guy.”

I let out a pained whimper. “Yeah, a lot of ouch,” Jack agrees. “But the garbage guys came to empty the dumpster in the alley around dawn and they called the ambulance for me. EMT said something about shock when I snarked about the blanket in summertime Los Angeles temperatures.” Jack frowns when I don’t smile at the idea of him giving the EMTs grief. “Hey, now,” he says softly. “You’re here now. It’s okay.”

“I should have been here!” I cry, frustrated.

“I wish you were, but we both have to travel for work sometimes. Not your fault.”

📎

Jack is released two days later, but he’s still pretty banged up. He lets me get him settled at home, but insists I go into work for the afternoon.

“I need to be here,” I argue.

“Mac,” he says firmly. “Guilt will not heal my bruises. Neither will an afternoon. At some point, you are going to have to go back to work. Better now than in a few days, when we’ve had this same argument five times before.”

“I need to be here,” I protest.

“And you will be, in about six hours. In the meantime, you are going to work. One of us has to bring home the bacon.” I could argue. We have savings, and I have vacation time, and it’s not like Jack’s not getting paid, either. But I don’t because I’m a good sub and I obey.

Katie looks up from finishing her lunch as I walk in and jumps to her feet. “Mac, you’re here! I thought for sure you’d be out at least the day.”

“I wanted to be,” I confess. “Jack overruled.”

She gives me a sympathetic hug, which I accept more stiffly than is fair to her. “Well, he must be doing okay, if they released him and okayed him to be home alone for five or six hours.”

“Must be,” I agree before sighing. “I’m sorry, Katie. I really appreciate your support, today and especially Saturday. I just feel like I should be – should have been – there. Jack’s pretty banged up, but he’s healing.”

“It’s got to be hard. I can’t imagine going through it with Larry. What was ‘it’ anyway? Car accident?”

I shake my head. “Assault,” I inform her grimly.

“A mugging? Do the police have any suspects?”

“More of a hate crime and no, not yet.”

“Oh, Mac! I’m so sorry.”

“Me too,” I tell her sadly. Me, too. With Jack being bi, he could have as easily ended up in a long term relationship with a woman, and the casual intolerant observer would never have known he had an appreciative eye for the male form. It feels like the assault is my fault. Jack would paddle me for even thinking it, if he knew, but it doesn’t stop me from feeling it.

📎

Jack’s sitting on the couch, mostly upright, when I arrive home. He’s got sports on TV—preseason football, I think—but I suspect he’s listening more than watching, with his black eyes. Now that I’ve been away from him a couple hours, the healing that’s occurred since I first walked into his hospital room on Saturday is evident. His face is still well-colored, but the swelling has gone down considerably. All my anxious thoughts begin to settle.

“Hi, Jack.”

“Hi, Mac. Welcome home!” He greets me cheerfully, sitting up straighter to make room for me on the couch.

I sit quickly and Jack leans into me more heavily than usual, tilting his face up for a kiss. I’m glad his lip has stopped splitting open at the slightest provocation and I shamelessly give him what his asking for.

“Are you actually able to see any of it, or are you just listening?” I ask him, with a gesture toward the TV.

“Mostly listening. I can see it, but not well enough to follow, and trying was giving me a headache, so I stopped. At least it’s preseason. I’d be pissed if I was missing my ‘boys in a meaningful game. I can scout diamond-in-the-rough guys for my fantasy team well enough from the audio.”

“I could build an algorithm to accumulate player stats and draft behavior to help you with your draft board,” I offer.

Jack smirks. “You’re going to science the sh*t out of my fantasy football draft?”

I grin what feels like my first genuine smile in a week as I reply, “I science the sh*t out of everything, Jack.”

He laughs, winces as his ribs complain, and admits, “True enough.”

Jack settles in more firmly against me for a few moments, and I think maybe he just wants us to relax together. Then he frowns. “I hate to not earn my keep, but the knee doesn’t make standing around for any length of time easy. Are you cooking or calling in pizza?”

“Do you want pizza?” I ask.

“Tonight, I’m impartial,” he answers.

“Okay, well, I was thinking spaghetti,” I tell him.

“With meatballs?” Jack asks hopefully.

“Is there any other kind?” I reply, helping him shift so I can get up and start it.

“Were you okay all afternoon?” I ask over my shoulder, more for the sake of conversation than anything else.

“Physically, yeah,” he answers. “I mean it definitely feels like I almost literally got the crap beat out of me. I haven’t been hurting in this many places at once since IED blasts were sitting me on my ass during active duty.” Jack sighs noisily, usually a sign that he’s frustrated with life in general. “I’m going to have to take it a little slow, actually follow doctor’s orders, which would make a couple of Army medics’ jaws drop, if they found out.”

“And you hate it.”

“And I hate it,” he affirms. “I especially hate feeling weak.” Jack’s voice gets suddenly vulnerable. “I have to admit, you might have been right about staying home.”

The water boils right then and I have to focus on what I’m doing, but I do my best to keep my voice from wavering. “Yeah, how so?”

“It was a real thing, being in that alley all night, knowing it’d be midday before you got home and you didn’t know the GTO was acting up or that I’d had to work late, so the car in the lot but no me would point you toward a bar or club—if you didn’t go straight into ‘he finally abandoned me’.”

I’m opening my mouth to tell him I’m sorry (again) when he says, “You know I can hear your guilt from here. Cut that nonsense out immediately.”

“It’s just not that easy.”

“Yeah, well, it isn’t that hard, either.” Jack sighs again. “Still, it was harder than I wanted it to be, being here alone all afternoon. And that made me feel weak, too.”

“Because admitting that all human beings are social creatures and no one is ever truly happy alone is a weakness?” It’s a pot shot, throwing words he’s said to me dozens of times back at him.

“That’s different.” I feel his glare, even though I don’t look over.

“Because there’s so much difference between a badass Army grunt being too tough to have feelings and a dorky nerd trying to logic his way out of them,” I say sarcastically. Pot shot or no, Jack’s not wrong when he says it to me so I trust I’m not wrong as I say it back.

“Ought to spank you,” he grumbles.

“Probably. Do you want me to stay home tomorrow? My boss is really understanding about the whole thing and told me to do whatever I needed to and we’d sort it out later.”

“I don’t know,” Jack answers, prompting me to look over. His head’s back on the top of the couch, eyes closed. In Jack-speak, it means he wants the conversation to be over, but thinks it’s too important to verbally shut me down. He won’t walk—or even turn—away from me on principle, so that’s the compromise his body language has settled on.

“I don’t know,” he repeats. “Six hours felt like forever. Eleven won’t be shorter. But all my arguments from this morning still stand. And either way, feeling weak isn’t going away. Either I feel it because I need you and you’re not here, or I feel it because I made you stay home just so I don’t have to be alone.”

The spaghetti is finished, just needs to cool, so I walk over to him, running a hand gently through his short cropped hair. “Maybe we can meet half way,” I suggest.

“Mmm,” Jack hums. I don’t know if it’s pleasure, as I continue to lightly massage his scalp, agreement, or curiosity about what I’m suggesting.

“I picked up my phone a dozen times to call this afternoon. I didn’t because you wanted me to go to work and not feel guilty, so I thought you’d be mad at me, if I called. If you want, I can go in tomorrow, but I will call or text whenever I think about it—often, maybe too often. And if that doesn’t help, I’ll come home at lunchtime.”

“You’re not coming home at lunch,” Jack tells me.

“We’ll revisit that point around noon tomorrow,” I tell him, because there’s no point in arguing it until we know there’s something to argue. “Does the plan up to that point work for you, or should I just stay home?”

“You shouldn’t worry about me.”

“Maybe not, but I do,” I tell him flatly. “Come on; I’ll help you up. Dinner’s ready.”

📎

Jack makes it out to the kitchen as I put the finishing touches on breakfast. “Real bacon on a weekday?” Jack asks, surprised.

“You told me I had to bring home the bacon,” I tease him.

Jack chuckles. “You went out and bought bacon on your way home last night? You were mad at me for making you go into work, weren’t you? What was the plan? Make the whole place smell like bacon and not give me any?”

“I hadn’t decided. That was one of the possibilities,” I admit. I go over and give him a kiss. “This morning, I decided we both needed something good in the past four days, even if it’s only bacon.”

“There is no such thing as ‘only bacon’,” Jack declares, easing into a seat at the table as I put plates of breakfast together and bring them to the table.

When Jack finishes breakfast, he shifts to look at me, wincing as the movement jostles his knee. “You know, if you took those pain meds they prescribed at the doses and on the timetable they prescribed, you wouldn’t hurt as much,” I tell him.

“This is the part where I’m pulling the army grunt card,” he replies. “I can take it.”

“You don’t have to anymore.”

Jack reaches for my hands and I give them to him. He’s done it a lot since the attack; it seems to calm him. “I told you early in the week that I was—am—struggling with feeling weak. I know it’s not going to make sense to you and it’s going to sound stupid and self-defeating, but…if nothing else, I know I’m stronger than the pain. It helps.”

“It does make sense, Jack. You’re talking to someone who will ask for a caning to help focus his thoughts. I get being able to use pain as a tool. Just… mind your limits. Don’t let it get out of control.”

Jack nods. He glances at the clock and reluctantly releases my hands. “You have to go to work. Have a good day, okay?”

📎

“Want company or are you regrouping for the afternoon?” Katie asks, finding me in a park down the street from work.

“Company is fine,” I tell her with a smile.

“I thought you’d be on the phone with Jack.”

“I would be. I texted him around 11:30 and he was going to lie down. I texted him when I came out to eat and he didn’t answer, so I think he’s still asleep. I’m not going to wake him just because it is lunch time for me.”

“And how is Jack doing?”

“Better, physically. He can see again, which is nice. The swelling is almost gone; the bruises are following.”

“And not physically? And how are you doing?”

“Yeah,” I say slowly, looking out across the park. “It’s been rough. A lot of role reversal. Jack’s always been the steady one, the rock I cling to, but since the attack…” I sigh. “He’s struggling with being alone, away from me. The overly frequent calls and texts help some, but he’s clingy when I get home.”

“And yet you’re still coming in. You know our boss would approve it.”

“I know. Jack won’t, and I understand the desire to not feel helpless or hopeless, so I’m trying to deal and he’s trying to deal. But…honestly, I am so far out of my depth. Jack’s the one that’s good at emotional stuff. Like you said on the plane: I don’t deal; I ignore. I can’t handle my own emotions, let alone anyone else’s. I mean, I’ve been trying, the last six months, to get better about managing my own baggage, but I’m still not as good at it as Jack is, which makes me supremely unqualified to help him with his, but, after all the years of him being the rock, no question he’s earned it, you know?”

I get up to pace small tight circles in front of Katie. “Do you ever feel like you’re always the one taking, and Larry’s always the one giving, in your relationship? I just feel like I’m failing him, because I don’t know what to do to help, like he does.”

“And what is it he does, exactly, that helps?”

“Really?” I ask Katie. “Your advice is ‘what would Jack do?’ You think I haven’t tried that?”

“No, I’m going to make the point that you know exactly what to do and just haven’t connected the dots. Humor me. What does Jack do when you’re upset?”

“He holds me, or at least some part of me—a hand or a shoulder or something.”

“Physical grounding,” Katie agreed. “What else?”

“He tells me it’s okay or will be, that I’m good and we’re good.”

“Assurance. And?” She keeps pressing until I give her an exasperated look that asks isn’t that enough?

“So I echoed back some specific words,” she summarizes. “Are they familiar? Physical grounding, assurance.…”

Of course they are. A popular blogger in the BDSM community posted an “aftercare checklist” with those headings last week. “But Jack’s no sub.”

“No, he’s not. But human psychology—the way our brains work—does not change in or out of scene. In a scene, many of us go after more intense feelings than we normally experience out-of-scene, which is why psychological aftercare matters. But the need is the same if we do experience that level of intensity out-of-scene, as Jack did.”

My phone rings before I’ve completely decided what I think about what Katie is saying. “It’s Jack, so I’m going to….” I wave an arm in the general direction of down the path. “But, thank you. Hi Jack,” I greet him, wandering away from Katie.

📎

“Okay, Mac, why don’t you wrap up and call it a week,” my boss suggests too early on Friday afternoon.

“It’s not even 3:30,” I say, stunned.

“But you’ve got the situation with your partner at home weighing on your mind, and the only thing I really need from you before Monday is a solution to the carbon test issue we’re encountering. If it was going to be solved by conventional thinking, the senior techs would have resolved it by now. You are the guy who comes up with innovative solutions in these scenarios, and most of the time you do it by seeing some random object in some random place which sparks a completely insane idea that turns out to also be brilliant.”

“Thank you?”

“Point is, you’re more likely to see random objects at home or out and about than you are squirreled away in the lab when your heart’s not into it anyway, so, go on. Spend some time with Jack. Take a walk. Enjoy your weekend. Get me a solution first thing Monday morning.”

Leaving an hour and a half early means I’ll be home two hours earlier, thanks to the lowered traffic delays. I think about texting Jack as I clean up my desk for the weekend, but decide to surprise him. I’m just taking the exit from the freeway toward our apartment when my car’s automated voice announces, “Jack calling.”

“Answer it,” I tell the hands free integration. “Hi, Cowboy.”

“Mac,” he says, and it sounds more fragile and hesitant that I’m accustomed to hearing from him.

“Hi Jack,” I repeat. “What’s up?”

“M-Mac,” he says again, and it’s not his sexy stutter; this one’s panicky.

“Jack, I’m here. Can you hear me? Is something wrong?” I debate between pulling over, because this call is rapidly turning into distracted driving, and continuing, because I clearly need to get home.

“M-Mac, I keep trying to be st-strong but I’m not and I n-need you and you’re not here.”

“I’m almost home,” I tell him, because the surprise isn’t worth it anymore.

“I know, and then we have the weekend-d. I keep telling myself you’re almost home and it’s not good enough.”

“No, Jack, I mean I’m actually almost home. Less than a mile. My boss told me to duck early.”

“Almost h-home,” Jack echoes.

“Yeah, Cowboy. Five minutes, tops. You think you can take a deep breath for me? You sound pretty shaky.”

“Feel it,” he agrees.

“So how about that deep breath?” I remind him. He finally does and slowly steadies.

When I reach our parking lot, I tell Jack, “I’m home, Jack, but you know the call is going to disconnect when I turn the car off. Do you follow?”

“You’re going to hang up on me.”

“Yeah, but I’ll be inside in a couple seconds.”

“Mmm,” Jack hums, accepting it, but tenuously.

I turn off the Jeep and hurry up to our apartment. One of Jack’s crutches is on the floor just outside the kitchen. I follow it to the kitchen. Jack and one of the chairs are on the ground. His other crutch is leaning against the table where he usually leans them when he’s sitting at the table. “Jack, are you okay?” I demand, kneeling with him.

“Sure,” he says, as if there aren’t tear tracks down his face.

“You sound very convincing,” I tell him. “What do you need?”

“Get me off the damn floor,” he insists.

“Of course,” I agree. I help him sit up, noticing his wrist seems to be bothering him, even though it wasn’t seriously injured in the attack. I grab the crutch from the table, and get Jack on his good leg, supported by me and the one crutch. I head out toward the couch, straightening the chair and pushing it back toward the table.

I settle Jack on the couch before getting the other crutch off the floor. “Jack, what happened?” I ask him as I sit down beside him. He leans into me immediately. I talked to him around two and he sounded fine, was headed to the kitchen for a late lunch. We texted a few minutes before three, before I went into the meeting with my boss, and Jack didn’t say anything was wrong. What happened between three and four o’clock?

“Tried to get up and the crutch and chair skidded.” I know with the ribs and knee it would have been hard to get back up. If he sprained his wrist when he fell, he might have needed something other than a crutch to get to his feet.

“And you couldn’t get up?”

“Not by myself,” he admits, frowning. “The chair was out of reach. I tried to use the crutch I could reach to pull the chair closer, but it just pushed it further away.”

I frown thoughtfully. “I’m guessing that frustrated you and that’s why you threw said crutch across the room?”

“Yes,” Jack admits sheepishly. “It was stupid. I know that. Please don’t lecture.”

“I’m not going to, Jack. I know this week’s been difficult—for both of us. I just want to understand why this fall was the last straw.”

“It wasn’t the fall.”

“Okay, Jack. I believe you, but if it wasn’t the fall—if it was something before that—why didn’t you tell me? When we talked at two or texted at three?”

“It wasn’t…Mac.” Jack doesn’t finish, he just leans harder into me.

“What about your wrist?” I ask, instead of pressing him about why.

“I’ve done worse to it, but yeah.”

“Want some ice? Ibuprofen? The pain killers you are actually supposed to be taking?”

“Ice, sure,” he agrees. “And I did take my meds at lunch.”

“Good boy,” I toss over my shoulder as I get up to get him an ice pack. I don’t take into account which side of him I’m on, and he smacks my backside with his good hand, which I totally deserve.

When I return, Jack focuses on putting the ice on his wrist just so. “It wasn’t about the fall, it was the hurting, stuck on the ground, alone, again part,” he says quietly, not looking at me.

“Aw, Jack,” I say, reaching out to put arms around him. He leans in hard, taking shelter in my arms. That hadn’t even occurred to me, even when he insisted I get him up off the floor immediately. “I’m so sorry. Your phone didn’t break, so why didn’t you call me or one of the neighbors or, hell, EMTs? Someone who could help you get up?”

“I did call you.”

“Not before you were half way into a panic.”

“That’s because I’m a stubborn ass former army sniper,” Jack retorts. “I don’t do weak.”

“Jack, you’re not weak. Never.”

“Easy for you to say.”

I nod. “As easy as it is for you to tell me all the loss and abandonments in my life aren’t my fault. Which means I know how hard it is to believe it when you hear it, but that doesn’t make it any less true.”

“You’re probably right.”

“You, too,” I tell him.

As we sit together, the sense that Jack is hurting and I am failing him returns, as does the notion that I am way out of my depth, Katie’s take on aftercare notwithstanding. I have to try to do something.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“You start blaming yourself for it every time I do,” Jack responds, which means, “Yes, but you’re doing it wrong.”

I thrust the unhelpful thought aside, but do reply with the truth. “I also feel guilty when you’re obviously hurting and I can’t seem to figure out how to help. Guilt and I are old friends, right up there with abandonment.”

“I’ve noticed,” Jack says dryly.

I shrug. “If you want to talk about it,” I venture again.

Jack nods, but immediately leans his head back. We haven’t even started talking and he already wants away from it. Not a good sign, for either of us.

“When they first came up on me, I wasn’t that worried. You know most of the guys who feel the need to go after hom*osexuals are trying to prove their own manhood, ‘cause they’ve got something to prove in that department. I figured on them being the pansies and bailing on it when they realized it’d be a real fight, with a guy the Army trained. For two of them, I think I was right. I think they were expecting something quick and clean, just enough to go back and brag to their people about giving the fa*g a black eye; but the other three…” Jack trails off for a minutes and I squeeze his hand. “‘Oh, it fights! This is going to be even better than I imagined,’” he quotes. “And the leader of that little gang…he was scary. I bet good money the other two didn’t bail because they were scared of him. He’s the one that grabbed the pipe. Just kept swinging it into my ribs again and again, the same spot on my right side; I would have had to give up fighting the other two to defend myself from it and he’d have broken my arm in the process. Ribs are built to withstand some abuse.”

“Not that much,” I counter.

“No, not that much,” he agrees before sitting up. “Do you remember if I told the police he’s a leftie?”

“Not that I remember. Are you sure?”

“How do you swing a bat?”

I know the question is rhetorical but the memory of my dad’s voice in my ear, trying impatiently to teach me, comes immediately and unbidden, and my hands and arms shift into the motion instinctively.

“From your right to your left, exactly,” Jack agrees, “which would take someone facing you across their left side. You’d have to swing back hand, or from behind them, to hit their right side, and he wasn’t behind me much.”

“But he could have been backhanding it.”

“But why? The point was to incapacitate, to hurt, to make me drop. None of that is dependent on which side he hit. Why’d he care to hit my right side? Unless he didn’t care and that was just the easiest swing because he is left handed.”

“Fair enough,” I agree, because his logic is sound.

“I kicked one of them in the stomach and I don’t know if it was luck or skill, but he latched onto my ankle. I was still pivoting through the kick; there was this flash of fire in my knee and then it just wouldn’t work and I crumpled. They wanted me to get back up, kept tossing insults, but I…there was no way. The lead guy even kicked me a couple of times, in the same damn ribs. I screamed—f*ck, it hurt—like a little girl, apparently, but even that couldn’t get me up again, so they decided they were done and disappeared.”

Jack is silent for long enough that I don’t think he intends to continue. I’m sure I’m going about this all wrong, but Jack wouldn’t let me get away with what he’s doing. “So does the feeling weak part come from losing a fight outnumbered five to one or from screaming at getting kicked in already broken ribs?” I pause a second to see if he’s going to try to play me. “Or is it about all the things they said that you won’t talk about?”

Jack seems genuinely startled by the accusation, which nearly makes me roll my eyes. “Jack, you just shared exactly what they did to you, in detail. You are obviously replaying it over and over in your head. But when it comes to what they said to you and about you, you go all vague on the specifics. Probably because those wounds aren’t going to heal themselves in six to ten weeks.”

Jack shakes his head. “If I’ve been vague on the specifics, it’s because I know you know. This isn’t the first time someone we know has been jumped for being gay. The insults are all the same; these idiots aren’t creative.”

“That doesn’t mean the barbs don’t land.”

“They didn’t,” Jack maintains. “Really, Mac, I was barely listening to them. I got the gist in the first sentence and that they weren’t open to discussion or education on the topic at the first blow.”

“Then why are you being vague about it?”

Jack shrugs slightly. “You don’t need that garbage in your head.”

It takes a minute to make sense. “Oh, f*ck. You’re trying to protect me. Because the guys who attacked you are classic high school bullies five years on. You weren’t bullied in high school; you were a jock, one of the popular kids. But you know I was, from long before freshman year. You weren’t out in high school, didn’t even know you weren’t straight yet. By the time you started hearing insults like that directed at you, you knew you were accepted, by your family, your friends, everyone who matters. That’s why you say all the time, ‘it’s just talk.’ Because it is to you; it doesn’t stick. But you know it was different for me, still is. My dad wasn’t…thrilled, when I came out to him. Maybe he accepted it, maybe not. I’ll probably never know. My grandfather just thought the whole notion of sexual orientation was more of our generation’s thing about expressing ourselves, individuality. Bozer...that was my fault, I’m not saying it wasn’t, but it was because I am gay. I did wonder if there was something wrong with me. It wasn’t just talk to me, and you know that. You don’t want to repeat what they said about you, and by extension us, because you don’t want to remind me of my own high school bullies.”

Jack nods before laying his head back comfortably on my shoulder.

“Okay, I get that. I’m not fragile, though. We can talk about it, if you want to.”

“I don’t need to, Mac. The things they said just proved the kind of people they were.”

“Then what the hell are you still holding on to? I know you know that even the most badass soldier can be beaten if he’s outnumbered and I know you know you’re still human and therefore do feel pain. I know you know that you are not physically weak.”

If not for the knee, Jack would have bolted up and been pacing already. I can feel the agitation as he leans forward, elbows braced on his thighs, head in his hands. I start kneading his back in a way that’s worked before when he’s wound too tight and then stop suddenly. “Is this okay? It doesn’t hurt, with the ribs, does it?”

“Nah, feels fine.” Jack’s still too agitated for it to feel good yet, but if it’s not hurting him, it’ll probably help eventually, so I stick to it.

Jack’s answer to my original question comes out rough and harsh and accusatory like he feels like he shouldn’t have to explain it to me. I can tell why he’s been holding back, if it’s all this raw in his head. He doesn’t want to start us fighting right when he needs me most, and these are fighting words.

When he’s winding down, he reiterates, “It wasn’t what they did to me. Like I said earlier, this is basically the cost of being unashamedly not-heterosexual in this country. It wasn’t what they said; like you said, I know it’s just talk. It was what happened after they left. I couldn’t get up off the f*cking ground. Mac, I pulled myself a klick and a half back to base with a broken collarbone and dislocated hip in the desert in broad daylight, waiting for the damn insurgents to pick me off, or my own guys to mistake me for some clever suicide bomber, back when I was Army. But I couldn’t get out of a f*cking alley in the middle of the night. So I got to lay there, helpless, thinking about what the future might hold. How you would react when you got home and found both vehicles and all my stuff here and no sign that I’d been here in a day and a half. How you would almost certainly at least entertain the possibility that I’d walked out on you without even telling you I was doing it, just like your father did. I wondered if the rib fragments would shift, maybe pierce a lung, which would fill with blood, which would lead to a slow, agonizing death, resulting in me actually leaving you, without a chance to say… so many things I needed to say to you before I died in that alley.”

A pained whine escapes me. I know he survived, but I can’t even think about that.

Jack reaches out to squeeze my knee. “Hey, Mac, shh,” he soothes. “I’m alive. I’m sorry if I was too blunt. I…I’ve been holding it all in because I figured it would wreck you just like it’s wrecking me. All the stuff I’ve been telling you about feeling weak and being stronger than the pain is all true, but not really the reason I’ve been avoiding the pain meds. They have a common side-effect, drowsiness. Docs say I need to rest to heal anyway, so what if the drugs make me want to take a couple more naps? Except then I wake up in some dimly lit place, alone, and it all comes rushing back, like I’m there again.”

“How did I not know?” I demand, of myself really.

“Because when I wake up and you’re there, it’s different. You’re there. I can say whatever I need to say; I don’t need to say anything because I’m not dying. I’m okay when I’m home alone—when I’m awake. So I don’t take the meds in the morning, until the pain gets bad enough and it’s late enough that I can fight off the drowsiness until you get home.”

“Jack, how did I not know?” I repeat.

“I know,” he says. “I know, I’m sorry. I should have talked to you about it before now. I’m sorry,” he says again, tearfully earnest.

I lean forward, hugging Jack around the shoulders. “I’m sorry, Jack. I can hardly sit here and berate you for keeping something emotional back. We’ll deal with all of this later. Let’s just take it easy for a bit and then eat something.”

He leans back into me with a nod, and turns his head to kiss along my neck. “I love you.”

“Love you, too,” I tell him, tilting to my head to give him more of my neck.

📎

Dallas’ final preseason game is against one of the California teams, so it’s on local. Jack and I settle into our football season routine.

Sundays of our first fall together were a little rough. I have no interest in football and the concept is simply incomprehensible for Jack. The only way he could wrap his mind around it was to assume no one had ever taught me the game, which is hard to get invested in if you don’t understand it. He offered to teach it to me. I wondered if I had to agree to keep him; Jack realized I’m wholly uninterested and wondered if he had to give up his Cowboys to keep me. That is the closest I think he’s ever come to considering us not working out.

By midseason, we’d worked it out. I love to read, but Jack has no patience for long bouts of reading, and tends to get bored, which usually means handsy. It’s hard to concentrate on my book when he’s tickling my ribs, or more sensitive portions of my anatomy. So I read when he’s stuck late at work, or on a work trip. I read on my lunch hour. And I read during football. The noise even of Jack going full dictionary definition of off-the-deep-end fanatical over his beloved ‘boys doesn’t bother me, so I curl into the other corner of the couch, which is close enough for both of us to feel like we’re not distancing ourselves from each other, but far enough away that I’m not likely to get hit upside the head when he’s waving his arms around. The compromise has served us well ever since.

When the preseason game ends, Jack reaches for me, squeezing my hands. “Ah, Mac, I wanted to talk to you about something. Two somethings, I guess.”

“Of course; anything.”

“First, I need to apologize for last weekend, for what I said at the hospital. I made light; I belittled something that is supposed to matter, and in doing so I made family trivial. It’s not trivial to me—I hope you know that—and I know how important it is to you. I’m sorry, Mac. I spoke from…” Jack sighed, eyes sad. “I spoke from a night bleeding alone in an alley.”

“I know, Jack. I’m sorry I was harsh with you.”

“We were both scared and in a bad place,” Jack admits.

I pull my hands loose from Jack for a second, because I need more. I slide over until I’m tucked into Jack’s side and then give him back my hands.

“Mac, you deserve to be asked properly. It’s going to be, what, six to eight weeks before down on one knee is in my cards.”

“Twelve if you rush it,” I parrot back doctor’s orders.

“So again, we need to put a pin in that matter, but I have another one I’ve been meaning to bring up, and I was thinking about it a lot while you were gone at that conference.”

“You’re being weird, Jack, and it is making me nervous.”

“No, it’s nothing bad, Mac. I want to talk about the lease coming due at the end of the year.”

“We talked about the lease years ago. Decided we both liked it here and moving was work. What more is there to talk about?” I ask, honestly puzzled.

“Owning, not renting,” Jack answers. “When we decided to stay here, it was before Mission City, and let’s be honest, even after all these years together, it’s still many times easier to extricate our lives, if we ever had to, than it would be if we owned property together. And until Mission City, I was honestly worried in the back of my head that you didn’t trust me completely and that might someday become untenable.”

I wince.

“Mac, I’m sorry, but can you blame me?” Jack asks.

“No, of course not.”

“I know you’re the logic guy in this relationship, so you have to know that having been in this apartment as many years as we have, and with our future plans suggesting we’ll be in the area with similar or better finances for the next five years or more, it’s financially—”

“Irresponsible to rent?” I suggest, because if money’s the only consideration, that’s pretty much the only way to describe it. Especially in L.A.

“A house would also mean a yard, Mac. A yard would mean we could have a dog, if you wanted again,” Jack says, knowing exactly how to sweeten the offer.

“Jack, don’t tease,” I warn him. I can’t hear that offer if it’s not a promise.

“Mac, all these years, you think I don’t know that? I’m not teasing. I like dogs; I have no problem with us having a pet. I knew it was too big a deal to you to suggest it if I didn’t have a plan that could actually get you a dog in the foreseeable future, and until now, I didn’t have it.” Jack’s silent for a minute and then continues, “Obviously, I have been thinking about this for some time. You have the right to do the same. If you’re not ready—if we’re not ready—we can go another year, or month-to-month, whatever feels right. I want to start thinking about it though, talking about it, together. Maybe even looking at what’s out there.”

I nod, but my mind is reeling. It’s going to take me time to process it all, but I’ve definitely latched on to one piece. “Dog,” I murmur.

Jack laughs, amiably, and squeezes my shoulder. “Well, I mean, I do have some ground rules.” I start to stiffen because I’m already set on a dog. “It has to be a real dog, not one of those little things that’s a yip smaller than a hairball the barn cats in Texas cough up. And before 7 a.m., it is 100% your dog.”

I laugh, hard. I can live with those rules. “I want a rescue. I know what it’s like to be abandoned. I know what it’s like to stare out at the world, afraid of how it’s going to hurt you, and then, finally, have someone put arms around you and tell you that you are home again.”

“Of course,” Jack agrees. “So, you’re in on the house?”

“I’m in on the dog,” I reply, “so I guess I have to be, right?” I pause and then lean over to kiss him hard. “I’m in on the guy, too. I figure that’s a given, but sometimes even the givens bear repeating.”

Jack pulls me closer. “I’m in on the guy, too,” he whispers conspiratorially before kissing me all over.

📎

My boss is waiting in the lab when I get there Monday morning. “Wow; I haven’t even gotten coffee yet. You are really serious about the ROI for sending me home early on Friday.”

“Less worried about ROI from you and more worried about the stakeholders meeting in an hour,” he answers. “Come up with anything brilliant for me?”

“Maybe,” I admit. “Linoxyn.”

“Isn’t that the stuff they make linoleum out of?” One of the senior techs asks me.

I nod. “It would allow us to decrease the coefficient of friction selectively and dynamically, without compromising the precision we get out of the fixed attachment on the radial arm, if we inject it into the grooves on the main board.”

“How sure are you that it’ll work?” My boss asks.

“83%?” I guess.

The tech nods. “I can set up a proof of concept in forty-five minutes. It won’t be perfect—this is going to take a lot of calibration—but it will prove or disprove the possibility.”

“Set it up,” our boss orders. I start to follow the tech, but my boss continues, “Mac.” I turn back. “Do I even want to ask how you came up with this idea?”

I shrug. “Jack fell, just before I got home on Friday. He was trying to get up from the kitchen table and the rubber tip on the crutch skidded on the—”

“Linoleum,” my boss finishes knowingly.

“Well, we say it is, but in our apartment, it’s actually PVC, but that’s beside the point. So, Saturday morning I was taping down a couple of squares of coarse sandpaper near his chair, to selectively increase the coefficient of friction so Jack wouldn’t fall again. 50 cents apiece for two pieces of sandpaper, a couple cents for the blue tape, and maybe $20 in crutch tips, because the sand paper is going to ruin the crutch tips, and for less than $25, our floors don’t get damaged and neither does Jack from falling more. Anyway, as I was putting the sandpaper down, I realized it’s all the same problem, just on different scales. With Jack, we need more friction, so he doesn’t slip. With our project here, we need less friction, so the radial arm slips more readily.”

📎

I go with Jack to his PT evaluation. Nominally, it’s because Jack isn’t supposed to drive for a month. Realistically, it’s because we both know Jack won’t bring up things he needs to. He won’t ask if there are other options for pain management that won’t induce drowsiness. He won’t mention that his wrist is still hurting from Friday’s fall, and is therefore almost certainly sprained. He can maintain his pride and pretend the pain doesn’t bother him, and I can play the overly concerned partner – an easy role for me.

Jack and I both immediately like the physical therapist who is going to take care of Jack. The man’s a former soldier himself, and he recognizes Jack for a soldier before Jack mentions it. “Are you taking any of the prescribed pain medications?” The man asks Jack knowingly.

“Maybe once a day,” Jack admits. “It makes me drowsy.”

“Rest is healing.”

“Flashbacks aren’t,” Jack retorts.

“Ah. We’ll circle back on this later; I want to make my own evaluation and have an opinion not based on your pride about how much pain management you actually need. Let’s begin.”

In the end, I don’t have to say anything. The man notices Jack wince as he’s asked to rotate his wrist. “That’s not in your medical records from the hospital. What is it? Working out frustrations at the limitations?”

“I wish,” Jack mutters. “I, uh, fell a couple days ago.”

“Let me see.” He examines Jack’s wrist thoroughly. “Definitely sprained. Not the worst of your injuries, but it may linger the longest.”

Jack frowns. “And you’re going to suggest one of those dumb bulky brace things.”

“If you’d like,” the man says, amused. “But I may have something in my office that you’ll find a bit more familiar. Excuse me a moment.”

Jack actually smiles when the man returns with a black leather cuff with three little snaps up the inside. “It was months before I didn’t feel naked without one of those. Where did you serve?”

“Iraq, very briefly, before a particularly unfortunate incident that introduced me to this profession and the concept of medical discharge. Don’t misunderstand—I was never a sniper. But, it will support the sprain while it heals without the showiness of a standard brace. And listen, if you can’t manage the new pain meds or you’re still in pain, don’t be stoic about it. Tell me. Deal?”

“Deal.”

The man looks at me. “I’m going to assume you’re here to rat him out when he gets stoic about things he shouldn’t. That’s usually why the ride sticks around for what is a rather boring hour—almost two in this first visit—yet you haven’t said much of anything. Am I missing something?”

Jack chuckles as I glance at him, not sure how to answer. He rescues me. “No, Matt, you’re just better at your job than we were figuring when we negotiated this morning. The meds and the wrist were the two things on the ‘Jack’s not going to say but he really should’ short list.”

📎

“Okay, I have to ask. What’s with the leather? Never took you for that type,” I admit once Jack’s settled in the Jeep.

Jack chuckles. “It’s not like you’re thinking. Army snipers wear them religiously. Like I told Matt, it was months after my discharge before I could go without it and not feel strange.”

“But, why?”

Jack chuckles again. “I could give you my favorites of the fifty answers I heard over the years, but you’d tell me I was full of sh*t, because the science isn’t with any of them. The only version of it I’ve heard that I think is actually true is the notion that the Army is big on tradition and slow on change. The original sharpshooters in any military were the archers. If you’ve ever done any archery—”

I shake my head.

“Really? Not even in scouts?”

“I got kicked out, remember?”

Jack snorts. “Someday, you really do need to tell me how a guy like you gets kicked out of the scouts.”

“Science,” I answer, eyes on the road.

“The explosive kind? Or the ‘I’m smarter than you’ kind?”

“Started with the latter, ended with the former?” I offer. “My troop leader’s understanding of science stalled in the fifth grade, a fact he didn’t care to be reminded of. We got to arguing about a scientific fact that he was just wrong on, so I proved it. In the name of science. I deserved a merit badge,” I say sullenly.

“Blowing things up gets you punished, not merit badges, especially when you do it to mock an elder you should be respecting.”

I shrug. “So spank me later, but can we go back to the part about the archers?”

“The archers? Oh, right, the wrist cuff. So serious archers have to wear wrist guards to protect their forearms; they used to be leather sleeves, wrist to elbow, at minimum. When guns were introduced, the archers-turned-long-range-shooters kept their sleeves as a symbol of their position, like our modern day sniper unit insignia. Over the centuries, given the lack of practical use for the guards, the symbol has shrunk down to a single leather cuff on the wrist. Brass gives us the new insignia when we finish training, but the first unit gives us the leather.”

I nod. “So you are going to actually wear it while your wrist heals? And give the new meds an honest try?”

Jack nods. “I promise. I like Matt already. I might even manage to listen to him.”

“I like him, too. I might even trust you alone with him,” I tease, meaning I don’t think I’ll have to rat Jack out about much to his PT, based on the visit we just had.

Jack reaches over to put a hand on my knee. “You have nothing to be worried about on that front,” he assures me seriously.

It takes me a moment to realize what Jack thought I meant, and, admittedly, Matt’s pretty attractive, though more my type than Jack’s. I shake my head. “That’s not what I meant Jack. But I’m glad you’re not planning anything sexual with your therapist after a single visit,” I tease, before going serious myself. “Jack, I don’t worry about you on that front, ever. I know you wouldn’t do that to me.”

Chapter 7: Holidays

Chapter Text

Katie and Larry invite us to their home for Thanksgiving. We gladly take them up on it, because our apartment is 97% packed up by then. I feel obligated to point out to Jack that I was not the one who shared his invitation to have them over to our place for dinner. He chuckles. “The record will reflect that you stood by your vow not to pass along my invitation.” Jack pauses and then smirks at me. “I’m still very much looking forward to this dinner.”

I chuckle, too. “So am I,” I confess.

“And, just checking, Larry knows that we know?”

I nod. “Everyone knows that everyone knows. But Katie was adamant that she didn’t want this to become a scene party.”

“Copy that. We’ll wait to give thanks for each other until we get home.”

📎

We have a wonderful dinner with Katie and Larry and a very pleasant evening giving thanks for each other. Friday morning comes soon enough and we turn our focus fully to moving into our new home, taking advantage of the extra days off.

As we relax on the new couch with a couple glasses of wine, after a busy day hauling all our possessions from one place to the other, Jack rubs a thumb along the back of my neck. “We haven’t talked about it since, but I know you’ve been thinking about it, and I want to say up front that I’m on board either way. Are you expecting us to go rescue a puppy this weekend?”

I look around at the piles of half-opened boxes everywhere. “No. I want a dog, and I’m going to hold you to the promise that we’ll get one, but I don’t think we need to add chaos on top of chaos. Let’s get through the holidays and settled in,” I suggest. “Unless you’re saying you want to go get a dog this weekend? I’m not against it, if it’s what you want.”

“It’s not. I was kind of dreading the idea of trying to get settled and integrate a dog into our life, and deal with the holidays, especially since your boss unilaterally decided it was your turn to have Christmas off, which leaves us free to go to Texas for the holidays.”

“I still feel guilty about that,” I confess. “So many of my coworkers care about spending Christmas with their families. I don’t have family to spend Christmas with and you’ve never indicated that it’s at all important to you to be with your family for the holiday.”

Jack shrugs. “We all serve, or have served, whether it’s political, military, or medical; jobs that don’t take holidays. Christmas together in my family is a pipe dream. But, Mac, we both do celebrate Christmas and neither of us have taken time off work around Christmas since we’ve known each other. As your boss pointed out, it is our turn. No guilt, Mac. We’ll go enjoy the holidays with my family, and revisit after New Year’s. If you still don’t feel good about it, we’ll talk and convince your boss not to override our better judgment again.”

“Okay,” I agree.

“Alright. Two more boxes and then we’ll go make sure the bed survived the move.”

Based on the look in Jack’s eyes, I’m not sure the bed will survive the road test Jack has in mind for it, regardless of how well it may or may not have weathered the move.

📎

One of the things Jack and I decided when I first moved in with him was that we didn’t want to get stuck in too much of a rut. At least once a month, we plan a date. So that it’s not always Jack’s month in February, around Valentine’s Day, or mine in December, during the holidays, we rotate planning the date, but then plan it together the fifth month. Some months it’s a complete surprise, if Jack’s planning, but not always. What we do with that date varies widely, from a picnic, to a nice night in, to going out to a steakhouse, something fancier, or simpler. Sometimes there is something with it—a movie, or a carnival, a walk along the shore, or a night at some club—sometimes it’s just dinner.

Tonight, Jack hasn’t told me much, just that casual is fine. I’m curious about what he has planned, but I don’t push for details, just change into shorts and a t-shirt and follow him out to the car. He drives to an isolated cove we like on the coast. He pulls a bag out of the back that no doubt has our picnic dinner and throws a picnic blanket at me. We walk out onto the sand and find a comfortable spot beneath a trio of palm trees and begin to spread the blanket.

Jack kneels down, ostensibly to fix the final corner of the blanket. That done, he reaches up and grabs my hands. “Mac, from the very first moment I laid eyes on you—even if I had every intention of snapping your head off for blundering into me—” I grin and open my mouth to, once again, object to the term “blundering”, but Jack shakes his head, mirroring my grin. “From that moment, I have not wanted to be away from you. I fell in love with you more deeply than I ever imagined was possible. In the up moments, this is the best thing that has ever happened to me. In the down moments, I want nothing more than to make it better for you and with you. I love you so much and I can’t imagine living without you anymore, so, please, Angus MacGyver, will you marry me?”

I sink down on my knees. It’s not a surprise, of course. Nothing Jack said is new, and he’s been hinting since the attack that marriage has been on his mind. I want nothing more than what he’s offering, but it’s still hard for my brain to believe. Forcing myself to believe it, because Jack would never play this kind of game with me, I lean over and kiss him hard. When we break apart, breathlessly, I say in his ear, “Not if you’re going to start calling me that.”

Jack laughs, hard, and then grabs my face in both hands and kisses it all over. “It’s traditional to use a person’s full name in a marriage proposal.”

“You know I hate it.”

“I do.”

“Now you’re just practicing,” I accuse.

He laughs again, and kisses me harder. “Again and again until I don’t have to anymore because we’ve done it for real,” he vows. He caresses my cheek as he sits back on his heels. He opens the bag, producing plastic cups and a small bottle of champagne. “To us.”

“To forever,” I reply. We drink.

As Jack gets out the food—cheese and crackers, chicken salad sandwiches, and brownies for dessert—I realize what’s missing. “No ring,” I observe casually, a curiosity more than anything.

Jack freezes for a moment, trying to decide how to take me, I think. Eyes on the weave of the blanket, he says quietly, “You know how I feel about collaring. It didn’t feel right. I’m, uh, I’m sorry, if you wanted one.”

“No, it’s fine; I understand,” I assure him. Playfully, I continue, “I just don’t know how you’re going to do the overlaid hands with the blinding flash of diamond, ‘he said yes’ Facebook post so all the friends you’ve been stressing out about this to, who told you that you were being an idiot because of course I’d say yes, can say they told you so. Isn’t that traditional, too?”

Jack tackles me into the blanket, tickling my ribs. “Well, aren’t you feeling frisky tonight.”

I nod, pulling him down on top of me. “And so, so happy.”

We share the food and sunset before stretching out to watch the stars. It’s an activity that reminds Jack fondly of childhood, and it’s one of the few activities in which I can nerd out to my heart’s content and Jack’s eyes won’t glaze over.

I find myself rubbing my thumb across the base of Jack’s ring finger. When I realize what I’m doing, I sit up, wrapping my arms around my knees. “Mac?” Jack asks, leaning up on one arm. “What’s on your mind?”

“I meant everything I said earlier about an engagement ring. I’m not a diamond guy. Well, that’s not true. I’m completely a diamond guy when it comes to their cutting power, and the things you can do with a diamond array and a couple of lasers…mmm.”

“But you’re not much for bling,” Jack offers, because he knows exactly what I mean.

“I’m not. But—as I think I made clear in August—I am serious about marriage. It’s not something I’m willing to do lightly. And I’m not trying to imply that I think you take it lightly, either,” I hasten to assure him.

“But,” Jack prompts patiently, sitting up fully and trying to meet my eyes.

I keep them firmly trained on the incoming waves, afraid this will be an obstacle. “I want wedding bands, when the time comes. It’s not about laying claim to a possession; it’s not even about declaring our relationship or our off-limits-ness to the world at large. It’s about our commitment, to each other and to the marriage. At least, it is for me. I understand you stance on collaring, M/s play, and real-world slavery. But this, I think, is different.”

Jack slips an arm around my back. “It’s absolutely different,” he agrees. “I never meant to suggest I didn’t want wedding bands.”

“Really?” I ask. “It’s okay?”

Jack tucks me into his side, with a couple of kisses. “It’s okay,” he reassures me. “Better than okay.”

“So the wedding is still on?”

“It was off?” Jack asks. “Mac, I need you to understand that I did not propose lightly. The wedding’s not going to be off because of anything we need to talk about or work out. It’s not going to be off because we don’t agree on every aspect of it. I thought we’d settled this years ago,” Jack reminds me. He lays back down, pulling me with him. “Now, what were you telling me about Canopus, there?”

“The name, Canopus, is thought to derive from the mythological Canopus, a navigator for the King of Sparta, Menelaus, who, incidentally, was Helen of Troy’s husband, and the leader of the Spartan contingent of the Greek Army in the Trojan War. The star is the second brightest in the sky, after—”

“Sirius, the dog star,” Jack finishes with me. “I know in my head all the logical reasons why we agreed to waiting until after New Year’s, but I just don’t know if I’m going to make it. I don’t know how you’re managing not to just cave and bring home the first dog you see.”

“By staying away from shelters,” I answer honestly. “Because if I walked into one, even in the name of research, I wouldn’t come home alone.”

📎

It’s a long drive from L.A. to Jack’s family ranch in Texas, but we decide to drive rather than fly. As we drive across the southwest, I ask Jack, “Do we have a plan for telling your family? Do we need one? I mean, they’ve been pretty good about our relationship so far, but I know marriage is a bridge too far for some.”

“I don’t have any specific plans. They know about the house, so the question about what prompted the change of heart is likely going to come up quickly, which should give us the opportunity to share the engagement. As far as reactions, I expect them to be about the same as they were when I introduced you, just… more.”

“So the family hoping you’ll get over this will disapprove. The family that already wants to adopt me is going to break out more champagne, and everyone else will fall in line in between.”

“Exactly,” Jack agrees. “Are you worried about the reactions?” He asks, without a trace of judgment.

“Not really. I just… family is important. I don’t want you to lose any of yours on my account. I know you are going to tell me I’m worth it, and I don’t doubt your commitment, I just want you to understand that I’m willing to work with you and your family to make this more tolerable.”

Jack shakes his head. “I’ve worked with the less on-board parts of my family for years. They’re not going to shift in a week, no matter what we do. I’ve told them before that I’m not giving up my life for their closemindedness. I’m certainly not giving you up for that, and that is the only thing that would move the holdouts in my family, who I know were secretly hoping that I would still find a nice southern girl and settle down and raise their idea of a proper family.”

“I mean, being bi didn’t rule that out.”

“But saying they are okay with me being bisexual, as long as I marry a woman of their liking isn’t exactly the same thing as actually being okay with it.”

“I understand that.”

📎

The reactions are as Jack expects. We get questioned about why we didn’t tell them immediately (because waiting a week and a half to tell them in person is too long), what happened to Hannah (an ex, apparently, whose life is on the east coast), why we (or more importantly Jack) won’t move to Texas, but the dust settles by morning into exactly the camps we predicted.

Jack and I go for a walk in the morning and happen across the neighbors walking their dog, an aging but affectionate springer spaniel. Jack falls into conversation with the man about serving in the military—the man’s a Marine—while his wife and I talk about dogs.

Christmas proper is as boisterous as ever. I’m used to a much quieter existence than occurs when Jack’s family gathers, but it’s all fun and pleasant, if draining. Jack knows it and finds excuses for us to take a breather, usually a walk, but sometimes just retreating to our room.

The day after Christmas, Jack and I stretch together in bed and don’t hurry to get up. “Are you holding up in all the crazy?” Jack asks.

“Yeah. You’re family’s intense, but awesome.”

“I like to think so,” Jack replies.

📎

I take a walk alone a few days later, while Jack’s dealing with some family business. I run into the woman neighbor and the spaniel again. As I kneel to pet the dog, the woman explains that her husband’s been posted, and they’ll be moving to near-base housing and can’t take the dog. They’d known it was a possibility when they got the dog, and only did it because friends of theirs had promised to take the dog if they were ever posted to somewhere that required giving up the dog. Those friends are now backing out of the agreement.

The woman’s beside herself. If they can’t find the spaniel a home by the end of the week, they’ll have to give it up to a shelter, and re-adoption statistics for a dog that age are not good. Worse, the local shelters are not no-kill shelters, so there’s an almost certainty that the dog will be euthanized, despite having good years left, despite having done nothing wrong, despite the owners’ every intention to make sure they would never have to surrender their dog to a kill shelter.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “You’re obviously a dog person; I shouldn’t have dumped all of this on you when there’s nothing you can do. I just…wish things were different. We knew our life was unpredictable and we might not be able to keep a dog, but we tried to be good dog owners and make sure that, even if we couldn’t keep Molly, we provided for her, and now…now it seems she’s going to be executed for the sole crime of having lived too long.”

I nod, but don’t say anything, because I don’t think I can give her the absolution she’s clearly craving. But of course it sticks with me.

Jack and his family drag me out back for a bonfire in the evening. Jack whoops as the fire lights. I laugh at him and then grab his hand and pull him away from the family. “I need to talk to you,” I tell him.

“Of course,” he replies, letting me drag him along. “Is something wrong?”

I explain to him about the dog. “I know we said New Year’s, and you’ve said ‘puppy’ a couple times, like you were thinking a younger dog, but I can’t stop thinking about Molly. She’s sweet and she doesn’t deserve this.”

“I hear you, Mac, but it’s no better for Molly if we act rashly.”

“So you’re saying no.”

“I’m saying it’s not a light switch to be flipped.”

“I know; that’s why I pulled you aside. We need to talk about this. First problem is being unprepared.”

“But we have some reason to expect Molly’s current family might be willing to give us what they have, since they’ll have no use for it. We have savings and were expecting to make this change in our life shortly anyway. I’m not saying we can’t do it. And I’m not saying Molly’s the wrong choice, but loss has hurt you deeply already. I know you understand that loss is inevitable with any pet, but Molly is already an older dog. We’re going to have a couple good years with her at best. If we adopt a younger dog, we might get a decade, or more.”

“I understand that, Jack, but a dog is risk, no matter what. We know more about Molly than any other dog we might take in.”

“If you are sure,” Jack begins. I nod. “Let’s sleep on it. It’s a big decision. If you’re as certain in the morning, I’m on board.”

“Thanks, Jack.”

“I keep my promises, Mac.”

Chapter 8: Bozer | James

Chapter Text

It’s mid-January before I feel really settled in to our new life. It takes time for a place to feel lived-in. It takes time for Molly to accept that we’re her family now, that she’s not going back. But both happen, given time.

Someone rings the doorbell one Saturday evening. Molly barks; a stranger, then. I grab her collar and sit with her as Jack answers the door. I can only barely hear the voice, but it sings through my veins with certain familiarity. I’m stunned, but there’s no doubt in my mind who stands on our doorstep.

“Good evening. Uh, I was looking for Angus MacGyver. Does he, um, live here?”

“May I tell him who’s asking?” Jack requests, wary of the stranger but unfailingly polite.

“Be nice,” I tell Molly, before releasing her to go to the door. “It’s okay, Jack,” I tell him as I come up behind him. “Hi, Boz. It’s been a while,” I say lamely. I really want to hug him. It’s been a dozen years since I saw my best friend last. I never thought he’d come back into my life. Surely it’s reasonable to hug him after all that. Except he might think I mean what I would have meant by it the last time I saw him, and that will only put his guard up more than it already is.

“Hey, Mac,” he replies and my only consolation is that it’s no less awkward for him.

I quickly do a mental review of the house and am reasonably confident that the common areas are free of anything that would require explanation. I stand back. “Come on in,” I invite.

He does and as I close the door behind him, I introduce Jack. “Boz, this is Jack Dalton, my fiancé. Jack, Wilt Bozer.”

Jack raises an eyebrow, though I’m sure he’s guessed already. “The Bozer?”

I nod but Boz looks nervous. “What did you tell him about me?”

“The truth,” I answer, leading the way to the living room, “that I couldn’t make space in my reality for who you were instead of who I wanted you to be and I lost my best—my only—friend because of it.”

Bozer looks at his feet. “I am sorry I couldn’t be the person you wanted me to be, and I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to reconnect. At the time, it seemed like the only thing I could do was leave, to make space in your life for the person you were looking for.”

“And maybe it was,” I say sadly. The wound is deep, for both of us. “How did you find me?”

“I still go home for Christmas.”

“Mr. Ericson said you hadn’t been back,” I protest. Ever, much less yearly.

“I keep a low profile. A lot of things I’d rather not think too much about happened in Mission City. But I figured if anyone had kept up with you, it’d be Mr. E. He said you’ve stayed away, too, but you and Jack had been up over the summer and he remembered enough for me to track Jack to this address.”

I smile at Jack as he brings water glasses into the living room for everyone.

“I am glad you reached out, Boz, but I have to ask. Why now?”

“Your dad reached out first.”

“To you?” It comes out unfairly bitter. My dad’s talking to Bozer, but not to me. Jack slips an arm over my shoulders to steady me.

Bozer nods. “He wasn’t—isn’t—sure where you are. He figured, if anyone had kept up, it’d be me.”

“Because he doesn’t know anything about what’s happened in my life since I was ten.”

Boz nods again but doesn’t seem to know what to say.

That’s fine, because I have bitterness enough to go around. “And he obviously didn’t try very hard to find me; after all, you’re here.”

“Would you rather I wasn’t?” Bozer asks hesitantly.

I sigh and rein myself in. Jack knows how to read the difference between mad at the world and mad at him. Boz is, evidently, out of practice. “I’m not mad at you, Boz. I’m glad you’re here. I just don’t understand my father’s decision making process.”

“I can’t say I always do, either, but as far as me finding you and him not, it helps to have boots on the ground, you know? If there is one certainty with you dad, it’s that he’s not in Mission City. I don’t know if I’d have found you, if Mr. E didn’t remember Jack’s full name. Even if your dad did track Jack to this address, he wouldn’t have had any reason to be confident that you must be living together and therefore it was worth the ten hour drive to show up on the doorstep asking for you. But I know that you wouldn’t share M.C. with anyone unless the pain you risked by doing so was significantly less than the pain you risked by holding it back. Given the wounds I know you accumulated in 18 years up there, it’d have to be a pretty serious thing to seem worse in comparison. At least live together stage levels of serious.”

Jack runs a thumb across the back of my neck and it feels apologetic. I give him a sharp look. “You were perfect that weekend,” I insist fiercely. “I needed it. We needed it. Don’t try to apologize for it.”

Jack keeps rubbing my neck with his thumb, but it’s just soothing now, I think. “Even if you were only guessing that I must live here, with Jack, you still could’ve just given the address to Dad. Does this mean you’re not mad at me anymore?”

“I was never mad at you, Mac. Being mad at you is like being mad at a puppy for chewing your favorite kicks. You just were looking for someone different in your life, someone who could be your best friend and also love you in a way that filled the void where you didn’t have family to love you. There didn’t seem to be room, at the time, for me and, only for me or, and I knew I wasn’t enough to fill that hole. Obviously, I don’t know what I’m talking about, having just met Jack tonight, but it does seem like maybe you finally found what you’ve been looking for since way back then?”

“Yeah, I did,” I agree, leaning a little more into Jack. “But I think there’s space for and now.”

“I’d like that,” Bozer admits.

He’s quiet after that, like he’s struggling with something, and I take a page from Jack’s playbook and just wait it out. Eventually, he pulls out his wallet and removed a folded slip of paper. “All the contact information I have for Mr. MacGyver,” he tells me as he hands it over.

I take it but don’t immediately unfold it. “What do I not know?” I ask. “You’re handing this over like you’d hand over nuclear launch codes to someone with a questionable grasp of foreign policy, not like you’d hand your (former) best friend something he’s been searching for for 20 years.”

“Yeah. I almost didn’t come, or didn’t mention him at all. I know how much he hurt you when he left and I’m just not convinced he’s coming back for the right reasons. I don’t want any part of something that’s going to hurt you and I know he could. But it’s not my call to make. He’s your dad. You’ve been waiting 20 years for him to come back. Who am I to keep that from you?”

“What are the wrong reasons to come back?” I ask, because I honestly can’t imagine any.

“My parents basically had two life lessons, remember? Everything came back to one or the other, or both. The first was that you shouldn’t ever change who you are for any relationship.”

I wince. It was a violation of this rule that lost me Bozer in the first place.

Boz shakes his head. “Water under the bridge, man. You and I, that’s water under the bridge. But their point isn’t. They always say that if you have to be someone you aren’t to make the relationship work, it’s going to fall apart in the end anyway.”

I feel Jack nod. It’s kind of a point he was trying to make with me from the moment we met; that if I couldn’t be me with him then we wouldn’t work, no matter how hard I tried to be perfect for him.

“And you think I have to be someone I’m not to make it work with Dad.”

“You don’t?” Bozer asks. “He was always trying to mold you into that image he had of you. He had that image of a kid who played baseball, a kid who could just keep taking devastating emotional hits and not react, but wouldn’t take a physical hit passively. He had that image of a kid who wasn’t gay.”

Unfortunately, I can’t argue with Bozer’s assessment of my childhood.

Bozer sighs in my silence. “But he’s your Dad. I get that, Mac. You only get the one. It’s your call, but my two cents is that it’s setting you up for more heartache, and I don’t want any part of that.”

I tuck the paper, unread into my pocket. “Can we talk about that, later?” Jack asks carefully.

I nod. “Yes, please.” I never meant not to talk to Jack about it, or to imply I’d already come to a decision. Far from it. But Bozer is here now, and I’d rather catch up with him than stress about my Dad.

📎

When I sense Bozer is winding down toward some sort of “it’s late; I should go,” I preempt him. “Are you sticking around L.A. at all, or driving back to Mission City tomorrow?” If the former, maybe we could get together again. If the latter, at least breakfast for the road.

“Through the weekend, at least,” he answers. “I’m going to the film festival in the valley with Penny. Gotta keep the dream alive, you know?”

“Woah, wait,” I say, unable to imagine Bozer wants to keep the “dream” alive with Penny. “You aren’t back together again with Penny, are you?” I ask incredulously. That was a disaster. For all three of us. I thought Boz was smarter than that.

“Oh, hell no,” Boz agrees. “Once was quite enough. The Hollywood dream,” he clarifies.

“Right.” Bozer wants to be a film director someday, just like Penny wants to be an actress. I don’t think either one will make it big, but Penny’s talented enough to at least get on the credits in some “woman in the store” sort of role, and Boz has vision, if nothing else.

“So, uh, maybe dinner tomorrow, the four of us?” Bozer offers. “You probably know the food scene better than we do, so maybe you should pick the place.”

“I’d like that,” I agree, though if I was pressed to interpret meaning in Jack shifting beside me, he might bail and let us three catch up in private. “Is Penny still chasing every fad out there?” I ask.

“She’s just like you remember her,” Bozer assures me.

“So…what’s she eat today? Before I pick a place and there’s nothing on the menu for her.” Boz would be perfectly happy with any sort of burgers and beer place I might suggest, but Penny might be on some vegan, gluten-free, low-carb thing.

Bozer winces. “Good thinking. Uh, mostly the usual model-thin health food shtick. Gluten free.”

“Vegan?” She’d been trying to get there in high school but mostly couldn’t keep track of all the things that have egg or cheese or whatever.

“Nah, she gave that up. Too complicated.” That’s the Penny I remember. I’d respect her dietary choices more if I thought they were motivated by something real—a food allergy or even a sensitivity, a real moral stance on animal cruelty, even simple taste preferences—but as I put it to Bozer, Penny does whatever she thinks is fashionable at the moment. Vegan was the thing when we were in high school, but when it got to be inconvenient, Penny was done with that. “She still says she cares about responsible harvesting / cruelty free foods, but, as you remember, it’s because that’s a popular stance not because it’s a life philosophy for her, so she’ll give a place the benefit of the doubt.”

“Okay. I’ll do a little research in the morning to see what places might be relatively easy for you guys to get to, but still be a little bit out, away from the festival crowds.”

We exchange cell numbers and good nights before Bozer takes his leave.

As I come back from closing the door, Jack asks, “So, who is this Penny character?”

I laugh. “A mutual ex. Penny Parker and Boz and I all went to school together. She’s probably the first person, myself included, who knew I was gay. We broke up because she didn’t feel I was as into her as she was to me, which was 100% true. I mean, she broke up with me, and she was still more heartbroken than I was.”

“And then she hooked up with your best friend? Is that not against the rules of engagement where you’re from?”

I snicker. “I thought you, of all people, would be a ‘rules are made to be broken’ kind of guy,” I remark. “She hooked up with Bozer with my blessing. She thought he had all the same qualities she loved about me, plus the added bonus that he’s straight. And she’s probably right.”

“Except?”

“Except, as you probably noticed, Bozer is not ‘straight Mac’. He’s a great guy, but he’s very Bozer. He finally told Penny that there was no such thing as ‘straight Mac’ and she either needed to get on board with ‘straight Bozer’ or walk away. High school love drama; I’m told it’s normal.”

Jack chuckles. “Very.”

I get a little somber, as I often do when I think about high school, Penny, and Bozer. “I hope they both find someone. You aren’t the ‘gay Bozer’ I thought I was looking for back then, so that gives me hope that Penny will find someone who is everything she wants and needs, and Bozer will find someone who loves him as thoroughly and uncompromisingly as Penny and I loved who we thought he could be for us.”

“They will,” Jack assures me. “It just takes time, for some of us.”

We both fall silent and I know Jack’s expecting me to bring it up and I just don’t know what to think about that slip of paper Bozer gave me. I want to pace or run or do something with the anxious energy. I want Jack to hold me close and tell me it’s all going to be okay, that he’ll make it all better. The part I can’t figure out is how to get both at once.

When I think I have an idea that will work, I head for our bedroom. Jack follows, protesting, “Mac, wait. I thought we were going to talk.”

“We are,” I promise him. “I just need…” I don’t know how to explain it to him. I need space to bleed off energy, but I need him to be close, for comfort. Sprawled on the bed is my best guess at what might work.

Jack seems to understand that I’m overwhelmed and can’t process it all at once. He sits on the edge of the bed, letting me sprawl out over most of it, and then starts tickling my ribs playfully. I laugh and squirm, trying to evade his fingertips.

After a few minutes, he straightens my shirt, patting it back into place. “Do you feel good about reconnecting with Bozer?”

I nod, tucking an arm under my head so I can see Jack’s face.

“And Penny? Are you looking forward to dinner tomorrow?”

“Very much. Though it didn’t seem like you are.”

“I’m happy to go, if you want me to, Mac. It just seems like you three have a lot of history and might have more fun without me, because you won’t have to explain every bit of shared history.”

“You’re probably right,” I admit. “You are welcome, though, if you want to come.”

“I know that, Mac,” Jack assures me. “And I’ll remind you in the morning, but I was in a relationship with a guy once who was way into responsible/moral food, and he introduced me to a really good restaurant in the valley, that’s pretty much all word-of-mouth advertising, so might not be too crowded, even with the festival.”

“Thanks, Jack.”

“You’re welcome.” He reaches out to stroke my face. “Now, are we going to talk elephants?”

I stare up at the ceiling. “I wish I thought I wouldn’t get hurt. That there was a choice, or sting of choices, I could make that wouldn’t end in pain.”

I think I see Jack nod out of the corner of my eye. “A little Dalton family wisdom,” he offers. “Pain is never the end. I’m not negating what you’re feeling, and I’m not disagreeing with your assessment that you’re risking pain no matter what you do, but pain is never the end. The idea is that, if there’s pain, you have to keep working through it.”

“And you’ll be there?” I ask, voice small.

“Just try to keep me away.”

I ignore the tears starting to gather in my eyes. “I can’t ignore that slip of paper. I have so many questions, so much pain already, that he could answer. If I don’t reach out, I’ll always regret it, always wonder if I did the wrong thing.”

“Mhm,” Jack agrees.

“But everything Boz said? About who my dad tried to make me as a kid, about all the reasons he thinks he’s setting me up to get hurt? I can’t argue with a single one. They’re all true. You’ve never even met my Dad and you hate him.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Jack protests.

“You don’t trust him not to hurt me,” I say flatly.

“Neither do you, bud.” The first tear escapes, blazing a cold damp trail down my cheek. My only remaining blood relative and I don’t trust him. How f*cked up is that? Jack rubs away the tear but doesn’t comment, letting me work it out for myself.

When several minutes pass, he asks, “What are you going to do?”

“Text or email, if that method of contact is listed on Bozer’s note; suggest brunch at Henrik’s, if he’s near enough to Los Angeles.” The diner near our old apartment is not one we frequent all that often. There’s good food and they won’t mind if we linger, but it’s not a place I’ll miss, if bad memories of this meet force me to give up going there. “I figure having dinner plans gives me an out.”

“If it goes that long,” Jack says. “I think you should prepare yourself for a quick meal being all of it, at least as a possibility. It may be just too much for one, or both, of you to do any sort of drawn out visit.”

“One or both,” I echo. “You weren’t thinking you’d step out of this, too, were you? Please, Jack, I need you with me for this!”

“I wouldn’t dream of being anywhere else,” he promises. “I just mean that it’s going to be more emotionally taxing for you than me—I’m not going to allow myself to be the one who says I can’t take anymore.”

“Clearly,” I concede, swiping at the still leaking tears.

“Mac, anyone’d be overwhelmed by an evening like this.”

I nod, sitting up. “Look, I, uh, should see if there’s a number, to text him, and try to get this setup, before it gets real late. Then, um, could you,” I start but don’t finish, starting to feel overwhelmed again.

“Of course I will; whatever you need, Mac. You just have to ask.”

I look away because I know I’m asking the impossible. “I just…I want you to hold me and tell me it will be okay and, no matter what happens, you’ll fix it and make it better.”

“I’ll do my best,” he says and I don’t know if he means to make it better or to fulfill my request. “Come on, let’s text your dad.”

It takes me longer to compose the text then I think it should. Hi Dad, I start and second-guess that. Do I still call him Dad? At thirty? When he hasn’t been a father to me in twenty years (or, I’d hear the argument that he hasn’t been a father to me since Mom died). But, if I don’t call him Dad, what do I call him? Not James. Jack and Bozer call him Mr. MacGyver, but that’s different, isn’t it?

It’s Mac. He never called me that, but I was already using the nickname before he left. It’s a good reminder to him that I prefer “Mac” to “Angus”, but do I really need to tell him who it is after the opening? After two decades, I can’t guarantee that I’m the only one who might start a text to him like that, but surely he’d have their numbers in his contacts.

Bozer gave me your number. It feels like throwing Bozer under the bus, but Boz said Dad wanted to get in touch, so he shouldn’t be mad at Bozer for giving me the number, right?

I have no idea if you are anywhere near Los Angeles, but, if you are, maybe we could catch up in person. I suggest the restaurant but not a specific time, for now.

I don’t realize I’m shaking until Jack grabs my face in both hands and kisses me slowly. “Take a deep breath,” he urges when he stops. I don’t have much choice, breathless from his kisses. “Now, read it one more time,” he directs, leaning back without letting go of my face, so I can see the phone still clutched in my hands. “Good?” He asks, and I nod. As good as I know how to make it, anyway. “Then hit send.”

When I do, he leans his forehead against mine, thumbs rubbing my cheekbones. “Whatever comes next, I am here for you. I am with you. We are going to get through this, together.” It’s probably as close as he can get to my impossible demands.

📎

I’m anxiously fiddling with a sugar packet that I should be opening and dumping in my coffee when Jack nudges me with a gentle elbow in the side. I look up, startled, and see what Jack sees: my dad coming toward us. I stand up, though, once I’m up, I wonder why. It’s not like we’re going to hug it out, and I hope to God we’re not going to just shake hands like mere business associates.

I settle, again, for “Hi, Dad.”

“Hello, Angus,” he replies. It washes over me in a tide of memories.

I push the memories aside to deal with later. “This is Jack Dalton, my fiancé. Jack, this is my dad—James MacGyver.”

“I’m glad to finally meet you, sir,” Jack says politely, shaking his hand, before sliding back into the booth to make room for me.

“I thought you would be alone,” my father remarks as he and I sit.

I shrug, feeling defensive, but wanting to give him the benefit of the doubt.

He looks me over—clearly assessing—glances at Jack, and then focuses on me. “Guys like us,” he begins, “with high intelligence and sometimes limited social skills—we don’t always fit in.” If he weren’t telling me, I don’t know how I’d figure that out, I think sarcastically. “That can make it hard to find the right woman,” he continues, “but that doesn’t make you gay.”

I’m impressed Jack manages not to snort out loud at the insinuation that I might only think I’m gay. I swallow my frustration and decide to give my father another pass. “That’s true,” I agree. “Not having a girlfriend does not make me gay. Loving—preferring—men, specifically Jack, does.”

My father at least has the sense to recognize a lost cause, so he drops it as the waitress comes over for our orders.

My father asks about my childhood after he left, particularly school. He seems surprised that I never skipped a grade or graduated early. I explain to him, just as my grandfather explained it to me, that he (my grandfather) felt a public school education had two equal halves—academic and social. While I clearly outpaced my peers academically, I struggled socially. Pushing me ahead would only have exacerbated that, made me more of an outcast, more of a target for bullies.

“Grade level course work could not have been intellectually stimulating,” my father protests.

“No, but Mr. Ericson let me do my own experiments in the lab after school and Grandpa took me to lots of ‘educational’ experiences on evenings, weekends, and breaks.”

It becomes clear, after that, that my father disapproves of the decision. I don’t regret it, and quickly tire of defending my grandfather. Exasperated, I tell him, “Maybe, if you wanted a say in your son’s education, you should have stuck around!”

“I did what I felt was best for you, Angus,” he replies, unmoved.

“Abandoning me was best for me?”

“You were not abandoned. I left you in your grandfather’s care.”

“I needed my father,” I counter.

“Clearly, you did not.”

It feels like a slap across the face. My breath shudders in my lungs. I feel Jack’s leg press against mine from foot to hip. I want to lean into him and sob and ask him why my father doesn’t get it that he hurt me, but this isn’t the time or place. I need to focus on Dad, and try to build a relationship, or a foundation we can build one on.

I gather myself to respond. “If this was the best thing for me, the alternative must’ve been pretty damn horrendous.”

“You never wanted to connect with me, Angus.” By his tone, I don’t think he means it as an accusation. “As a child, I always knew you had her looks, but my brain. But I couldn’t get you to connect, not like your mother could.”

“You always wanted me to be someone I wasn’t,” I accuse.

“I wanted to guide you away from the pitfalls I had already encountered in my life, but you resisted any influence I tried to have on your life. And then, after your mother…you wouldn’t connect at all. With anyone.”

I was grieving, Brainiac.

“And,” my father goes on, oblivious to my inner dialogue, “God, Angus, you look like her. I can’t be around you without feeling the loss of her all over again. I couldn’t take it anymore.”

That settles in my heart with deadly finality. It was my fault he left; he left because he couldn’t be around me. Jack squeezes my leg above the knee until I look at him. There’s no point in trying to mask the pain from him. “It’s not your fault,” he tells me seriously.

My father doesn’t chime in his agreement.

Our food arrives, sparing me the need to verbally respond to Jack.

Dad questions me more as we eat, but seems to approve of my decisions in higher education and career, so that’s easier.

We split the bill 50-50, which I expect to be a topic for debate, but not in the way it is. I expect Dad to want to pick up the whole thing, or at least mine, but the debate is about Jack paying our half, of all things.

“You can’t just let someone else pay your way through life,” Dad says.

I don’t bother pointing out that, since I pay our credit card bill, technically Jack’s the one letting me pay his way through breakfast. I glance at Jack, to see if he cares how I handle this; he doesn’t. “Okay, Dad,” I say, already tired of fighting with him. “What would make you happy? If I leave the tip, so we all have a piece, is that good enough, or do you want me to pay our half?”

I end up leaving the tip and hey, whatever. Jack and I would’ve picked up the whole thing, but Dad had said he’d pay half, so we just rolled with that.

I invite Dad back to our place, because it feels like what I’m supposed to do. And that sets him off again. Owning property together before we’re married! Do we have any idea how much that complicates things?

Jack finally rolls his eyes, apparently beyond his ability to keep silent and let me handle my father. “What is your problem?” Jack demands. “Is it me? Or do you think your son’s an idiot?”

“I don’t have a problem,” my father says stiffly.

This time Jack does snort. “You’ve second-guessed almost every part of Mac’s life in less than an hour: his sexuality, his housing, his finances, his education. Either you think he’s making poor life choices—which, okay, that’s your prerogative, but just come out and say it, so we can all get on with our day—or you think he’s an idiot and doesn’t know that major life decisions—like buying a house, especially with someone else—have consequences. Do you really think either of us just showed up at closing, signed all those documents, and never talked about what it meant in terms of our future and finances?”

I don’t miss Jack’s emphasis on our, but my Dad seems to.

“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” he says frostily.

“No, you don’t,” Jack agrees politely. “But you ought to explain yourself to Mac, the son you left. The one who is here, trying to make this work, even though you hurt him worse than you’ll ever know.”

I step in, before they get entrenched in corners. We’re all going to be family soon; I don’t want Jack and Dad to hate each other. “Dad, I understand that you don’t know anything about me as an adult; you don’t know if I’m reckless or responsible, and I’ve willing to give you the benefit of the doubt that you just want to help, but I am not ten anymore, and, honestly, you lost the right to second-guess my lifestyle decisions a long time ago. As far as the house goes, we didn’t rush into this, just so you know. We’ve been living together for five years already. We might not be married yet, but we’d talked about it before we bought the house, before we even talked about buying something. Yes, co-ownership is complicated, if we ever split, but our lives are already heavily intertwined. The bills have been in both names for years, as have the cards and our main bank account. A split would be hellishly complicated, even if we were still renting. And why would we live in fear of a split? I love Jack. I plan on spending the rest of my life with him.”

I can’t decide how to read the look on Dad’s face. I can’t decide whether his issue is with hom*osexuality conceptually, or with me or Jack specifically, but I’m pretty certain his look gets less approving every time one or the other of us mentions love or marriage.

We give him a tour of the house. Well, the main floor. He doesn’t need to know about the basem*nt play room. He approves of the house, if grudgingly, and seems to genuinely like Molly. “You always wanted a dog,” he admits softly.

“Yeah, I did,” I agree, ruffling her ears.

📎

I try to ask him about his life, but my father’s evasive and quickly turns it back to me. I tell myself we have to start somewhere, but it feels uneven. Despite my attempts to keep the peace, we eventually return to the crux of the crevasse between us: why he left. “I had to travel for work,” he reminds me, as if that excuses everything.

“You had a child at home,” Jack argues, apparently once again at the end of his rope.

“And your service to this country never came before your family obligations?” Dad shoots back.

I’m thrown by the fact that Dad knows Jack served, but Jack doesn’t seemed stunned by the revelation. “That’s different. That’s not just a day job.”

“Not all service is military; not all patriots are soldiers.”

Jack nods briefly in acknowledgement. “But I never was a parent to a minor.”

“Perhaps you weren’t, but you had buddies in the foxhole who were, and I daresay you didn’t give them the 3^rd degree you are giving me. The work I do is bigger than me, or my child.”

“So much bigger that you couldn’t even say goodbye?” I demand, as Jack seems to be backing off his anger with my father for leaving. “So much bigger that you left it to Grandpa to tell me on my birthday that you weren’t coming home?”

He doesn’t answer, but he also doesn’t look half as stricken as I feel. “You hurt me,” I tell him flatly, finally. “When you left and didn’t come back, I was hurt.”

My father’s phone rings before he responds. “I have to take this,” he informs me, already getting up and going outside.

Of course he has to take it. Of course it’s more important than my pain. I don’t realize I said it out loud until Jack squeezes my shoulders. “That’s on him, not you,” he reminds me.

“He’s going to leave,” I warn myself more than Jack. “Whatever it is, it’s going to be work and important and he’s going to have to leave.”

“He’s going to choose to leave,” Jack corrects.

“That’s worse,” I reply.

Sure enough, Dad comes back in, citing a work emergency and an immediate departure. “I hope we can stay in touch,” I offer. He just nods and then he’s gone again.

📎

I flinch from the sound of the lock clicking shut behind him. Jack touches my shoulder. “Mac,” he says, half-soothing, half-questioning.

“Hold me,” I manage as I turn into him, burying my face in his chest. For once, I’m not crying. I’m not even all that upset; I was prepared for worse. I just can’t process; I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel, to react.

Jack’s arms tighten around me, one hand tangling in the hair at the back of my head, the other splayed across my back.

When a few minutes have passed and I show no sign of moving away, Jack pulls me back to the couch, ignoring my non-verbal protests at being moved. “Shh,” he chides, settling down.

📎

It might be minutes later, but could as easily be hours, when I finally sit up, dragging an arm across my face from habit, rather than from actual tears. I lean back into Jack but, this time, just lay my head comfortably against his shoulder. I draw an absent design on his thigh simply because it is at my fingertips.

“It sounded like Dad was implying he works for the government,” I observe. Jack nods, playing with my bangs. “I…um, I’ve noticed something about the times when you can’t tell me something from back when you were in the Army. You don’t use the term ‘classified,’ or even ‘treason,’ and you don’t joke along the lines of ‘I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you’. Instead, you reference the Espionage Act, which always struck me as oddly specific. I’m not asking, though, so you don’t have to tell me anything.”

Jack chuckles. “That’s a different regulation.”

I grin, but it fades. “I don’t want you to lie to me, and, if I’m right, and I ask, I’m guessing you’re supposed to, because the whole ‘can’t confirm or deny’ line is confirmation. That’s why I haven’t ever asked, in case you’re surprised I seem to have taken your evasiveness on certain things at face value. But, I also figure, even if I’m wrong, as long as you were in the military, you probably had some close relationships with people involved in intelligence.”

Jack nods. “Good intel yields good outcomes. Mostly that intel comes to the Army from the DIA, of course, but all of the alphabet soup gets in on it sometimes.”

“Alphabet soup?”

“The acronym agencies,” Jack clarifies, which doesn’t. “CIA, DOD, DIA, DHS, FBI, NSA, etc.”

I nod then. “So, the question I think you can legally answer: now that you know who he is, had you met my father before?”

“No,” Jack answers, and I believe him.

“Am I crazy to think he’s involved in intelligence? Am I trying to validate his claim that his work is more important than me, and projecting my suspicions that you were not just an Army grunt?”

“I am sure you are doing all of that, but, no, it’s not crazy. I will say this: if he is in the game, it’s not for one of the agencies you’ve heard of.”

“You mean foreign intelligence?”

“No, I mean the agencies whose very existence is classified. I know for a fact at least one such agency exists. The way your Dad said some things when he and I were arguing about service, combined with the way he ran that interrogation—”

“What interrogation?”

Jack laughs. “How much did you learn about him in those two hours? And how much did he learn about you?” I frown. “That kind of skill, questioning—extracting intelligence—without the target even noticing they’re being interrogated? That’s trained. But,” Jack sighs, “it’s all speculation, and, even if you ask him straight out, he has to deny it. You were right about that part.”

“So what do I do now?”

“That depends. If it’s true, does it make you feel better?”

“It probably should, but no, not really. I mean, at least it would mean he didn’t ditch me for some stupid office job, but it still means he cares more about people he’s never met than he does about me.”

“Then I wouldn’t do anything with your suspicions about the real nature of his work. I’d focus on what matters: trying to find a way to heal the old wounds and forge a current relationship.”

“Thanks, Jack.”

📎

I need to get out, so we go down to the beach. We lose track of time, suddenly realizing I am supposed to be meeting Boz and Penny. Jack decides not to join us, which I figured was where he was leaning from the start.

He cups my cheek in one hand before I get out of the car, pulling me in for a kiss. “Enjoy yourself,” he advises. “And just text and let me know when you’re coming home.”

I nod, but spot Penny and Bozer walking up. Jack kisses me again and then lets me go.

The evening is fun. I even confess Jack might have been right that it is more fun without him. Eventually, since I have to work, and they have to get on the road back to Mission City, in the morning, we call it a night.

Bozer hugs me. I shake my head as we separate. “Too soon?” Boz asks apologetically.

“No,” I tell him. It’s not that at all. “No, I was just thinking that, even after everything, that felt completely appropriate… and yet, the one thing I’m certain of with my father is that is absolutely positively not happening with him.”

Bozer frowns sympathetically. “Did you…?” He leaves it hang, open-ended.

“Yeah. He and Jack and I had brunch this morning and then he came back to our place for a little, until work called and he had to go.”

“Well, that hasn’t changed.” Bozer looks a little startled that he said it out loud.

“It’s okay; it’s true,” I tell him. “It’s fine—it is what it is. I’m just realizing it is probably never going to be easy between he and I—or him and Jack—but he is my Dad, so I’d like to have a relationship with him, if at all possible.”

“Well, good luck with him then. And let’s stay in touch this time. I want deets on the wedding!”

“Wedding?” Penny pounces.

“Uh, yeah, Jack and I are getting married,” I tell her, distracted by scanning my memories of the evening’s conversations trying to figure out how that never came up.

“Oh, I’m so happy for you!” Penny tells me, hugging me enthusiastically, but she can’t hide the longing. She still wishes it was her. She knows it isn’t and won’t ever be, and she’s made her peace, but there’s still longing. I’m okay with that. After all, I still wish I’d gotten to experience a romantic relationship with Boz.

They go off, and I call for a ride before texting Jack to let him know I’m coming home.

Are you all done in or…, he writes back.

I know what the or means, at least roughly. Any sleepiness that’s starting to come with the late hour evaporates. My responsible side wants to remind Jack it’s a work night, but instead I reply, I’m awake now. :P

Mmm, please, Jack responds to my teasing emoji.

📎

“Mac, everything okay?” My boss asks as our weekly team meeting breaks up. “You seem off.”

“I’m okay; just tired. Stayed up too late last night.”

“Tired or sore?” Katie asks knowingly as we walk back to our cubes.

“Tired,” I reiterate and explain about Bozer, Dad, and Penny, all of which was emotionally draining enough that I’d have slept well if I’d gone straight to bed when I got home from dinner with Boz and Pen.

Instead, I came home to a bedroom all lit with candles and Jack looking to make it all better. It wasn’t a scene, or play of any sort; the blindfold I had on most of the night was because I enjoy that, not because it served any purpose for Jack.

He set about reminding me of all the reasons why I love him so much, which naturally led to me wanting to show him. There are times for a good quickie, but last night wasn’t one of them; it was time for slow and loving. The only problem with slow and loving, other than it taking time, is that it left me horribly aroused.

Given the hour, Jack should’ve told me it was too late, but it also wasn’t a night for denial, since it wasn’t play. With him in full-blown TLC mode, sex would’ve taken a while even if we weren’t waiting for him to recover. All said, it was way later than it should have been when we finally tucked into sleep.

Chapter 9: Making Mistakes

Chapter Text

When I arrive home, I start the oven and pull a lasagna out of the freezer. Jack texted as I was leaving work; one of his coworkers is “having an existential crisis”, so he’s going to be late. The lasagna will take a while. If that’s not enough time for Jack to get home, it reheats well. Plus, the leftovers will make good lunches all week.

Jack arrives as the timer goes off. “Yum,” he says as I pull the lasagna out of the oven. I’m not sure whether he means the smell of our dinner or the sight of my backside as I bend over. Based on his smirk, I suspect a lot of both.

“Perfect timing,” I tell him. “This just needs to sit a couple minutes.”

I cross the kitchen to grab a bottle of red wine. As I reach down two wine glasses, I say, “So, an existential crisis, hunh?”

Jack groans, sitting at the table. “Why do all these kids think I’m their surrogate parent?”

“Mm,” I hum, working the corkscrew of my Swiss Army Knife into the cork. “It’s the aura of authority.”

“I have an aura now?” Jack asks incredulously.

“Sure. It could come across as paternal, to someone looking for that.”

“Enough to catch someone’s attention clear across a jam-packed bar?” Jack suggests, one eyebrow raised.

“It’s possible,” I say noncommittally. It’s not what caught my attention when I first saw him, or, at least, not all. Or, at the very least, that’s what I tell myself. I hand Jack one of the glasses with a kiss on the cheek.

He smiles appreciatively. “A lot of millennials in the BDSM clubs seem to be looking for a substitute parent, not quite ready to adult all by themselves, if they don’t have to. A lot of them found their way to me, before you came along. When we first started dating, I thought maybe you were one of them; you fit the mold, as far as I could tell. For a long time, I figured you were just too embarrassed to ask for it.”

I bring two plates of lasagna to the table and then go back for my glass of wine, all the while considering how to answer Jack’s words. “I’ve considered it,” I admit as I sit down. “It’s not like I’m not craving something to fill a parent-sized hole in my life. But I could only imagine two possible outcomes to a domestic/Daddy dom scene. Scenario one, it does fill that hole, soothes all the raw places in my soul, and I’m completely overwhelmed and start sobbing. Scenario two, it doesn’t fill anything, just reiterates how this scene, that I’m supposed to enjoy—because it’s supposed to evoke all these great memories of childhood—only shows that I just don’t have great memories of childhood. I promptly safe word and start sobbing, just like that Father’s Day spanking.”

Jack nods. “I’d been thinking about maybe just slipping a hint of a scene like that in somewhere, just so you’d know I’d be happy to oblige you, if that’s what you wanted, but I haven’t met a sub who’s ambivalent about that kind of play—they either want it or really, really don’t. By then you were usually good about telling me what you wanted, scene-wise. After that night you safe worded, I was very glad I’d never sprung it on you.”

“Yeah. That’s why I never ask for it. You know how I feel about losing it and sobbing my guts out. Either scenario results in that, so…it would be bad, even if it was good, right?” I frown into my wine glass. “I mean, you know my history with all of my parental figures, and my issues with crying, now, so if anyone could take me into such a scene and through it, it’d be you. If I thought it was something you wanted, I’d try to be brave at least once for you, but, the way you talk about the ‘kids’ at work, I didn’t think it was something you wanted.”

“It’s not; similarly, it’s something I would be willing to do, if you wanted it, but I’m just as happy you don’t.”

📎

I text Jack, to see if he’ll pick me up on his way home from work.

Of course. Is the Jeep acting up?

No, just…bad day. Not sure my head belongs behind the wheel in L.A. rush hour traffic.

I’m leaning against the side of the building when Jack pulls up. I start for the car when I realize he’s getting out. He comes over, putting one arm around my shoulders and cupping my face in his other hand. “Are you okay?” He asks gently.

I nod. I’m fine, I guess.

Jack searches my eyes, looking for something. Probably confirmation that I’m really okay. Seeing it—or not, I actually don’t know—he kisses me slowly and then lets go so that we can both get back in the car.

“What happened?” He asks once we’re both buckled in.

“I screwed up. Big. I caught it, eventually, and fixed it, too, but I cost the company thousands of dollars. Maybe tens of thousands.”

Jack lets me talk through it, sensing I need to get it all out. We’re nearly home before I wind down. “And what does your boss say about this?” Jack finally asks. He’s careful to keep his tone neutral, but I know the same thoughts that ran through my head all day are running through his. We’ve been making a lot of decisions lately – house, dog, wedding, honeymoon – on the assumption of a certain joint income. If that number just dropped in half because I’m an idiot… that’s a problem, and not a small one.

“She said everyone makes mistakes. She said I caught it and fixed it and reported it, so that’s all good. She asked if there was anything we could or should change procedurally to make sure this never happens again. But mostly she said mistakes happen.”

“She sounds like a real reasonable person,” Jack says, a little hesitantly because he knows there’s something more, because I’m still upset.

I ramble around it for a while, having a hard time articulating my hang up. Jack’s parking when I find the right words. “But if I’m not in trouble, if I don’t have to suffer the consequences, how do I forgive myself? I screwed up, Jack! Badly!”

Jack’s “Ah,” comes out more of a hiss of understanding. He probably thinks I’m too hard on myself. I think he’s even said that before, but I never really listen, because, even if I am, I’d just be hard on myself about that, too. I’m not good at facing up to my own weaknesses. “Dinner first,” Jack tells me, “but then I’m sure we can find a suitable punishment, if that’s what you need to realize she’s right: mistakes happen to everyone; it’s okay.”

I nod. That’s what I need.

📎

After dinner, Jack tells me that when I’m done cleaning up, I can strip and come down to the basem*nt playroom. I know the sequence there is actually beside the point. Laundry is in the basem*nt, just outside the playroom, so Jack won’t mind—or know—if I come down and then strip, which I tend to do because, well, street level windows.

When I join Jack, he puts me on the spanking bench, butt raised high, which I expected. I wanted a punishment scene after all. With a less understanding boss, I might have cost us everything. We don’t have any ginger at the moment, so I don’t think Jack’s going to opt for the cane, but it’ll be something. I test the binding holding my wrists down and forward, because I expect to be pulling against it.

Jack watches to see if he needs to adjust anything. Satisfied that I’m properly restrained, he commands, “Open.” I’d frown, if I weren’t obediently opening my mouth. Now that we’ve got our own house and a proper, sound-insulated play space, Jack gags me next to never. And a bit gag, too, so he’s not really doing it to keep me quiet. He’s doing it because he knows it’s not my favorite thing, and that’s the point. This isn’t supposed to be about my pleasure. No blindfold, sadly, but with the same explanation.

I close my eyes and wait for him to start. The first solid whack seems to drive the air from my lungs with it. Hairbrush. Like a hand spanking, but worse. On a weeknight, Jack would usually stop at six, but when he reaches that point, I shake my head, whimpering as much as I can around the gag.

I feel Jack rubbing my hip and know he’s debating my clear-to-him request for more. He gives it to me and there’s no way I won’t be feeling it in the morning, every time I sit. But then, that’s the point, isn’t it?

“Umph,” I grunt, caught off guard when Jack makes his decision and resumes the spanking, giving me another six.

After that, he’s done, no matter what my opinion might be. Well, done with the brush, and the punishment, not done with me. Because now I’ve got him all worked up and he wants relief, and my reddened backside is right there, just waiting for him.

So he takes what’s there for the offering, which makes me hard. Which he does nothing about, because, well, I asked for a punishment, so why should I get an org*sm out of it? I grumble, because I can, until he takes the gag out. I rub my wrists to encourage the recirculation of blood. “Thanks, Jack,” I tell him, more sincerely than I think he expects me to manage when I’m aroused and know he’s not going to do anything about it tonight.

“Don’t make a habit of it,” he tells me, hugging me one-armed. “We can always find an excuse to do our thing.”

I lean my head on his shoulder, but don’t give voice to the apology I know he doesn’t want to hear anyway.

📎

I wake up too early, and thoughts of work chase themselves around my head. Jack wakes up a few minutes before the alarm and pieces together where my head’s at. He sighs. He scoots to the edge of the bed and hauls me across his lap, tugging my boxers down to my knees as he does.

I’m sure there are twelve reddish-purple ovals from the wooden back of the brush already. Jack ignores them and starts spanking me soundly. I yelp the first time his palm connects with one of those ovals. Jack doesn’t say a word, just covers my mouth with his free hand in a silent order.

I’m not keeping track of how many times Jack’s hand connects; I don’t think he is, either. Eventually, he lets me up, my whole bottom stinging. I stumble a little as I grab clothes for the day and go into the bathroom to shower. I twist in front of the mirror, trying to see. Jack was thorough. My whole ass is bright pink, except for the deep red marks from the brush.

I have a feeling I’m going to regret letting Jack see me still blaming myself the first time I have to sit down.

📎

Jack finally breaks his silence when he comes out to the kitchen after his own shower. He gives me a kiss and a “Good morning, Mac,” like any other day. Like he didn’t give me a stern spanking before even rolling out of bed.

I wince when I sit down to eat breakfast. It’s about as bad as I figured. Jack meets my eyes. “Mistakes happen. To everyone. It’s about how you handle them.”

I nod. On the principles of it, I agree. With anyone but myself, I’d say the same thing.

📎

Jack pulls me over his lap as we watch TV, belatedly ordering me over his knees when I don’t move as freely as he expects because I wasn’t expecting anything. This morning’s hand spanking over last night’s hairbrush spanking is still with me and I don’t really want Jack to add to it. I’m also not berating myself over the mistake anymore. I mean, I worked an extra hour tonight, and will the next couple nights, but there’s extra work on my plate as a direct consequence of the mistake. That’s not blaming myself, that’s taking responsibility, right?

With Jack and I living together, the line between life and scene is naturally blurry. The thing about that is that it means the line between where I’m expected to be unquestioningly obedient and where I’m encouraged to negotiate for what I want is even blurrier. Nothing about tonight has solidly indicated this a scene, at least so far. So I could tell him I really don’t want another spanking…but, as Jack’s said, I’m the most submissive person he’s ever met. If my Dom wants to spank me, I’m not going to stop him.

My throat betrays my stoic thoughts as a low whimper escapes as Jack positions me where he wants me. I bite my lip, not wanting him to get a gag.

Jack doesn’t comment on my noise. He reaches between my legs, his hand and wrist brushing my crotch in what is absolutely intentional contact but also oddly non-specific. He unbuckles my belt, undoes the button and zipper on my slacks, which allows him to pull my slacks and boxers to my knees. The stimulation, minimal as it is, has started the process of getting me aroused, and Jack’s noticed. He reaches between my legs again, fondling my balls. I hum happily, shifting slightly against his hand, as much as I can without falling off his lap.

I squeak out a protest that I immediately swallow back when he stops. Jack pats my hip reassuringly, but I’m not sure what that means—that he’s going to take care of my arousal, that he’s not going to spank me, that we’re going to have fun?

Jack pops open a bottle of some kind. Lube, I assume. Maybe he’s just going to finger me a bit? It turns out to be an oil of some sort, and Jack starts working it into my bottom. The expected discomfort makes me wiggle a bit on Jack’s knees when he gets to the first of the deeper marks.

But, as Jack continues, the discomfort becomes less, not more. So it’s not our regular bruise ointment. It must have some sort of topical anesthetic in it.

Jack’s worked the ointment into at least half of my backside before he explains what he’s up to. Probably waited until he was sure I’d figured out that it wasn’t the regular stuff. “You asked for the punishment last night, and you needed the spanking this morning – I’m not saying otherwise – but there is one thing I noticed last night that I didn’t act on, and I don’t want it to go unacknowledged.”

I make a questioning noise, shifting to a more comfortable position.

“It was one of the rare times you came straight to me, openly and unprompted, with your hurt, instead of pulling into yourself and hiding behind your walls,” Jack points out. “I do want to recognize and appreciate that, encourage it.”

I nod. I’m trying—Jack knows I’m trying—but decades of habit take some breaking.

Jack finishes working the ointment into every inch of my ass. I hear something like an aborted chuckle as he kneads the small of my back. “If you keep laying there, wiggling that ass so invitingly, I can’t promise I won’t redo what I just undid,” he warns.

I know he means I should sit up, pull my pants back up, but somehow what he says sounds too final to my abandonment complex, sounds too much like he’s done with me, which, for the night, I think he means to be, and where last night’s punishment is concerned, he definitely is. But his words weren’t an order, and they weren’t specific, so I don’t feel I have to sit up and get dressed.

Instead, I roll onto my back, staying on his lap, presenting him a different sort of invitation, one I know he won’t mind. As I do, a little belatedly, it occurs to me that Jack would also want to encourage me to tell him what’s on my mind, how he’s unintentionally triggering my fear of abandonment. I look away, toward the TV, because it’s still hard for me to open up. “I, um… please don’t be done with me right now. I know you just meant with the punishment scenes and the ointment, tonight, not with me, and I don’t know why it’s tickling my abandonment issues, but it is, so, uh, please don’t be done with me right now,” I say, almost all in one breath.

Jack rubs his thumb against my cheek soothingly. “Okay,” he says simply. “Okay.” His other hand rubs my other head the same way. “Never going to be that done with you,” he whispers as I moan.

I look up at him, smiling hesitantly. “Thanks.”

He chuckles. “You’re really putting me out here, Mac,” he teases, wrapping his whole hand around me, stroking slowly.

📎

He gets me nice and close and then stops. “Jack!” I protest.

He nudges me with a knee, indicating I should get up. “I’ll finish you, I promise,” he assures me. “Just, the last time we played around out here without preparation, the couch was a pain to clean up. So, let’s take this back to the bedroom.”

I let him see the frustration on my face, even as I stumble to my feet. My jeans and boxers fall to my feet, and Jack leans over to pick them up when I step out of them. He unbuttons my shirt as we go down the hall, pulling it off and adding it to his collection of my clothes.

While he crosses the bedroom to dump my clothes in the hamper, my anxious thoughts spin off again. Having made Jack go to more effort than he’d intended, because of my absurd reaction to him finishing with my bottom, I’m overly eager to make him happy with me, even knowing he wasn’t unhappy with me for the reaction. When he comes back, I reach for his belt.

He doesn’t understand, yet, what’s going on in my head, so he playfully wrestles with me for control of his clothes. It’s obvious when he figures out that it’s anxiety, not friskiness, driving me, because he releases his belt and moves his hands up my arms to my shoulders, squeezing them reassuringly. I flash him a grateful smile for not questioning me on what I know is a complete overreaction and finish pulling off his pants and boxers. I sink down so I can take him in my mouth.

He’s making the good noises that mean he’s getting close and I’m doing it just right, and then he pulls away. I shift on my knees, trying to get my lips back over him, but his hands, untangled from my hair, return to my shoulders and pull me to my feet.

“I just want to make you happy,” I tell him plaintively.

He cups my cheek in one hand, lifting my face to his. “You know you do,” he reminds me. “And, while I would very much love to let you finish what you started, I thought we came in here with a different purpose,” he says, stroking my still very firm erection, in case I’ve forgotten that he didn’t finish me, either. “I was going to f*ck you, which you usually like, but, if you finish me off, that’s off the table, at least until I recover.” Jack pauses. “Are you good with that plan, or do you need me to let you finish what you were doing?”

“I’m sorry I’m being ridiculous. I’m okay; it’s okay,” I tell him, mostly believing it.

Jack gently shoves me back onto the bed, where I sprawl patiently while he digs in the nightstand for the lube and crawls onto the bed with me. I can’t begin to express how grateful I am that he doesn’t make a big production of either my runaway mental state or the sex.

Once we’re both taken care of, he settles us both in bed. One hand tangles in my hair, massaging my scalp, like he always does when I’m more anxious than he’d like. His other hand rubs broad circles on my back until I fall asleep.

📎

I wake up still comfortably within Jack’s arms. I could slip out and go for a run, but I’m more interested in trying to figure out what happened last night. My reaction would have made sense if Jack had given any suggestion that he was displeased with me, but it was just the opposite. The whole thing had started with Jack telling me how pleased he was with me, how he knew I’d done things that didn’t come naturally to me because I knew it was important to him, how he appreciated all that. Where in all that was there any cause for me to have one of my insecure anxious spirals where I convince myself that Jack won’t love me and will leave if I don’t do everything right, if I’m not perfect, and I know I’m not perfect and I probably do everything wrong? Nowhere. There was no cause for that reaction.

Even having slept on it, I still can’t explain what went wrong and why I spiraled downhill from there, even though Jack did everything right to get me out of my head and focused on him and how much he loves me.

Speaking of, “I love you,” he murmurs, as if he can read my mind, which somedays feels probable.

I smile; his eyes aren’t even open yet. “I know,” I assure him. “It’s just—”

“No,” Jack interrupts, opening his eyes to fix a tender yet firm gaze on me. “No ‘just’. I love you, full stop.”

“I know,” I promise him.

“Then tell me,” he insists gently.

“You love me, even when I’m anxious about it for no reason at all.”

“Yes,” Jack affirms.

“I want to be logical. I think I’m logical. And then something like last night happens. You weren’t upset or anything less than completely satisfied, with anything, much less me. You weren’t leaving, even temporarily—for work or travel. There was no reason for it, and even less reason for it to spiral on us.”

“Mac, emotions aren’t logical; that’s the nature of being human. Do you remember that, with me, you’re allowed? You’re allowed to be logical, or not. To spiral, or be content; to be anxious or calm. You’re allowed to be, you’re allowed to feel, whatever you need to.”

I let my eyes drift closed as he starts to run his fingers through my hair. “I know,” I say, and I mean it. “It’s just…” I start again before hearing myself. “No,” I correct. “You love me. Even when I don’t understand why or how.”

“Maybe especially then, because that’s when you need it most.”

I nod and turn my face up to his so he’ll kiss me.

Chapter 10: Wedding | Honeymoon

Chapter Text

“You can stay here Friday night, if you want,” Katie suggests as we finish up dinner with her and Larry a week before the wedding.

“Oh, hell no,” Jack says immediately. “You can’t have him.”

“It’s traditional for newlyweds not to see each other on the day of the wedding before the ceremony,” Katie persists.

Jack laughs. “Oh, yes, because we are the picture of traditional.”

Katie knows when to let something go, so that’s the end of it, or so I think.

When we get home, I head for the bedroom to change, expecting Jack to follow, if not beat, me there, since we went straight from work to Katie and Larry’s. Jack stops me with a hand on my wrist and pulls me out onto the balcony. “My reaction was kneejerk, when Katie suggested we spend the night apart before the wedding. I’m second-guessing myself about jumping in so quickly now, though. If it matters to you, I’m okay either way. Like I said, we’re not exactly traditional, but we can be wherever it matters to either one of us.”

I twist my arms around his neck affectionately. “No,” I tell him, “I have zero interest in Katie’s proposal. She’s a great friend, and she means well, but she doesn’t know me, not the parts that I try to keep hidden because I’m not proud of them. I’m not going to give my abandonment complex a night and a morning to wonder if you’ll even show or if you’ll finally realize you could have someone who doesn’t take so much work, who isn’t so needy. We both know that’s how it’d go, if we aren’t together the night before. I mean, I can see ways where it pans out; there could be something touching, healing even, about walking up the aisle to meet you and letting you take my undoubtedly shaking hands in yours to prove all over again that you’re never leaving me. If you were asking that of me, of course I would, but I’m not going to volunteer for it, much less beg you to let me do that to myself.”

Jack wraps his arms around my back. “Okay; that’s what I was thinking, too, but, a couple times, as we’ve planned this, you’ve expressed a desire toward the traditional rituals, so I just wanted to be sure I didn’t unilaterally make a decision you wouldn’t have made.”

I nibble on his ear playfully, but say seriously in his ear, “Don’t leave me; not until after next Saturday when we get to profess publically that we’re not leaving each other willingly for anything.”

“Never, ever,” he replies, pulling me up against him, so I can feel his arousal. He chuckles as I rub against him. “You’re probably too tired, after work and dinner and all,” he teases.

“I’m sure I’ll find the energy somewhere,” I tell him, pulling him, half-stumbling, back inside, because our neighbors are fairly progressive, but I’m not sure all of them want to witness what Jack and I are about to do.

📎

“Hi Jack,” I greet him cheerfully. Jack loops an arm around my waist and hauls me up against him for a kiss. When we separate, he keeps his hand on my cheek, lifting my face up to his to search my eyes.

I know what he’s looking for. I took one of my comp time half days to take care of a few last-minute details before the wedding. Nothing that would have been end-of-the-world if we didn’t get to it, but things I’ll feel better for knowing they’re settled. Of course, one of those things was lunch with my father, and Jack was in the middle of a high priority project at work and couldn’t get away. It’s not the first time I’ve met my father alone, but Jack never likes it, and I understand why, because, more often than not, those are the bad visits, the ones I’m come out of completely rattled. And this one’s no different, but also completely different.

The oven timer goes off, so I give Jack a quick kiss. “I am okay,” I assure him. “Maybe even better than that, once we talk it all through. Dinner’s just about ready.”

Jack nods and goes back to the bedroom to change while I put the final touches on our meal. “Mm. Fancy dinner,” Jack comments when he returns, noticing the wine and candles and dinner. “Just because you had time or?”

“And to keep me from getting too lost in my thoughts before you got home,” I tell him honestly.

Jack’s seen what happens when I get lost in my thoughts, and how long it takes him to drag me back out. He holds my chair for me, and squeezes my shoulder. “Good thinking. Am I supposed to let this go until after dinner or can I ask?”

“You don’t have to ask. I want to talk about it. And I’m sorry I forgot to charge my phone today, of all days. I probably deserve a spanking for that.”

Jack smiles. “Possibly, but you did at least check in after lunch, which definitely helped my concentration all afternoon. In any case, that can wait. What happened with James? He coming to the wedding?”

“I still honestly don’t know,” I admit, “but he did finally explain what his problem is with it.”

“He doesn’t like me and a gay son wasn’t in his life plan,” Jack says dismissively.

“Yeah, that’s what we’ve both been figuring. But that’s not the case.”

“Mac, I hate to say it about family, but how certain are you that you can believe anything he says, and that you’re not hearing what you want to hear?”

“Because what he said today finally made sense, for the first time since he’s come back.”

Jack sips his wine slowly before encouraging me to explain.

“It was destined to be one of those days with him from the start. I made your excuses and he was cool about it, about you, the way he always is that’s had us both convinced he likes you about as much as you like him. And I…just couldn’t stand for it anymore. I mean, the whole reason I met him without you was because it was the last free time either of us has before the wedding and I wanted to talk to him, make sure he knew how much I want him there, but how I don’t want negativity at our wedding, so he needed to find it in him to be able to be supportive, or stay away. So I said all that, without much filter or softening. Said I knew he didn’t like you, but I do, and I’m marrying you whether he likes it or not, whether he’s okay with me being gay or not, and if he can’t even be supportive—let alone happy for me—on my wedding day, maybe I’m trying too hard to make things work between us—he and I, not you and I.”

“I never doubted which you meant,” Jack assures me.

“I clarified for him, not you,” I tell him. “Anyway, he looked completely taken aback. Told me he doesn’t mind you, aside from the fact that you don’t seem to think much of him, as far as he can tell.”

“Guilty.”

“And he told me he didn’t have a problem with my orientation. Admitted he might have been blind-sided by it when we first met him in the diner, and might have not been as graceful on his feet about it as could be wished, but he said again he doesn’t have a problem with it.”

Jack snorts. “Then what the hell is his problem? He admitting to just being an ass?”

“No, but he is admitting to being broken, shattered by Mom’s death. He said guys like us, like him and me, we’re not always great at relationships. So the ones that work, they get hooks in us, and that gives them the potential to rip us to shreds at the end.”

“You’ve been on the raw side of that too many times, for sure,” Jack acknowledges.

“And when you factor in this country’s divorce rate and entropy, it’s statistically impossible for this to last forever.”

“First off, I don’t give a damn what statistics say, I’m not leaving you. Two, what’s entropy?”

“Chaos theory, you know, the principle that the universe grows progressively less ordered, not more.” Jack still looks blank, so I go with the simplest relevant corollary. “Entropy means everything dies, Jack.”

“Not until we’re very old; I’m not leaving you, Mac. Not like that, not like anything.”

“Not if you can help it, I know,” I agree. “But…math and the laws of the universe are ultimately against us. And Dad’s right. If you go first, it’s going to absolutely shatter me. Like losing Mom did to both Dad and I. But…he’s wrong, too. He said he didn’t want me to make the same mistakes he did, didn’t want me to suffer, like he did. So no, he’s not happy about the wedding because it’s a big public, legal declaration that you’ve got enough hooks in me to absolutely destroy me, and odds are you will, just because you’re older and so you’ll probably go before me. And that part he’s wrong about it. I was mad when I told him off, told him even if it was almost statistically certain that you’d leave me, by death or by choice, that it was still worth the risk, that even if I lost you tomorrow, what I’ve already had would be worth it, and that’s why I’m marrying you. But after lunch, after he was gone, I just kept coming back to it all afternoon.” I look up into Jack’s warm eyes. “I love you. I know the probability that someday loving you like this is going to leave me utterly shredded and it’s worth it. It is worth every bit of that risk to have had what we’ve had already. Whatever time we’ve got, however bad it’s going to be when it’s over, I’d rather have that time than never have had you at all. My Dad would rather I never got attached, so I don’t get hurt, but he’s wrong. It is so, so worth it. You are so, so worth it.”

Jack cups my face in one hand. “I love you, too.”

“I never much doubted that,” I promise him. “And I knew I loved you. And, like I said, I know Dad’s right about how much power you have to shatter me. I’ve been freaking out about you leaving from the beginning, right? But I guess I never realized, consciously anyway, that it’s not just that anymore, that I don’t stay just because I’m terrified of losing you. I stay because it really is worth it, worth the fear of what happens at the end. I guess I realized this afternoon that happiness is real, and not fleeting. Maybe I’m a little less broken than I was when you brought me home the first night.”

“As I recall you brought us home, even if it was to my place,” Jack teases. More seriously, he continues, “Maybe we’re both a lot less broken than we were then, and a lot happier.”

I nod and Jack lets the idea sit between us for a few minutes before asking, “So you vented on James, about how you’re happy, and we are getting married, with or without his approval, and it’s good. How’d he take it, exactly?”

I frown. “He said it was a mistake. That I think it’s worth it now because I don’t know how much it really hurts to lose someone you’ve let mean that much to you. He said he was just trying to protect me, to spare me the pain he knows is in store.”

“Because our relationship would be any less serious if we don’t get married?” Jack asks, puzzled.

“It’s, uh, not just the wedding. I had a similar reaction, asked him what he wanted me to do.”

“And?” Jack presses when I don’t continue.

I swirl the last of the wine in my glass slowly before answering. “His advice was to not let myself get attached, that I should have walked away as soon as you started to matter to me, but that it’s not too late; that the longer I stay the more it’ll hurt, so it’s still better to detach now.”

“Detach?” Jack echoes with raised eyebrows.

I nod. “I tried to argue that I’m happy for, god, the first time since Mom, but his argument is cost-benefit analysis. It’s safer not to. He just doesn’t want me to get hurt.”

Jack just shakes his head. After a moment, he pushes to his feet, gathering the dishes and taking them to the sink. He starts the water and then stops and comes back to the table. He sits back down and gathers my hands in his. “I know you’re sensitive to my moods, so I just want to be clear. I’m not angry with you. I’m glad you told me about lunch with your Dad, and I’m happy to talk it through with you. I’m just angry with him. Just…if his whole thing is trying to keep you from being hurt, so much so that he’s advising you to give up happiness and love and all the best life has to offer, then how does he leave you at ten? How does he hurt you like that and then sit there and tell you nothing’s worth you getting hurt? How does he stay away, how does he break you all the ways he did? I’ve spent years with you, years working with you to help you heal, and he’s been back for what, six months? It feels like he’s just walking right back into your life fully prepared to break you down all over again, whether you want it or not, and that upsets me.”

I nod, swallowing hard. Jack pats my hands. “I’m going to go wash the dishes so I don’t do something I’ll regret, like go have words—or worse—with James.”

I nod again as he gets up and goes back to the sink. “He frustrates me, too,” I admit after a minute. “He’s probably not going to show at the wedding, either because of work or because he can’t find a way to support my decision, my right to make my own decision about risking pain for happiness, for love. And that’s going to hurt. It’s you, so I’m not going to pretend just because I kind of think I should. He’s going to hurt me. And while you’re holding me and trying to make it better, I’m just going to be thinking about how he tried to tell me nothing’s worth me getting hurt over it. Which, like you said, is a contradiction, right? From the guy who taught me my love of the logical. He doesn’t make sense.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Jack agrees. “But I will hold you as long as you need, as often as you need.”

“Thanks.”

Jack smiles over at me, leaning against the counter while he dries his hands. “You have that look.”

“Which one?”

“The one that means you could stand to be held a while right now.”

“I could get behind that,” I agree.

“TVs going to be on in a few minutes. I’ll hold you while we watch, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

📎

Jack runs fingers through my hair as the show ends. “Bedroom,” he tells me, reaching for the remote to turn the TV off.

I scramble to obey. Jack is slower to follow, probably settling the house for the night. If no order follows, whatever I do is okay, I tell myself, half of an agreement Jack and I have come to where my anxiety is concerned. It took us a while to come to it, because it never occurred to Jack that it wasn’t a given. He gets the need I have to do things right, to please him, but, for him, as long as I’m not doing something he doesn’t like, of course he’s happy with me; the absence of a negative is a positive. But for me, only a positive is a positive. I need to do what he wants me to do, do what he likes. So we see the neutral moments completely opposite, and my half of the agreement is trusting that if Jack gives an order, or something I take as an order, like his “command” to come to the bedroom, but there’s no second order, then no matter what I do after obeying the initial order, it’s good. It’s right. It makes Jack happy.

Jack tries to affirm it, giving me scene praise, reassurances that he’s pleased and I’m good, randomly, when I’m doing nothing, when we’re just going about our days, and that helps me believe myself when, like tonight, I’m stuck in my head and trying to convince myself that I’m doing what Jack wants in the absence of a clear directive.

Jack’s half of the agreement is understanding that sometimes I just need to do something and know it’s right and good and made him happy. So, I’m allowed to do what I do the second he walks into the bedroom, and say, “I need a new order, sir,” without question, whether Jack thinks we’re in a scene or not, whether I think we’re in a scene or not. Sometimes, when it’s really not a scene and neither of us want it to be, and I’m just randomly anxious, Jack just makes me come to him and take five deep breaths.

Jack nods at my statement, and I see a flash of guilt, like he realizes he maybe should have known better than to take so long following me to the bedroom. “Come here,” he orders, sitting on the edge of the bed.

I kneel in front of him, thinking he’ll let me suck on him, because, well, we both like it and I know he likes it, which makes it a good option in these situations. “That’s good, Mac,” he praises. “Take your shirt off and face the door.”

As I obey, I hear him rustling in the nightstand for something. Even though I’m curious, I don’t look, because he told me to face away. The blindfold slips over my face and Jack knots it snuggly. “There, perfect,” I hear over my head. “Now, breathe. Relax; and feel.” He waits for me to do the first, repeats it on my second deep breath. On the third, he starts to massage my shoulders. “That’s it, Mac.”

📎

Jack massages my shoulders until there’s barely enough tension left in me to keep me upright on my knees. He runs his fingers up my neck. “You good?” I nod. “But you’ll still feel better if I let you suck me off.”

I snort half a laugh, because, damn, it’s true. “Yes, sir.”

“Okay then; show me how good you are, Mac. Be good for me,” he instructs, and I hear his zipper and then heavy cloth moving as I shift around to face him. His hands caress my face before guiding me into his body.

Once my lips close over him, his hands move into my hair, playing with it for a few moments, until he starts to lose himself to the sensations and starts tugging at it instead. I lose myself in it a little, too. He comes sooner than I expect; I’m not sure whether I lost track of time or whether he’s more eager than usual.

I continue to mouth him a little, careful not to overdo, because I know he’ll be sensitive post-org*sm. Jack, recovering his wits, untangles his fingers from my hair and then starts to massage my scalp with the same focus he gave to my shoulders. I hum in pleasure and Jack winces.

I pull off him. “Sorry, sorry.”

“It’s okay, Mac. You’re always expressive when I massage your head.” He grins. “Either one. Now stop fretting and come back; I’m not done with you.”

I hesitate for a second but then I shift back on my knees between his feet, leaning against his knee. Jack starts working his fingers through my hair again.

“I know I just got you settled, but... you said earlier you think James probably won’t make the wedding. Maybe by choice. If he can’t support us, if he can’t find a way to at least be happy that you’re happy, you said it’s going to hurt.”

I let out a subconscious whimper.

“What are you going to do, if that all pans out the way you’re afraid it will?”

“I don’t know,” I say softly. “I should be done with him, if it goes like that. If he can’t even be happy that I’m happy, can’t support my life, my marriage, then he’s just going to keep hurting me, which, supposedly isn’t what he wants, isn’t what you want, and definitely isn’t what I want.” I sigh, rubbing my cheek against his knee. “But…”

“But he’s your dad.”

I nod again and then scoot up on the bed beside him, needing more of him to lean into than just his knee. Jack doesn’t even blink, as far as I can tell; his soothing hands on me don’t slow, just adjust to the new position. “I guess, no matter what, I have three weeks to figure out what I’m going to do. One more week before the wedding to keep hoping I’m being my usual pessimistic self and just assuming the worst, and he’ll show up and be supportive or happy for us or something at least neutral. And then two weeks where I can be in denial while you have me whisked off to wherever it is you’re secreting us away to for the honeymoon. After that, I guess I’ll have to come to a decision, which means we can probably pencil all of this,” I say with a gesture to encompass the whole evening, “in for a repeat in three weeks.”

Jack trails fingers down my spine before playfully tackling me down to the bed. “I assure you, you do not have to wait three weeks for a massage, a cuddle session, or an invitation to use those lips on any part of my body you so desire.”

“Any part?” I echo, flipping us over so I’m on top. I kiss down his chest, teasing his nipples with my tongue.

He hisses, holding my head down encouragingly.

I give plenty of attention to his nipples, enjoying the way he squirms under me.

Finally, inexplicably finding clarity somewhere between his chest hairs, I sit up on his thighs. Jack gives me a minute to figure out whatever I’m thinking about, and a minute to say something and then he leans up on his elbows. “Mac?”

“Yeah; sorry,” I murmur, laying down again, though slightly less on top of him.

“Not looking for an apology, Mac.”

“I’m just thinking about Katie’s suggestion.”

“We can do whatever you want next Friday, Mac.”

“No, not that part. I definitely don’t want Dad to call with a work emergency, or no work emergency but still a pass, or even actually coming to the wedding and not have you there. I don’t want to spend time away from you. I’m just thinking about the idea behind it, the absence makes the heart grow fonder part, about the idea of a night’s separation making the wedding night better because of the abstinence.”

Jack’s eyebrows go up in speculation. “What exactly are you thinking?”

“I don’t want to be apart from you, and I’m not asking you to give it up yourself. I’m just thinking maybe until the wedding, I could…hold off. No, um, no org*sms, no getting f*cked.”

Jack reaches for me, for the very particular part of me under discussion. “You want me to leave you like this? For the rest of the week? We don’t even do that on work trips. Are you sure?”

I nod, wondering how long it will take me to regret it with him fondling my balls like that.

“Alright; well, like I told you earlier, whatever you want. But, I think you’re trying to hedge your bets.”

“What do you mean?” I ask. I’m sure he’s right; he almost always is about me and what’s going on in my head.

“If we were going to do such a thing, I think we should do it. Both of us, fully. Which means no sucking me off, which, if you were being honest with yourself, you like just as much as getting f*cked. And means no f*cking me which, again, you like about as much as an org*sm, whether you get one or not.”

I laugh at him. “You won’t make it. You don’t have the self-control.”

“If I do, I’m going to paddle you for making fun of your dom.”

“And when you don’t?”

Jack shrugs. “I’m going to paddle you for not holding me to it,” he answers, straight-faced. “Are you still sure?”

Like the paddle’s a deterrent. “Means I can’t do anything about this,” I point out, returning the favor and stroking his balls. “Are you sure?” With that sassy comment, that’s going to get me paddled before our wedding night, I return my attention to his chest.

“No,” Jack admits, “but there’s not much I won’t do for you. You should know that by now.”

“I do.”

“Not until next Saturday we don’t,” he replies.

“Practice makes perfect,” I tell him honestly, working lower, curious how far he’ll let me go.

📎

The ceremony’s just starting when the back door eases open and my dad slips in, scoping out a seat in the back with easy access to multiple exits. Jack’s done it subconsciously lots of times, a habit ingrained in him from when he was military (or whatever he was beyond that). It’s just another hint in my growing list that my dad’s some kind of spy. At least Jack seems to think my dad’s on the right side.

Jack squeezes my hands and I bring my eyes, and thoughts, back to him. His gaze is understanding as he squeezes my hands again. I’m sure he noticed my dad slip in, too. Jack doesn’t miss much.

📎

By the time Jack’s managed to stop kissing me, Dad’s already got his phone out. He’s gone before we make the back of the sanctuary. I lean my head against Jack’s shoulder for a second. “At least he came.”

“It’s something,” Jack agrees.

📎

Jack lasts long enough that I’m just starting to think I’m actually going to owe him an apology for doubting him when he gets around to paddling me. We’re dancing, something neither one of us is great at, and I’m cuddling up to him, because, god, I was crazy when I suggested we wait for our wedding night. I miss him. I was right about his lack of self-control, so the only way he managed this long was by being a little less hands on than usual. He was attentive, made sure I didn’t feel abandoned or neglected, but it’s not the same as having his hands all over me all the time. As I cuddle up to him, I can feel him reacting.

When the dance finishes, we move through the crowd of our friends, all pleasantly occupied with celebrating. Jack pulls me into a side room, unbuckling his belt even as he shuts the door.

He pushes me down to my knees. I lick the tip of his co*ck slowly. “Mac,” he growls. “We don’t have all day.”

“I thought I heard forever and for always multiple times earlier today. We have all the time in the world, right?”

“Not for this.”

I lick all the way up his erection.

“Mac! Come on. I can’t wait any longer.”

“You’re going to paddle me for not making you stick with it.”

“We made it to, and through, the wedding. That was the deal, in so far as we got into details.”

I take his head between my lips but pull back when he tries to push deeper. “I’m definitely not giving up a paddling for a quickie in a storage room.”

“Mac,” he growls again. “I’ll paddle you if you want; you know that. Whatever you want. Just do your magic. Please, I’m begging you.”

With a laugh, I give in, getting him off quickly. When he explodes, his knees buckle. I’m in completely the wrong position to do anything about it. Fortunately, there’s a stack of extra chairs right behind us and Jack manages to catch himself on them.

Jack chuckles weakly. “Damn, you’re amazing, Mac.”

“Here to please,” I tell him, in my best obedient sub voice.

He gestures to me. “Do you want…?”

I shake my head. “I talked myself out of begging you to have mercy on me and forget the deal a dozen times this week by fantasizing about tonight. I want you to take your time with me, make holding off so long more than worth it.”

Jack grins, and I’m a little worried he’s going to get hard again right there, but he just pushes to his feet. He finger combs my hair back into place before pulling me to mine. We fix each other’s clothes before slipping back out into the party. As we exit the side room, I say quietly in Jack’s ear, “I told you that you didn’t have the necessary self-control.”

Jack shakes his head, laughing, and reaches out to smack my ass but one of our non-scene friends is coming our way and he has to settle for wrapping an arm around my waist instead.

📎

When we’re finally alone in our honeymoon beach cottage, Jack takes his time with me, making every bit of the wait worth it. He follows that with the promised paddling, which leaves us both feeling a strong need to catch up on lost time. All of which explains how I slept in so late this morning, but I’m wide-awake now and ready for my morning run.

As I slide out of Jack’s arms, he mumbles an unintelligible question. Hazarding a guess at what he’s after, I say, “I’m going running. If you aren’t up and about when I get back, I’ll have to investigate for signs of life.”

Jack offers a lazy grin. Far from being a suggestion that he shower and dress while I’m gone, I pretty much just told him it’s in his best interest to roll over and go back to sleep. He’s snoring lightly by the time I’m dressed. I unzip what Jack calls “the stupid pocket”, the flat pocket on the front of the suitcase, and pull out the notebook I stashed there, checking that the card with Jack’s name is still paper-clipped to the front. I try to ignore the fact that my hands are shaking as I put it on my pillow, where Jack will notice it when he wakes up again. If I run harder than usual, or stay out longer, it’s because it’s great running weather and a beautiful, new-to-me locale, not because of that notebook, or so I let myself believe.

When I return, the notebook is on one of the nightstands and Jack’s faking being asleep. I smile gratefully, even though he can’t see it, and head for the shower.

Jack’s sitting on the edge of the bed, and his eyes track me when I come out, but he doesn’t say anything as I cross the room to deal with my laundry and the suitcase. It’s not until I’m letting the lid fall back into place that I feel Jack’s arms snake around me, wrapping me up in his warmth. “Thank you,” he murmurs under my ear.

I nod, not sure I can say anything.

“Do you want me to finish it all before we talk about any of it?” He asks. I figured he couldn’t have possibly read it all already.

“Whatever you want,” I reply.

Jack turns me in his arms until I’m facing him. “Mac, I wasn’t asking my sub to supply the correct answer. This isn’t a scene, or a scene question.”

I nod again, but I know I’m going to have to give him more than that. “Seriously, Jack, whichever way works for you. I need you to have that notebook way more than I need to talk about it, because, if I say anything, it’s going to be an apology you’ll yell at me for. Well, not yell, because you’re careful about letting me see you upset, especially with me, but if I try to say I should’ve just talked to you, told you everything I wrote down instead, you’ll tell me—again—that you wish it was that easy for me to talk about my past and my feelings, but, since it’s not, all you really care about is that I try to find ways to get that information to you, even if it’s a ‘things I can’t say’ notebook. And if I try to apologize for not giving it to you sooner, you’ll say the timing makes perfect sense, with the idea coming from Katie talking about how she and Larry handled the D/s vows for their wedding, and that you don’t care if you have to wait for it. And when I press and say I should’ve at least told you about it sooner, we both know it’s just because we’d both feel better if you’d been holding me while I was working on it. And you’d definitely tell me you don’t want my apologies, or my hands shaking when I put the notebook on the pillow earlier, because neither is necessary. But,” I shrug helplessly “that’s all I have to say about it, so I just wasn’t going to.”

Jack kisses along my jaw. “You skipped over the most important part of what I’d say if you were, hypothetically, to get anxious about the notebook, me having it, reading it, what’s in it, or whatever.”

My brain spins, feeling like I’ve gotten something wrong, which never works for me. “I mean, the whole part where I’m okay, and you’re happy, and I didn’t do anything wrong, but that’s all implied in the thank you, isn’t it?” I ramble. Then I melt into Jack, realizing the answer Jack wants from me. This is a scene question, where Jack’s expecting me to supply the rote answer. “I love you. That’s what you’d say, that you love me.”

“Very much,” Jack agrees, rubbing my back. “You know I’m not judging, but you’re anxious as hell about this notebook. You waited to give it to me until I was asleep and then you didn’t just leave the room, you left the building. So does that mean I should wait until you’re not around to read the rest of it? Too much to be right there as I dig in?”

I shake my head. “Whatever you want.” I roll my eyes, realizing he’s going to have the same reaction to that he did the last time. “That’s not a subbie answer,” I promise.

I break away from Jack’s hold, feeling too restless and cooped up to stay still. Jack eases back, sitting on the edge of the bed, to give me physical space to pace and emotional space to think. “The anxiety about the notebook isn’t about what’s in it, or what you’re going to read or think of me or anything like that. You’re going to react to it the same way you have every other time I’ve managed to crack open and share honestly and deeply with you. Worst case scenario, it’s going to be fine; best case scenario, it’s going to be healing.”

“Okay,” Jack says to encourage me to keep going when I pause.

“You know how I feel about doing something wrong, or getting the wrong answer, or being wrong, or anything like that. This whole…situation, with the notebook, I did it wrong. And I kind of knew early on that I was doing it wrong, and I stuck with it. Every time I found some alone time to work on it and holed up, well, a lot of my past hurts, and even the good stuff…deep scares me. I needed you. I needed you to hold me and soothe me and tell me it was and was going to be okay. That with you I’m allowed to feel deep things, and to be scared of feeling like that, that I’m allowed to hurt and to heal. But I had this idea in my head about the notebook being a wedding gift and I stuck with that, despite the growing certainty that I was doing it wrong, and now that I’ve given it to you, I’m just all the more certain that I should have done it ages ago, and that means I did it wrong, and wrong doesn’t work for me, but I can’t go back and change it.”

“No, you can’t,” Jack agrees softly, eyes never leaving mine.

“Usually, when I know I did something wrong, but I can’t fix it, I talk you into a punishment scene. I take what I earned and then I know I have your forgiveness, whether you think I needed it or not. But I think asking you for a punishment scene here will just make it worse, just prove all the more that I did this wrong and you know it and wish I didn’t, when the only thing you’re even remotely upset about in all this is the thought of me hurting and not letting you help.”

Jack nods and I can see he wants to get up and wrap me up in his arms again.

“I have to figure out how to forgive myself for this one, and I’m still working that out. That’s why I’m all wound up,” I explain. “So, really, it doesn’t matter whether you read it when I’m around or not, or whether you want to talk about anything you think bears talking about as you get to it, or just in one bunch later. All of this,” I say with a wave to myself, “it’s not about any of that.”

📎

Evening finds us relaxing on the beach. “You’re thinking harder than usual,” I observe.

Jack chuckles easily. “Now, I don’t know if I should be insulted by that or not.”

There was a time when I’d have backpedaled immediately at that. Tonight, I laugh in return. “What’s on your mind?” I ask more directly.

“I brought a new toy with us,” he admits.

I blink. Our stockpile of toys is fairly broad, and I’d thought the gaps were about limits, not a lack of ambition. I make a humming noise to encourage Jack to keep speaking.

“Have you ever played with sounds?”

I shake my head.

Jack pauses, as though considering my response. “But you do know what they are, right?”

“Sort of.”

“What does ‘sort of’ mean?” Jack prompts immediately.

“I know what they are, how – and where – they are used. I just don’t know what the draw is supposed to be, for you or me, and why it’d prompt you to wait all these years to suggest it.”

Jack sighs. “You’re not interested.”

“I didn’t say that. I meant I genuinely don’t know. I didn’t mean to be incredulous, if that’s how it came across. I meant I honestly do not know, and would be looking to your experience—you have done it before, right?”

“I have,” Jack confirms. “But we don’t have to, if you don’t wanna.”

“Jack, I’m curious enough. I’d have said all the things I’m saying now about your evil popsicles that first summer. You have a pretty good handle on what’s going to do something for me and what’s not. I trust you, at least enough to try it.”

Jack nods, which, at this point, is unhelpful. “Jack, I can’t tell anymore which of us you’re trying to talk out of this, but my three questions still stand: what’s in it for you? What’s in it for me? And given that, what’s held you back from suggesting this kind of play sooner?”

“Would you believe me if I said all three questions have the same answer?”

I nod. “That’s about the only answer that makes sense.”

“I’ve never been on the receiving end, so I’m not exactly an authority on what it’ll feel like, but based on the reactions and what my playmates have said, the sensations are quite intense. That’s something you usually like and I love your responses to intense stimuli. But that level of intensity means the activity is limit-adjacent, kind of by definition. So I needed to trust you would tell me no, if you didn’t want it, before I suggested it, and I needed to trust you would safe word, if it got to be too much. By the time I trusted that, I also knew that, while you would stop me, if you needed to, it would be upsetting for you. It feels like it matters when I introduce something like that.”

I nod. That’s Jack, thinking four steps ahead about what any scene he’s planning might do to me.

📎

Before too long, we are in the bedroom. Jack makes an admirable attempt, but I get him undressed before he manages to return the favor. I slip to my knees. If we’re trying something new, something I might not enjoy in the end, I want us to have some fun.

“You know, some nights can be just about you,” Jack murmurs.

I pull off him – earning myself a glare – to reply, “Some nights. This isn’t one of them.” Jack doesn’t argue any further as I take him down again.

Once Jack is taken care of, he motions me onto the bed as he goes to our bag and comes back with a zippered case and lube. He sets both near my hip and opens the case.

There are two dozen metal rods with a bulb on one end. The smallest is barely more than a wire, but the largest has to be nearly an inch in diameter. And Jack wants to put them in me, in my co*ck. My breath must catch, because Jack looks up.

I guess I look scared. I am, a little, even though I trust Jack and want to be good for him. “Oh, no,” he soothes. “No, Mac. Those aren’t all for you.” He cups my cheek in one hand, rubbing his thumb along the bone. “Not tonight, for sure, and not ever, unless you ask for them.”

“No?” I ask, too shakily.

“No,” Jack promises. “How about a nice deep breath, or five, like we do at home; can you do that for me?”

“Yes, sir,” I answer. “I’ll be good for you.”

Jack hums agreement. “You always are. Deep breath,” he reminds, still rubbing my cheek. When I’m calmer, he explains, “The first guy I was involved with gave me the set. In all the time, with all the partners, from him to you, I’ve never used the largest quarter of them, at all. It’s rare I use anything more than the smallest quarter; only with a partner experienced in play like this, who wants it.” Jack runs both hands into my hair, holding my face. I know the look when he’s searching for something. “Mac, do you still want to do this tonight?”

“I want to be good for you.”

“That’s not what I asked. There are a hundred ways you can, and already are, good for me. I asked if you still want this scene.”

I nod, more hesitantly than Jack will like. “You’ll only use the small ones?” I confirm, even though he’s promised me that three different ways already.

“Only the small ones,” he promises again. “Hey, fun fact. Well, given your feelings about doctors and medical situations, maybe ‘fun’ is the wrong adjective, but relevant trivia doesn’t have the same ring to it, you know?” I smile at Jack’s rambling, and motion for him to get on with it already. “Medical catheters run 3.3mm, as a minimum. That’s wider than the smallest three sounds in this kit. I’m going to promise you right now that I’m not going to use anything wider tonight. Even if you end up enjoying this as much as I think you might, and begging for more. I’ll give you more, in terms of playing longer, but not bigger. I promise you that now, before we’re in the middle of it and there’s any chance of either of us losing our heads.”

“Thank you,” I murmur, needing that reassurance, even though I trust him so much.

“Anything for you, Mac,” Jack reminds me. “Lay down again, yeah? Heels to hips for now.”

📎

I move into the requested position, closing my eyes and trying to find a headspace where I can just trust and enjoy. I don’t want to disappoint Jack. I know he won’t be angry, if I have to call out, but he can’t help being disappointed, right?

Jack clicks open the lube, but then the coated fingers come to my ass instead of my co*ck.

“Wha—what are you…?”

Jack’s clean hand comes to my hip, steadying me. “You’re okay,” he murmurs. “That was my fault. You’re off-beat; I should have explained what I was doing.”

“‘Sokay. Just...why? I mean, are you going to f*ck me?”

Jack laughs. “At some point, I’m sure. Not immediately.”

“Then.... I mean, the sounds don’t go back there.”

“Nope,” Jack agrees, “but this will be easier for both of us if you’re firm, but not desperate,” he explains, loosening me up. “And you are way overanalyzing this and need to be distracted ASAP,” he continues. “Fortunately, I know something that you find very distracting.” With that teasing warning, Jack’s fingers press deeply into the gland that will provide the quickest distraction.

I yelp at the suddenness, but Jack continues to rub my insides firmly, until I reach the desired level of firmness and distraction.

Jack actually gets up and goes to wash his hands, returning as my brain finishes gathering itself. He takes my shaft in one hand, circling over the head with his thumb, and reaches for the first, already well-lubed, sound with the other.

He allows the tip to circle my head in a spiral pattern, moving inexorably inward, like a penny dropped by a child into a funnel, which continues to circle long after you would otherwise have expected gravity to take hold. Flushed with arousal, my co*ckhead is extra sensitive, and the inward spiral only serves to heighten my desire.

Then gravity does take hold. The sound drops suddenly, undeniably, inside. It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t burn—not the low burn of being stretched, nor the high burn of something like ginger—it just is, something solid somewhere that’s never felt something solid before. The sensations are all new, different.

“Mac,” Jack interrupts my processing, “how are you doing? How’s it feel?”

“Different,” I answer.

“I bet,” he chuckles. “More?”

I nod. Jack eases his grip on the sound and it resumes its slow downward plunge as Jack strokes me where the intrusion has yet to reach.

It feels deep, when Jack stops it again. Deeper than I thought it could go. “Is that all of it?” I ask.

“Not quite,” Jack tells me. He strokes my impaled shaft up and down, instantly reducing me to wordless moans. I thought the outside of my dick was sensitive. The inside is even more so. Both are being stimulated as he rubs me into the pole within.

“Good?” He asks.

“Good,” I affirm. He keeps up the hand job as he releases the sound. It drops a little further and I feel the bulb come to rest against my skin, proving I am fully impaled.

Jack’s hand accidentally (on purpose?) bumps the bulb, causing the rod to twirl inside me. I gasp. Jack does it again, this time with clear intent. “Oh, oh. Jack!”

“You like that, hunh?”

I nod, biting my lip as the pleasure mounts. Jack rubs my head where the sound emerges. He taps my captured lip to remind me to be careful about biting too hard.

Jack lifts the bulb, dragging the sound out maybe an inch, much faster than when it went in. “Oh, f*ck,” I whisper. Intense is the right word for it.

Jack lets it sink back down, before drawing it up again, a bit further.

He keeps that rhythm, drawing it further each time, and sending waves of pleasure through my system, until he finally pulls it all the way out.

A noise that is part whine, part whimper, and part I-didn’t-mean-that comes out of me. Jack pauses to ask a question he no doubt thought my body had already answered, until I made that sound. “Ready for the next one?”

I take a breath or two, pulling my body back under control, before I say, “Ready.”

The second goes in faster, Jack trusting his own judgment of my headspace more. He doesn’t stop the sound’s slow descent when I hiss, but he does demand, “Talk to me, Mac. Tell me how it feels.”

“f*ck, Jack; you want me to explain it?” I know some doms get off on asking the impossible of their sub, but that’s not usually Jack’s style. “It’s, ah, different, like I said. And really intenssssse. I must be twice as sssensssitive inside, so, when you jerk me….it’s like usual timesss three! And thisssssecond one is just more. Ssso much more.”

“Twice what you had before,” Jack points out as the bulb finally bumps into me, fully seating the new toy. Jack leaves it for barely a moment before beginning to play with it, drawing it up, twirling it, letting it slide back in.

He plays this one in and out much longer than the first, driving me up a wall of desire. I keep expecting him to threaten a gag and/or restraints, but he seems to be enjoying my reactions as much as I’m enjoying the rod f*cking the inside of my co*ck.

Finally, as the rod sinks back from being drawn at least half way out, Jack asks, “Do you want the third?”

“Yes, please,” I answer, but I’m also relieved all over again to know he won’t go further than that, even if I beg.

“Okay,” Jack says, removing the one currently residing in my dick. “This one’s just a millimeter wider than what you’ve got now, which is nothing, right? But then the first one was only a millimeter different than the second, and the difference in feel wasn’t casual, was it?” I try to glare, but I’m too aroused. “Of course,” Jack continues, ignoring me, “the second was twice as big as the first, whereas this one will only be half again what you just had.”

“Yes, I understand the difference between relative and objective size,” I grumble.

Jack laughs, slapping my inner thigh as he starts the third sound’s invasion.

I don’t know how to describe the sounds I make as that third sound works its way into me, so I’m not surprised when Jack asks for a status check.

“Hot,” I tell him, raising my head to look. Because of that, I see the alarm ghost onto Jack’s face.

He reaches for the bulb, stopping its progress, even pulling it back a little. “Hot like temperature? Or hot like ginger? Or stretching burn?”

“A little of that,” I admit, “but no. It’s molten. Like lava flowing into my core and lazing out into my limbs, wave after wave.” I gulp a breath. “Especially when you do that!” Reassured that I didn’t mean bad hot, Jack has let the sound resume its descent, with a little twirl.

With a low laugh, Jack starts playing with it, and me, in earnest, honestly f*cking me with the sound.

“sh*t, Jack, I am going to come, if you don’t stop.” I finally have to plead for mercy.

Jack stills the rod, but looks at me with confusion. “Yeah, that’s the point. Why are you trying not to come?”

“I mean, I can’t,” I tell him. “The sound’s plugging me.”

Jack shakes his head. “Not at all. Without me holding it, nothing is keeping it in place. It’ll come right out with everything else.”

“Oh,” I say sheepishly.

I’m so close, more so when Jack sticks two fingers in to play with my prostate again, but I just can’t get past the idea that there’s something in me. “Can you take it out anyway, please, sir,” I ask, finally, in defeat.

Jack strokes my cheek. “Of course.”

I’m not sure he actually gets it all the way out before I lose control, but it is close either way.

It’s the strongest org*sm I’ve had in a very long time. When I come down, Jack cleans us up with a damp towel he produces from somewhere.

It seems like he’s just going to clean up for bed, so I reach out to palm a part of his body that’s clearly forgotten getting blown earlier. “You said you’d f*ck me at some point.”

“I also said some nights could be just about you,” Jack points out.

“Which has what to do with you not f*cking me when I’m practically begging you for it?”

“Maybe I am waiting for actual begging. I like it you know,” he says conspiratorially.

“Jack, I am too tired to be fancy, but you promised and I want, so please f*ck me!”

It’s apparently close enough to proper begging, because Jack does f*ck me then.

📎

Jack finishes the last couple of pages of what I wrote in the notebook as we’re waiting at the gate. He tucks it back into our carryon. I offer a hesitant smile, which prompts him to squeeze my hand.

“You know you’re right,” Jack tells me. “The only thing I’m at all bothered by here is the thought of you holed up and hurting while I was oblivious.” I nod. “But, Mac, despite that, it worked for you.”

I look away. “I know you better than to think you’d judge me for anything I wrote or might say, but…I have to remind myself of that, because everyone else in my past has. So, writing it down like that let me separate thinking about what I think from thinking about what you might think.”

Jack wraps my hand in both of his. “I get that,” he assures me. “So, do we add this to our bag of tricks? You said before you thought you did it wrong, but right or wrong, if it works…”

“The part I got wrong was keeping it from you. The notebook is a good idea to add to the bag of tricks. Just, with you holding me, or at least right there, when I’m working on it.”

“Of course. Whatever works.”

Chapter 11: Bessie | Injury

Chapter Text

We’ve been married almost a year when one of Jack’s war buddies comes to town and invites him to the range. Jack invites me along, but I just can’t. Jack’s pieced that together, but I haven’t been able to explain why. “I…I need the notebook,” I mutter at last, pushing up off the couch.

Jack lets me go, knowing I’ll be back in a minute or two with the current notebook and a pen. I return quickly and curl up beside him. Jack puts his arm around me, letting me write as long as I need to. I write part of it and then stop, and turn my face into Jack’s shoulder. I can feel my breath shuddering in my lungs and my eyes stinging.

Jack rubs my shoulder. “Do you want me to read?” He asks gently.

I shake my head. “Not done,” I mumble. I haven’t thought about Josh in decades, but it doesn’t get easier. Jack holds me closer, doing what he can to comfort me, even though he has no idea what’s wrong.

Finally, I make myself sit up and pick up the pen again. I write a couple sentences, just the facts. I need to give Jack so much more, but, if I don’t at least get that down, he’ll have nothing to go on, except a traumatized ball of sobbing freak-out. I push the notebook blindly at him when I’m done.

“Oh, god,” Jack whispers, and I don’t even think he meant me to hear it, when he reads about Bozer’s brother dying in a gun accident when we were all little. He sets the notebook aside and hauls me more fully into his lap, rocking slightly as he tucks me close. “You’re not going to lose me,” he promises. “And you absolutely do not have to go to the range. Do you want to meet us for dinner after, or do you not want me to go at all?”

“He’s, um, you’re friend. I don’t want to keep you from seeing him.”

“You’re not. Dinner, or lunch, is happening either way. But I can decline the range, if it’s going to upset you.”

I want to be an understanding partner here. I want to tell him to go have fun with his buddy. But knowing he’s at a range, I’m going to be a ball of nerves, afraid he’s going to die like Josh. “I don’t want to lose you,” I say. “I’m sorry. I know you know what you’re doing and it’s relatively safe, and you’re not going to get yourself shot and killed—you’d have never survived the war, if you didn’t know how to handle a gun—and I don’t want to keep you from your friends, but, I’d really rather you didn’t, because, yeah, it would freak me out, knowing you were there.”

“Okay. Mac, that’s fine. Understandable, even. I didn’t know, or I’d never have suggested you come with.”

I nod—Jack’s always so good to me, so that’s not a surprise—and try to relax into his arms and let Josh go all over again.

📎

When we arrive at the restaurant, a man is talking with the hostess. As soon as he steps away, Jack goes to him and hugs him boisterously, including some back slaps. “Carl!”

“Sarge!”

“You look great.”

“Better than Kandalasia,” Carl replies.

Jack snorts. “True, but not saying much. None of us can possibly look worse than we did at the end of that op.” Jack extends his arm to me, without turning to look. I slide into the space beside him, the place where I fit and belong like I’ve never felt I belonged before him. “Lieutenant Carl Smith, this is my husband, Mac. Mac, Carl.”

Carl looks me over, clearly assessing. “So he’s the one you gave up Bessie for.”

Jack frowns, stiffening. “Don’t start with me about that, Carl. If you’re going to be at me or him about it, I’ll leave right now.”

“Yes, sir, Sgt. Jackass, sir.”

I flinch, but Jack just laughs. “I’ll always outrank you,” he reminds his friend.

Our table is called, and that’s the end of it. The rest of dinner is pleasant and friendly, even if I can’t relate to their shared memories of serving together in warzones.

📎

“Who is Bessie?” I ask Jack as we walk home. It’s ten blocks, but, in L.A., it’s faster to walk that. “You’ve never told me about her.”

Jack laughs. “Sure I have, just not by name. Mac, Bessie was my sniper rifle when I was Delta.”

“Oh,” I say lamely, vaguely uncomfortable with the idea of Jack being that comfortable with that much firepower.

“Mac, what Carl said? It’s flat out not true. I need you to be clear on that. I gave up Bessie when I got my discharge, years before we met. Aside from a shotgun to keep the coyotes away from the herd, back home in Texas, I’ve never fired a gun out of uniform. I don’t miss it. I don’t care to go to a range and play with the latest and greatest toys civilians can get their hands on. I didn’t refuse the range just because it was upsetting for you. I would have gone for Carl, not for myself.”

“Okay.”

Jack hugs me to him. “I don’t think you actually mean that. I don’t think you’re okay at all. Losing Josh was traumatic. Would be for anyone, let alone a kid. Getting a little more detail on just how comfortable I was with guns in a prior life is probably unsettling.”

I feel my eyes stinging. Jack’s always right about that stuff. “Jack, please,” I beg. “Please, don’t push me into losing it until we get home.” I’ve gotten better about being okay with feeling stuff, and crying, with Jack. Sometimes I think that’s only made me worse, more uncomfortable, with doing so in public.

Jack gives me another squeeze. “Fair enough.”

📎

Jack and I play with the sounds fairly regularly after our honeymoon. Most times any concerns I might have about the larger diameters are allayed by time constraints – in a typical evening play session, we don’t have long enough to work up to the bigger ones – but this Saturday, we started early.

I’ve lost track of how many of the metal rods Jack’s put in me. He’s toying with me, and, if Jack hadn’t wanted his favorite weekend wakeup (and after 11 a.m.!) this morning, I wouldn’t have lasted this long, which isn’t to say I’m not on the f*cking edge. I lean up on my elbows, watching Jack. He was right, on the beach, that I’d enjoy the intensity of this kind of play, and that he’d enjoy my enjoyment of it.

Jack fumbles the sound he’s just eased out of me. As he grabs for it, the size registers. Inside me, it was just a millimeter wider than the one before it, which is nothing, right? Outside, in the plain light of day, it’s as big around as Jack’s little finger. He could shove a finger inside me and it wouldn’t even hurt. We know plenty of folks who would think that was a great thing, the point, even, but, for me, it’s more like stepping off the side of a cliff I didn’t know was there.

Jack puts the used sound aside to be cleaned and reaches for the next. “Can we be done, instead, sir?” I ask politely. It didn’t hurt; I have no excuse to safeword, but a finger in my co*ck? That has to be too big.

Jack looks up to meet my eyes, his concentration on my dick broken. His hands immediately detour from the sounding kit to the releases for my restraints. Jack can tell the difference in my voice when I’m in full sub-mode – where no means yes, yes means more or harder, and please means I won’t be responsible for my actions if he stops – and when I’m just me and stop really means stop right now.

He quickly frees me, which is more than I needed. He pauses, evidently taking my request as tantamount to a safeword and, therefore, assuming a much worse headspace than I’m actually in, which isn’t to say I wouldn’t have gotten there in short order, if we’d continued.

“Do you still want me to finish you?”

“Yes, please,” I say. The last thing I want is to be left like this after he’s toyed with me for what’s probably been actual hours at this point.

Jack obliges, quickly pulling a very intense org*sm out of me, typical for the end of a sounding scene. Jack cleans me up while I’m still panting for breath, before I have time to notice how over-sensitive I am.

I don’t know exactly when I collapsed back down on the bed, but I do know when Jack slips a hand under my head, lifting it. He has a glass of water in his other hand, one he clearly means me to drink. I want it, except I kind of want my nap more. I yawn, feeling as though Jack may have pulled everything I had for energy out of me along with my come.

“Mac, drink,” Jack reminds me, coaxing me to swallow as much of the cool liquid as he can. He smiles as I blink sleepily, focusing on not choking. “Okay,” he says when the glass is more than half-empty. “You can drink the rest of this and then nap until dinner’s ready, or you can sleep now and I’ll wake you in an hour.” We both know I need to rehydrate after an intense scene, but Jack can recognize a lost cause when it’s falling asleep in front of him.

I nod. Jack chuckles, evidently amused that I think “yes” is an answer to the either/or he offered me, but he lets me sink back into the mattress. I feel the plush blanket we stash under the bed for situations like this drape over me and smile at the tender gesture before I drift away.

📎

I wake up to Jack’s fingers playing with my bangs, brushing them away from my eyes. While I napped, he pulled a pillow down and cuddled me into him, slipping under the blanket alongside me.

“Mm. Morning,” I joke, stretching as I sit up.

Jack kisses me, just like he would if it really were first thing in the morning.

“Water?” I ask when we break apart. I don’t see it anywhere immediate, and I definitely want that glass I abandoned earlier now. Jack leans over the side of the bed, producing the glass from where he evidently tucked it out of harm’s way.

“Are you hungry yet, or do you want to watch a little TV before dinner?”

“TV is fine,” I yawn. “Unless you’re hungry.”

“I’m not starving yet.”

I curl into Jack, snuggling up as he turns on the TV and starts one of my shows. He usually leaves me to watch this one when he’s on business trips, or sleeping in, or after he’s made me “suffer” through football.

During the second commercial break, when I realize I’m actually contemplating crawling into Jack’s lap, because curled up beside him is just not enough right now, I finally understand why we’re watching a show Jack doesn’t have even a passing interest in. “You knew I needed aftercare,” I say, not meaning it to sound like an accusation. I’m just surprised; I don’t usually need extensive aftercare from one of our play sessions. It’s been a long time since a rub down of whatever muscles went tight, a glass of water, and maybe a catnap didn’t do it for me.

Jack sounds as surprised that I didn’t realize sooner what I needed as I am that he did. “Of course,” he replies. “You stopped a scene. For you, that’s one step down from safe-wording and at least three steps out of your comfort zone. Of course you need more than a little cuddling while you napped.”

I focus back on the TV as my show comes back on and leave Jack to focus on me, on giving me the physical and emotional affirmation I wouldn’t have thought I needed. By the next commercial break, Jack’s started running his fingers through my hair, massaging my scalp. “Do we need to talk about it?” He asks. “The scene, or the end of it, or anything?”

“You could have stuck a finger in my dick.” I do mean that to come out as accusingly as it does.

Jack just hums. “Was it uncomfortable?”

“No,” I pout reluctantly. “It felt good. Really good. It wasn’t until I saw how big it was.”

Jack nods. “So, next time, am I supposed to blindfold you, or not go that big?” Jack shakes his head affectionately. “I bet you’re going to tell me there’s no ‘blindfold or’ only ‘blindfold and’.”

“Ideally,” I agree, before considering his offer. “Um, yeah, I think that’s what I want – to not go that big again.”

“Alright. When I put the kit back together, you can tell me where you want to draw the line.”

“Thanks,” I whisper, glad he doesn’t sound disappointed or anything.

Jack shakes his head. “Nothing to thank me for. Limits are healthy and good. Do you need anything else from me, in terms of the post-scene?”

“If I do, you’ll probably figure it out before I do.”

Jack laughs kissing my cheek.

I flash a smile at him. “I mean, I won’t complain if you want to keep up with the scalp massage….”

“Alright, scooch down then. Give me a better angle.”

📎

I’m working on my bike when the metal piece I’m trying to bolt in place slips, slicing my hand open. I shout in surprise and pain. Molly whines, then barks as the first blood drops fall to the garage floor. I need to stop the bleeding.

Molly barks again as I head for the bathroom. Jack calls out to me. I should answer, but I don’t want to freak him out. Or so I tell myself, because it feels less scary than the alternative, which is that I know the wound is serious and I want him to come seek me out, and make it better.

I hastily wash it in cold water, wincing as the wound throbs under the pressure from the spray. I grab the hand towel and wrap it around my hand putting as much pressure on the wound as I can, ignoring the tears of pain filling my eyes.

“Mac?” I hear Jack ask from nearby, followed immediately by a much more concerned, “Mac! What happened?”

“Plate slipped,” I bite out, gasping as I press the towel tighter.

“Let me see,” Jack says gently, coming forward with his hands out. Hesitantly I let him take my bleeding hand in both of his. He carefully unwinds the towel and looks. “Still got all your fingers. Can you move ‘em all?”

I flex them and whimper. “Hurts.”

“No doubt. It’s deep. We’re going to have to go to the hospital to get you stitches.”

I shake my head. “I’ll glue it.”

Jack shakes his head in return. “As a guy with a bit of a thing about needles, whose field medic sucked at setting stitches, I superglued my fair share of wounds that had no business being superglued. This is too deep. Aside from the fact that gluing it would hurt like hell, it won’t heal right, and it’ll get infected along the shear line, especially since the garage isn’t the cleanest place. Then it’s surgery instead of stitches.”

I know he’s right but, “Jack, I can’t. Not the hospital.”

He rewraps my hand, somehow far tighter than what I’d managed. “Keep pressure on it. I know you’re going to hate this hospital visit. I’m going to stay with you, I promise.”

“I know, as long as you understand that’s not going to be anywhere close to enough to make me okay with this.”

“Noted,” he says before ordering Molly to go lie down so we can get out the door.

📎

I’m trying not to focus on how much my hand hurts, but the alternative is to focus on my surroundings, and walking through the long halls between the entrance closest to visitor parking and the ER means my surroundings aren’t any less painful.

Ahead of us I see someone turn down a hallway. “Was that?” I ask Jack. I’m seeing things. I have to be. Which means I’m worse off than I thought.

Jack nods. “Certainly looked like it, but we need to focus on you first.”

“But why would my Dad be at the hospital?”

“I haven’t the slightest clue,” Jack replies. “If we’re right about his job, could be work-related.”

“He’s been around more lately,” I admit, “and even though he gets as many work calls as ever, he doesn’t have to leave for them as often. Like maybe he’s not doing field work right now?”

“Maybe. I’d noticed the same. Though he’s not moving like he’s got an injury that warrants rehabbing. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a teammate who was hurt that he might be visiting or assisting in rehab. Mac, ask him about it next time we see him, if you want, but let’s get your hand taken care of now, because the one thing seeing him just now proves is that he’s alive and whole at the moment, which is slightly more than we can say for you. You’re still bleeding, bud.”

I’ve been trying to ignore that fact, too.

📎

Jack guides me to the nurses’ station at the edge of the ER’s waiting room. The nurse smiles at us. “My husband’s got a real deep cut on his hand. Steady pressure on it for almost twenty-five minutes, and it’s still bleeding.”

The nurse nods. She puts a clipboard up on the counter. “Fill that out and return it to me. We’ll call you when we have someone to take a look at you,” she tells me.

“Jack?” I ask, when I realize my free hand is bloody from holding pressure.

He grabs the clipboard with his free hand, his other on my lower back, where it’s been since we got out of the car.

Jack tucks me into a sunny corner by the window. I think he hopes the view will help me focus on something other than being in a hospital. Or how much my hand hurts. Or that it’s still bleeding. Or what my Dad might be doing here. Or Mom dying. Or how I’m not going to die. Or how much I hate being in a hospital. Or how much my hand hurts.

I don’t notice immediately when Jack gets up to return the paperwork, though I imagine he squeezed my shoulder or something when he stood up. I do notice he’s gone for a while, talking with the nurse. I’m just about to go join him when he finally comes back.

“How are you doing, Mac?” He asks as he sits back down beside me.

I let my miserable expression answer for me.

Jack frowns apologetically. “We’ll get out of here as quickly as possible. I promise.”

I nod, leaning my head against his shoulder and closing my eyes. “Is something wrong? You were talking to the nurse for kind of forever.”

I feel Jack shake his head above mine. “She wanted to thank me for serving.”

I open my eyes to roll them. I want to ask how everyone seems to know, but I guessed the second I laid eyes on him myself, so I know the answer.

“She said I didn’t talk like a doc and she knows the local fire and police folks, but I was entirely too calm about you bleeding entirely too much when it’s obvious I’m not unconcerned.”

I nod. That makes sense.

“While I had some goodwill built up, I mentioned, all things being equal, a calmer presence probably wouldn’t be the worst idea, with you having a bit of medical anxiety.”

I feel myself blushing. “I hate it when you make me appreciate you for telling my personal mess to strangers.”

Jack hesitates. “Would you rather I pushed you into doing it yourself? Always figure you struggle with finding the words to explain what you’re dealing with. I just assumed you’d rather I took care of it.”

I nod. “Like I said, I appreciate you.”

“But you’re a private person,” Jack acknowledges. “I hope you believe I don’t share your business with anyone unless there’s something to be gained from it for you.”

“I know. It was probably a good idea to let the medical staff know. I just… it’s childish and stupid. I’m not going to die from being here. It wasn’t being in the hospital that killed Mom.”

“Angus MacGyver? Mac?” Someone calls from over near the nurses’ station.

The doctor waiting for us is nice. I’d like her, if it weren’t for the hospital part of all this. “We’re heading into a treatment area, where we will be discussing your medical condition, so I need your verbal consent for your companion—” I can hear the question mark in her voice that says she’s not positive who Jack is. “—To be privy to any discussion of your protected medical information.”

“Yes, I consent,” I promise her.

“We’re going to that second door on the right,” she says, and, as we enter, continues, “Have a seat.” Her gesture includes the standard hospital bed, the chair, and the rolling stool usually meant for the provider. I was pretty sure before that that she’d read or been told about my unease. It’s just a hand wound; she doesn’t need me lying down, so whatever’s going to make me calmest is best for her. But what is that? My immediate instinct is to avoid the hospital bed as entirely too hospital. But, if I sit on the bed, Jack will sit beside me, and I’ve been better the closer Jack is. By that logic, the bed’s the best option.

I stand frozen just inside the room until Jack moves his hand up my back. I glance at him. “Mac,” he says comfortingly. I nod, even though none of it was a question and go sit on the bed. Jack follows, sitting on my non-bleeding side.

I lean into him more heavily than I should be comfortable doing in front of witnesses. Jack runs his hand up and down my back as the doctor unwraps my hand and begins to clean the wound. She moves to throw the towel in the laundry/waste bin and then hesitates. “You don’t need more of a souvenir than the stitches, do you?”

We both shake our heads. I turn my face up to Jack’s. “Mighta had a different answer when I was in college. The graduate student I was lab lackey for at MIT, Frankie, she was working on DNA sequencing and her method only worked on blood, so every lab accident—every dropped vial or broken glass or too long sleeve or any anything—meant bloodstains on our clothes. My first independent research project was trying to make a cleaning solution that would get blood stains out of cloth without damaging the dyes like chlorine bleach does. But you know, it’s actually pretty hard to get your hands on blood-stained cloth without anyone calling a psychiatric facility or the police on you. That towel would’ve kept me in experiments for like two weeks.”

Jack chuckles. He’s seen me get caught up in experimentation.

“You wouldn’t be talking about Frankie Mallory, would you?” The doctor asks.

“Yeah, actually,” I say, surprised. “Do you know her?”

“Not like you do, but anyone in medicine, and especially anyone in medical research ought to be keeping an eye on her work. She’s doing a lot of cutting edge stuff these days.”

I nod. “I haven’t kept in touch with her like I should, but I subscribe to a couple of journals that have published her work.”

“Not to interrupt a story that’s clearly keeping your mind off the situation, but my experience is that people with medical anxiety divide into two groups. One group is the minimalists—the fewer procedures the better—and the other wants to experience as little of it as possible. I haven’t quite figured out which you are. I need to apply an antiseptic and then stitch this wound. Both of those things sting a little. I can give you a local lidocaine…or not. It’s completely up to you.”

My pain tolerance is higher than my tolerance for medical, and they gave me some pain management not long after we arrived. “I’m good, I think.”

“Okay. Tell me more about Dr. Mallory. I offer her up to my teenager as an example when she feels society telling her girls like her aren’t meant to be in hard sciences or engineering, despite her desire to pursue biomedical engineering.”

I smile. “Frankie was big on bringing up the next generation of women in STEM. I could put you in touch.”

“That’s completely unnecessary, but would certainly by appreciated,” she admits. I wince, my free hand curling into a fist at the sting of the antiseptic. “Did you ever have any luck with your bleach alternative? Lab students aren’t the only ones who end up with blood stains on their favorite pair of scrubs.”

“Nothing cost effective,” I tell her, but explain the formula that had the best results as she stitches me up.

She wraps a clean bandage over the fresh sutures. “It looks as good as such a wound ever does. I didn’t see any evidence that there’s tendon damage, so you should heal up just fine, with just some tenderness over the next couple of weeks. Ibuprofen should help, but a hot pack might do just as well, if you’re medicine-averse. I’m going to go grab your discharge instructions and then I’ll cut you loose.”

📎

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Jack tries to convince me as we head back to the car.

“It was pretty bad,” I disagree, “but it would have been worse without you, and you were probably right about the outcome of supergluing it, so thank you.”

I turn down a hallway.

“Uh, Mac, parking’s this way,” Jack indicates the sign.

“I know.”

It takes Jack a second. “You want to see if he’s still here. You understand how unlikely that is? And how big this hospital is, even if he is still here?”

I nod. “Just down to that corner?” I bargain.

“Sure. I just don’t want you to get your hopes up.”

“I won’t; promise.” I know we’re almost certainly not going to find him, but I still feel a deep need to understand my father, and right now that means understanding what he was doing here.

There’s one more door between us and the corner. I’m ready to admit Jack’s point about the likelihood of finding Dad when I glance in the final open door. He’s there, my father. In a room labelled “Oncology”. Cancer, again.

I think I’m about to flee, to deny cancer the chance to take another parent from me, when he looks up and sees me. “Mac!” He says, startled. “What are you doing here? What happened to your hand?”

I shake my head. “Just a cut, from the bike.”

“You’re still working on that rust trap?”

“Sometimes,” I tell him. “What are you doing here? You don’t have…?”

“Unfortunately, I do,” he admits. “Come in. Sit down.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I demand, even as I obey.

“Perhaps because you lost your mother to cancer and it destroyed you and I didn’t want to be the cause of that.” Again, I think, and based on the way Jack squeezes my shoulder, he does, too. “Perhaps because you might find yourself feeling obligated to be here, and I know a place like this is not any more comfortable for you than it is for me. I have to be here; you don’t. Perhaps because our relationship has never been less than strained and telling someone about a cancer diagnosis puts a burden on them that it would be unfair of me to place upon you.”

“It’s something you tell your family, your loved ones!” I protest.

My father just nods, like he doesn’t get that he’s denying I’m either of those things.

Chapter 12: Puppy Play

Chapter Text

Jack’s on a business trip when he sends me the email. On the one hand, it’s a little bit of a surprise, since Jack emails me next to never. On the other hand, business trips are the one time he will email me, though we usually subsist on texts and calls.

Mac,
So, funny story. We went out for dinner when we landed (funny how everyone’s starving after a three hour delay). We must have picked a restaurant near a play club. We came out and this guy’s walking his dog, which is totally normal for nine o’clock, except his “pet” is, of course, human (you’d figured that part out by now, from how I set this up, right?). She’s a gorgeous creature, almost entirely naked, aside from a crotch rope, her tail plug, the headband with her ears, the collar, leash, and padded “paws”. She’s not even slightly embarrassed to be seen by us – if anything, I think she was struttin’ it – and he didn’t even give us a second glance. Meanwhile, I’ve got to fake being as surprised and mortified as the rest of my colleagues, while I’m wondering where the club is and hit with a serious pang of longing for you.
But the incident got me thinking about you. We’ve talked about why we don’t do Daddy Dom scenes, and all the reasons a scene like that would not work for you, but also all the reasons why the idea of it is intriguing for you. I didn’t spend a lot of time, back then, trying to figure out if there was any way to get the intriguing possibilities without the negative associations. Even if I had, I’m not sure this would’ve occurred to me, because I’ve never done this kind of play before.
This is the part (you guessed it) where I remind you that you have every right to say no. You do not have to agree to this. You don’t have to do it for me. Don’t do it for me. I’m not even saying I want this. I’m just saying we should talk when I get home, and I want to give you a chance to think about it half as much as I am.
Love you so much. Be home soon!
Jack.

📎

Once Jack gets back from the work trip we talk about puppy play. I don’t think we really come to any conclusions, but we agree we’re both interested enough to give it a try. Jack doesn’t make me wait long for it, leading me into that scene just two days later.

The next morning, as we’re sitting down to breakfast, Jack asks, “Thoughts?”

“On?” I ask.

Jack gives me the look that says he thinks I’m angling for a spanking, but it still takes me a minute to figure out what I’m supposed to have thoughts on. I was really tired the night before (work’s crazy busy right now and this week, in particular, has been brutal), so we just went to sleep after the scene, without talking about it.

“Oh, right. Well, I guess that’s my answer,” I tell him. “It’s not even on my mind this morning as something we should talk about.”

“You didn’t like it,” Jack clarifies.

“I didn’t not like it,” I reply with a shrug. “Honestly, Jack, it felt like any other scene, just with less sex. We were both kind of angling for an emotional reaction, one that might get toward safe-wording out territory, but you could’ve taken that scene as long as you wanted, Jack, and the only reason I’d have made you stop it would’ve been because I would have eventually gotten frustrated and wanted you to just f*ck me.”

“So…not worth doing again?”

“No, let’s try it again, when I’m a little more awake. I never reached any sort of puppy-space, but then it took me a long time when I first started out to reliably reach sub-space in a scene, so maybe I just need more practice with this.”

“Okay. When work settles down for you a little, we’ll try again.”

📎

We try again, and again, and my experience of it is the same each time, until one Friday, when Jack doesn’t notice how sleepy I’m getting, and so hasn’t properly ended the scene before I fall asleep. We’ve been together long enough that it’s not a huge deal, or the first time we’ve had a fuzzy-edged scene that wasn’t technically over when we went to bed. If I wake up in a weird place mentally because of it, that just means I’m going to wake Jack up to let me out of the scene. More often than not, I wake up comfortable with the idea that the scene is over, even though Jack didn’t formally end it.

This Saturday morning, I wake up still very much in the scene, and finally feeling something I can definitively call puppy space. I don’t have to remind myself not to stand up; the whole idea just feels off. I never had any problem with wanting to speak in a puppy scene – Jack’s deal with gags in the apartment and not wanting to irritate the neighbors has built a strong habit, even now that we’re in a house and noise isn’t an issue – of being as quiet as possible during any scene or sex. I feel what we’d hoped I might, secure, loved unconditionally, protected. Owned, though I won’t tell Jack that unless he asks point-blank. My submissive tendencies like the feeling. Jack’s issues with slavery will panic about it. I shouldn’t use that word to him. I should tell him it feels like I belong. To him, with him. Always. Even the voice in the back of my head that’s usually whispering that, if I mess up, Jack might leave is silent.

I want to go for my run, though, and I’m not doing that on all fours, so I curl up beside Jack, resting my chin on his chest, and give a hopefully appropriately-puppy-ish yip. Jack’s hand finds its way into my hair quickly. “Good boy,” he murmurs sleepily, scratching my head between my ears, the way he would Molly.

I give another yip, a little more insistent, and Jack blinks his eyes open, figuring I want something. At that point, now that I’m sure he’s paying attention, I signal him that I want him to end the scene, and he does.

📎

We keep up with it after that success, and at first I think it’s hit or miss. Sometimes I reach puppy space, sometimes I don’t. After a while, I start to see a pattern.

The governor has declared a heat emergency and advised everyone to stay inside unless they absolutely must leave the air conditioning. Sounds like a perfect excuse for Jack and I to not leave the house all weekend. The only problem I see is that I can’t go running and Jack won’t want to be awake for hours. Poor me.

I nestle back into Jack’s side, trying to relax and maybe actually sleep in a little bit. Jack teases his fingers down my spine. “Have you figured out yet whether it’s the length of the scene or the time of day that gets you to puppy space?” He asks, out of the blue.

“I can’t tell,” I admit. It’s the overnight scenes that get me there, every time.

“Well, we’re under government orders not to leave the house, and I happen to know my husband prefers to science the sh*t out of everything he does,” Jack begins, a glint in his eyes that says he’s up to something. Usually very good for me.

“That so,” I murmur back, trying not to shiver with desire.

“That’s so, which gets me thinking, we have a whole weekend to conduct a highly scientific experiment.”

“Puppy play until I reach puppy space?” I check that I’m following along. If it happens before noon, we’ll know it’s time of day, that I reach it faster in the morning than at night. If it doesn’t happen until late in the day, we’ll know it just takes me a long time to reach that headspace. And then we can plan accordingly.

Jack nods and sits up. “Breakfast first. We’re going to need the fuel.”

I grin as I hurry out of bed, eager for the “highly scientific experiment” to begin.

As we work together to make breakfast, feed Molly, and let her out to do her business, Jack asks, “What do you want to do about food later? Normal puppies would eat from a dish on the floor and wouldn’t use their hands—or paws—to do so, but that kind of humiliation play isn’t usually your style. That said, you get grouchy every time I break a scene to make you take care of your body’s needs.”

The idea of eating from a dish on the floor immediately turns me off, even though drinking from my bowl when we’re in a scene doesn’t bother me at all, and Jack’d probably put my food up on a chair or table just like he does the water, so Molly doesn’t get confused. But Jack’s right, I hate the idea of breaking the scene to eat lunch, or dinner. My sub side is voting for not eating. My practical side knows that’s not an option, not with a long scene.

“Uh,” I say, thinking about it, “a puppy wouldn’t use its paws, but it would be completely normal for it to sit beside its m—ow— … human’s chair,” I stumble a little to find a word that won’t set off Jack’s master/slave issues, when, in my thoughts, I see the scene relationship as master/pet or owner/puppy. “And if its puppy-dog eyes were sufficiently irresistible, said human might ‘sneak’ it some bites of his lunch.”

“Who me?” Jack says, mock-offended, as if I don’t see him slipping pieces of roast beef or cheese to Molly every time he has a sandwich at home.

I snort, and make my best puppy dog eyes at him as he’s lifting the last piece of bacon on his plate to his lips. He huffs, giving it to me. “I hate you,” he grumbles.

I laugh. “So much that I’m certain I won’t starve,” I agree.

📎

Molly doesn’t seem too put off by our experiment, thumping her tail if Jack or I gets close, but otherwise just sleeping or chewing her bone in her bed. Jack makes grilled cheese with the rest of the bacon at lunch time and, out of scene, I’m going to be embarrassed about how much I’m enjoying kneeling next to him and letting him feed me bites of the grilled cheese.

I’m relaxed and enjoying the play, but haven’t hit puppy space or even real subspace, which means it’s not morning that helps me hit puppy space. I’m going to be disappointed if it really takes hours every time for me to find the right headspace for this kind of play.

Afternoon fades toward evening as Jack teaches me new “tricks”. We’ve been in active play longer than usual, but I still haven’t found puppy space. Jack and I are both hard and I want to try to convince him to let me take care of him (puppies lick things and like firm but yielding “toys”, right?), but the argument doesn’t hold without breaking scene, and I do believe in experimentation to learn truths, so I’m committed to our “highly scientific experiment”.

I give up on really reaching puppy space and let myself drop fully into subspace, where the denial won’t be so distracting. We play until bedtime, longer, even counting sleep time, than our regular scenes, without luck. I’m frustratingly hard, but otherwise pleased with the day, when I curl up, turning three circles, with my head on Jack’s chest.

📎

I have the weirdest dream, one where I’m actually a puppy, too big ears, gangly legs, and all. I wake up seriously disoriented, surprised to see fingers instead of fur, and deep in the elusive headspace.

I whine, butting my head gently into Jack’s ribs. I want out, before I forget who I am. Too long, too long! is running like a mantra through my thoughts.

Jack pets me. “Good boy; good Mac,” he murmurs, half-asleep, which doesn’t help. Part of me is contemplating nipping his ribs or maybe a nipple to wake him up. I try once more, whining again and pawing at the arm petting me. I should probably just safeword, but I hate doing that.

Jack sits up reluctantly. “What is it, Mac? You’re not running in this weather anyway, so why not curl up and go back to sleep?” I might, in the end, and probably won’t stop Jack from doing so. Jack sighs and I whine, feeling like I’ve disappointed him.

Jack ends the scene for me and I pretty much launch myself into his arms. “Hey, easy. Mac, you’re shaking. What’s wrong?”

“Dream,” I mumble in his chest.

“You had a nightmare?” He asks gently, rubbing my back.

I shake my head. “Puppy. Real.”

Jack hesitates and then guesses, “You dreamed you really were a puppy?” I nod. “What kind?” He asks, curious and a little teasing.

“Golden.”

Jack chuckles softly, running a hand up into my very golden hair. “Yeah, I can see that. And then you woke up in puppy space?” I nod. “Too confusing?”

I nod again, with a low whimper.

Jack reaches between us to rub one of my hands, concentrating on the very non-doggy fingers. “So what’d we learn from the highly scientific experiment? Time of day has to be really early morning, or it just takes a very long time for you to get there?”

“Neither. We learned that I can consciously let go enough to get to subspace, but I can’t let go enough for puppy space. It only happens when you’ve started a scene and so I’m all suggestable toward that space and then I fall asleep and my subconscious takes over and provides the headspace, and lowered inhibitions.”

“Too embarrassing to be easy for ya?”

“Apparently,” I say reluctantly, feeling like I’m a bad sub because of it. I’m supposed to be able to be whatever Jack wants me to be!

“Hey, now, no getting down on yourself. You’re a very obedient pup, even when you’re not in the right headspace, and I will remind you that I told you from the very start that this isn’t something you have to do to please me. You say the word and we won’t ever do one of these scenes again.”

“No, I want to. Maybe not as often as we have been, now that we’ve figured it out, and there’s really no point to doing them on weeknights, when we can’t play in the morning, but I like how I feel when I get to the right space. Usually. It was just the dream this morning.”

“Okay; good. Hey, can you wrap up in the blanket for a minute? I’m going to go get you some orange juice; I’m not convinced the shaking is all emotional. I tried to watch your water and food, but could be dehydration or low blood sugar. Weird dreams can happen because of those, too.”

I’m glad Jack keeps one hand on the glass of juice; my fingers still feel not quite sure they know what they’re supposed to be doing.

As I drink, Jack says, “Well, we’re still under heat death of the universe advisories.”

“Heat death of the universe is actually the other end of the temperature scale,” I correct.

“We seem to have a whole day to ourselves again,” Jack continues as if I didn’t interrupt. “And it’s going to start with breakfast. That apple-cinnamon French toast you like, and scrambled eggs with cheese and red peppers…”

“Green peppers,” I counter. I don’t need to burn my mouth off before I’m even awake. Jack knows that.

Jack chuckles. “I heard a saying somewhere: Love is bliss; marriage is compromise.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “I can argue for green onions and no peppers.”

“…eggs with green peppers and cheese. Then a nice long massage. And—”

The noise I make that interrupts Jack’s litany again sounds like “meep”. I don’t know what it was supposed to be.

“Something wrong with that?” Jack asks, surprised. We both love a good massage.

“Order,” I mumble around the last of the orange juice. I swallow and explain. “Breakfast and then I’m gonna suck you like I’ve been wanting to for sixteen hours, until you’re so hard you tell me you can’t stand it, even though you totally can, you’re just a wimp like all tops,” I tease. “And then you’re going to f*ck me into the bed.”

“Like I’ve been wanting to for twenty hours,” Jack supplies, because everything’s a competition to a dom.

I nod agreement. “And then, a long massage. And a bath, temperature to be determined based on whether tired muscles or weather is winning at that moment. And then we’ll see.”

“I like your plan,” Jack agrees, giving me a kiss.

📎

While Jack’s changing out of work clothes, I set out the toys that will tell Jack I want a puppy scene. Jack chuckles when he sees them, but then he’s distant while we make and eat dinner. I put a hand on his arm when he goes to take my plate to the sink. “Are you okay?” I ask. “You’ve been distant tonight. Not like you’re mad at me, or anything, but preoccupied, maybe?”

He nods, presumably an answer to both, and breaks away to take the plates to the sink. Jack returns without washing them, pulling his chair over until one knee is touching mine and the other is pressing my thigh. He takes my hands in his. “You want puppy play tonight,” he begins.

“Yeah; well, I want puppy play in the morning. If you want to do something else first, I just want to be in the right headspace in the morning.”

“I don’t mind playin’ with you tonight, Mac,” Jack reassures me. “When you’re in puppy space, and you can’t hide it, I see the longing. The want for something you know you can’t have.”

“What, sex?” I ask, not sure what the point is going to be here.

Jack laughs. “That, too. No, the collar you want so bad and won’t ask for because you know the answer’s no, and you know why, and it goes against your grain to make me feel bad about something you desire.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be obvious about it; it’s just—”

“A given in puppy play?” Jack finishes, cutting me off. “The only question when you see or read a puppy scene is what the tag says. The collaring is assumed.”

I nod reluctantly. I don’t want Jack to be upset with himself over not being able to give me everything my heart desires, but he’s not wrong. I want. “But I understand, Jack.”

“I know you do, sweet. And I’m not going to give you a collar. You already act like you’re supposed to be whatever I want and limits make you a bad sub. I’m not going to do anything that might give you the idea that I’m okay with ignoring limits, even my own. Trust matters too much to throw it away on this, even as much as I know you want it, and, therefore, as much as I want it for you.”

I nod. I understand. I still want, but I understand.

“Last weekend, when we were cleaning the living room, I had an idea.” Jack lets go of my hands, and they instantly fist anxiously in my lap. He reaches into his pocket.

I can see bits of a silver ball chain slipping out between Jack’s fingers when he pulls his hand out. He turns his hand over and opens it. His dog tags. “The chain’s too long,” he explains. “A guy wants his tags to hang under his vest because…well, lots of reasons. That’re all irrelevant right now. Point is, chain’s too long for play. But I got this.” Jack’s other hand opens to reveal a much shorter, bright teal-blue ball chain. He slips the tags onto the new chain and offers it to me. “Okay compromise?”

I nod, swallowing a lump in my throat. It doesn’t feel like a compromise at all. I slip onto my knees, into my puppy sit, and offer my neck for it. “Are you okay with this?” I ask softly. I want him to put it on me, but this is collaring, not a compromise.

“Yeah, I’m good,” he tells me, hooking the chain behind my neck. “Giving your tags to someone important to ya’s a thing. Shoulda given you mine ages ago.” The collar means I’m a puppy, so I lick his wrist rather than answering. “Good boy,” Jack murmurs, ruffling my head affectionately.

📎

With the collar, I almost hit puppy space in the evening. I’m there in the best way when I wake up. I take advantage of a different compromise Jack and I made about puppy play to let Molly out and go to the bathroom myself. Real world necessities taken care of, I curl up beside Jack again, smiling as I feel his dog tags settle against the base on my throat where my collarbones meet.

Once Jack wakes up, he gives me a solid puppy scene that I think we both really enjoy; I know I do. When he ends it and unhooks the chain from around my neck, I swallow a whimper, not sure I’m ready for the loss. Maybe I can wear them on the long chain normally? I’ll ask Jack later.

Before he can get any ideas about it being almost lunch time, I put my shoulder to Jack’s hip (I’m still in my puppy sit) and knock him onto the bed. I clamber up after him, popping the button on his shorts and pulling down the zipper. I love opposable thumbs sometimes. Yes, that thought, and other odd ones like it, is probably a side-effect of puppy play, but still: opposable thumbs.

Jack starts to say something, but doesn’t get a chance as I swallow around his dick. “f*ck, Mac,” he says with feeling, running his hands into my hair as I work on sucking him hard.

Jack pushes me off once he’s hard. I let the whine pass my lips, trying to glare at him, which is harder than it sounds when I’ve just had a mouth full of co*ck. Jack snorts. “You had your fun. Now I get to have mine.”

Laughing, I drop into a puppy play bow, wiggling my raised ass excitedly.

Jack laughs, too, and makes a twirling motion with one finger to indicate I need to turn around for him to f*ck me up the butt. I let my mouth drop open, wiggle my ass again, and don’t turn, just to make a point about the accessibility of a different hole. I’m totally getting spanked for this tonight, but it’s worth it.

Jack tries to sound stern, but he’s laughing too hard. “Turn around and let me have your ass right now, or I’m not going to let you come.”

I roll to flash my belly (and my hard co*ck that’s calling the shots, or, in this case, the surrender) submissively, before meekly crawling over to where Jack’s kneeling with the bottle of lube. I position myself appropriately.

Jack smacks my butt just hard enough to make me yelp. “You’re a tease,” he scolds.

“Your tease,” I pant as he goes straight for two fingers and angles for my prostate. Jack’s clearly going to exact his revenge for me teasing him by showing me no mercy. That just makes teasing him all the more worth it.

“Love you,” I tell him, because I know I don’t say it often enough. “I love you so much.”

Even though quick and a bit rough is Jack’s plan, he does hesitate a moment after stretching me on three fingers. “You ready?”

I nod immediately. “‘mgood. Please, Jack, need you inside me,” I whine.

“Yeah, yeah,” Jack laughs, coating his co*ck generously in lube before thrusting in with one firm stroke. I moan at the sudden stretch and burn as he bottoms out. He lets me adjust like always, because no matter how quick, how “rough” Jack wants to be, he never actually wants to hurt me.

But, even so, when he starts to move, it burns. Not the good full-stretch burn of a fresh intrusion, not the warm hot burn of ginger or something like it. Bad burn, clenching, clinging, feeling like my insides are getting dragged along with Jack’s movements burn. “Jack,” I interrupt. “I lied. ‘msorry. I said I was good an’ I lied. ‘m not ready. Burns bad.”

Jack, of course, backs out, and sets a gentle hand on my back just above my hips. “Hey, breathe for me, Mac. Breathe; it’s gonna be okay.”

I try, not entirely successfully at first.

“I’m sorry I lied,” I mumble when I have my panicked breathing under control.

Jack hums. “Did you know you weren’t ready and tell me you were anyway, or did you tell me the truth as best you knew it at the time, only it turned out to be wrong?”

“I thought I was ready, I really did,” I tell him apologetically.

“So, it’s like you told me about science the other day. Sometimes the only way to know if a hypothesis is true or not is to test it.”

I nod. We were talking about the Edison quote, about not having failed, just having found 10,000 ways that don’t work.

“Alright, then. I know you know how I feel about lying in the bedroom, so I get why you’re anxious, but I also know you know how I feel about you not being perfect, and maybe, sometimes, being wrong, so you know that if it wasn’t a lie, just you being wrong, then we’re all good.” I nod, but still feel pretty miserable about the whole thing. “Alright, then, the other important question here, are you okay, physically? Obviously, you were pretty uncomfortable in the moment, but are you still hurting? Feel like anything tore, or is bleeding?”

I shake my head. Once he pulled out, the burn went away and things feel better.

“Alright. I don’t see any blood, either, so I think we’re okay on that front. An’ I’m sorry for hurting you, however unintentional it was on my side, too.” Jack caresses my hip for a second. “Seems like the mood’s kind of passed, and I’m fine with that, but I know how you can get sometimes with needing to please me, so where’s your head at? You need some quick resolution here, or are you okay with taking a shower and maybe building up to something slow?”

I stop to consider, wanting to get the answer right this time. Since Jack was inside me, however briefly, I can’t just suck him off which is our usual answer to me being in my head about not pleasing him enough in a scene or the bedroom in general. I’m going to get more out of him jacking me off than he will from me doing so for him, especially if, as his words suggest, his arousal’s dissipated a bit with worrying about me. Plus, a shower sounds good. And a little bit of time before we try again, but not so much that I build it up—or Jack does—and we freak ourselves out over nothing.

“Yeah, a shower and slow, I think. But I do want to finish this eventually, before I have too much time to get anxious about ‘next time’.”

I feel Jack nod as he settles back on his heels and scootches across the bed to get up. “Aborted scenes never were your thing,” he acknowledges. “Always want to finish it. Whatever that means in the particular context.”

I duck my head, a little embarrassed, because aborted scenes always make me feel like a failure and my reaction to that is excessive. Jack reaches out to help me off the bed, and guides me to the bathroom with a hand on my back.

“Wasn’t a judgment,” Jack murmurs.

“No,” I admit, “it never is with you. I judge me, though.”

“Far harsher than you deserve, Mac.”

📎

“Jack, can we talk?” I ask, reluctant to break the relaxed atmosphere as we unwind in the shade on the back deck late that afternoon.

“Of course we can,” Jack says, with just a little trepidation because when does “can we talk” ever mean “about something good”?

I want to be gentle about it, because I do get why Jack has issues with collaring, and they’re no more irrational than some of my limits, and it wouldn’t matter if they were, but I’m not good at this, so I just blurt out, “How was that anything but collaring to you? Don’t get me wrong – I love it; it was amazing – but it was collaring and, like you said, trust is too important for us to throw it away, even on something I want this much.”

Jack chuckles sadly, or maybe nervously. “Collaring, to me, is about possession. Ownership. You use the word ‘belonging’ when you’re trying to explain what it is about it that makes you long for it, while simultaneously trying to convince me that I don’t need to worry you’d sell yourself to the kind of people we put down in that raid that broke me. But it’s belonging in a way that goes hand-in-hand with objectification, with being less than, and that’s exactly the piece that makes it so hard for me to separate the slavery I saw on that mission from the consensual non-consent collared relationships you’d be very happy in.”

“I get that part, as well as I think I can, but what about your tags on a chain is different than Sherry’s crystals on that black choker? It’s not just rolled leather or nylon actual dog collars that make the boundary fuzzy for you. It’s everything, except, somehow, your tags.”

“Soldiers wear tags for identification. To identify who we are, what unit and branch we belong to, other important stuff like that. The belonging there is about being part of a whole that is better for being a combination of all its parts. So giving you my tags, you wearing them, it’s saying, ‘I want both of us to be part of a bigger and better whole together’, same as our wedding bands. It’s, for me, about identifying you as someone important to me, as opposed to claiming possession of you.”

I nod. It may be a difference without a distinction, but it got me something I wanted and now I’m convinced it wasn’t at the sake of Jack’s limits, at least so far. “But… you get that it’s collaring for me, right? That isn’t a problem for you, that I see the blue chain as my puppy collar?”

“No, because I know your take on what collaring is is different than mine. You don’t need it to mean possession, though I know you don’t mind that aspect the way I do. You need it to mean claim. That I claim you, that I want you, that I take seriously the responsibility of being important to you. That I intend to take care of you at least as long as you wear it. But you don’t see it as a loss of autonomy. You see it as giving you something more, not making you less. So, while I can’t collar you, because my perspective on it makes it wrong, you can be collared by me, because your perspective on it is all stuff I’m okay with.”

“Well, that’s a line in the sand,” I think. Out loud. Oops.

Jack laughs, taking my hands in his. “It is, but so much of consensual non-consent is a line in the sand held together by a whole lot of trust on both sides that no one is going to sweep it away. I trust you with this particular line in the sand.”

Chapter 13: Riley

Chapter Text

My phone rings as I’m wiping down the kitchen counters after lunch one Sunday. “Who is it?” I ask Jack, since he’s closer to my phone than I am, and not occupied with a task.

He leans over to look at the screen. “Your dad.”

I sigh. “And we were having such a nice weekend.”

Jack snickers. “You know ‘xactly how much love I’ve got for your old man, but with a cancer diagnosis in the mix, probably oughta answer it.”

“Like I said, we were having such a nice weekend,” I agree, walking over to rescue the ringing device. “Hi Dad.”

“Angus, good afternoon. Is Dalton around? I need a favor.”

“From Jack? Seriously, do you not know how he feels about you?”

“I wouldn’t ask if I thought I had an alternative. Now, may I speak to him or not?”

I roll my eyes and put the phone on speaker, setting it back down on the table. “Jack’s here, Dad.”

“Mr. MacGyver,” Jack greets, making no particular effort to warm his tone.

“Dalton. Are you still in contact with one Riley Davis?”

Jack snorts. “If you know enough to raise that name with me, you know damn well that I’m not. What’s this about?”

“An opportunity for her to get out of prison.”

“Pardon or conditional release?”

“Conditional release. Her country needs her skillset.”

“Pass.”

“Don’t you think that should be her decision?”

“If you’re coming to me, she’s already turned you down at least once. And, honestly, sir, in what universe do you think I’d want to put my daughter at your mercy? I see how you treat your own son. I can’t do as much as I’d like about that, but I’m certainly not going to hand over anyone else I care about to you. Goodbye, Mr. MacGyver,” Jack says cheerfully before hanging up.

He stands, taking my hand. “Let’s go out back. Let me tell it all first, then I’ll answer any questions you’ve got left, I promise.”

I nod, sitting with him.

“First off, the whole rest of this conversation is a felony of the sort that gets you disappeared to a dark hole somewhere Google ain’t allowed to have Maps of, so, you know, my future freedom—and yours—depends on your discretion.

“Second of all, some confirmation of things you’ve suspected. Your father is absolutely working for the United States government, almost certainly for a clandestine agency. After my first tour, I worked for the CIA. When I reenlisted, it was doing special ops with the Delta Force. Did another stint with the Company after that, before getting out for good.

“During my first stint with the CIA, I was in a serious relationship with a civilian by the name of Diane Davis. Single mother of a sassy, wicked smart, computer nerd, already in the prime of her teenage years at twelve, named Riley Davis. Ri’s father, Diane’s ex, was a mean drunk conman. Diane’d finally kicked him out when the abuse expanded from just her to hitting Riley. He’d been out of the picture for yeas when I came into the picture, but one night he comes over, drunk outta his gourd, and flips sh*t when he sees me in the house after Diane opens the door. Starts whaling on her. So, I… uh, well, I tuned him up pretty good in the process of throwing him off Diane’s property. Diane was shaken, but ultimately glad someone’d been there. Ri, though, I’d barely had her trust before that, and she only saw the end of it, not what her old man’d done to deserve it. And her teens were going to be volatile enough; she needed a good relationship with her Ma more than anything. So, I did what I thought was best, with Diane’s understanding, if not exactly her blessing, and I got out of their lives. Haven’t seen or spoken to or had any contact with Diane or Ri since. But, while I had access to resources, I kept an eye on ‘em both. For one, because Ri’s as close to a daughter as I figured I’d ever have, and, for two, because Elwood ain’t the brightest bulb and I didn’t trust him to leave them alone. I was outta the country when Riley was arrested for hacking the NSA, or I might’ve tried to step in and do something. But the evidence was pretty solid, and she confessed, so it ain’t like she’s wrongly imprisoned. I doubt she meant any harm, though. Probably just saw it as a challenge.”

“Okay, but what’s my dad have to do with any of that?”

“Whatever agency your dad’s working for wants Riley for her tech skills. They’re trying to recruit her.”

“Guilty or not, I’d think you’d rather anyone you cared about was out of prison, not in it.”

Jack nods. “If they were offering a pardon in exchange for her doing whatever they need and then, when she’s done this task, she’s free and clear to decide if she wants to keep on with them or not, absolutely I’d rather her out of prison than in, but that’s not what’s on offer.”

“Right. You asked about conditional release.”

“One of the last legal forms of slave labor,” Jack opines. “You know what that means? She works for them as long as they say, at whatever terms they dictate, and she really has no leverage if those terms change or are dangerous or cruel or wrong, because her options are to capitulate or go back to prison. And civilian HR types, you know the ones who lead the seminars every year about how to be nice to each other, would almost certainly declare the environment Ri’d find herself in a hostile work environment. She’s going to be working with a bunch of people who consider themselves lifetime patriots, and she’s got a felony conviction for breaching classified data. Ain’t no one going to trust her, let alone like her, let alone care if she’s getting treated like sh*t. And your old man’s high enough up in the leadership of this agency to be asking for favors done to get her, which makes the argument he’s one of the people she should, in a perfect world, be able to go to report the hostile work environment and get it resolved, and he strike you as the kind of guy who’s going to go to bat for someone like her? Or you think he’ll treat her like he treats you, or worse? I don’t want her anywhere near that hot mess. At least in prison she’s just a non-violent offender. It sounds crazy, but she’s better off in prison than working a conditional release for your father.”

I rub the bridge of my nose. “Yeah, okay, I see your point. But, even if you aren’t going to make the offer my father wants you to make, do you really not have regrets?”

“About walking away from Diane and Ri? God, no. I still think it was the right call. More so, now. ‘Cause if I was still in Ri’s life, was the father figure in her childhood, all they’d have to do is blow my cover with her, tell her I worked clandestine ops, and don’t she want to be just like her Dad, and she’d agree.” Jack sighs. “But do I think about the what ifs, wonder how her life and Diane’s and mine might all by different if I reconnected with them? Sure.”

“I never would have taken the first step—didn’t feel I had the right—but reconnecting with Bozer has been so damn good. I want that for you, too. Is there any reason you can’t reach out, even though you aren’t reaching out for the reasons my father wants you to?”

“Not if I’m up front with her about the fact that I’m being asked to be leverage and that I’m not on board.”

“Then what’s our next step?”

“I love you,” Jack murmurs before answering. “I suppose I’d call the prison I think she’s at, make sure she’s still there and that the federal charges that probably fall under the broad umbrella of ‘treason’ don’t prevent her from having ‘civilian’ visitors. Probably best to have the first conversation in person.”

“I’ll go with you,” I offer. “Even if I have to wait in the car. I want to be there for you.”

📎

So that’s how we wind up in the visiting room of a prison a few days later. I’ve never met Riley Davis, but it’s not hard to figure out who she is, considering only one of the inmates scowls upon entering the room.

“Whatever you want, I’m not interested. Goodbye; hope to never see you again,” she informs Jack by way of greeting.

“I’m not here selling anything.”

“What, do I look stupid? Everyone knows DXS can move Christmas, if they want. I’m supposed to be impressed they found one random bathroom tile salesman?”

“Do I look like I sell bathroom tile?”

“No,” Riley admits. “You don’t look that smart.”

I smother a snort. She’s sassy but I’d like it better if she wasn’t so obviously resentful of Jack.

“When we met, I was CIA,” Jack confirms. I start. Considering how adamant he was with me on the deck after my father’s visit, about how classified it all was, I didn’t expect him to admit it in as public a setting as this, but I guess he figures DXS’ presence has already outed him.

“CIA, DXS, it’s all the same rotten alphabet,” Riley says. “And I’m not here to absolve you of your sins. And your handler,” she continues, turning her ire on me, “can tell his boss that when a woman says ‘no’, it means ‘no’, not ‘come at me harder, brah’.”

Jack makes a strangled noise when she calls me his handler, and it makes me desperately hope that the image he just put in my head, of me handling him, isn’t making me blush. “A) I ain’t CIA anymore and I never was DXS. B) I ain’t here to sell ya on the deal they’re offering; if I’m here to sell you on anything, it’s that you should refuse the offer because it’s a terrible idea. C) I need absolution I’ll go to church with Mama. D) Mac ain’t my government handler; he’s my husband.”

“Husband?” Riley practically shrieks, her anger turning to absolute fury, much to my surprise. It’s not that I haven’t come across plenty of people in my life who seemed like regular reasonable people and then turned out to be passionately hom*ophobic. It’s that Jack’s so protective of me, I find it hard to believe he’d let me come with him if he knew Riley was going to have a problem with who I am at a fundamental level. “You’re gay?! Were you just using my mom as some sort of, of cover to hide that a big bad former military spec ops guy turned spy’s actually a flaming hom*o?”

“Language,” Jack chides sharply. “And no. If you care terribly much about the label, I’m bisexual. I loved your mother when were together—and after, and, to some degree, still. I was not—and am not—terribly public about my sexuality but I wasn’t entirely in the closet when I was with Diane, so there was nothing to ‘cover’ for. And I certainly was not using Diane in any way shape or form. Until I met Mac, the time I was with Diane, and with you, were the best years of my life.”

“And then you just vanished into the dark night! Not so much as a ‘goodbye’.”

“I did what I thought was best, and you didn’t seem to want a goodbye from me after the night your old man showed up.”

“What, you think this is about Elwood?”

“I know it’s about dear old dad.”

“Of course it’s about that dad.”

“Look, I'm sorry I had to kick his ass, all right? But you don't know the whole story behind that,” Jack tells her, which doesn’t calm her any.

“You really don't think I know the whole story?”

“I don't think you know the whole story,” Jack confirms patiently.

“Do you really think I'm that stupid?”

“That I couldn't hear my dad screaming and breaking things? That I didn't know he was hurting my mom? Um, no... I'm not mad because you beat up my dad. I'm mad because you basically were my dad... Closest thing I ever had... And then you just left.”

“Ri, sweetie, I had to. I had to do what was best for you. You’d barely started to trust me, and then, after that night, I could see it in your eyes. You’d seen me angry and violent, just like him, and I was never getting your whole trust ever again; there was always going to be that part of you that living with him early in your life had formed in you that needed to protect you from men like him, like me. It would have come between you and your mother, and your mother and I, and you needed her more than you needed me.”

“So why show up here now? Why not when I got arrested? Or at the trial? Or any time in the past fifteen years?”

“I ain’t gonna lie, the timing ain’t coincidental. Turns out his old man,” Jack says with a jerk of his thumb in my direction, “is some muckity-muck relatively high up in DXS, who figured out who I was to you and thought he could impose upon his son-in-law for a favor.”

“Well, you can tell him to go to hell.”

“Already did. But then Mac pointed out that even if I ain’t interested in selling you on the DXS offer, that ain’t a reason not to reach out an’ at least say ‘lo after all this time.”

“Hello,” she retorts, clearly not ready to forgive entirely.

“Visiting time’s up,” one of the guards announces. “Wrap it up.”

I sigh. Not the best visit we could have hoped for, or the best note to end on, but it is what it is, I guess?

“You okay?” I ask Jack as we exit the prison.

“Yeah; I’m good. Went better than I thought it would, honestly.”

📎

Needless to say, I am more than a little surprised when we get a collect call from the prison less than a week later. Jack’s cooking, so I answer the phone, but after accepting the charges, I call out to Jack, “Jack, phone!”

“A’ight, but you have to come in here and stir this,” he calls back.

I go into the kitchen, handing him the wireless handset in exchange for the wooden spoon.

“Nuhuh,” Jack scolds as I contemplate the other uses for the implement. “Focus. No burning dinner.”

“Yes, sir,” I reply meekly.

“Hey, Ri, sorry about that,” Jack’s already saying into the phone. “I was just making dinner and Mac is 110% not to be trusted unsupervised in the kitchen.”

I try to listen to Jack’s side of the conversation and remember to tend our food.

“I don’t know; I really don’t,” he says sadly.

“I think we start it one step at a time. You call when you feel like it. I’ll visit when I can.”

“No, you’re right. I will. I promise. I promise, Riley. You got contact info for me, or do I gotta work for it?” I grab a notepad and pen as Jack casts about and take them to him. “Stove,” he scolds. “But thank you!” He calls after me.

A few minutes later, he comes back in to finish up dinner. I lean against the counter. “What did Riley have to say?”

“She wanted to know how this works, her and I having any sort of relationship, what with her in prison and your dad trying to recruit her by leveraging us.”

I shake my head. “Does it work?”

“I don’t know. We’ll find out. She calls him ‘MacDaddy’, in case you need a laugh.”

I snort.

“Exactly,” Jack agrees. “Anyway, she’s willing to try, on one condition. I gotta get her Momma’s blessing.”

“Did you tell her you’re already married?” I tease.

Jack laughs, serving up the meal. “She’s right, anyway. I can’t work my way back into her life and not at least do Diane the courtesy of offering the same opportunity.”

“As long as working your way back into her life doesn’t mean working your way back into her bed.” I’m still teasing. I think.

Jack frowns. “Mac, I made you promises—more than one—that I never made Diane. I ain’t the type of man who breaks his promises, once sworn, especially not ones said in front of an altar and God above. I am not leaving you, not for Diane, not for any other woman, or man, not for anything you do, or don’t do, or can’t do. I promise.”

I nod. “I know. I do, Jack,” I promise him, as completely serious as he is.

“That abandonment complex just won’t quite let you go, no matter how hard we work on it,” Jack agrees sympathetically.