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A tag for Revelations, in light of Normandy.
Title: Soft as a Blow
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sanctuary
Characters/Pairings: John/James, brief mention of Helen and Will
Summary: Brandies in the library, and testing soft as blows
Wordcount: 1327
Warnings/Notes: No direct spoilers save for Revelations, but Normandy figures strongly. Also, these two are ... achey
Disclaimer: Not mine
Title: Soft as a Blow
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Sanctuary
Characters/Pairings: John/James, brief mention of Helen and Will
Summary: Brandies in the library, and testing soft as blows
Wordcount: 1327
Warnings/Notes: No direct spoilers save for Revelations, but Normandy figures strongly. Also, these two are ... achey
Disclaimer: Not mine
Soft as a Blow
The library was quiet, save for the steady and almost inaudible chittering of James' machine. The young one had left, Helen's protege. Retiring, perhaps, or simply driven away by the increasingly weighty silence. Helen would be disappointed, John thought. He rather suspected the young man had been meant to keep an eye on them. Make sure they didn't do anything ... unwise.
John smiled faintly, watching James. Some hope there. They had been unwise from the moment they met, and this time was no different. Softly testing each other, pushing barriers from the minute they'd sat down. Every action a taunt, every word a dare, but only softly. Only quietly, such that only they would know. The boy hadn't stood a chance. Observant as he was, he hadn't seen. Couldn't, really. Because he didn't know.
James didn't look at him. Eyes tilted down, mouth twisted thoughtfully, watching the gentle swirl of brandy in his glass. The glass held in a hand resting on the arm of the chair, open and out from his body, as it had been for the past hour. Never once, in all this time, had James crossed his arms over his body. Never once had he let the sight of brass turtle on his chest be impeded. A slow, quiet defiance. Baring himself to John, holding himself open deliberately and in challenge. That much, perhaps, young William may have picked up. But he couldn't possibly have known why.
John mulled it over, for a small moment. Let it settle inside him, fall across the ache in his heart that never quite left, brush against the hard, proud thing that refused to be shamed, that refused to break. Not even for James. Not even for him. John let the challenge settle, quiet and sure.
And then, with a small, soft smirk, he stood. A smooth, languid motion, predator's roll to his feet, vaguely shocking in the stillness of the room. John stood, and watched as James' head snapped up, as eyes made vague from contemplation narrowed and sharpened, and blinked warily up at him. A tremor ran through the man, so small you wouldn't have seen it if you weren't looking, a minute and stifled flinch. The brandy danced in the glass, swaying towards James as if to follow the arm that had almost snapped protectively across himself, and only ruthless will held it in place. Only ruthless will, and boundless defiance, kept James from flinching as John stood.
John looked at him. Rested his eyes on him as a weight, on the stiffened shoulders and the bared chest, and the brandy still dancing in his glass. On the narrowed, daring eyes, and the tightness in the jaw. John looked, and only looked, his answering challenge.
James ... said nothing. Did nothing. Neither moved nor flinched, neither flushed nor turned away. Narrowed his eyes, but said nothing, and didn't move. The moment stretched, as John loomed silently over him, and James did nothing, until the stiffness in his shoulders became his returning taunt, until the fear still written onto him, and his stiff defiance, became his challenge in turn, the answering move in a silent game of chess. Of course he feared. Didn't he have cause? Why should James be ashamed, when the damage done was John's?
John felt the smile flicker over his lips, the wry little burst of humour over a yawning darkness, a bubble of strange joy and fierce pride in his chest. From Helen, every flinch tore him open, every flash of her fear stabbed him through. But James ... With James, there was a strange kind of pride, in his fear, in his defiance, in his quiet and vaguely shattered strength. With James, John felt a distant rush of pride, for the courage of the man, and a dark and twisting joy.
He had not beaten James. Broken him, perhaps, a little bit, but not beaten him. The battle of wits continued apace, silent moves against each other, little taunts and dares, stinging blows between them, and James never faltered. Flinched, but never fell. Shuddered, but never stepped aside. James sat there, defiantly open, defiantly weak, and the glittering thing in those eyes never looked away.
John moved to him. Flowed silently to his side, to stand before him, and watched that chin rise, watched defiance settle in the bitter curve of that mouth. James said nothing, watching him with eyes like chips of ice, and didn't flinch when John carefully, so carefully, reached down to feather a hand across brass. To brush a thumb softly over a dial, hearing the hitch in breath at sudden memory, seeing the tremble in that hardened jaw. John looked down at him, his hand pressed to what James had held open to him, and looked down into the glitter in James' eyes, looked down into the hot surge of hate and defiance and old, tired pain.
And then, never moving his hand, never relenting his challenge, John leaned down, and pressed his lips to the tight curve of that mouth. Pressed his lips to James', a brushing softness, shatteringly gentle. A soft curve of his lips, a vague nuzzle of his nose against James' cheek, and he felt the shock of it run through James, felt the staggering of breath in the chest beneath his hand. John kissed him, as soft and tender as he could, and knew as James closed his eyes, knew as James desperately shuttered the well of pain, that it was the cruelest thing he could have possibly done.
The cruelest, and the most honest. He pulled back, some little way, and knew that it was there, in his eyes, plain to see as James opened his own, as James blinked open hot, wet eyes to meet his stare. John knew he could not hide, not a single thing he felt, not there, not now. The pride in his chest, the soft, tearing pain, the small smile still lurking in the corner of his mouth. All there, for James to see, a baring as much a challenge as James' own. John did not flinch. He did not turn away. And when James leaned in, a stiff, jerking motion, hesitance and defiance and something wilder, something deeper, that John couldn't quite see ... As James kissed him, dry and fierce and desperate with pain, John closed his eyes, and didn't flinch.
"Un ... until tomorrow," he whispered, when James pulled away. Reaching up, his hand drifting from brass to soft, rough skin, tracing the corner of James' mouth with his thumb. He smiled, wry and bright over the pulse of some hot, dark thing in his throat, a confident smirk that could not possibly fool anyone, let alone James, but it was all he had. All he dared. "Goodnight, James."
"Until tomorrow," James echoed, almost blankly, and for a moment something flickered in his eyes, the wild, savage thing from before, something that John thought might almost have been grief. He caught John's hand, a brief thing, fingers spasming near-desperately around John's for a bare moment.
And then James breathed, a steadying rush of breath, some shutter falling across the naked pain in his eyes, a mask of bright, smiling disinterest like the one he'd worn in front of young William. James breathed, and calmed, and let John's hand fall.
"Goodnight, John," he said, voice admirably calm, utterly controlled, and John stood back with a smile, with that sharp flicker that covered the lancing wounds in his chest, that he wore like a shield for every testing shot between them. James looked up at him, stiff and dignified and calm, and John smiled. He had few other choices.
"Goodnight," he said, softly as he left. Softly, as he paused in the doorway, and looked back on the man, bright and brass and tethered, head bowed and shoulders softly shaking in a grief John didn't understand. "Goodnight," he whispered, and wondered with a terrible presentiment why it sounded so much like goodbye.
The library was quiet, save for the steady and almost inaudible chittering of James' machine. The young one had left, Helen's protege. Retiring, perhaps, or simply driven away by the increasingly weighty silence. Helen would be disappointed, John thought. He rather suspected the young man had been meant to keep an eye on them. Make sure they didn't do anything ... unwise.
John smiled faintly, watching James. Some hope there. They had been unwise from the moment they met, and this time was no different. Softly testing each other, pushing barriers from the minute they'd sat down. Every action a taunt, every word a dare, but only softly. Only quietly, such that only they would know. The boy hadn't stood a chance. Observant as he was, he hadn't seen. Couldn't, really. Because he didn't know.
James didn't look at him. Eyes tilted down, mouth twisted thoughtfully, watching the gentle swirl of brandy in his glass. The glass held in a hand resting on the arm of the chair, open and out from his body, as it had been for the past hour. Never once, in all this time, had James crossed his arms over his body. Never once had he let the sight of brass turtle on his chest be impeded. A slow, quiet defiance. Baring himself to John, holding himself open deliberately and in challenge. That much, perhaps, young William may have picked up. But he couldn't possibly have known why.
John mulled it over, for a small moment. Let it settle inside him, fall across the ache in his heart that never quite left, brush against the hard, proud thing that refused to be shamed, that refused to break. Not even for James. Not even for him. John let the challenge settle, quiet and sure.
And then, with a small, soft smirk, he stood. A smooth, languid motion, predator's roll to his feet, vaguely shocking in the stillness of the room. John stood, and watched as James' head snapped up, as eyes made vague from contemplation narrowed and sharpened, and blinked warily up at him. A tremor ran through the man, so small you wouldn't have seen it if you weren't looking, a minute and stifled flinch. The brandy danced in the glass, swaying towards James as if to follow the arm that had almost snapped protectively across himself, and only ruthless will held it in place. Only ruthless will, and boundless defiance, kept James from flinching as John stood.
John looked at him. Rested his eyes on him as a weight, on the stiffened shoulders and the bared chest, and the brandy still dancing in his glass. On the narrowed, daring eyes, and the tightness in the jaw. John looked, and only looked, his answering challenge.
James ... said nothing. Did nothing. Neither moved nor flinched, neither flushed nor turned away. Narrowed his eyes, but said nothing, and didn't move. The moment stretched, as John loomed silently over him, and James did nothing, until the stiffness in his shoulders became his returning taunt, until the fear still written onto him, and his stiff defiance, became his challenge in turn, the answering move in a silent game of chess. Of course he feared. Didn't he have cause? Why should James be ashamed, when the damage done was John's?
John felt the smile flicker over his lips, the wry little burst of humour over a yawning darkness, a bubble of strange joy and fierce pride in his chest. From Helen, every flinch tore him open, every flash of her fear stabbed him through. But James ... With James, there was a strange kind of pride, in his fear, in his defiance, in his quiet and vaguely shattered strength. With James, John felt a distant rush of pride, for the courage of the man, and a dark and twisting joy.
He had not beaten James. Broken him, perhaps, a little bit, but not beaten him. The battle of wits continued apace, silent moves against each other, little taunts and dares, stinging blows between them, and James never faltered. Flinched, but never fell. Shuddered, but never stepped aside. James sat there, defiantly open, defiantly weak, and the glittering thing in those eyes never looked away.
John moved to him. Flowed silently to his side, to stand before him, and watched that chin rise, watched defiance settle in the bitter curve of that mouth. James said nothing, watching him with eyes like chips of ice, and didn't flinch when John carefully, so carefully, reached down to feather a hand across brass. To brush a thumb softly over a dial, hearing the hitch in breath at sudden memory, seeing the tremble in that hardened jaw. John looked down at him, his hand pressed to what James had held open to him, and looked down into the glitter in James' eyes, looked down into the hot surge of hate and defiance and old, tired pain.
And then, never moving his hand, never relenting his challenge, John leaned down, and pressed his lips to the tight curve of that mouth. Pressed his lips to James', a brushing softness, shatteringly gentle. A soft curve of his lips, a vague nuzzle of his nose against James' cheek, and he felt the shock of it run through James, felt the staggering of breath in the chest beneath his hand. John kissed him, as soft and tender as he could, and knew as James closed his eyes, knew as James desperately shuttered the well of pain, that it was the cruelest thing he could have possibly done.
The cruelest, and the most honest. He pulled back, some little way, and knew that it was there, in his eyes, plain to see as James opened his own, as James blinked open hot, wet eyes to meet his stare. John knew he could not hide, not a single thing he felt, not there, not now. The pride in his chest, the soft, tearing pain, the small smile still lurking in the corner of his mouth. All there, for James to see, a baring as much a challenge as James' own. John did not flinch. He did not turn away. And when James leaned in, a stiff, jerking motion, hesitance and defiance and something wilder, something deeper, that John couldn't quite see ... As James kissed him, dry and fierce and desperate with pain, John closed his eyes, and didn't flinch.
"Un ... until tomorrow," he whispered, when James pulled away. Reaching up, his hand drifting from brass to soft, rough skin, tracing the corner of James' mouth with his thumb. He smiled, wry and bright over the pulse of some hot, dark thing in his throat, a confident smirk that could not possibly fool anyone, let alone James, but it was all he had. All he dared. "Goodnight, James."
"Until tomorrow," James echoed, almost blankly, and for a moment something flickered in his eyes, the wild, savage thing from before, something that John thought might almost have been grief. He caught John's hand, a brief thing, fingers spasming near-desperately around John's for a bare moment.
And then James breathed, a steadying rush of breath, some shutter falling across the naked pain in his eyes, a mask of bright, smiling disinterest like the one he'd worn in front of young William. James breathed, and calmed, and let John's hand fall.
"Goodnight, John," he said, voice admirably calm, utterly controlled, and John stood back with a smile, with that sharp flicker that covered the lancing wounds in his chest, that he wore like a shield for every testing shot between them. James looked up at him, stiff and dignified and calm, and John smiled. He had few other choices.
"Goodnight," he said, softly as he left. Softly, as he paused in the doorway, and looked back on the man, bright and brass and tethered, head bowed and shoulders softly shaking in a grief John didn't understand. "Goodnight," he whispered, and wondered with a terrible presentiment why it sounded so much like goodbye.
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