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James McGraw wonders that he did not question the strange occurrence sooner. He was tasked with guarding the docks while the press gangs rounded up fresh individuals for their ranks, a deplorable task in itself, but at least he was not the one dragging people from their lives to a harsher one at sea. Even so, he knows the figure on the dock wasn't there a moment ago.
“You should be out of here,” he says. “You don't want to give the Navy a reason to press you into service.”
Even with his hard-won officer's commission, he can't approve of how the government fills the ranks of its common sailors. Still, having just completed his examination for Lieutenant a few months ago, he is in no position to criticize the Navy’s methods. But he cannot allow his conscience to hold back from warning a man while the press gangs are about.
The figure laughs, low and bitter. “I'd like to see what use they have for a man like me,” he says.
That is when James notices the crutch braced under the man’s arm, the iron peg in place of a left foot. He glances back up, not wanting to show imprudence, to the man’s face. His hair is a halo of dark brown curls. A twisted mustache and beard frame his frowning mouth, and his eyes beneath his brows are ringed with dark circles. The man looks at him as though he's seen a ghost, staring with wide, wild eyes.
“James?”
James feels a prickling sensation that is not quite fear. “How do you—”
But the man is turning, cursing as he casts his head back. “Not this, not this,” he mutters. “It's too far...I've gone too far—”
“Sir…” James ventures. “Can I help you?”
The man lets out a mirthless laugh, looking at him again. His expression is pained, but there is awe written there too, and something in his eyes makes James’ breath catch in his throat. “Would that you could,” he says. Then, letting out a huff of breath, “God, you're a sight for sore eyes. Even if…”
James doesn't know what to make of this peculiar conversation, of why his strange man should know his name, or why he is looking at James like that. Still, he tries to press on. “What is your name, sir?”
The man's brows furrow, and after a moment's hesitation he says, “Solomon...Solomon Little.”
It's not the truth, at least not the whole truth. James can't be certain how he knows that for sure, but he can feel it, some bone-deep awareness like the one telling him this man is not a danger to him. He opens his mouth to say something else, but that is when James hears his superiors returning to the docks. He turns to greet them, and when he has a moment to glance back at where the mysterious man had stood, James is startled to find he isn't there. How a one-legged man can move without detection so easily is beyond James, but he tries to keep the disquietude from his face as his superiors speak to him of the press gangs’ efforts.
James isn't needed on the ship until the next day, so he decides to take advantage of that time. A well-placed few shillings give him a private room in one of the lodging houses with an actual bed. The nearby tavern will serve for his supper, and James chooses a secluded table for him to take his meal in relative privacy.
It only takes him a few moments to notice the man from the docks is there. He takes his time at the bar, engaging the patrons with some sort of tale. James doesn't catch the details, and he expects the story is pure fabrication, but he watches the effect the words have on others in the bar. They are completely engrossed, and James can't necessarily blame them. There is a quality to the man's voice that sends a shiver through James, and he feels his face begin to color the longer he watches. He turns his attention back to his meal, sparing glances at the man briefly, who only approaches after James has finished dinner and is sipping an ale. There’s a confidence to his bearing, a certain way he carries himself, as if challenging any man there to dare call him “less than.” James cannot help but find him captivating.
“Mr. Little,” James says in greeting. He feels that strange prickling again, a sensation almost like deja vu but still unfamiliar. Like something close to recognition is lurking at the edge of his awareness, but he cannot seem to grasp it.
The man grimaces slightly. “You can call me John,” he says. This, at least, feels closer to the truth than ‘Solomon Little’.
The man sits down, a smooth movement in spite of his leg. He’s had it for some time, then. This close, James can see his eyes are blue, and the state of the hair framing his face along with the shadows under his eyes has added a good ten years to his appearance—he can’t be older than late-thirties.
“Apologies, for my conduct on the docks” the man—John—says. “You just...reminded me of someone I know—knew.” Then, a small bitter laugh. “Will know.”
In spite of this bizarre statement, James picks up on a deeper pain behind the man’s words. There is some sort of loss there, evident in the tightening at the corners of John’s eyes as he regards James. Still, that does not explain… “How did you know my name?” James asks.
“Coincidence,” John says smoothly. Another lie? James cannot shake the way John had first looked at him. Like he looked upon a ghost. And yet, there is nothing familiar about this man, much as James’ instincts seem to be telling him otherwise.
“James McGraw,” James offers. The man nods in affirmation, though he seems unsurprised. John’s eyes roam over him, and James feels an all-too-familiar closeness beneath the collar of his uniform. He swallows, for he has never seen so blatant an appraisal from another man, and flattered though he is he casts a quick glance around the tavern. John’s storytelling concluded, no one seems to take any notice of them, however.
“You're new to the Lieutenant rank, I'll wager,” John says.
“You would be correct in that.”
“It's the crispness of your uniform. Still new, the color hasn't faded and you haven't worn out the starching in the collar. Aside from minor naval errands, I doubt you've seen any action in it.”
James knows that he means action of the nautical sort, ships battles and engagements and such, but his mind cannot help but drift to other possible innuendo. From the way John is regarding him, gaze drifting slowly down his body, James guesses that innuendo is intentional. His pulse beats rapidly, and he feels not unlike some game animal when danger is scented.
Because it is dangerous, what he feels. He's known for years about his feelings, feelings which would see him discharged from the Navy at the very least if they were to come to light. The naval code is very clear in that regard, and it is so difficult to know for certain, when anyone who might feel similarly is just as reluctant to send any signals, for fear of detection.
Yet here this man is, sending him signals clear as day, as if...as if he knows the secret James has guarded more closely than any other. Could it be some sort of trap?—but no, no man would risk propositioning an officer of His Majesty’s Navy, when that officer’s word would be held much higher than that of some vagabond.
There is danger, too, in this man himself. James cannot tell how he knows for certain, but it is there. Not necessarily danger towards him—at least, James doesn't think so. But there is an edge of darkness to this man James can sense the longer he speaks with John, and James—he finds it alluring, in spite of himself. There is a part of him that he tries so hard to keep suppressed that seems to stir at that darkness. Welcomes it.
And John—whatever his reasons, he looks at James with something approaching reverence. It’s a new feeling, and more than that, James can’t help but wonder if this will be his only opportunity. To experience that sort of...physicality, with another man. It is not as if a chance will ever present itself aboard ship, or that he would take that risk even if it did.
Heart pounding, James rises from the table. John look at him with a trace of confusion, before James says, voice pitched low, “I’m staying nearby.”
The invitation is unspoken but implied. He won’t speak it aloud, the ever-present need for plausible deniability paramount. Even so, John’s eyes go wide, and James lets his own gaze linger a moment deliberately before he gets up to leave.
He pays for his food and drink then heads for the door. He does not look back, to see if John has followed. Only when he is outside in the cool night air, aided by the cover of darkness, does he spare a glance at the tavern door.
He only has to wait a few moments before the door opens again, and the backlit figure supported by the crutch is enough to know John has followed.
“I'll admit,” John says as he carefully approaches, “Part of me thought this might require more persuasion, and I certainly didn't expect you would make the first offer.”
That James can understand well enough, in this world in which men like them must navigate. Still, it gives him a certain thrill to know he can surprise this man who so easily held others’ attentions in thrall.
“Maybe you don't know me as well as you thought,” James says wryly.
Something in John's face falls, the frown lines around his mouth deepening for the briefest of moments. “No, I suppose not,” he says.
James blinks, confused by the source of the expression on John's face. He hadn't noticed it before, but he's taller than John. Something about the man’s presence in the tavern seemed to suggest he towered above those around him. Some larger than life figure who had appeared out of the darkness while bidding others to follow.
James shakes his head against such fanciful notions, then says, “Follow me. It's not far.”
He is conscious of his pace, not wanting to move too quickly for the sake of John’s leg but eager to get indoors. The streets are dark and empty, but caution has James’ pulse skittering nervously. Finally, they reach the lodging house where he booked a room, and James withdraws a key to unlock the door.
Now his heart is pounding for an entirely different reason, the reality of what will soon happen overwhelming him with self-consciousness. He steps into the room, moving around the bed to light a lamp, fidget with the blankets. There's no clutter to put away, nothing to hide now from his guest.
“James,” John says, a curious weight in his tone. He steps into the room and closes the door. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes. I'm fine. It's just—I've never done this before.”
John stares a moment, blue eyes wide. “What, never? Any of this?”
James nods, feeling a flush creeping up his face, and swallows against the lump in his throat. “Believe me, I want this. I'm just not sure how…if you could show me…”
John is moving closer, navigating around the bed with his crutch as he crosses the distance between them in wide strides. Then he is there, before James, and James can see there is nervousness there mirrored in those blue eyes as well, though perhaps from a different source than his own trepidation. Nervousness and awe, and maybe something approaching disbelief. And then he is leaning forward, reaching out to cup James’ cheek before closing the distance between their mouths.
James has never been kissed before now. Truth be told, he didn’t know it was something men could do. Kissing had a certain intimacy, a sweetness to it. The way people spoke of what went on between two men, the insinuations and whispers of depraved behavior—kissing had no part of that, it would seem. Yet here he is, being kissed with such thorough care and attention as to make his legs quake. John kisses him with something that almost feels like familiarity, like a kiss before a long goodbye or after a long separation, and James is overwhelmed from the feeling in it. He whimpers against John’s lips.
John draws back, slowly, the scrape of his beard making James want to lean in for more. “Yes,” John says, his voice low and gravelly. “I’ll show you. Whatever you want.”
“I want—” James hesitates. He can feel it, this ache of need within him, the profound sense of rightness in the way John’s hand cups his face. He wants so much—to know the weight of a cock on his tongue, to feel himself undone from the inside out as he is fucked. To do the same to another. But his face is burning hot with shame again, and he doesn’t know if he can put those wishes into words.
He lets his actions speak for him, parting the front of John's long coat and fumbling at the buckle on his belt. He meets John’s eyes again, to make certain this is welcome. They are wide, full of hunger and an edge of desperation James recognizes—he feels it too. He sinks to his knees, tugging at the placket on John’s trousers until he has finally gotten the buttons undone.
“Oh, christ,” John utters.
The blasphemy is apt, for James is experiencing his own kind of epiphany, staring at the flushed head of John’s cock. The foreskin has drawn back, leaving it glistening, and James can feel his tongue water the longer he looks at it.
He has no desire to rush this, however. Keeping one hand on John’s hip, James uses his other hand to take John’s cock in a loose grip. He tugs experimentally, letting his hand travel the length of it—and the length is considerable, longer than his own, though James feels his may have more girth. He lets his hand envelop the head, collecting the fluid gathered there and using it to slick his grip as he slides it back along John's length. Above him, John shudders, reaching out to brace his hands on James’ shoulders.
“Oh,” James says. It's a revelation, feeling a cock that is not his own, seeing the different reactions he can elicit through touch. And taste…
James leans forward, parting his lips over the head. He groans at the shock of flavor touching his tongue, laps at it to prolong the taste. He takes more into his mouth, slowly. It is an effort to keep his teeth back, a deliberate care that requires positioning his lips as a cushion for his teeth while he moves his mouth further. Above him, John is letting loose a string of curses, his hands clenching in the material of James’ coat.
That sends an illicit thrill through him, the awareness that he is defying the Articles while wearing his uniform. Normally, it would send fear coursing through him, but he cannot find it in himself to care at the moment, not when John’s cock is heavy on his tongue.
“Fuck...James—should've known...you’d be good at this from the start.”
James moans, trying to take more into his mouth. His enthusiasm comes at a cost. James draws back before he can gag, eyes watering and jaw aching. He coughs, feeling embarrassed. The head of John’s cock is slick against his cheek, and he whines as he moves to take it in his mouth again.
“James, wait,” John says, sounding breathless. He moves one of his hands to cup James’ cheek.
James pauses, angling his head up to look at John. He blinks against the moisture around his eyes, leans into the touch of that hand on his cheek. He's panting and he can only imagine how he must look to John, desperate and over-eager and obscene.
John, for his part, looks half undone. His eyes are hazy and his face is flushed as he looks down in amazement, and James with a shock of awareness realizes I did that.
“That was...really good,” John says, letting out a huff of breath to emphasize his point. The praise causes warmth to blossom in James’ chest. “But if you keep going I don't think I'll be able to stay balanced on just one leg.”
“But...aren't you still…” James looks pointedly at John’s cock.
“There are other ways we can resolve that,” John says, voice curling low in a way that makes James shiver. “Other things I can show you. If you want.”
“Yes,” James breathes. He allows John to tug him to his feet. Allows himself to be pulled in for another kiss, marvels that John kisses him so readily after where James’ mouth was. He lets out a soft moan when John’s hand tangles in his hair, tugging gently.
John smirks at his reaction. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a long time.”
It’s a curious statement, but one James doesn’t ruminate on when John leans in to whisper in his ear, “Get on the bed and take off your clothes.”
James moves to obey, finally shrugging off the wool coat of his uniform before sitting on the bed. He tugs his cravat loose, unbuttons his cuffs before pulling his shirt up and over his head. He begins to push his trousers down, realizes partway through that he forgot to remove his stockings, and gets caught in himself for a moment as he tries to remove both at once. He glances down the bed, to see if John noticed.
John is sitting on the end of the bed, his coat and shirt already removed. His trousers remain open, bunched around his hips, and he’s staring down. At his lap?—no...at his prosthesis. He stares down, shoulders hunched as if steeling himself, and then James hears the sound of leather against buckles, and then the thud as the prosthesis touches the floor. James stares at the muscles of his back as John shifts until his trousers are off and pooling to the floor. Then he turns, going still when he sees James watching.
“What?”
“Nothing, it’s just—you’re beautiful.”
James has no idea if men call one another beautiful, but he lacks the vocabulary to define his attraction. If it was just men’s bodies, then living on ships would be constant torment. If it were just their minds, then the physical would not matter. If asked to pinpoint the exact aspects of John that appealed to him, he would be at a loss, for those same aspects in another would hold little sway over him. John is greater than his sum, a contradiction of elements combined in beautiful alchemy.
And John is moving up the bed, bracing himself above James on strong, corded arms as he kisses him again. There’s a fire within them both as James responds in kind, letting his tongue tangle with John’s.
“God,” John breathes against his mouth. “You really are remarkable.”
James feels that curling of heat in his chest again, and he sighs, letting his thighs shift wider on the bed in what he hopes is obvious enough intention. John grins against his mouth, then draws back. “Have you any oil? Tallow?”
James reaches beside the lamp until he locates the bottle containing extra oil for it, then passes it to John. “Move up the bed a little,” John says. “Would you prefer to be on your back or on your stomach for this part?”
James’ breath catches in his throat, watching as John slicks his fingers with oil. This is really happening. “My back,” he says, after a moment’s thought. While there is a self-conscious part of him that wants to hide his reactions, he would much rather see what is happening. He’d much rather see John.
His heart seems to skitter as he lays back against the bed, nervousness at the unknown and the gravity of this moment. He starts at the touch of John’s finger, sliding against him in a gentle pressure. It doesn’t press inside him, and it isn’t until John’s quiet “James” that he realizes he has gone tense.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, trying to relax.
“You don’t have to worry,” John says. “I’ll go as slowly as you need me to, and if you want to stop just say so. I'll take care of you.”
James nods, feeling reassured and embarrassed at himself in turn. He does relax by degrees after that, as John seems content to continue massaging the skin around his perineum in a way that is sending sparks of pleasure along his nerves. John’s other hand smooths its way down his chest. He traces his index finger across James’ pectoral muscle, moving downward towards his abdomen.
“No scars,” John says. James cannot place his tone, too distracted by the way the slick finger between his legs has begun to massage against him more insistently. Any moment, he feels it might breach him.
“N-none,” James says. “I never—Oh.”
John’s finger presses inside him, sliding easily, and for a moment James forgets all else. It’s a unique sensation, one that is not unpleasant, just unfamiliar. James shifts his hips, and that is when John begins to move that finger. James lets out the breath he’d been holding in, feeling in that moment a strange sense of clarity. He shifts his legs wider, silently encouraging John.
“You never let anyone close enough to leave a mark,” John says, twisting and thrusting his finger.
James gasps, his hands beside him grasping at the blankets. What were they talking about? Oh yes, scars. When James looks up, he can see John has a few, small pale marks here and there left by blades or powder burns. Somehow, he doesn’t think those are the marks John speaks of. He wants to ask about the marks John bears, but he cannot form the words when John angles his finger, curling it upwards.
“Oh, fuck.” James’ head falls back against the bed, his hips lifting up as pleasure seems to sing along his nerves. His cock is full, flushed and leaking against him, and he doesn’t know whether he wants more to move into John’s touch or to try relieving his own need. John makes that call for him, pressing a second finger alongside the first.
“God, you’re tight,” John says, moving his fingers slowly as the muscle stretches to accommodate. “If you could only see yourself, James. I can’t believe—”
James groans, feeling his body go flushed at the praise as he arches into the touch of John’s fingers. He understands now, why people would risk all to feel as he does in this moment. He feels like an instrument, and John the musician who knows exactly how to draw out the right notes and resonance. He’s never felt anything like this.
“John,” he murmurs, feeling frantic, “Please.”
“Please, what?”
What, indeed. James isn’t sure he knows. Just that the pressure within him feels incredible, but at the same time it isn’t enough. That his cock leaking against him is clamoring for touch, but he cannot seem to loose his clenched fists from the blankets beside him. That he needs, though he has never felt a need this deep before.
“I...I need—”
John’s fingers twist deep, and he leans over James until he can capture his mouth again, kissing him thoroughly. “I’ve got you, James, I’ll give you what you need. You’re doing so well.”
James can feel his thighs tremble and quake as John presses a third finger inside him. James lets out a steady breath. It’s a lot, but he knows John’s cock will be even more. There is a buzzing beneath his skin, a mounting pressure as John rocks his hand forward and up. James lets out a sudden cry, his cock pulsing against his stomach. It seems to go on forever, waves of pleasure as James writhes, clenching and unclenching around John’s fingers. Finally, he shudders, body going slack as he sags against the bed, his chest covered in his own release.
John is staring, eyes wide in awe. He exhales slowly. “My god. Look at you. You’re so fucking gorgeous.”
He doesn’t remove the fingers from James, not right away, though he does move his free hand across James’ chest, through the slick mess left there. James’ breath hitches as John’s come-coated fingers trace around one of his nipples, letting out a soft whine at the scrape of a nail. John’s hand moves further down, encircling his cock. Even slick as John’s grip is, James can still feel the callouses on his palm. John gives a shallow thrust with the fingers inside James, working his other hand in time with the movement. James gasps, feeling his cock twitch and begin to swell again.
“Fuck, you’re so responsive,” John says. “Nothing touches your cock and you’re able to get off just from my fingers. And now look, already you’re getting hard again. How many times could you come, do you think?”
James whimpers, unsure if it’s a question he’s expected to answer. He doesn’t know, in any case. This is uncharted territory for him. All he knows is the grip of John’s hand and the press of John’s fingers and the ache of longing within him for more. He is desperation and need, and something in his face must convey that, because John presses a kiss to his temple before withdrawing his fingers and hand.
“I told you I would see you taken care of. Shh, I've got you,” he says. “Lay on your side, like this.”
He guides James onto his right side then moves in behind him. James understands the reason for the position a moment later—so that John's leg stump will bear no weight during their activities. Amidst everything so far, James’ hair has fallen completely from its tie, and John buries his face in it for a moment, breathing deep. One of his hands now rests on James’ hip, and it grips down a moment, before relaxing. James feels the blunt press of John’s cock against him, he has a moment to steady his breathing once more, and then it is pressing in, inch by inch. John's hips give shallow thrusts while James breathes in through his nose in short, panting breaths.
Even with the lengthy preparation, fingers could not have prepared him for this. There is something almost inexorable in it as the length of John’s cock continues its slide until John is fully seated, his hips flush with James’ ass. James can feel his own body trembling. He has never felt this sense of fullness, this all-encompassing pressure within that threatens to overwhelm him. His heart races. And then John begins to move.
At such an angle as they are, John can't pull out fully, but he takes up a rocking rhythm like waves continually crashing against the shore that sets him pressing deep into James with every inward thrust. If James thought there was fire within them before, it is nothing to how he feels now, like smoldering embers burning hotter, with the capacity to become a blaze at any moment. The pleasure that he felt before is slower to build, but he can tell it will be even more consuming. Everything in his perception narrows to John, John, John. He reaches back, gripping John's hip to encourage him faster.
John is panting into the nape of his neck, murmuring praises and filth in turn. His hips roll forward faster, the sound of skin slapping skin obscene and incredible. James can feel his pleasure building, his nerves sparking with every drag of John’s cock within him. His moans are increasingly desperate. John reaches over James’ hip to grip his cock again, stroking it in time with his thrusts.
“Yes, that's it,” John says. “Come on, I've got you.”
James has no reason to hold back, encouraged as he is by the perfect grip of John’s hand and the exquisite stretch of his cock. He goes tense, muffling his reaction into the pillow as the building pressure within him reaches its crest, and he spills across John’s fist.
John’s rhythm becomes erratic as he speeds his movement, and he manages a few more thrusts before shuddering, his cock pulsing deep within James. James feels the sudden warmth, the slickness, his face going hot with realization at the intimate closeness of it all. Oh.
“Oh,” he murmurs aloud, shifting to savor that sensation. John's breath hitches, and he slowly pulls out, leaving James feeling strangely bereft. John’s hand, sticky and wet, moves to his hip again, and James reaches back, abruptly grabbing his wrist.
“What?”
“I need—” James starts. Then, before his self-consciousness can get the better of him, “—your fingers again. Please.”
“Fuck, of course. Whatever you want,” John says, sliding those slick fingers back and down until he can slide two in with ease. James whimpers, feeling sore and fucked-out and blessedly full.
John is murmuring behind him while he moves his fingers slowly. “So fucking beautiful, James. Look at you. You can't get enough of it. I bet you could even come again. I bet you could last all night if you wanted. You want to fuck me? I could talk you through it, tell you how to open me up. Would you like that?”
James whines, his face burning hot with embarrassment at his own neediness. His hips twitch forward of their own accord, the material of the blankets too much against the oversensitive skin of his cock. Fortunately, John doesn’t seem to expect an answer, he just keeps pouring filthy suggestions in James’ ear, thrusting and twisting his fingers all the while. James loses himself to it, everything in his awareness narrowed down to his body and John’s fingers and John’s presence behind him. Then John curls his fingers, pressing against a particular spot that makes James’ vision blur, and he feels himself, impossibly, grow hard again.
“Oh, fuck,” he groans, a sentiment echoed a moment later by John when he sees James’ state.
“You really are insatiable,” John says, somehow making it sound like a sentiment of worship. James’ world spins—or maybe he does, because a moment later he is staring through lust-hazy eyes at the ceiling. John is maneuvering between his legs, continuing to finger him. The scratch of John’s beard against his inner thigh is the only forewarning he gets before John has swallowed him down. How long he lays there like that, surrounded by the perfect heat and suction of John’s mouth, James isn’t sure. He gives himself over completely to it, unable to do much but writhe into John’s touch.
When James does come again, it is with none of the force or fanfare of the other times. It sneaks up on him, a gentle swell of pleasure that makes him let out a soft gasp as his cock pulses weakly in John’s mouth. John remains there, nuzzling at him for several prolonged moments, before withdrawing fingers and mouth. He crawls up the bed beside James, laying soft kisses up his body that somehow leave James with the an aching sense of loss. Finally, John is at James’ mouth again, their lips tangling languidly.
John settles into the bed, curling around James. Exhaustion, it seems, has taken them both, in spite of John’s earlier sentiments that they go all night. There is a comfort in this as well, feeling the warmth of John’s body as consciousness ebbs away from him like the tide.
When James wakes again, it is still dark. He wonders what has woken him, and that is when he grows aware of the chill in the room, and the absence of the figure that had been beside him. James sits up, and notices the dark shadow sitting on the end of the bed. It is John, his shoulders hunched in on himself. A small shudder seems to pass through him, almost as if...he is crying. John’s arm is rigid, and that is when James realizes it is gripping the thigh of his bad leg.
“Part of me always wondered,” John says, his voice oddly distant. “If I’d known how he felt sooner, maybe we could have had more before this happened. Maybe it wouldn’t have happened at all, if things had been different. Would it have changed anything?” He laughs bitterly. “I don’t know anymore. Will this change anything? I’ve been told it won’t. That the pieces are already in motion and my presence now is but a ripple. Yet all that keeps turning over in my mind is how, somewhere out there, there is a boy with two whole legs and no notion of what awaits him. What would happen if I warned him? Even if he did heed the warning, would I want to alter things knowing what it has cost me? Knowing that if I did I would be giving up—”
James has no comprehension of what any of this means. All he knows is the keen awareness of the significance of this moment. That John is adrift, and he must do something to help ground him.
“John,” he says. That simple utterance seems to draw John back, and he turns slowly, as if surfacing from a dream. James continues, “Surely...whatever demons trouble you...they can wait until morning?”
James reaches out, touching the side of John’s face. His vision has adjusted to the darkness, and he sees John closes his eyes—taking some measure of comfort from the gesture, or steeling himself?
“I fear they may not even give me that long,” John says. “But I will stay a while longer.”
He moves back up the bed, wrapping James in an embrace. It’s as if John is drowning, James realizes, and he needs that touch to buoy him. James returns the hold, and they lay tangled in the darkness together until sleep takes James again.
The next time James wakes, he knows he will not find John at the end of his bed. The room is truly empty this time, and if not for the pleasant soreness between his legs he would almost think John had been a ghost.
An eerie sense of recollection prickles in the back of James’ mind, and he remembers the story his grandfather once told him. Of the time he’d worked as a deckhand on a privateer docked in Boston Harbor, and how a man had climbed out of the water and onto his ship. A man who had asked for rum and said he’d been accused of killing someone...a man who called himself Mr. Flint. He, too, had seemed flesh and blood to James’ grandfather, but then he had disappeared without a trace. No record of a murder or a fled fugitive ever surfaced.
James cannot help but compare the strange sets of events, recalling the way John had appeared on that dock though James had been certain no one stood there a moment before. Could it be that John was conjured from the sea the same way his grandfather’s mysterious Mr. Flint had been? He’s sure his grandfather would have mentioned if his own apparition had had a peg leg, but James cannot shake the aura of darkness he sensed in John. Or how, in spite of all common sense and reason, he had found it alluring, wanting to meet with John in that darkness.
Unsettled, James rises from the bed and goes to the washbasin to clean himself. One piece at a time, he slowly puts on the layers of his uniform. He combs back his hair until it is smooth, then checks his reflection in the glass of the window. Outwardly, he carries no sign of what occurred last night, certainly none his superiors will see when he boards the ship again later. Inwardly, the memory is still vivid, and whatever strangeness surrounds it, James will cherish it.