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David took the stairs back up to Jack’s apartment two at a time, light on his feet. The cool of the early morning air had chilled him back to sobriety, or something close to it, and it was easy to fall back on his training, slipping past the guard outside, the two in the hall. It’d helped him feel cleaner, too, the wind cutting through his coat and clothes, washing the smell of sweat and smoke and perfume away. He’d scrubbed at his face until he no longer could feel the tacky stickiness of lipstick on his skin.
None of it, not the night, or the dancing, or the lights, or the drinks, had washed the memory of Michelle from his mind. It hadn’t helped him feel more worthy; it’d made him feel less. But that was a lesson he’d needed to learn, maybe, and he was grateful to Jack for it, no matter how grimy and uncomfortable he’d felt before the night’s end. And embarrassed, after Claudia’s condescending, pitying farewell.
It’d been easy, before, to take pleasure casually – at barn dances, county fairs, school, the front. Now he’d had something better and richer, and the simple ease of stringless sex no longer had any savor, not when he knew what and who he really wanted. He’d rather have nothing than anything else.
He almost envied Jack his ability to still take pleasure in that kind of solace. But David—David was done digging.
Except, after everything, he’d forgotten his damned wallet in that apartment, flustered as he’d re-donned his jacket and beat an ashamed, hurried retreat. All night, he’d taken it out to try to pay, only to have Jack raise an eyebrow and laugh. Still a little drunk, he’d even gotten it out at Jack’s apartment and offered it to the guards, military ID face out.
“Here of my own free will,” he’d said, copying the girl, a little confused, but game. And it’d been true. He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t want to be. No one had tricked or forced him.
The guards, Tommy and Ezekial, shot each other looks, then one had said, carefully, “You don’t need to do that, sir. Unless you’re going upstairs.”
Upstairs? Oh, David had thought, and wondered, momentarily flushing hot enough that his jacket seemed strangling, what it would have been like if Claudia hadn’t been there. If it had just been Jack and his girl and David climbing the stairs, up and up.
Then Claudia had laughed and taken his hand, pulled him playfully towards the spare room down the hall, and the moment had fizzled out, cooled.
That was probably where his wallet was now—either in the room, or the hallway. And hopefully Claudia was asleep, or headed home, because David dreaded the thought of having to speak to her again, the pity in her eyes worse than the contempt.
Except then he heard the clatter of heels, staccato footsteps like military rounds in the night. David melted into the shadow of an alcove, wishing for facepaint, and watched in confusion as the two girls hurried past, their expressions panicked and pained—
Pained. Jack.
David was up the stairs before the thought fully registered, picturing armed assassins, foolhardy but lucky robbers, but when he threw open the door, he only found Jack unhurt. He was, however, half-dressed, with a man that looked strangely familiar standing next to him.
Oh, David thought, and stray ideas and thoughts began to coalesce slightly. Before they could solidify, he saw Jack’s face more clearly. Not unhurt, David realized. That was the face of a man in pain—he knew the expression too well. David took a step forward, reaching out a hand. “Jack, are you alright?” he asked, and then shot the other man a dark look. “Is this guy—do you not want him to be here?”
Jack’s whole face convulsed, and then he spun to grab the windowsill, hunched over it, the muscles of his back flexing in the early morning sun like they were gilt in gold.
“No,” Jack said hoarsely. “I don’t. Get out. Both of you.”
The man slipped past David and flinched when David continued to scowl, sliding along the wall and then out the door. Once he was gone, David set his jaw and took another step forward, then another.
“Jack, what’s wrong?” he asked, and then, as he remembered a jolting painful ride from the front and a wounded soldier whimpering between his teeth at each pothole, put a hand carefully on the angle of Jack’s shoulder. It was warm beneath his hand, almost feverishly hot. Then Jack turned with one smooth motion and punched David in the jaw.
He’d been expecting that, he realized as he staggered backwards, hand coming to his face. “Fuck,” he said anyway, tongue checking his teeth, the trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth.
“You have no idea,” Jack hissed between his teeth, face wild and contorted as it’d been at the bar before, strobe lights flashing and smoke in the air. “It’s always so easy for you. You’re so above it all, no matter what I--what anyone--.”
David wiped the blood off his cheek and blocked Jack’s next punch, then deflected another. Defense only.
“Jack, stop. I don’t want to hurt you,” he said, and flinched at the low laugh this produced.
“How could you hurt me,” Jack said, smile curling on his face, but in the light of dawn there were no smokes or mirrors, and David’s fists faltered at the misery on Jack’s face.
David’s first dog, Rex, long-legged and half-trained, had slipped his leash as a yearling and ran wild into the street. When David had finally caught up to him, a car had halted his wayward flight, sent him flying into a ditch, muddy and broken. He’d looked like Jack now: panting, the whites of his eyes showing. When David reached out, Rex had snapped and bitten clean down to the bones. The scars were still there, today, on the hands David held out to Jack.
“Damn you, hit me,” Jack spat, low and rough, baring his teeth, then slammed David against a wall, hard enough that his vision sparkled white. The hazy beginnings of a hangover that had been threatening rushed forward in a wave, and for a moment David couldn’t breathe.
A hurt animal in a trap can’t help but try to get away from the pain, son, his father had said later, bandaging both boy and dog. Don’t hold it against the lad.
“It’s okay,” David said nonsensically, still dazed. “It’ll be alright.”
Jack pulled back his fist as though to punch again and again, and David looked up at him through the pain and slight blur of tears. Jack shook out his hand and let out a breath like a sob.
“What do you want from me?”
“Nothing,” David said thickly, and stepped closer again, side-stepping the half-hearted jab Jack made at his belly. “I just want to help.”
"Does your arrogance,” Jack said, head down and nearly touching David’s shoulder, breath hot against his neck. A punch connected against his ribs before David caught his hand and held it still. “Know no bounds?”
“Jack,” David said, desperate and confused, aching all over. “Jack, aren’t you tired?” And barely had the wits to catch him when Jack folded, fell like the words had cut the strings holding him up. David caught him, and held him as he dragged out harsh, shuddering breaths. He held him close automatically, cradling him to his chest and looking out the high-rise window over the city beyond. The sun was rising, and the city was glittering, and her prince was shivering in David’s arms.
He’d gone to hug Jack once before at an event, unthinking, the swift easy hug of brothers, of comrades in arm, and Jack had cut a side-long look beneath his lashes and said, in a voice that practically left David bleeding, “Casual expressions of physical affection aren’t the province of princes, David. Physical violence, perhaps, but let’s not be vulgar.”
“You want me to hit you?” David had asked, unsure. Jack had smiled bright, all teeth, and punched David hard enough in the shoulder to bruise, then said, "Now you’re paying attention."
Now they were both bruised. Jack, David thought, took a lot of digging, and David still didn’t know how deep he went. But he’d always known now that Jack wasn’t just the polished surface he showed the world. Now he knew some of what it hid, jagged and hurt and, maybe, lonely.
“Why are you doing this?” Jack’s voice came against his shoulder, clogged and despairing, but he was clinging to David almost desperately, the same way a shivering Rex had once trustingly pressed his face against David’s leg.
“You’re hurt. And you’re my friend,” David said, sure of these things, at least.
“I’m not your anything,” Jack countered, voice vicious, but he was holding David like he was drowning, face shoved against David’s neck and shoulders still heaving. His lips were moving against David’s pulse, slick with sweat, and it was--strange. “You don’t know anything.”
“I know you’re my prince!” David said, frustrated, and when Jack started to stiffen, added, voice softening, “And I know I’m your friend.” The quiet comfort given in a bloodied, dusty flatbed truck, the way their eyes met, sometimes, across the rooms unexpectedly, and David would think, I know you, bone deep and pleased.
“David,” Jack said, despair in his voice. “You’re an idiot. And not even mine.” His face, when he lifted it, was blotchy and wet and furious, and David had only a moment to suck in a breath, wounded himself at the look of it, at how naked the hurt was on his prince’s cheek, before Jack surged forward and found David’s mouth with his.
David froze, hands loosening on Jack’s shoulders before convulsively tightening again. He wasn’t letting go just because he was surprised. But--
It wasn’t anything like being kissed by Claudia, or Michelle. No sweet scent or sticky lipstick. It was as much a punch as a kiss, all bruising pressure and teeth, and David kissed back automatically, like the next move in a fight. Or a dance. For a moment all he could think was that his heartbeat was like thunder in his ears, that Jack tasted like blood and whiskey, that his hands were going to leave brands on David’s skin.
Then Jack made a sound into David’s mouth, a shuddering, surprised moan that flashed heat through David’s entire body and jolted him back into thinking again. He derailed momentarily when Jack bit his lower lip, lavishing it with his tongue after, stinging and sweeter than David knew was possible.
“Going to hit me now?” Jack rasped, voice low and wavering, his eyes still wide and tears clinging to his lashes. “Go on. Do it.”
“What? No,” David said absently, and brushed a thumb along Jack’s cheek to smooth back the tears. Jack’s mouth trembled, and David thought, surprised, that this—this didn’t seem tawdry, the way it had with Claudia. Didn’t seem like grasping for straws, for solace. It felt real. He touched Jack’s lower lip hesitantly with a thumb, feeling the seam of an earlier cut beneath his fingertip. “Can I?”
“Going to keep digging after all, Shepherd?” Jack sneered, or -- well, tried to, David thought, and now that he knew that, a lot more things about Jack made sense. “I should have known, no one -- no one can be that good. Collecting the royal set? You’re not the first to try, though I admit it’s a lot easier to get the prince than the princess. Kudos. I’m impressed.”
“You kissed me,” David reminded him, because Jack had, had bloodied David’s face, shoved him against a wall, and even now was standing between him and the rest of the world, the sun haloed behind him and his face dark and stormy as the sea. “I didn’t mind. I didn’t expect it, but -- um.”
“‘Um,’” Jack repeated, mocking, so David huffed out an amused breath, rolling his eyes to heaven for a moment, then leaned up and kissed Jack’s scornful, trembling mouth. His own was still bleeding, and it stung, and it felt like everything was made simple and sharp and dangerous.
Then Jack was shoving him away, looking shocked and betrayed. “What are you doing?”
“What?” David said, a little dry as he leaned against the wall. “You thought I’d hit you? I was in the army too, you know. A kiss from a guy isn’t that--” The digging metaphor ran dry, for him. He was never good with words, the way Silas or Jack were. Deep? Hard? Scary? “Dirty.”
“Then you’ve been doing it wrong,” Jack drawled, voice curling like smoke from the cigarette he’d had at some point last night. Then he scowled at David when he seemed to realize he was leaning in again, and that David wasn’t leaning back.
“God, I hate you,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face, eyes closed.
“You don’t,” David said, smiling, sure now despite his lingering confusion. A slitted eye opened to glare at him, then closed again.
“You weren’t supposed to be okay. With this,” Jack said, and when David shrugged, he opened his eyes, the look in them breathtakingly raw. David froze with his hands out, not wanting to shatter the moment, to see Jack’s face go dark and shadowed again. The sun was hitting him now, and he looked warm and human and royal, all at once, flushed with the orange and gold light of mid-morning.
“I’m going to destroy you,” Jack said flatly, swaying on his feet.
“You won’t,” David countered, confident and sure, taking a step closer. “I won’t let you.”
“That’s what I do,” Jack continued deliberately, slowly, like talking to a child. David took another step, and another. Jack didn’t seem to notice, pacing now, ranting to himself. It was easy to see Silas in him, the passion and charm. “That’s what we do, and you don’t have a fucking clue. You don’t—you can’t actually be this noble. You can’t really be this person. You don’t want this.”
“I’m not noble, remember? Just lacking in opportunity,” David quoted him, half-teasing, half actually trying to figure out what was happening, if he did want this.
The prince had kissed him. Jack had kissed him, David had had friends on the front that had done this, had joined them, on occasion, sharing comfort with each other, but he’d never taken it seriously, had never felt it lodge in his chest like this, deep and throbbing. He’d never felt this way about anyone but Michelle—and Michelle didn’t want him.
He wasn’t sure Jack did, either, David thought.
Jack was still swaying, sleepless and drunk. And it hadn’t been just a kiss. It’d been another way for Jack to hit, to punch, to hurt.
“You should get some sleep,” David said, and despite the curl of nausea in his belly, the confusion, he still felt warm in the sunlight as he stepped forward and took Jack’s elbow.
Jack let him, going with him where he led, graceful even now with the shadows beneath his eyes and drying blood smeared across his mouth, his chin. David rubbed it off carefully, and still Jack let him, eyes dark.
“I’d undress you, but that seems a little forward,” David offered lightly, ducking his head against the flush in his cheeks. Jack probably saw it anyway, and would mock him for it, now or later. Now, though, when David looked up, he just saw Jack watching, looking young and bewildered.
“I don’t understand you,” he said, eyelashes dark against his cheek, cheek pale against the pillow when he settled against it. “I don’t understand anything about you. If you tell anyone about this, any of this, you’ll die.”
“Who would I tell?” David asked, bemused and bewildered and then, remembering his own nightmares after the front, asked, “Want me to stay until you fall asleep?”
“I hate you more than I’ve ever hated anyone,” Jack said softly, after a long moment of staring at him with clear, rainwater eyes. Michelle and Jack had the most beautiful eyes, like the sky after a storm, or before one. “I warned you. You don’t know what you’re doing. You’re going to kill me.”
“Okay,” David humored him, and dragged over a chair, damask and hellishly uncomfortable, next to the bed. He reached over unthinkingly and ran a hand once over Jack’s hair, then again, and again when he saw how Jack pushed his head almost helplessly against David’s palm, like a cat. “Go to sleep. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
“Lies. And here I thought you didn’t know how to. How are you real?” Jack managed to get out around a yawn, his eyes drifting closed. Unintelligible the way people got sometimes, on the edge of sleep, words tumbling out disordered and nonsensical. “What made you like this.”
“Guess it’s just how God made me,” David offered after a thoughtful moment, but he received no response. He settled in, uncomfortable in the chair but more at ease with himself than he’d been in days, ready to watch over his prince until he woke again.
And then, maybe, instead of both of them alone on their separate paths and purposes, they could keep going forward into the day, together.
***
When Jack woke, Shepherd was still there, tending over his one lonely, depraved sheep by mid-morning light. He was sitting in a damask chair at Jack’s bedside, reading one of Jack’s books about chess with a furrowed brow. On the table beside him was a tall glass of water, and pills--not the kind Jack favored. Acetamorphin, and--a multivitamin?
Where he had even found these offerings was a mystery, and one that was easier to focus on than why David was still here, why he hadn’t left. The mystery, writ large and small -- why did David still dance attendance on the royals that despised him, in a city too dark and deep for him, and not go home to his farm, his family? Why did he let Jack darken his skin with bruises, kiss his damaged but still beautiful mouth, stay his hand and not repay injury with injury?
And why, why, afterwards, in the name of all the was fucking holy and unholy on this pit of a planet had David stayed?
Why had he come back in the first place?
David was a soldier, but Jack was accustomed to moving unseen when need be, and had more sleep besides. He took a sip of water, watching as David’s brow furrowed more, his mouth swollen, as he turned a page.
“Usually I don’t have people spend the night,” he said casually, after wetting his throat, chasing the fog of last night down. “But when they do, it’s in bed with me. And with considerably less clothing between us.”
David startled comically, dropping the book and going to his knees to retrieve it, wide-eyed and red-cheeked as Jack stretched, his jeans chafing and likely irrevocably marring his sheets with the infusion of stale smoke and sweat. He lifted his lip slightly as he adjusted himself beneath the cover, eyebrow raised.
“Jack!” David managed finally, face still flushed. “I, uh. Sorry, I didn’t undress you--finish undressing you. It seemed -- wrong.”
Oh, that seemed wrong.
“What are you doing here?” Jack inquired, dropping back on his pillows and staring up at the ceiling.
“You don’t -- remember?” David asked after a moment.
Well, that was adorably naive. Jack let him continue, considering the dapple of sunbeams on his ceiling. His sister and he used to search for shapes in the clouds, portents, but God never spoke to the Benjamin twins. Jack never looked anymore, except when he wasn’t paying attention, and he was annoyed now to find his eyes tracing the shape of a bird, wings outstretched.
“You were upset. I thought you’d feel better if someone stayed,” David said, simply and damnably uninformative. Playing dumb for Jack’s sake, for Jack’s poor wounded pride and still-bruised knuckles, or his own? It was easier to pretend to respect your prince if you didn’t both know you knew about his perversions. Jack had learned that from Silas, learned how much harder now it was to meet his father’s eyes, knowing what contempt and knowledge lay behind them.
Maybe, if Jack allowed himself to hope, maybe he could believe that David truly thought Jack so drunk he didn’t know a man from a woman, David’s dark gold hair and broad shoulders from Jestine’s lustrous tresses and delicate, bird-like collarbones.
Or maybe Jack had misjudged, and David didn’t play dumb at all, but was only waiting to use the information at a more opportune time. Maybe they’d misjudged him completely, all of them.
“I thought you’d left for the evening,” he said, swallowing his questions, any offering of thanks, or confirmation that he’d had no nightmares, and slept easily for the first time in -- anyway. He should be furious, now, that David had seen him like this, vulnerable and naked despite his well-worn clothes. Furious with David, and himself, for trusting so easily. For sleeping so well.
“I came back,” David replied simply, and then stretched, wincing as his back crackled. His t-shirt was wrinkled. “I forgot my wallet.”
Jack stared, eyes widening. “You forgot,” he repeated. “Your wallet?”
“Yeah, I think it’s downstairs somewhere,” David said, carelessly sheepish as he wrinkled his nose at Jack, shrugging. Jack stared, and David finally, head tilted, licking his lips nervously, asked, “Um. Do you want breakfast?”
Jack considered the probability of vomiting if he stood, and realized, surprised, that his head was strangely clear, instead of full of shards and cobwebs, as it usually was of a morning.
“Yes,” he concluded, and then sat up and stretched, wrinkling his nose himself at the smell. “First a shower.” He didn’t know what to do with the way David’s eyes followed him as he sauntered to the en-suite bathroom. He glanced over his shoulder as he pulled loose his belt. “And no fucking omelets.”
“I hate eggs,” David returned, whatever expression had been on his face chased off by a half-smile. “I was thinking coffee and toast.” Battered but gold in the morning light, like some priceless artifact of long-lost times, Jack couldn’t look at him any longer.
“You probably smell as disgusting as I do,” he said over his shoulder, working at his belt. “Use the guest bathroom. You can borrow my clothes. I know, they’re too long, and the shirts too tight, but I can’t eat with you smelling like that.”
“Sir,” David said softly, and the door closed.
Jack turned and peeled off his tailored trousers, like a snake shedding its skin only to still have scales and sin beneath, and went to wash. Layers and layers, and, no matter how hot the water ran, he’d never feel clean.
David made coffee, horribly, and he looked even more horrible in Jack’s clothes, the shoulders of the shirt straining and the pants puddling at the ankle, half covering his feet. He smelled like Jack’s soap, and had the marks of Jack’s hands and teeth on his skin and mouth, and he was smiling as he thanked Jack for last night. Thanked Jack.
He was, possibly, the worst thing Jack had ever seen.
“We’ll have to do it again sometime,” Jack suggested, watching over the rim of his cup, unsure what to make of the flush on David’s face. Guilt? Embarrassment? Dismay?
“I’d like that,” David said, smile widening, and lifted his cup. “I should go. I’m glad you’re feeling better, Jack.”
Jack let himself watch David go. He wished the pants were as tight as the shirt, but the view they gave was decent enough.
“We don’t know how he got in, sir,” one of his guards was saying, frantically obsequious as Jack sipped his horrible coffee and tried to marshal his thoughts, figure how to spin this. What to frame and what to bury, what to numb down and ice and do his damnedest to forget he’d ever managed to touch.
***
Jack never offered again, and David never asked. Partially because he was busy with his king’s demands, with the daily struggle to understand what he was doing and why he was here. But also because Jack didn’t let him.
Pushing past people was something Jack was good at, David concluded, blood simmering and temper hot after Jack had, once again, brushed by him in the hall with a lazy salute of a wave and a smarmy grin beneath mirrored lenses.
“Sorry, David,” he said the next morning, after David chased him down the hall. “Duty calls. You understand.”
David did, but it was frustrating, to see Jack going one way, polished smirk and insincere apologies, and Michelle the other, soft and regretful, but just as distant, leaving David alone in the middle.
He played the piano into the night and tried not to want, or wonder. The next day the king had him standing attention behind him at a dinner, like an ornament or accessory, useless but for his face and uniform. It was a job he later found was to have been Jack’s, so despite his frustrations and distaste, he went to apologize.
The palace was a warren, but David had managed to figure out the blueprint of it soon after arriving that first day, the labyrinthine layout of stairs and servants halls like electric cords on a grid. The cook told him, while he juggled a hot, crumbling cookie from hand to hand, laughing, that Jack liked the attic room best, with the old Victrola gramophone and walls of records. And, she winked, handing him a warm covered plate and a cold silver thermos, he’d always loved this recipe.
Jack was there, slumped in a chair and listening to Schubert’s Réminiscences de Don Juan, eerie and frenetic. A tumbler was in his hand and he was staring at the afternoon light streaming through the gabled windows, sparkling of dust motes and turning the liquid to gold.
“You are dedicated,” Jack said, saluting him with a lopsided smile that didn’t reach his eyes, then drained the glass. “Not many people brave the stairs. Did you count? No? Seven hundred and seventy seven from the lowest level of the basement, to this, the highest gable tower. My father is... superstitious.”
“Uh,” David said, and eyed the level of the scotch bottle on the table by the gramophone. Half left, if that. “I brought cookies. As an apology.”
Jack blinked at him, hand frozen on the bottle in the act of pouring. “Cookies,” he repeated finally, and nodded slowly and poured long and steady until his glass was brimming over. He licked the excess off the side of his hand, eyes on David. David swallowed and held the milk and cookies out like a shield. “You are the platonic ideal of a farm boy, aren’t you? What, exactly, oh shepherd’s son, are you apologizing for now? Did you sodomize a black sheep?” Jack smiled, and saluted him again with the glass, ignoring the liquid that soaked his shirt collar. “No, I’d remember that.”
David didn’t know how to respond to that. He hadn’t thought Jack remembered, had thought -- “Does the drinking actually help?” David asked, and Jack sighed, as though too put upon for words, and let his head fall back.
“What would you suggest?” he inquired of the carved mahogany ceiling, the floating dust. “If you were useless. Oh, wait. Scratch that from the record. Tell me, David, what do you take solace in? What soothes your soul?”
“These cookies are pretty good,” David said, struggling to master his temper, which was insisting he give up, throw the platter at Jack’s head, and storm back down all seven hundred and seventy seven stairs until he’d worked some of the directionless fury and anxiety and worry from his limbs. “And you’re not useless.”
Jack raised his head, blinking, his eyes momentarily wide and somehow soft, before he shook himself slightly and sat up, narrowing his gaze upon David.
“David Shepherd, did you poach a royal cookie? From the plate Agnes made me with her own hands? I’ll have you hanged.” He held out a careless hand and David sighed and deposited the plate in it, unscrewed the thermos of cold, spiced milk and replaced it where the whiskey sat.
“Klotz told me you were supposed to stand honor guard tonight,” David said, and stole another cookie, and a swig of scotch before he settled on the couch next to Jack. It was surprisingly deep, and soft, and he made a startled sound as he sank into it. Jack’s lower lip, when he glance over, was between his teeth, and he looked stormy, emotions passing back and forth across his face like lightning.
But not blank, not polished. That was something. “I’m sorry,” David offered, and waited.
“I suppose if I can’t keep you from stealing my place at court there’s no real possibility of keeping your hands from my plate,” Jack said finally, and took another cookie, settling back. The music played on, the late afternoon sun drifting around them, and David felt some restless part of himself quiet.
“I didn’t know you liked Liszt,” he said, drowsy, as the music played on. “I could play this for you.”
“On the priceless piano my father gave you,” Jack replied, voice thick with chocolate. Talking with his mouth full. David grinned over at him and Jack’s mouth quirked, very slightly. “What a prince you are,” he said, after swallowing. David couldn’t tell who the bitterness was directed at -- both of them. Neither of them. “And a master pianist, too. Do you wonder why I hate you.”
“You don’t hate me,” David corrected automatically, and then leaned forward and let his fingers dance across the sparkling air, slightly stuffy and sweet with the smell of warm wood and chocolate. “I’m not a master of anything. My father taught me. We couldn’t afford a piano, but we fixed the church’s heating each winter, and they let us practice there, if they weren’t holding service.”
“I don’t know why you think I care,” Jack said, the same warm drowsiness in his voice. “Take these before I eat the rest.”
“Thank you,” David said simply, smiling, and blinked when Jack hissed out a breath between his teeth.
“Don’t thank me for things I’m doing for myself. I’m not. Doing. This for you,” he spit out, eyes dark and burning. “You’re such a simpleton. Did no one ever fucking teach you? You can’t get something for nothing.”
“There’s no such thing as a free lunch,” David said immediately, trying to get back to that light place they’d been, almost desperate for something resembling friendly conversation. He waved a cookie at Jack hesitantly, trying a smile again. “Or cookie, I guess. TINSTAAFL. High school economics class. I think that’s the only thing I remember from it.”
“I guess you can lead a farm boy to whiskey, but you can’t make him drink,” Jack muttered, barely audible over the gramophone. He’d let his head fall back again and had an arm draped over his eyes, the picture of aggravated, long-suffering disdain.
David set the cookie down and folded his own arms.
“You’re up here because no one likes the stairs, and because the Victrola fucks up recording devices. You can’t be bugged,” David said, annoyed again. “I’m not a simpleton, Jack. I’m just fucking -- tired of this place. Can’t you even take cookies and milk without making a damned Greek tragedy out of it?”
Jack slowly dropped his arm and stared, and then just when David was starting to feel a little sheepish, he laughed, loud and bright. Like mercury, ever changing, darkness gone. David wanted--wanted to see that a lot more often. Jack’s whole face transformed when he laughed like that.
“Go home,” Jack said, still shaking his head and laughing. “You really are losing it here.”
"I wish I could," David said, unthinking and honest. "With all the protests--I should be here."
Jack rolled his eyes and stretched, kicking lazily at one of David's boots with a polished black loafer.
“You can. Take a furlough, see the family, the chickens and corn bushes, or whatever it is you have out in the boondocks.”
“City boy,” David joked, feeling lighter already as Jack’s face contorted slightly, before he punched David’s shoulder again. “Everyone knows corn grows on trees.”
“You’re quite simply the strangest idiot I’ve ever met, and in this court, that’s saying something,” Jack sighed, put-upon, but David thought maybe some of the tension in his shoulders had ebbed.
“Maybe I will -- you know, you’re not the first to suggest it. Silas -- I mean, your father -- he thought it might be a good idea for me to take a break. He knew about the corn, can you believe it?” David marveled. “Knew it was almost ready to harvest. Said an old soldier remembers these things about the country he crossed.” Jack’s brow furrowed. “I can’t go long enough to really help, but it’d be nice to make sure everything’s running okay.”
“Then go,” Jack said. “No, really. Go home, and get out of my fucking attic. Leave the milk,” he said, when David stood. There was a smear of chocolate on Jack's lower lip, and his eyes were soft and amused. “And the rest of the cookies. Then get out.”
“You’re welcome,” David said, and the sound of Liszt’s beautiful, mercurial notes followed him down the stairs, and stayed in his head, echoing, for hours.
***
Jack wasn’t worried at all when news of the insurrection came, or even when the news broke that David’s brother was involved. He kept his own course, guarded his own interests. His father was making a mistake, and David's star was dimming. This was Jack's chance to prove himself. Aside from First Night night with David, that one stupid moment, Jack had done what exactly his father had asked. Had stayed perfectly numb, did his best not even to think of everything he’d never have. A family. A partner. If simple happiness, simple things, wouldn’t be his, then he wanted this, and he’d fucking have it.
Besides, David, Jack knew well from his own attempts, had better luck than any mortal man deserved. Shit didn’t stick to him. No matter how low his company sunk in the mire or how far he was dragged through the mobs and the muck, David would come out untouched, brighter than ever. The bastard.
William Cross leaned over Jack’s shoulder as he adjusted a dial, focusing in to see the lines of stress on David’s face, the sparkle of his smile long dimmed. Family would do that, Jack thought, smiling grimly. About time the idiot learned the lesson everyone else had. Blood didn’t mean anything unless you wanted it to. Just look at Silas, favoring David and casting Jack aside in all but name, leaving Jack to scrounge in his leavings. What little there were.
“Poor idiot,” William said, clicking his tongue and shaking his head, echoing Jack’s thoughts, but then he continued, “Silas really does want him dead.”
“Silas loves him,” Jack corrected him, raising an eyebrow. “I’m sure the king had a sign, some cards folding on their own accord, ravens shitting in binary on his balcony, telling him Shepherd will come out smelling like roses yet again.” It shouldn't surprise him anymore, but it still did. It should have been Jack, out there. It should have been Jack’s post, the prince speaking for the king, with the weight of the crown, the monarchy. That was how it was supposed to be, at least in a world where the prince wasn't a faggot and the king didn't look at him with thinly veiled disgust in his eyes.
“He didn’t tell you?” William’s voice rose in surprise. “You really have been kept in the dark. Well, that will change. You’ve taken the steps to ensure that. Very smart, Jack.”
“What are you talking about?” Jack gritted out, simultaneously thrilling at the praise and annoyed at the hint of condescension that came with it. It was still more than his father ever gave him.
“They were never going to listen,” his uncle said, and it took a moment for Jack to realize William wasn't talking about Silas and his son, but the men, small and blurred on the screens. Jack’s heart stalled for a moment in his chest, as, televised to the nation, David’s bright head disappeared for a moment. It came back in sight bloodied, his face dazed and lost. Jack remembered the hot blood running down his cheek, the dizzy sick confusion of a head wound, and felt like a sense memory David’s hand on his shoulder, holding him still. Just a hand on a shoulder. Just that.
“They’ve been stockpiling weapons for weeks,” William was continuing, his voice distant. “Shepherd’s brother is one of the ringleaders. They probably thought David was coming to support the cause. Betrayal often stings, hard. He’ll be lucky if he makes it out alive.”
Jack didn’t say anything as he watched David lurch towards a tow-headed man, both of them bleeding and shouting before they disappeared in a building. Jack watched, helplessly, hands on the dials.
“Change screens,” William said impatiently. “We need to show the king’s response.”
“Right,” Jack said tonelessly, and then, voice stronger as he shook off the shock. "Right. This mistake needs to be showcased to the people. Of course." It’d just been a surprise, though it shouldn’t have been, to be out of the loop yet again, treated like an afterthought. Jack had told David to go to the country. David wouldn’t be there now if Jack hadn’t encouraged it, hadn't told him to follow Silas’s plan.
Really, Jack thought, leaning back and watching his employees scuttling around, William’s hand on his shoulder, his father should thank him.
This was the course Jack had to maintain, the only option left to him. Backing down now would be weak. And he absolutely refused to be, wasn't, wouldn’t be weak.
Then his sister stole his thunder, what little was left, and Katerina Ghent appeared, and everyone came out alive, and Jack resolutely, distinctly, definitely wasn't grateful to have those dials, those screens, out of his hands.
When afterwards, smoke cleared and sister safe, his father offered him the ministry position, Jack’s emotions were so scrambled he couldn’t think anything at all for a moment, choking out agreement and stumbling to clutch at a pillar and gather himself before the press -- no longer his, no longer safe -- found him.
He’d gotten what he wanted. His father had acknowledged his resourcefulness and sacrifice. Jack would feel the triumph of it eventually. He would.
Somehow, though, the first thing that seemed real, visceral and genuine, was David the next morning, storming through the halls, face bruised, but not by Jack. This time it was David who snarled, who shoved Jack against a wall by the collar, lifting him off his feet. For a moment Jack's pulse ran, hot and chromatic, in racing chords, before he realized.
“Did you know?” David yelled, like there weren’t ears here, like he wasn’t assaulting a prince. Like they were still on the front, or in the attic, or in Jack’s bedroom. “Did you know.”
“No,” Jack bit out, and tried not to let his face waver or fall. “No, damn you, I didn’t know!” And wouldn't apologize for it. Wouldn't admit he should have known, should have guessed. What kind of prince admitted fault? A weak one. What kind of prince wanted to melt against the wall, had already let his legs go slack, the military captain pressed between them, hard and demanding?
Princes in porn, in stupid, fictionalized novels. This was real life, on display, and Jack had a part to play.
David’s eyes were locked on his, robin’s egg blue. Insipid, Jack had always thought disdainfully. Childish. Now they just seemed sharp and icy bright, nothing young or innocent about them at all. But as Jack looked back, heart pounding, David’s eyes softened and grip loosened. Jack’s feet found the floor, and David dropped his head.
“Sorry,” David said, everything about him drooping, a puppy overtired, a horse ran too hard. Jack hardened his heart. What would his father do, in his place? Put David to death? Serve his liver with onions at the next state dinner. “I should have known. I shouldn't have--”
“No. You shouldn’t have,” Jack snapped, straightening himself out, then magnanimously waved off the guards who’d finally, finally arrived. He’d have to appoint better security, especially now he had a new position to uphold. “Sometimes, Captain, I think you forget exactly who I am.”
“Sir,” David said, snapping to attention, eyes over Jack's shoulder. Good. Good.
“Given the circumstances, I’ll let it slide,” Jack said, and turned on his heel, stalking off, beckoning his incompetent guardsmen to follow. Jack had a course. He had to stay it. His father had noticed his resolve; it wasn’t for nothing. This wasn’t for nothing, keeping going now, and leaving David alone, his sister rushing to his side. The princess and the wounded hero, like in a story.
Well, Jack had himself to look out for. No one else was going to do it for him. It was time David learned that lesson himself. It was time everyone did.
***
After, David could barely think, still reeling with the aftermath of the insurrection. The men falling like sheaves of wheat beneath an invisible, soundless scythe, the blood spreading around them and Ethan's horrified, wide eyes. Michelle trembling in his arms as David shielded her. Brave, beautiful Michelle, her eyelashes trembling with unshed tears. And Ethan, redeemed at the last in her salvation, with a bullet that should never have needed be loosed. This was his brother's harvest. Not corn, but sorrow. For all he did the right thing in the end, he was still traitor to the crown. David shouldn’t protest the sentence handed down. His brother was guilty.
But David had lost so much already, his family had lost so much -- their father, their brother, their home. They couldn’t lose another son, no matter how zealous or blind, or guilty.
If there was something strange and distant about Jack’s eyes, if his voice was over-sympathetic and sweet in a way that cloyed, David didn't have time to pick out the meaning of it. Had no time for anything, this Judgment Day, as he raced back and forth, torn between his furious family, who didn’t welcome his presence or his help, and his king, who wouldn’t listen. It felt like he was going nowhere. Michelle, whose touch and voice were soft and sweet, but couldn’t give him the solace he needed. What David needed, what he wanted, was to punch something. He wanted to shatter the mirrors on the walls and set fire to the orange envelopes littering the floors, he wanted to drink himself sloppy and uncaring, to forget.
His brother was going to die, and David couldn't stop it. Another brother lost as David watched on helplessly.
Michelle, when she offered him the chance to save his brother, at a cost -- David thought, for a moment, that he wished it’d been Jack that brought him the news. At least David could have punched him, shattered that polish into something simple and jagged. Fists and teeth and blood, that made more sense to him than the snakes and shadows of the court, this twisted, bastardized version of justice.
He took her hand and closed his eyes, and felt the rapid flutter of her pulse when his fingers brushed her wrist.
“Thank you for telling me,” he said finally, and opened his eyes again, looked at hers, at the unshed tears hanging heavy on her lashes. Brave, beautiful Michelle. “So this is how it really works.” Jack had tried to tell him, David thought. This was what justice in Shiloh was, all smoke and mirrors. “What does Jack say?” he asked, letting her hand go to rub at his eyes, wishing again he had Jack here. What solace do you take when you're feeling useless?
Michelle’s face froze before him, then smoothed out again. “There’s nothing else to be done, David, I’ve tried,” she said, voice breaking on his name. He believed her. If there had been hope, she'd have pursued it to the last, and he hated himself, a little for asking it of her, after what she'd already faced for Ethan's mistakes. “If Ethan won’t save himself, you’ve got to. You’re his family.”
“You want me to lie,” he spit out, and let go of her hand, pacing again. Trapped, he thought, between two injustices. But was it unjust? His head hurt, his blood felt too hot and too acid for his veins. David's brother was a traitor. That, black and white, was reality, and David had done his damnedest to get Ethan to see that. Enough blood had been shed already, and he'd done his damnedest to get Silas to see that. “You think I should lie?" he turned, closer to her than he'd realized. She'd followed him, and he'd been too lost in his thoughts to notice. "Denounce my king? How can that be the right thing to do? How?”
“David,” she said, flinching, and he immediately felt more wretched, a complete heel for shouting at her. None of this was her fault. She was flawless, blameless. David sank to his knees, taking her hand back into his, hating how it trembled.
“You know, if I do this, I’ll never see you again,” he said, the helplessness welling back up. The kiss she pulled him into was fierce, but too short, and then she was leaving again, and he was alone in his white-washed room.
He sat at the piano, lowered his head, closed his eyes, and began to pray.
***
Jack had stopped being surprised that David fucking Shepherd could find him anywhere, anytime, months before. Maybe it was part of being God’s chosen. Maybe flocks of butterflies directed David wherever he wanted to go.
“How,” Jack said, pushing Stu’s head away and staring up at the ceiling, acutely aware of David fidgeting in the morning sun. Again. "How did you get in this time? Obviously my guard wasn’t on duty--” Stu’s face flushed a dull red, like he knew his contract was a ticking time bomb. He hadn’t even been a decent fuck, too frightened of Jack’s station to leave marks. Gentle, even after Jack’s goading. “But there’s still a locked door. And a very expensive security system.”
“The door wasn’t locked,” David said, looking apologetically at the floor, the nightstand, the bookshelf -- anywhere but at the bed. His face was scarlet, tomato red, and still, Jack thought ruefully, tugging Stu’s head back by the hair and regarding him disdainfully, far more attractive than this. Stu was a poor copy of David, and that was embarrassing, though thankfully he doubted David would notice the resemblance.
“The door,” Jack repeated disbelievingly, looking Stu in the eye. “Wasn’t locked?”
“I locked it after myself,” David was saying in the background, but Stu seemed to have realized termination of his employment was imminent, and was getting to his feet, face going ugly.
“You spoiled little shit,” he spat, gathering his trousers and sneering. Jack regarded him dully, numb but not, he thought, the way his father had wanted. Why try to keep pleasing him if it didn’t fucking matter. “I was doing you a favor. I felt sorry for you.”
“Hey,” David said, indignant, and of course now he could look at the bed, now that Jack's face was on fire and he couldn't catch his breath. As though he cared about what some guard thought, as though he hadn't known already. “You’re the one that left the door unlocked. Try doing your fucking job instead of favors.”
David looked furious, advancing in his military blues like an angel of vengeance. Jack shielded his eyes and tried not to notice the sunlight behind him spreading like wings. The guard certainly didn't, sneering and getting to his feet, fists raised.
What a hero. Two blond, broad men fighting for his honor in his bedroom. Not even in Jack’s wildest dreams--no, that was lying, but he hadn't imagined it like this, his head spinning and his eyes still scratchy and dry. There was a new medal pinned to David's breast. Jack had had occasion to count them during state dinners--this latest stood out, orange and glowing like an ember.
“Get the fuck out, Stu, darling,” Jack said, and sprawled back in the sheets, staring up at the ceiling. He really should get it painted. Or mirrored. “And don’t come back.”
“I’ll tell your father, I’ll tell the--” Stu threatened, and was cut off by a dull crack. Well, well, well. Shepherd could use his fists after all.
“He knows,” Jack said distantly. “And believe me, you'll get one hell of a severance package if you do.”
Stu was silent, then a door slammed, feet pounding on the stairs, then another, more distant slam echoed through the apartment. Jack hoped to fucking hell Stu had locked the door after himself, but god knew that just wasn’t Jack’s luck lately.
“Are you okay, Jack?” David said, footsteps crossing the room. Jack could picture his worried face without looking, the perfect image of a good soldier, a good son, a good man. And then there was Jack.
“Shouldn’t,” Jack asked, closing his eyes, feeling hot, helpless tears slide down his temples. “I be asking you that?”
“That’s what I came to tell you,” David said, his voice happy again, in spite of everything. Which... didn't follow. Jack opened his eyes and David beamed down at him, brighter than the sun and twice as painful. “Your father pardoned him. For me. Ethan’s not dead. He’s -- oh fuck, he’s okay. He’s alive.”
Not dead. Jack couldn’t breathe for a moment, not sure if he wanted to throw up or cry, curse or thank God. Thank God, fuck God. Thank Silas, and fucking fucking fuck Silas.
“Jack?” David asked, uncertain, and then, damn him, the side of the bed sank slightly, and David’s voice darkened. “Are you okay. I’ll--I can find that guy again, I'll--”
“Would you shut the fuck up,” Jack screamed, unable to hold it in any longer, throat tearing with it as it came out. He took a wild swing through his tears at David’s startled, shocked face. “Nothing, nothing -- nothing touches you, does it? It’s all so fucking easy.”
“What are you -- Jack, stop! What are you talking about?” So stupid, so fucking sweet and trusting and dear. This, though, this would do it. This would take the shine off. Off royalty, off his prince, off everything.
“It was me,” Jack said, enunciating clearly, and watched the confusion on David’s face melt to disbelief as Jack went on. “It was me. I put the pressure on for the death penalty. I offered that exchange, your honor and Silas's reputation for his life.” And there, there it was. Dawning rage, and disgust. What Jack deserved. “Why didn’t you--why didn’t you take the deal, why didn’t you--”
“Why,” was all David said, after Jack had trailed off, choking on rage and relief. His voice was so raw and hurt it was almost ridiculous, a caricature. Like kicking a puppy, like slaughtering a lamb.
“I should have--” Jack gasped, and bent over his knees, laughing. “Fuck, I should have known you wouldn’t take it. I did know. I knew, but I just can’t fucking stop trying. You won’t stop outshining everyone, even my father, even if it gets you both killed.”
“It wasn’t me you were trying to kill,” David gritted out, still so close. He hadn’t moved away yet, his fists bunched in the sheets -- the filthy, filthy sheets, but semen probably turned to baby powder under his touch, syphilis and whores to sweet dreams and nuns. David fucking Shepherd, with his furious, beautiful face, with his tear-filled blue eyes. “My brother--”
“Was a traitor,” Jack sneered, and turned to the wall to scrub at his face. “If my father didn't think the sun shone out of your ass, he'd have been dragged through the streets at dawn, drawn and quartered. I was just doing what he'd have done. Taking away the bias. Justice should be blind, don't you think?”
“Don’t fucking make excuses. Jack, how could you--” David swore, eyes still wet but jaw clenched, twitching, and oh, Jack couldn’t stop now. “I thought--”
What had he thought? That Jack was his pet prince, that Jack was his friend? “I tried to tell you. I told you I’d destroy you, I warned you,” Jack spread his arms, inviting a swing and not expecting it. “And you didn’t listen, poor baby fucking lamb, and now--”
His head rocked back and the world went shocky and white for a moment. There. There it was. Jack licked his teeth and tasted blood, and laughed disbelievingly.
“You do remember,” David said, and his voice somehow, now, was even more raw than before. It made Jack want to cry, and he turned his face to spit and scrubbed at his cheeks. David, God, David. "You remember that night, and you still--"
Stop. Stop. Jack had balanced books on his head, learned twelve languages, iced his heart numb and given up so much, ran miles and miles. He could keep going now. He drawled, voice level and dripping scorn. "Don't blame me, Shepherd. You wouldn’t say a word against your king, not to save your land, not to save your brother. You made the call. I just took the only chance I had.”
"It was all about you, and your damned--" David turned his face away until it was limned by sun and shadow, black edged with gold. “You want power. You don't care about anyone or anything else, do you? No wonder your father doesn’t trust you.”
Jack didn't realize he was moving until he'd already launched himself, vision nearly white with the rush of blood in his veins, the pounding of his heart. David was in his military best, the best suit he owned, all stiff cloth and sharp buttons and medals that left scratches on Jack’s naked skin, and it only set further flame to Jack’s blood.
“Don't you talk to me about my father,” he spit. “What the fuck do you know about him?”
“More than you ever will,” David said, something petty and mean about his expression now, vicious, and Jack forgot and went right for the fucking face, that, for a moment, looked far too much like Jack's own. David’s head jerked back, blood bright on his chin, and Jack thought, I wanted this, didn’t I? I wanted this.
“Jack,” David said, raising his head, and there it was again, that familiar, hangdog, sorrowful look. Jack wasn't relieved. He wasn't. “Jack, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it.”
“Don’t you fucking apologize to me,” Jack whispered. David put his face in Jack’s neck, and something hot and wet trickled across his pulse. Blood from the cut on his lip, had to be.
“I wanted you,” David said, breath shuddering and soft. Jack didn’t want to hear it. “I wanted you with me.”
Whatever that meant, but Jack found himself responding anyway, dragging an arm free and touching David’s hair.
“You didn't. You hate me. You want my sister,” he reminded David, almost tenderly, and spit blood to the side on his pillow. His poor fucking bed.
“Don’t,” David said, and pulled himself away, inelegant and undignified, wriggling. His eyes were red, and his mouth, too. He looked wrecked, and in none of the ways Jack had never, ever dreamed of. “Don’t pretend you know anything about me.”
Jack did, though. He did. He always had, he’d always known, every step of the way, exactly what David would do. It hadn’t been a surprise, not once. His father, yes, his father was like an Act of God, an earthquake, a hurricane. But David--Jack knew David. He just couldn’t stop pushing anyway, desperate and despairing.
“David,” he said, voice clogged.
“Don’t call me that,” David said, and got up, turning away. His back was broad and blue, nothing giving to it. “I don’t want to see you again unless I have to.”
“Baby, don’t be that way,” Jack tried, but David didn’t turn, didn’t crack a wry grin, didn’t lose the stiffness of his shoulders. He just turned and left, footsteps steady and sure on the stairs. The front door closed, soft and distant, and Jack knew, like he knew David, like he knew the curve of his smile and the orange of a monarch butterfly and the flash of a camera’s bulb, that he’d locked it behind him.
Jack curled in the bloody, filthy mess of the bed he’d made, and tried to remember what his father had said. Numb it, ice it, bury it. Numb. He’d been numb once. He could do it. It'd stop hurting, eventually.
***
Michelle was sworn to another, and she’d let him hope. Jack was a fucking bastard, and he’d let David think otherwise. David wanted, more than anything else, to go home, to curl in the barn with the half-blind dog and the outdated, reliable tractor, the combine. Things he understood, could touch and mend. But his family didn’t want him. If Shiloh wasn’t his home, then David had none.
And Silas still needed him, trusted him. Depended on him, perhaps more than ever. David understand that, now.
Still, David thought it was a bit much to ask him to accompany Jack to Gath on a peacekeeping mission. As though they could keep any peace, the way things lay between them. Maybe it was yet another test. Maybe Silas knew something they didn't; maybe God did.
Jack’s face was bland and blank as he shook David’s hand before Silas’s eyes, and if David kept the contact brief and to the absolute minimum, Silas said nothing on it. He only clasped David’s shoulder, smiling.
“You have my confidence and my blessing,” he said, shaking David slightly, smile warm and impossible not to bask beneath. “Know that you go with our heart, and our trust.”
David didn’t look at Jack, didn’t let himself think anything at all about the lack of benediction, or blessing, or any farewell at all placed upon Silas’s true-born son. He didn’t want to see Jack’s face, or know what lay behind that mask. He didn’t care. Jack had lost that right.
“I hate this,” he’d said to Jack, once before, not long after his appointment as military liaison to the press, scrubbing at the streaky foundation that had been pressed onto his cheek and trying to remember where they’d told him to look next.
“Of course you do,” Jack had said lazily, booted feet up on an important-looking shelf of dials. “It should have been me; I've trained my whole life for this.”
“It should have been you,” David had agreed. “I don’t know what I’m doing.” His voice had wobbled, and Jack had sighed and stood up, lifted David's chin with a sure finger and brushed at the foundation until it was smooth and invisible off David's skin.
“Keep your hands in front and loose," he'd instructed as he tightened the mess David had nervously made of his tie. "Don’t look up if you lose track of your assigned bullshit line to feed the masses -- look down, you’ll seem thoughtful. Never assume the mic is off. Never assume someone’s not filming. Don’t think about the audience, just think about the one person you’re talking to at the moment.”
David'd just stared, but when Jack rolled his eyes, exaggerated and droll, though, he'd found he could smile.
“You faced down a tank, you can face this,” Jack had said. “Even if you are like a lamb being tossed to sharks.”
“One shark at a time,” David had replied. “I just have to keep looking down.”
“You’re gold, Ponyboy.”
How different, now, remembering as best he could Jack’s tips with Jack standing stiff and correct at his elbow. It should be Jack speaking here in Gath, to the two nations, the millions of people. He’d have done well, done brilliantly, if given the chance.
Jack had charm enough for ten tanks, for a country of enemies. David just sounded stilted.
David was almost relieved when Jack told him afterwards, drawling and distant, that the speech had been a distraction from their true purpose, nothing more.
“Welcome to the real mission,” Jack said, and tossed David a gun, smile knife-sharp. Better than something sweet and insipid. David could trust Jack meant it, at least, when he dripped disdain. “This is Gilboan diplomacy.”
Not so different from Gilboan justice, then, but David bit his tongue on the comment. Before he might have made it, wry, with an elbow to Jack’s side. Jack would have shot him a mock-scandalized look and straightened his spine, drawled a rejoinder. They’d been friends, whatever Jack had said and done later.
He followed Jack and his men, the ones he’d chosen, through the woods, and kept his silence as best he could. Hanger-on. Useless. Opinion unwanted. He wondered if Jack was doing that deliberately, shutting David out to be petty, but Jack’s focus was absolute, his attention snapping to David only when David made the mistake of speaking up and offering an opinion.
“You’re just a diversion mandated by my father, Silas,” Jack said, smirk on his face. David knew him too well, though, not to see the tightness of jaw behind it, the carefulness of the expression. “I,” Jack said, “Am your commanding officer, better than king. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir,” David said, and lowered his eyes so that he couldn’t see anything more of Jack’s face, unfamiliar and savage in the forest camouflage paint.
He could admit, though, at least to himself, the indignation he felt at being ignored, passed over, when he knew he had insights that would be useful. He kept it to himself, a hot coal in his chest as he remembered Jack’s sympathetic false face in the hall outside Ethan’s trial. Jack had nothing worth striving for, David reminded himself, and then, in the midst of all the forest sounds, there was a slight, small click as he stepped down, and Jack was immediately, instantly at his side, face white but calm.
“Don’t move,” he said. “You’ve stepped on a mine. Move and we’re all dead.”
David looked up. Gath was beautiful, the trees arching above, red and gold and orange in their fall finery. It wasn't a bad place to die. “Go,” he said, and closed his eyes. “Hurry. I’m sorry.”
“But what for,” came the dry response. “Don’t. Move.”
David opened his eyes and looked down, and Jack was on his knees beside him, hands sure and quick and it was definitely, definitely not the time to be thinking about this. Jack bit his lip, eyes narrowed, and his lip was red when he released it and swore softly. He looked different here, the polish and poise gone, leaving behind someone elegant and deadly. David looked back up at the trees as he thought of every digusting, horrible image he could. His grandmother naked. His eight-grade math teacher. The fact that he was standing on a fucking landmine. That his prince was kneeling in front of him, tongue between his teeth as he worked, fingers careful and clever, their lives in his hands. David chanced a glance back down, then sucked in a breath as Jack suddenly looked up. His eyes widened. It was a long, syrup-slow moment; the air seemed thick and tangible in David’s lungs, the light lingering and soft on the curls of Jack’s hair.
Then Jack stood slowly, until they were eye to eye, inches apart, and held out a hand. David took it, unable to keep from clutching at the dry warmth of Jack's fingers. The scars on the back of David's hand, he noticed in a strange, distant sort of way, were standing out now, the toothmarks silvery-white.
"Now," Jack said, and David kept his eyes open and on Jack's, and stepped off the mine.
For the first time in what felt like weeks, there was something soft and easy about Jack's shoulders, the crook of his smug smile. It sharpened slightly when David tried not to find the fact that he'd survived, that Jack had saved him, one of the most arousing things that had ever happened in his entire life. It had to be obvious. It had to be. Don't look down, he thought. Don't look down.
Jack didn't, just said, "You're welcome," and made it sound absolutely filthy. He'd noticed. Of course he had. David did his best to glare, and Jack smirked.
“Thank you,” David said, though, sincere and earnest, and licked his lips, trying to understand the shift in his own thoughts. Somewhere in that moment in between his foot rising and falling, he'd let go of the last of the anger. Jack was good at this. David thought, suddenly sad, that he wished Silas could see Jack now, sure and in his element.
“Thank me later,” Jack commanded, except at the end, the command shifted to something vulnerable, questioning, and it made David's chest ache. Then a branch crackled as one of the other soldiers picked their careful way closer, and Jack's eyes sharpened and his mouth went hard again. “We're not through this yet.”
"Sure," he said easily, and followed carefully in Jack's footsteps, this time. "I'll owe you one."