Chapter Text
Chapter One: O! He Doth Teach The Torches To Burn Bright (literally, as well as figuratively)
December 1995
If there was a social event Professor Samuel Angelo Jones enjoyed less than the faculty Christmas party he’d mercifully forgotten what it was. Every year the same-ish people, the same lack of food, and the same vast array of cheap alcohol: a combination any idiot could have seen was likely to lead to excessive vomiting and truth-telling later in the evening.
With another crowd, the second might have been vaguely amusing, but this was Sam’s fifth faculty Christmas party. He knew the sort of secrets his colleagues were keeping to themselves, and while they were often embarrassing, they weren’t all that funny.
He usually managed to slip away after a couple of hours, having talked to the people in his department and the few others on the staff he found bearable. He’d already stayed at this party well over two hours, but his classic “leave before it gets really bad” plan had been put to one side after an event early into the evening.
Early into every faculty party there was a short interlude in which the Chancellor gave a short speech, and pointed out any new professors. Those new professors were expected to wave or in some way indicate who they were — crucially without talking, because this slowed everything down. Fortunately or unfortunately, Sam wasn’t sure, yet, which it was, nobody had told this to Professor John Smith, formerly of London, England. Either that or he hadn’t listened. There had been several attempts to cut off his long, enthusiastic speech about how happy he was to be here, and how much he loved Christmas and parties in general, and Smith had managed to ignore all of them without seeming rude or deaf or even raising his voice. Eventually, however, even he ran out of material and with a short bow, he handed the microphone back to the Chancellor as though the man hadn’t been trying to grab it from him for the last ten minutes. The Chancellor introduced the other less interesting new recruits, before telling everyone to enjoy themselves (within reason), Sam joined in the polite clapping that followed and looked around for the John Smith — but by this time Smith had vanished into the crowd: a pretty impressive feat, given that he had been wearing a top hat in a place where most other people weren’t.
It was this that had upset Sam’s departure plans. Against his better judgement, he had decided sometime around ‘the smell of Christmas trees always takes me back to Geismar — obviously that wasn’t a fir tree, but I find the association works that way, don’t you? Sense memory is a very strange thing. For example, the smell of badger fur reminds me of my mother’s living room in December, and she wouldn’t have allowed one in the house’ that although Smith was probably mad, he was definitely compelling. Very compelling actually. Really fucking compelling. Something about the voice and the attitude and the way he moved his hands and maybe the pretty face and the well-cut trousers had convinced Sam that finding John Smith and listening to him talk complete crap would be a better plan for the evening that going home and rearranging his bookshelves.
The new plan was kind of stupid, and Smith’s disappearing act was clearly Fate’s way of pointing this out. Another man might have taken the hint, but Sam was sure that anyone who liked Christmas parties as much as John Smith had claimed to wouldn’t have fucked off home that early. He’d probably just gone out for a cigarette or something. Until he returned, Sam did research — or, at least, he tried to.
It was very difficult to get any useful information out of any of the members of the science department, because they a) were suspicious of his motives, given that he usually went of his way not to speak to them and b) seemed to know very little about John Smith anyway. He was British, he was about forty, he had written a number of very successful and influential papers that had seemed relatively sane before they’d met him, he was unnecessarily friendly, he didn’t usually wear a top hat, he kept bringing students back to the departmental office, he wasn’t very good at tidying up after himself, he’d been responsible for all four of the unscheduled fire alarms in the last week, and was apparently putting on some sort of firework display later in the evening.
“Ah, so that’s where he’s gone,” Sam supplied. The professor who’d imparted the information looked so bemused that Sam added, “I guess there are things to sort out.”
“Presumably.” The professor scowled. “Let’s hope someone else has sorted out a rapid response unit. Professor Smith sets things on fire even when he doesn’t mean to. Who knows what carnage he’s going to unleash tonight?”
Sam laughed, but it clearly wasn’t a joke as the man looked at him as if he were as mad as Smith and strode away to find someone more normal. With a repressed sigh, Sam glanced over the crowd, and located Mary Shelley (a name that might have been difficult for another professor of English Literature to carry off, but which Mary carried off by threatening to punch anyone who tried to make more than one Frankenstein joke) trying to catch the attention of the man behind the makeshift bar.
“Bit late for you, isn’t it?” she observed, as he joined her. “I assumed you had some sort of biological imperative to leave before things got good. Oi,” she called to the bar man, who was talking to someone younger and more conventionally attractive, “is there ever going to be any service down here, or should I just help myself?”
Sam leaned against the table next to her. “You don’t know anything about this new Professor Smith, do you?” he asked, as the bar man (presumably prompted by Mary’s threatening grabs for the wine bottles behind him) hurried towards them.
“Not all British people know each other,” Mary told him. “There are, in actual fact, many thousands I haven’t even met, let alone know. Finally,” she told the barman. “Two glasses of red. And be quick about it,” she called after him. Turning back to Sam she asked, “You’re not drinking, are you?”
“Not here, no. And England may be large, Contrary Mary, but the academic community is pretty small. Add to that the fact that he’s been working here for about three months, apparently, and you’re a lot more sociable than me,” Mary gave him a wry look, “in a good way,” Sam told her, “and it’s not completely inconceivable that you know something. Besides,” he admitted, “I’ve already asked everyone else more likely.”
“Aaaah,” Mary scooped up her two glasses of wine with a hard look at the man who’d put them there, “I see. You like him.”
“I don’t know. I don’t even know him,” Sam said, by which he meant: ‘yes, a lot, help me please’. “And in that I am apparently not alone. The guy’s been here three months, as I said, and nobody here knows him. What the hell am I supposed to do with ‘he’s about forty, isn’t obviously married, and doesn’t tidy up after himself’?”
“Forty two, but says he’s thirty five,” Mary said. “I know him. You’ve come to the right place, young Jones.”
“England not all that big after all, huh?”
“Apparently not,” Mary said, as they walked away from the bar. “I’ve known John forever. In fact, we used to go out, briefly. Very, very briefly. God, I really hope none of my other exes are planning on following me to America. Clean sheet, my arse.”
“You should try being less compelling,” Sam told her.
“Tell me about it.”
“So, what’s this one like? A little bit gay, right? He has to be-”
“What, because of the waistcoat?”
“Because otherwise I will be sad,” Sam told her. “Possibly forever. So, let’s try again — gay-ish? What do you think?”
Mary considered the question while Sam tried not to hurry her. “I don’t know. I think so,” she said eventually. “Mainly women, with John, but he doesn’t like to categorise himself, which should tell you something about him right there. Otherwise... Lovely,” she said. “Excessively charming, and brilliant. Obviously he’s completely and utterly mad, the word eccentric was practically invented for him — I mean, it wasn’t, and you shouldn’t ever say that to him, or he’ll go into a long discussion of its etymological roots before you can say ‘John, I know-’”
“Got it.”
“And he doesn’t ever tidy up after himself, and forgets appointments, actually sometimes he forgets he’s talking to you in the middle of conversations, and he can be very rude, but,” her voice got louder, “he’s very nice really. And very clever. And I said charming already, and-”
“Standing behind me,” Sam finished. Mary nodded.
“I had to loop round when I saw you leaving the bar,” John Smith said as Sam turned to look at him, “but it feels like it was worth it.” He smiled and held out his hand. The top hat had been misplaced somewhere, or he probably would have raised it. “John Smith.”
“Sam Jones,” Sam told him, trying not to smile too widely or scarily as they shook hands.
“I know. I also know you’ve been asking after me, Sam Jones.” Sam’s smile stayed in place as his mind said ‘Shit, next time more subtle’ to itself. “I thought it would be easier for everyone if I just came over, although you have managed to locate the only person in the room I actually know, so perhaps it’s unnecessary-”
“I was just going,” Mary said. She leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “Nice to see you, John.”
“You too. I’ll find you later,” John promised.
As she walked away past him, she mouthed, “he likes flattery” towards Sam. She changed this into a jaunty grin as John turned to look at her. “No, really,” she added as he turned back.
“So, what sort of information were you looking for?” John asked, as Sam tried to give Mary a ‘go to hell’ look over his head without him noticing. “Just sort of general biographical information? Likes, dislikes, parents, siblings-”
“Sure.” Sam looked down so he wouldn’t have to keep looking at Mary who was making obscene gestures and saw that underneath the cuffs of John’s well-pressed grey trousers were shiny black shoes and bright white spats. “Any of that. Are your parents alive?”
John nodded briskly. “Both alive, and living in my childhood home in one of the nicer London suburbs. They have a dog at the moment, I think, and my brother visits them occasionally, which must be trying for them, but they haven’t actually moved house-”
“Whereas you moved continent,” Sam supplied.
John grinned. “Not to get away from him. I like to travel. In the last five years I’ve lived in four different countries-”
“Where-” Sam began.
“Questions at the end,” John told him, without breaking his stride, “not including America. I was back in Cambridge briefly when they offered me this position. I think they’re regretting it now, but it’s too late. I’m enjoying myself.
“I have a flat in a terrible part of San Francisco, right above a laundrette, which I think is being used as part of a drug smuggling ring. It’s certainly full of questionable characters with fascinating stories and a flair for sleight of hand. It’s also very near the opera house, which is good, because I like opera. I adore Puccini — the music, that is, not the man, who smoked far too much to be good company. I like computers and anything new and exciting. At the moment I have about five mobile phones, and a pager, which is actually broken at the moment, but something always is. And, of course, I like old things, though not museums. Much too sterile. I like to touch things. I’ve already said I love to travel, haven’t I? I speak three languages fluently, not including Latin, and I can get by in Spanish and Mandarin.”
“Impressive.”
“Thank you. I like playing cricket, and watching rugby. I like- have we done enough likes now?”
“Is there going to be a test at the end?”
“Absolutely not. I don’t do tests. My memory is excellent, except when it comes to formalised education. I also — is it OK to move onto dislikes? — despise pears, the fruit, not things that come in twos, politics, which is a shame because it’s the family business, men with facial hair, women with impractical shoes, narrow-minded pedants, people who exercise for the sake of it, all your American sports, sorry-”
“That’s OK.”
“-synthetic fabrics, people who talk or fiddle with things while they should be watching or listening to something, also chewing gum. Except when I’ve run out of Blue Tac, but that should be its only use, and it should never appear in my classroom.
“I find myself currently single. In the past I’ve gone out with both men and women with varying levels of success. However, and this is really what I came over to tell you, I’m sorry, I seem to have been sidetracked slightly, I’m not even slightly interested in going out with you. Questions?”
Sam grinned. “Which were the four countries you lived in?”
John’s mouth twitched. “India, China, Greenland and England, and America makes five.”
“Fascinating,” Sam told him. “What was Greenland like?”
“Beautiful. Astonishingly beautiful. I was there for five months, and it was just as astounding at the end of that as it was on the first day. Go if you get the chance.”
“OK, I will. Thanks.”
“That’s it, is it?”
“No. What’re you doing Friday night? I have a box at the War Memorial-”
“No, you don’t,” John told him. “Nice try, but I would have seen you if you did.”
“Ok, so I don’t,” Sam admitted, “but I could have one by Friday. My dad knows the director-”
“You see, this is one of the many reasons I’m not going to go out with you. I know you didn’t ask, but I did have a short speech-”
“Yeah, I bet you did,” Sam told him. “I admit, I’ve only known you for ten minutes, but you seem to have a short speech about pretty much everything.”
As he had expected, this made John frown adorably and silently — presumably in an attempt to prove this statement wrong.
“Go on then,” Sam prompted. “What was it? Apart from the beard, which I admit was a mistake, and I guess someone must have told you I was an alderman, and maybe even that I actually don’t own a cell phone, but I really don’t know what’s wrong with the opera on Friday. That’s got to be a step in the right direction.”
“It’s not the opera,” John explained, “although I can’t actually do Friday and have therefore booked tickets for Thursday’s performance. You probably don’t know this, but it’s a Verdi, and my love for Verdi is only slightly less than my love for Puccini. The problem is the casual arrogance of wealth. I hate money, and the moneyed especially - that should have been on the list. It’s not your fault, but by now you expect to get your way-”
“So do you,” Sam pointed out. “My father’s loaded, what’s your excuse?”
“Well, I’m brilliant,” John said, as if it was obvious. “It doesn’t make sense not to do things my way.”
Sam laughed. “OK. And you hate money. So what do you think is going to keep you in non-synthetic fabrics? No, wait, don’t bother with that one. What’s the rest of your list? Politics, the beard, the money, the casual arrogance-”
“It’s- well, I have no real interest in your subject,” John told him. “It’s not that I don’t like fiction, but I don’t have the time to devote to it properly. The last time I read an entire novel was on the plane over here, and it was terrible-”
“What was it?”
“It’s not important. The Horse Whisperer — it was a gift from my mother. As I said, it’s not the subject at fault, in general, it’s me, but you’re well regarded in your field, so I assume you care about it, and it would frankly be embarrassing for me if you ever wanted to talk about it.”
“You realise that’s a shit reason,” Sam told him. “And it must be a load of crap, because you went out with Mary-”
“Briefly,” John said. “Very briefly. I thought she told you that. Besides, I think I was a mistake. She likes more muscular men, as a rule. Which is another problem with you-”
“Because you hate muscular men, I see.”
“No,” John said, “I don’t, at all, but I do, as I said, dislike the sort of people who think going to the gym to improve their appearance is a good use of their time. Now maybe you’re going to tell me you got this,” he gestured downwards from Sam’s chest to his knees, getting distracted somewhere around the middle, “um, playing badminton, or something ridiculous, but I don’t think you’re much of a team player-”
“I fence,” Sam told him.
John’s eyes crinkled. “Interesting.”
“And I run,” Sam continued. “And I’m a member of three gyms around the city.”
“Boring.”
“That’s the point. It gives me time to think, plan my lectures. We can’t all be mega-geniuses who make everything up on the spot, you know. Some of us are just mega-geniuses who have thoughts and then write them down.”
“I’m sure I must have written some of them down,” John said with a slow grin.
“Sure. OK. So, is that everything?”
“Very nearly, except I hear you hate the Christmas party, which clearly marks you as a cold-hearted scoundrel.”
Sam spread his hands. “Can’t argue with that. I’d have been out of here hours ago, except that I heard there’s going to be some sort of spectacular fireworks display later.”
To his surprise, John frowned. “Spectacular, yes,” he said, checking his watch, “but not later.” He began digging around in the inner pockets of his jacket. “It was supposed to start ten minutes ago, but this,” he produced a phone, “was supposed to remind me, and it hasn’t. Now why is that?” He twisted the face of his watch a couple of times, and suddenly every mobile phone in the vicinity started chirping. Another twist of the watch face, and they stopped. John laughed as people stared at their phones in confusion or turned to look at him. “It’s all right. It was just on silent. Excuse me.”
He walked away, and then returned. “Oh, and I meant to say, earlier a rather old gentleman told me not to go near you if I didn’t want to be buggered in a cupboard before the evening was up. Well, he actually said fucked up the arse in the nearest closet, but I like to think he would have said ‘buggered in a cupboard’, if he’d thought about it and hadn’t been American. And I assume we’ve gone over this enough already, and that it was more an unpleasant way of saying you were gay than an actual threat, but in case there is still a risk, I’d like to use this opportunity to head it off. I’m rather claustrophobic and I do actually have other things to do with my evening. All right?” He smiled brightly, “Enjoy the fireworks,” and wandered off into the crowd, tapping his watch face.
“What a dick,” Sam said to no one in particular.
“Yes,” Mary said from his left. “That’s another word that might have been designed for him.” She looked up at Sam who was still staring in the direction John had left in, and grinned wryly. “But, let me guess, you like him more than ever.”
“You have no idea,” Sam told her. “My brain keeps giving me more and more hyperbolic statements to live up to. Like, right now I’m thinking ‘if we don’t get married and have lots of sex and three beautiful smart kids through a miracle of medical science he probably discovered after he’s won the Nobel and mentioned me winning the Lit Nobel as his chief inspiration, then I will have to kill myself.’”
Mary whistled; Sam shook his head. “Yer.”
“Nice knowing you.”
“Thanks.”
“You do know John is a physicist, rather than a biologist, don’t you.”
“This is my fantasy,” Sam pointed out, “so he can be whatever he wants to be.”
As he said this there was an enormous explosion from outside, which was followed by another smaller one, and then another.
“Sounds like your boyfriend’s fireworks have started,” Mary observed unnecessarily.
“Don’t mock me, Shelley.”
“Look, you managed to hold his attention for twenty minutes. That’s almost as long as our entire romantic relationship.” She jabbed him in the ribs with a long finger. “He’s interested.”
“I figured. Even English weirdoes don’t walk up to complete strangers and talk about themselves for that long them without a motive.”
“So cheer up. Here, let me get you a drink-”
The bar was relatively quiet as most of the faculty were clustered around the windows. Leaving Mary to fend for herself, Sam found a space at the end of the room near several members of the History department and stared out over the quad, which was filled with thick plumes of coloured fire that fell back to the ground in the shape of butterflies. Another five rockets sped into the sky, and Sam realised that beyond the sound of the Christmas music being pumped into the hall was the sound of their ascent, forming a high, perfect major chord. As it ended in a thunder-clap and a shower of sparks, another set of rockets launched in a more minor key, and as they finished a third set resolved the progression. A scattering of tiny rockets beat a quick, staccato tune against the sky.
Underneath this display, various dark figures ran across the grass, frantically lighting each collection. Without really meaning to, Sam looked for the ground-level flash of white that would indicate John’s spats, but it was difficult not to watch the sky where a flock of birds had just burst brightly into being.
“Good, isn’t it?” John’s voice said from behind him.
Sam glanced back at him and then turned back to the windows. “I heard you didn’t approve of people speaking during performances.”
“Other people,” John clarified. “Yes, that includes all of you looking at me now. That’s it, turn around and watch the fireworks. They may be ruined, but they’re still probably the best fireworks you’ll ever see. I couldn’t get the DJ to turn the music off,” he explained, “and I didn’t have time to sabotage his equipment. On the plus side, I do like this song.” It was the Jackson 5’s ‘Santa Claus is Coming to Town’.
Sam grinned at his reflection in the windowpane. “They’re still utterly incredible,” he told it. “It’s like watching Gandalf’s fireworks-”
“You know, I’ve always wanted someone to say that to me,” John said, leaning closer. He smelled subtly of expensive cologne. “If you like that, you’ll like the next one. I actually based it on one of his.”
“So, you’ve read Lord of the Rings,” Sam said, as the sky blossomed with deep crimson clouds that crackled briefly with lightning before breaking into yellow droplets of light.
“I have read Lord of the Rings,” John agreed. “Your second novel was quite similar, wasn’t it? Obviously I haven’t read it,” he explained at Sam’s incredulous look, “but I remember old J. R. R. mentioning something of the sort.”
“Tolkien said my book was derivative?”
“No, no, not derivative, but there was, what was it, a similar blend of multicultural mythologies surrounding a quest narrative.”
“OK. That’s fine, though actually I was largely using Scandinavian myths from various eras, but still — nice of Tolkien to review a book published twenty years after his death, even if he did get the details wrong.”
“Ah,” John said. “Yes. Now I come to think of it, it was probably someone else who said that exact thing. Whoever it was, though, I distinctly remember that they enjoyed the book.”
“Maybe you should read it then,” Sam suggested.
“Maybe I will. I might even do it soon. There’s a lot of water between San Francisco and London and rather than have my mother disown me again, I’ve volunteered to fly across it twice in the next month.”
“You know, that’s funny,” Sam told him, “but I’m actually going to be in London for Christmas.”
“Undoubtedly to check out the London operatic scene,” John said. “Actually, it is excellent, and you could do worse-” He was interrupted by a loud beeping from inside his jacket, which was itself interrupted by another deep bass boom from outside.
“Sorry,” John said with a brilliant smile, fishing the phone out of his inside pocket, and turning it off again. “That’s my other appointment for the evening. I should go.”
Sam followed him away from the windows as though John had him on a leash (not a bad idea for later, his brain thought to itself before he could tell it to shut the fuck up). “What, and miss the rest of the party? And your fireworks?”
“All the best ones have already gone off,” John said. Several people turned around at that, and he beamed and added, “Yes, that’s right, only the very best ones left now.” He let Sam see his ‘whoops’ grimace as they walked away.
“OK, so the party-”
“I know. Tragic, isn’t it? But there are some things I need to finish off in the lab before I leave for England on Friday, and there’s the Verdi tomorrow, which really only leaves tonight.”
“Wait, so you’re leaving the Christmas party to do work, like a cold-hearted scoundrel-”
“My own projects. And I wouldn’t leave the party early, if I could help it, but one of the janitors told me yesterday that they turn off all the power over the holidays. And of course I could rig up some sort of battery-powered generator to see the thermo-stationary temporal imager through this difficult period, but then I’d have to transfer it over and there’s still the possibility the generator might fail and it’s been quite temperamental since- sorry are you at all interested in this?”
“Deeply,” Sam told him, which wasn’t entirely untrue. He was certainly deeply interested in the sound of John’s voice and the way his mouth moved, even if he was not (exactly) interested in this particular subject.
This was fortunate, because John’s explanation of the device was full of quite simple words Sam recognised as being from the English language, but arranged in a way that he suspected was deliberately confusing. A sort of code John had with himself, which let him talk about his ideas without anyone being able to replicate or even understand them, even if they knew roughly what he was on about.
The explanation was made still more incomprehensible, because John had clearly seen that there was quite a short distance between where they were when he began speaking and the door out of the party, and he’d sped up the rate at which he talked in order to fit everything in.
“-which feeds into the left and red nozzle, and eventually all the light from figure three coalesces into a holographic display of a heat signature on the other side of the universe, a three dimension image you can, ah, manipulatementallywithconcentrationoratleastitwouldifitwasworking,buteverythingseemstobeshortingoutwhenitreachesthethirdgreenresister,” John said very quickly in the space of about a metre. “Any questions?” he asked at a more normal speed as he reached the external door.
“How did you convince anyone to hire you as an imparter of knowledge?”
“Any questions about the machine?” John clarified.
“No,” Sam said. “I didn’t even understand what you were on about. It was embarrassing. Don’t bother talking to me about science ever again. On the other hand,” he said as John nodded, as though this hadn’t been irony, and pushed the door open, “if the third green resister, or whatever, is being a pain, why don’t you just get rid of it?”
With the door still hanging open behind him, John raised an eyebrow that informed Sam he was dangerously insane. “The third green resister is the only thing keeping the imager from exploding.”
“Right,” Sam said. “OK, don’t do that. What about-”
“No, no, no, hold on,” John muttered, fishing around in his pockets again. “Yes, it would allow the power to flow through subsection 4b, wouldn’t it?” He raised what looked like a different cell phone to his ear. “And I could probably siphon the excess energy off into- Martin, hello! Yes, I’m on my way. I’ve just had the most incredible idea-”
The door thumped shut behind him. There was a pane of glass set into it so Sam could see exactly how many times John turned to look back (none) as he crossed the campus.
The fireworks had ended. Sam considered heading home, but it was too late to start on the bookcases, and it seemed a bit lame to just go home having been — not even rejected, more forgotten about. What he should do (what Mary would advise) was drink until he forgot all about John Smith and his ridiculous ideas about what constituted a conversation. What he did do (because the wine was hideous and there were classes to teach in the morning) was join the group dancing awkwardly in front of the DJ.
“Great fireworks, huh?” Simon, one of the hotter Math professors observed over the music.
“Totally amazing,” Sam agreed. “I told the man in charge they were like Gandalf’s, but on retrospect they were better.”
“...Yes,” Simon said.
“He doesn’t know who Gandalf is!” Mary bellowed drunkenly, clapping an arm around Sam’s shoulders. “Honestly,” she continued at exactly the same volume, “maths teachers, eh? Lucky you’ve got your looks, Si, and a wife. He’s got a wife,” she told Sam helpfully.
“Thanks Mary, I know,” Sam said, flashing an ‘oh dear, Mary’s drunk again’ look in Simon’s direction as he steered Mary away. “I don’t want to know about everyone here, just John, so keep any other basic facts about our colleagues to yourself.”
“Sorry,” Mary said — clearly not sorry, or as drunk as she looked. She began an out-of-time solo rumba to ‘Step into Christmas’, which had started belting from the speaker system. “I was just checking it was random chance that had steered you in the direction of the most attractive man in the room, Samwise, me old mate.”
“Half an hour after professing eternal love for your friend? What do you take me for?”
“Oh John can look can look after himself,” Mary said, as Sam finally took the hint and took her hands. “I was just interested. Hey, watch it- these shoes aren’t as sturdy as they look.”
“Sorry. You know, I don’t think I’ve ever felt so gay in my entire life,” Sam confided as he spun her around.
Mary snorted. “I doubt-”
A shrill alarm cut through the Elton John classic and whatever unflattering thing Mary was about to say.
Sam swore and tried unsuccessfully to push through the throng of people heading in the direction of the exit.
“He’s fine,” Mary shouted in his ear. “Don’t worry. John’s good at blowing things up. He was standing well back, and is probably just really pissed off right now. The best thing you and I can do is just go home. To our own houses obviously. Not a shared home that would be ridiculous-”
“Mary, are you angling for a ride, or are you just babbling?”
“Angling for a ride,” Mary admitted, “and babbling. But my babbling always contains a large dollop of truth. Look, I was going to take a taxi, but now everyone’s leaving and it’s going to be impossible. And I’m absolutely sure he’s fine-”
“Uh huh.”
“Seriously. What do you think you’re going to do? Tear through the wreckage of his lab completely unnecessarily- oh, hi John.”
The John Smith who approached was attractively dishevelled and frowning. He also had soot smudged artfully along his cheekbones. He grabbed Sam’s arm. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Your so called idea has backfired rather spectacularly-”
“Oh, so it’s my idea now it didn’t work?”
“Exactly. You’re catching on quickly. That’s good because we’re about to lose the science lab. Mary, you’re going to have to find another way home-”
“Thanks for nothing,” Mary called as John pulled open a door.
“You’re welcome,” he told her and steered Sam inside.
It was pitch black behind the door. When it closed the sound of the fire alarm was largely blocked out.
“You know this is a janitor’s closet,” Sam said, his brain catching up with his mouth in time for it not to come as a total surprise when John pulled him back into a kiss that made the metal bookcases full of cleaning products shudder.
“OK, so you do know,” Sam said, pulling on the light as John began undoing the buttons of his shirt for him. “Just to be clear, the science lab isn’t actually on fire, is it?”
John grinned and, leaving Sam’s shirt flapping, pulled off his own jacket. “Obviously not.”
Sam laughed incredulously. “Believe me, there’s no obviously about it with you-”
“Sam, I’m not the sort of man to have sex in a cupboard while his university burns. Trust me.”
‘Holy shit’, Sam’s brain said to itself, as his voice asked calmly, “So the soot is just-?”
“Real soot, old experiment.” John had managed to negotiate his waistcoat and unclip the braces underneath that, and looked up from unbuttoning his trousers. He smiled again widely. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist once I’d already set off the fire alarm. The fire alarm’s a little gift for you, by the way. I don’t know whether you noticed, but the party’s over. It’s my way of saying thank you for fixing my experiment. I really thought I was going to be here all night-”
“Hold on - you set the fire alarm off just so I could get out of the party? As a gift?”
“That’s right,” John said, his smile languorous and sexy; his trousers pooling round his ankles. “Do you like it? I suppose, on retrospect, I could have tapped you on the shoulder and suggested I was free for a cupboard sojourn, but it honestly never occurred to me. Has anyone ever told you that you have the most perfect abdominal muscles since Pythagoras?” He’d paused with the fingers of one hand caught by the elastic waistband of Sam’s underwear. “It’s really very distracting-”
“Has anyone ever told you you’re completely insane?”
“Constantly. I’m sure it would get depressing eventually, even for someone with my temperament, but most people follow it with ‘but it just might work’, so I’ve never taken it to heart.”
“They must also tell you you’re sickeningly overconfident-”
“I’m afraid so. You’re going to have to do better than that if you looking to be memorable.”
“You know that sounds like a challenge.”
“I’m sure it does,” John agreed, which was clearly the cue for Sam to press him back against the bookcases again and kiss him as soundly as possible while searching for the condoms in his inside jacket pocket. John obligingly unbuttoned his flies for him and then tried unsuccessfully to pull Sam’s jeans down without breaking the kiss. They both laughed as John stumbled slightly, and then Sam turned him roughly round to face the bookcases.
“Sorry, was that supposed to be impressive?” John asked, twisting his head to look back at Sam, but his voice was warm rather than mocking.
“And you never know when to keep quiet,” Sam said, sliding one hand down the back of John’s boxers, and pushing his own jeans down with the other. “I bet they tell you that too.”
“People also pay me to talk.” John squirmed as Sam’s lubricated index finger reached his anus. “You can see why I get confused.”
“Well, you do talk very well.”
“Thank- ah.” Sam pushed his finger in and John dropped his head forward and gripped the bookcases more tightly. “Next time, perhaps a warn-”
“Nuh uh,” Sam said, ripping through the condom wrapper with his teeth, “questions at the end.”
John laughed. “I’m really beginning to like you, Sam Jones.”
“You’re going to like me a lot more in a minute.”
“Really? Is that a-?”
“Second finger.”
“-promise?”
“OK, can you take a third yet?”
This time John groaned, the sound audible over the muffled siren. “Now,” he said eventually, “I miss the- element of surprise.”
Sam drew out his fingers. “There’s no pleasing you, is there?” John laughed softly, leaning for support against the bookcases. “Yeah, that sounded better in my head,” Sam admitted. He pulled John’s boxers carefully over his erection. “So do you want a warning this time, or not?”
“Surprise me. Though I think you should know I wasn’t joking about my claustrophobia. Any shrieks you hear could just as easily be panic as pleasure.”
“The closet was your idea,” Sam reminded him. He wrapped one arm around John’s narrow chest and gripped the bookcase with his other hand.
“My idea? My-? It was inevitable, Sam. Sam, Sam-” He breathed out as Sam pushed into him. “At least- that’s what I was told by an- apparently very reputable source. He seemed to think he was reputable anyway.”
“You can let me know if you want to stop,” Sam said, which seemed a bit of a ridiculous thing to say to this man, who was so contrary he was probably considering calling a halt to this right now. But John was silent apart from his breathing, which came raggedly, either with arousal or tension or fear. He almost certainly wasn’t really claustrophobic. They’d been in the cupboard for five minutes before he’d even mentioned it, but just in case Sam slowed his rhythm and asked, “OK there?”
“I thought I was not telling you to stop,” John said, and Sam grinned into his hair, drew back and pushed into him again hard. He slid his hand down the front of John’s immaculate shirt towards his cock. John gave a higher gasp of surprise as Sam fingers closed around him, which became a moan as Sam pumped his hand roughly in time with his hips. John’s body clenched more and more tightly, and then he came — quietly at first, but as Sam continued to fuck him he began what could only be described as a low whimper.
“Almost there,” Sam soothed as he slammed his hips forward. “I’m almost- baby, I’m so close. It’s-” He gripped John’s chest as he came, pressing his face into John’s shoulder.
He held the embrace even after the delicious shuddering had stopped, breathing in the smell of John’s cologne and-
“Baby?” John repeated incredulously. “Really?”
“You don’t like that, huh.”
“I like my name,” John told him.
“OK,” Sam said, pulling out. “Sorry,” but he wasn’t because John hadn’t said anything along the lines of ‘what right do you have to call me anything, when we hardly know each other?’ He also didn’t say anything other than “Good, glad to hear it”, when Sam promised it wouldn’t happen again.
While John pulled his trousers up and shrugged off his waistcoat so he could re-hook his braces, Sam disposed of the condom in the janitor’s trash can. He re-dressed and washed his hands briefly in the tiny cold sink set into the wall. Inevitable or not, the closet was actually a pretty good location for brief sexual encounters. There was even a wide array of cleaning products, though before he could suggest any of them for cleaning John’s semen off the bookshelves, John had wiped it up with a large handkerchief.
He stuffed back into his pocket and grinned. “Shall we go then? My taxi should be waiting outside.”
Sam opened the door for him. “Is that a weird way of saying you want me to drive you-”
“No, no-”
“-because I can, if you want.”
“No, it’s fine. I rang a taxi company before I set the fire alarm off.”
They stepped outside the university building. At some point, though Sam hadn’t noticed, the fire alarm had been switched off. The driver of John’s taxi was leaning against the side of his car smoking.
“Should I be insulted?” Sam asked.
“I don’t think so,” John said. “Do you think you should be? I just didn’t want to be stranded here if you turned out to be the inconsiderate bastard everyone says you are. Apparently without reason. You’re actually very considerate-” Sam raised an eyebrow, and John grinned. “Right. I sense I should stop talking now. Have a nice Christmas.”
“Maybe I’ll see you before that,” Sam said. “In London,” he clarified.
“No. Don’t follow me to London,” John said. He opened the front passenger door despite the taxi-code that forbade this.
“You know that sounds like a dare,” Sam told him.
John laughed. “It isn’t,” he said, and got into the car.
Like an idiotic sap, Sam watched it drive away, so he saw John turn and wave at him briefly, before the driver said something to distract his attention.
Five children, Sam thought as he began walking in the direction of his own car. Two cats, a big house obviously, lots of sex in every room, at least two Nobels between them, maybe a planet named for John, no wait — a whole planet for John (he’d be able to visit it after inventing the teleport) and his likeness vividly and movingly represented in fiction by the love of his life. Basically they’d better get a move on. The next few years were going to be busy.