Chapter Text
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I can tell already you think I'm the dragon
*
"Easy," John says, his voice low, his arms tight around James' shoulders as James shudders against his chest. "Easy, it's all right. I'm here now."
The creak of the door opening must have taken him by surprise, was all; it's late, and he must've been long since settled down by the fire, a quilt around his shoulders and a book open across his lap - hell, he'd looked more than half asleep when John had stepped inside. It makes sense, John thinks, that James had been a bit startled - that he'd leapt from his chair, that for a moment his eyes had been wide and unfocused and terrifying, that he'd thrown himself so swiftly into John's arms. He just hadn't been expecting it. "You're fucking three weeks late," he says into John's neck, and. Well. There is also that.
"I know," John says. "I'm sorry. The winds aren't on our side this time of year." He presses a steady kiss against James' temple, one hand gliding the length of his back, and he can feel James thinking about pulling away, thinking about fighting John's grip - only thinking, though, and it's not as if John wouldn't understand if he were to do it anyway. His letter must have arrived ages ago. "You knew I was coming back to you. I always do. Have I ever given you reason to doubt that?"
"I thought," James says, and stops; his hands clench on John's waist, his grip tight even through the damp, heavy fabric of John's coat. John can't imagine what he must have thought. What nightmarish fates must have befallen him, night after night, in James' mind while they'd been apart.
"Well, I'm not," he says, after a moment, when it's clear James doesn't intend to continue. "Whatever you thought. I'm not." He lets his head drop to James' shoulder, breathes him in, the sharp woodsmoke scent at his collar, and below, the rich comforting heat of his skin. Christ, but John had missed him. "You know if I could have sent word, I would have," he says.
James huffs out a breath; it isn't an answer, not quite, but taken together with the way his hands slip around John's waist, how he settles their bodies more firmly together rather than pulling away, it serves as one. He's angry, but it'll pass. John tucks him in close, kisses his shoulder, his neck, the gentle curve of his jaw. "Will you let me make it up to you?" he says, his mouth against the warm shell of James' ear, and he's not surprised - pleased, but not surprised - when James nods.
The first kiss is slow - it always is, when they've been apart for a while. There's always a lingering hint of uncertainty, a brief awkward moment before they've truly reconnected; there's a strangeness to it, but in a way, John almost looks forward to it. In a way, it's come to mean James to him. He nudges closer, hands slipping down James' back to settle in the dip at his waist, catching James' lower lip between his own. He's stiff in John's arms, still, but John can wait. It won't be long before James sighs and softens under him, opens to him - even now he can feel the answering nudge of James' nose against his cheek, and he lets himself smile into the kiss, just to feel James return it.
"Welcome home," James says, when they part, and if it comes out sounding a bit grudging, well. John figures he probably deserves that.
"Thank you," he says anyway, and James leans in to kiss him again, quick but firm, before pulling away. The fire is banked low in the hearth on the far side of the room, and John follows as James goes to tend it, taking the chair he'd occupied just off the warm patch of brick. He manages not to groan too loudly as he settles into it, stretches the iron leg out in front of him - it aches like it hasn't in months, but the cold certainly isn't doing him any favors, and he isn't exactly used to wearing it any more, besides. On board the ship, most days, he can allow himself the luxury of the crutch instead - but Mister Anderton at the stable in town won't let him a horse with it, and having made the journey from the harbor to James' house on foot once, he has no interest in ever doing it again - so. "Now that I've arrived, I can admit to you that I almost didn't."
James doesn't turn, but tension ripples across his shoulders. "What happened?"
"Governor Rogers managed to get a tail on us coming out of Norfolk," John says, carefully. In truth, it had been the same tail they'd thought they'd slipped away from just north of the Bahamas; a spot of bad timing and a few overly-friendly riggers allowed on shore unattended had proven them wrong, but he thought perhaps he might spare James the details of that particular misadventure. "I think we probably sailed halfway back to fucking England before we managed to lose him."
Under James' prodding, the embers in the fireplace spring suddenly back to life; John watches as he adds a fresh log to the pile, swings the kettle out over the flames before turning back around. He's trying to keep it to himself - the last thing he wants is to spoil what little time they have together with his difficulties - but something of the journey must show on his face; James comes to kneel in front of him, wordless, rolls up the hem of his trousers to get at the straps of the boot. There's no hesitation in his movements, and John offers no protest. It isn't the worst thing in the world, he's discovered, to let someone else take care of him every now and then. "And that's what took you so long, is it?" James says, undoing the last of the buckles.
"Part of it." John holds his breath, braces himself between the arms of the chair as James works the boot off; he's gentle, but no measure of gentleness can ease the sting as the end of John's leg comes free from the leather. When it's done, though, he slips his hands momentarily inside the leg of John's trousers, palms pressed against reddened but warm and healthy skin, thumbs rubbing small circles on either side of John's knee as circulation returns, and that - John can't deny that does help. He lets himself breathe out slowly, lets himself close his eyes. "The other part is I've never been able to get quite as much speed out of her as you could, but I don't suppose that would be news to you."
"No, I don't suppose it would." John feels the air shift around him as James rises, moves away; he's back in a moment, though, his hands on John's shoulders, gathering his damp hair up off his neck. "Has the snow started?" he says.
John frowns. "Snow?"
He doesn't have to open his eyes to know James wants to laugh at him; he can hear it in his damned voice. "Mister DeGroot did tell you how far north we are, did he not?"
"Yes, I've almost learned to understand the maps on my own, thank you," John says. When he tilts his head back and looks, James is smiling at him, though upside down; he reaches up, hooks a hand around the back of James' neck, pulls him in for a kiss. "Not yet," he says, when he decides to let James go, "though I assume it will soon. Poor old DeGroot was giving himself fits worrying about whether or not we'd beat the storm into port."
"Poor old DeGroot may be the only one left on that ship wise enough to see the difficulty in approaching that harbor in a gale."
"If only you'd chosen to retire somewhere a bit more accessible," John says; it's a bit of a blow, to be sure, landing just this side of harsh, but he can't help but feel James almost deserves it. If he wishes to pass judgement on the risks John chooses to take with his own damned ship, he can at least acknowledge they had been taken entirely for his benefit. He wants to say something; John can see it welling up in his throat, crawling around the corners of his mouth. In their other life John would have prompted, needled him, done his best to draw out whatever tantalizing secret thoughts James might be keeping back. But now, he stays quiet; some thoughts, he's learned, are best kept to one's self. That sometimes it's best to merely hold one's ground. Even with one's - whatever he is to James, now.
James, apparently, has come independently to the same conclusion; after a moment he huffs out a breath, lets John's now chilled hair fall back against his neck as he steps away. John listens, but doesn't turn to watch as James' footsteps retreat. The winds are picking up outside, rattling the windowpanes in their heavy frames, and the house is small - there aren't many places for James to go. The second crutch he'd made for John to keep here rests where John had left it the last time, within arm's reach; John gives him a few minutes, then reaches for it, and goes after him.
His bedroom, much like the rest of the house, is small, mostly bare; a single candle by the bedside lights the space more than sufficiently. John pauses in the doorway and watches as James, his back to John, reaches for the hem of his own shirt, pulls it over his head. The smooth motion sends shadows rippling across the muscles in his back and shoulders, his skin pale in the dim light, and John can't quite hold back a small, pleased smile. Even now, years off the account, away from that life of hardship and physical exertion, he is still so beautiful. John crosses the room slowly, taking care to let his steps and the tap of the crutch fall loudly enough for James to hear, to give him time to react, should he choose to; he doesn't, though, and when John reaches him he sets the crutch aside, steadies himself with his hands on James' waist instead.
"I hate being on that fucking ship without you," he says against the soft skin of James' shoulder. It isn't what he'd meant to say, but it's what comes out, so. "I hate having to leave you behind."
"Rogers is following you?" James says, and it takes John a moment to catch up.
"Not regularly," he says, even though he's still thinking, teasing that particular thread out of the densely woven tapestry that is the progression of James' war. "He stumbled across one of our landing sites a few months ago, and got a bit lucky catching up to us." He kisses the muscle tensing at James' collar. "Please don't worry, darling. We lost him days south of here, and it was only by chance that he found us to begin with."
"You know there's a bounty on your head," James says. His hands slip to cover John's, and John winds his arms obligingly around James' waist. "On both our heads."
"Yes, and there has been for years now, are you just noticing?" He tucks his chin against James' shoulder, feels James shifting, widening his stance to support John's weight. "I promise you, England is no closer to me or to either of us than they ever have been."
James huffs out a low scoffing breath, but John ignores it, spreads his palms flat against the gentle curve of James' stomach. He loves that, he can't help thinking, with a warm flush that has him ducking to hide his face against James' neck - he loves the parts of James that are eased and relaxed and rested, the parts of him that are softer now, here, in this new life. He'd never say it out loud - too afraid James would take it in some way other than John had meant it, that he might take it to mean John thought him weak, or worse - but god, he does love that. He presses a kiss to James' shoulder, feels James lean back against him - not much, not enough to unbalance them, but enough to register, and he tightens his hold.
"Do you really want to talk about England right now?" John says, and James laughs, though it's more felt than heard.
"Not particularly."
"Good," John says. "Neither do I." He breathes slow and deep into James' neck, lets his fingers stroke lazy circles on James' skin, lets his eyes slip closed; James is solid and steady and warm against him and he is so, so tired. James turns in his arms - slow, slow enough it doesn't unbalance them, that John can compensate for the change in position, brings one hand up to burrow into John's hair. His lips brush John's cheek, and John forces himself to pull back, open his eyes. "I'm sorry," he says. He doesn't mean to, but the way James is looking at him drags the words from his mouth. He doesn't deserve this. "I know this is hard on you. I wish I knew some way to make it easier."
James is quiet. He won't ask, and John still can't quite bring himself to offer. After a moment, John smiles. It's forced, but perhaps James won't notice. Perhaps in the morning it won't be. "Am I still invited to bed?" he murmurs, and he feels James' hand run down his arm, slip into his own.