Disclaimer: NBC and Wolf Films own them.
He dropped his briefcase and helmet on top of the nearest box, and hung up his jacket. He needed a drink. He had been needing one since he left work, but knew that if he had one, he would want a second, and maybe even a third. He couldn't afford the alcohol induced lethargy. Work had been terrible; a drive out to Rikers to attempt a plea bargain with a man, who did nothing but completely waste his time, constituted half of his day. On the way back to Hogan Place, there was an accident on the bridge, and traffic had come to a standstill. There were piles of work on his desk, and there he had sat, listening to the radio, making conversation with Serena; his mind on the bastard back at the prison, the files in his office, and the tasks waiting for him when he finally made it home. A stellar day.
He walked through the living room. It was no longer possible to do any living in it, since the couch, floor and every available surface was taken up by more boxes. Large and small. Taped. Labeled. When he got to the bedroom, he toed off his shoes and kicked them into the open closet, hearing them hit the wall with a satisfying thud. A little unruliness -- sometimes just the thing to change a mood. He sighed again. Apparently, this wasn't one of those times, for the satisfaction was fleeting, at best.
He flopped down on the bed, and landed on something hard, poking into his shoulder. "Fuck," he muttered as he rolled. "Figures even the bed won't cooperate." Then he saw what he had landed on, and felt his face relax, a smile coming up from his gut. It was a new CD, still in its wrapper, with a sticky note on it.
"Couldn't resist -- happy eight months. Will be by with pizza at 6:30. Love you."
It was the Beatles' BBC appearances, a relatively obscure CD and one that Jack had wanted, but at the same time, felt might not be worth the money. He'd gone back and forth about it more than once in his local music store, and by now could probably recite most of its descriptive text by heart. He reread the post-it. Eight months. He shook his head. It was a year and seven months, according to his calendar, since Ed had picked him up at the Tide and they'd fallen into bed together. A year and seven months. But Ed kept insisting that they needed to think like Gambler's Anonymous. Eight months since Ed had consented to stay, to give them time, and try to work through the hurt. Eight months since they had detoured into hell.
The first two months of the eight had been grueling, and painful--nearly as bad as some of the worst times before Jack's divorce. He and Ed struggled to maintain the relationship; they fought what seemed like every other day. Some fights were big, some minor, but the spaces in between had rarely felt peaceful. At least not the peaceful of a comfortable blanket on a warm, sandy beach next to the one you love. Or the peaceful of deep, languid kisses shared in the afterglow. It was the peaceful of a shaky detente, when each side catches their breath in an attempt to regain lost footing.
Work, which had often carried Jack through difficult times in his life, was also stressful. While he and Ed were trying to hold on, Nora had left, and the new DA was her polar opposite. Though he had known Arthur Branch for years, the line Jack drew between his professional life and his personal immediately became hard, and wide, and permanent. Once more, he had to rely on Serena's discretion. This time, she came through. She even rallied behind Ed when his job was on the line. By her own admission, it had been her pleasure to bully information out of a man, which cleared the excessive force charges, and ended the lawsuit that had been filed against the department, and Ed in particular.
Jack and Ed's New York friends were both supportive and non-supportive, depending upon the mood and their need to place blame. Jack had lived long enough not to hold any of it against anyone. Ed had a rough go of it, however, which made things between the two of them, at times, even more tense. The friendships all survived; any residual mess had long ago been worked out, and everyone was cool now. Everyone was on their side now. Everyone had forgiven everyone else. For Jack and Ed, however, locked in their two months of limbo, forgiving their friends had been much easier than forgiving each other.
Jack's oldest friend did everything he could, from across the Atlantic, to keep Jack focused on the ultimate goal. Mark had supported, and criticized, and lectured, racking up long distance bills for them both. Looking back on it, Jack knew that he owed the man a debt he would probably never be able to repay. For yet one more time in his life.
Jack pulled off the note from the front of the CD and folded down the sticky part so it would no longer stick, then put the yellow paper into his pocket. He worked at ripping off the plastic, swearing loudly at whomever had designed the wrapping, ruing the fact that his scissors were in some box, somewhere--yes, labeled and ultimately find-able--but not there, where he needed them to be. He managed to remove the outside plastic, and was swearing anew at the designer of the strip that ran across the top of the case, as it tore into small bits rather than coming off in one single piece, no matter what the little arrow claimed.
"Pull here, my ass," he said, hearing his voice as a harsh growl.
"Hey," a gentler one interrupted his fifth string of curses, "don't kill it."
He looked to the bedroom doorway, and his frustration dissipated enough at the sight of Ed, grinning and gorgeous, that he was able to give him a smile. A smile that more than likely wasn't nearly big enough, but one that had no time to mutate into something grander, because in two seconds Ed was on the bed next to him, and by the third he was stopping said smile with a hot, wet, slowly deepening kiss. By the fourth, Ed was covering Jack with his weight, and by the fifth was sliding a leg between Jack's. Plastic designer be damned. A sigh started in the pit of Jack's stomach and spread outward, permeating his muscles, releasing his pent-up frustration, expressing itself down Ed's throat. Jack had an Ed blanket, and it was exactly what he needed, and wanted. Curse words died, replaced by low moans.
Ed sank further into the kisses, and further into Jack, as their hips began moving together, gentle thrusts and shifts to achieve more perfect alignment. More direct pleasure. Jack's arms wrapped around him, and he was beginning to seriously consider the postponement of not only dinner, but everything else planned afterward, in favor of slipping them both between the sheets. There was a sudden, sharp, pain when something hit his shoulder blade. He broke the lip lock, and tried to reach Jack's hand behind him.
Jack chuckled softly. "Sorry," he said, bringing the CD out from behind Ed's back. "And thank you."
"Guess I should be flattered, that you like it too much to let it go." He smiled at Jack, and then looked hard at him, directly assessing him for the first time since he'd entered the apartment. Along with the hazy eyed lust of the moment, there was something else there. Something off. Something that made the tiny spot, persisting deep in Ed's chest no matter how much he wished otherwise, ache like a bruise that is bumped too often. It was a reminder of everything they'd been through. A reminder he didn't want. Not that night. Not with the weekend they had ahead of them. "Are you okay?" he asked, aiming for lightness in his tone.
"I'm better now," Jack replied, with a husky voice. He grabbed the back of Ed's head and pulled, and Ed didn't have it in his power to resist. He could never resist his lover in the throes of want, and he had no desire to reach a point in his life where he would. Not without a good reason, and for a few minutes, at least, there wasn't one. He let Jack take control of the kisses, let him deepen them, let him hold his head right where he wanted it. He tasted, assessing again, finding no hint of alcohol on the man's breath.
He pulled back enough to murmur against Jack's mouth, "Pizza is in the oven."
Jack's stomach growled. He smiled. "Sounds like I need it."
"Yeah." He moved away, then stood, adjusting his jeans. Jack rolled off the bed, and after fixing his own clothing, he took Ed's hand and walked them both out of the bedroom. This small act of affection was something Ed would never again take for granted. While he and Jack had been stuck in their private hell, Ed discovered that, of all the aspects of their relationship, it was the small points of connection he missed. Holding hands. Having Jack's head on his shoulder. Resting his own on Jack's chest. Lounging together on the couch. The touch of Jack's fingers on the back of his neck.
If they hadn't taken their second Thanksgiving trip to Chicago, he might have been forced to discover what the rest of his life would be like, without Jack. Chicago had dramatically shifted their dynamics. Ed held Jack's hand tightly as they entered the kitchen. The scent of garlic, oregano and spicy tomato sauce filled the small room. He kissed the back of Jack's hand before releasing it, reluctantly, and with some vague sense of unease. As if the broken connection could short circuit a fuse in his chest, and restart the ache from the jolt. He opened the oven, keeping one eye on Jack, still assessing, as the man retrieved glasses from the dish drainer.
Jack could feel Ed watching him, even while the man was taking the pizza out and pulling napkins from the package on the counter. Jack went to the refrigerator, crossing the kitchen behind Ed, touching his waist as he did. He almost slowed his pace, to run his hand up Ed's back; he not only wanted to feel him through the soft cotton of his shirt, but he had an urge to soothe as well. The worry in Ed's eyes was obvious. If he could have taken them both to bed, he would do it in a New York minute. His time would be spent differently, however. He let out a harsh sigh, then looked inside the refrigerator, surprised to see a six pack of beer.
"Have one," Ed said, now standing at his side.
"Can't." He took out a bottle of iced tea.
"Since when can't you have a beer?"
"Since I've got about three hours of work to do before I have a chance in hell of going to bed," he snapped.
Ed was quiet for a moment. "Didn't think it was such a pain," he finally said.
"Well, it is," he blurted out, instantly wishing he could reclaim the words. Swallow them, down to the depths of his stomach.
Ed took a step back. Jack turned to look at him; Ed was studying the shelf inside the still opened refrigerator.
"Ed--"
"No, man, I get it," Ed said, with a sharp voice. He met Jack's eyes. "What I don't get is why you didn't just tell me? Cause look--I can deal with forfeiting the security deposit, and cancelling the movers and all, but it would have been better if you had just told me right off!"
Jack hated that look on Ed's face; it made his heart hurt to see it. "That's not what this is about!"
Ed chuffed. "Oh, yeah, that's right, it's about...." He lifted his eyebrows and crossed his arms, but there was nothing cool about the pose. His eyes were burning.
Jack stepped back and closed the refrigerator door with some force. He leaned back against it, and faked the movement of opening the bottle he held, running a finger around the top, the sudden condensation clammy against his palm. "It's about... everything in this apartment. I hate this, and not for the reasons you think." He reached to the right until he could put the cold bottle on the counter, then wiped his hand on a leg. He looked at his lover. "I hate this," he tried again.
Ed sighed, and uncrossed his arms, shoving hands into his pockets. "Because?"
Jack chewed his bottom lip, while he attempted to find the right words. He took a deep breath, exhaling slowly. "Because I've had to go through twenty years of my life, and sort it all, categorize it--this for storage, this I can keep, this I have to trash. It's like I'm deciding which parts of my life are worth holding onto and which ones aren't! It's not something that I enjoy, or even excel at. I hate it. I don't like looking back."
Ed broke the eye contact, his glance drifting through the doorway. His mouth was in a tight line, and Jack could see that he was holding himself together with as much control as possible, but his eyes still gave it all away. Jack couldn't let it continue. He took two steps, and gently held Ed's biceps. Ed looked at him again.
Jack said, "This has nothing to do with living together. This is only about me, not you and definitely not us. I want to live with you--no, I need to live with you. I need to do this, just like I need you in my life." He lifted his hands to Ed's face, and cupped it. "I love you, Ed."
Ed's mouth remained fixed, but his forehead relaxed, along with his eyebrows. He pulled out his hands, wrapped his arms around Jack, and smoothly brought him into an embrace. A fierce embrace, holding him as tightly as Jack was holding in return. Jack breathed a heavy sigh of relief. Ed kissed the side of his neck, the familiar feel of a soft goatee sending an easy wave of pleasure down Jack's spine. He caressed the back of Ed's head, and closed his eyes. There was no way in hell he was going to lose this. No way. The risks were worth it, of that he was absolutely certain.
Ed held on to Jack and worked to manage his breathing, slowing it down until it was coming from a place far below his rib cage. Below his heart, and below the clamp that had been gripping it. He hated something, too--feeling like this. Afraid that every step they took might lead to Jack walking right out the door, no matter how many promises he made to Ed, or how sincere he always was. He believed Jack's sincerity, when he could see it, and feel it, and even when he couldn't. When they were apart. When they were acting the defined roles of professional ADA and detective.
Peter told him to be patient, to rest, and wait for the tiny piece of hell he carried in his chest to dissipate. Peter believed it would do exactly that, with time, and as much love as Ed could sustain. His friend, the quintessential romantic, thought love could eventually replace pain. Ed believed him, because he'd never known the man to be anything but brutally honest. Exactly like Jack. And Peter loved, Ed, too.
Jack pulled out of the embrace and looked hard at him. "Okay?"
Ed nodded. "Yeah. Okay." He shook himself out of the intense self-reflection, with a strong reminder that right now, right now, right now, things were good. Things were good. He and Jack were good. It was all good. He smiled at Jack, and watched with delight as his eyes crinkled up and the grin began to form. "I love you," Ed said. The grin widened. It was all good.
Jack stepped back and thumbed toward the pizza box, sitting on the stove. "I don't think it's still hot."
"Probably not," Ed agreed. However, the original plan Ed had made early in the afternoon could still happen. "Hold on," he said. Jack's answer was to smile again and slide hands into his pockets. Ed put the pizza back in the oven and turned. "I picked up the keys this afternoon. Let's go over there tonight, and see the layout now that it's empty. Figure out where things will go--it'll make things smoother tomorrow." He shrugged. "Don't worry about the rest of your packing, Jack. While the pizza's reheating, we can just shove it all in boxes--sort it out on the other end. It'll be okay, you don't have that much left." Jack's eyebrows knitted together. "Really. It's cool."
The smile, this time, formed slowly, but completely. "Come on," Jack said, grabbing Ed's hand and walking purposefully back to the bedroom.
The apartment's electricity had been turned on early that morning, but two rooms did not have functional overhead fixtures: the second bedroom and the entrance hall. They would find the manager on the way out. Measurements were taken; furniture placement was planned; the rooms were designated. They decided to use the bedroom without windows as theirs, so any future needs to recover from all-night work could be done without the distraction of sunlight. Jack was willing to try sleeping in a room where the city and weather noises would be muffled by two walls and a hallway. Ed was willing to change if the arrangement did not suit either of them in the future.
Jack came out of the bathroom, noting with satisfaction that the plumbing worked well, and walked down the short hallway to their bedroom. Ed was not there, so he backtracked a few steps and checked the second bedroom, where guests like Joanna would sleep, and where they hoped both of their desks would fit. Light spilled into the dark room through the doorway. Ed was standing at the window, looking out over the city. The window was open, and a sudden, warm breeze carried his scent straight to Jack, then on past him and to the rest of the apartment. Jack stopped, not twelve inches into the room. The sight of Ed at the window, combined with the smell Jack knew better than his own, was achingly familiar.
The lights of the hotel room had been turned off; the only illumination had come from the bathroom, which in a hotel was always too bright by half. It had been a brightness for which Jack was grateful, as he had left the bathroom and headed for the windows. The curtains were open; snow was falling, backlit by the glow of the Chicago night all around them and twelve floors below them. Ed appeared to be watching the snowfall, the sag of his shoulders restricted by his hands stuffed into his pockets. As if he might collapse should he take them out. Jack stopped ten feet away from his lover for a long moment, then kept walking until he, too, was at the glass.
"That," Ed said in a low voice, "was fucking humiliating."
Jack couldn't disagree. The two of them had been fighting so loudly, that one of their neighbors had called hotel security, represented by a surly man who believed he had more power than he did. A man who had not only told them to quiet down, but threatened them with removal from the premises if they didn't lower their voices. The man had snarled the words, "lover's quarrel," like it was so much bile he couldn't wait to spit out. Ed had been ready to take him on; Jack had stopped Ed with a grab to his biceps and as harsh a request as he could force through his teeth. He, too, was furious--but at them. He suspected Ed was, in truth, feeling the same. The man had left, after smooth talk and promises of peace. Ed had stalked to the windows; Jack had retreated to the bathroom to catch his breath, hearing Ed turn off all of the lights while he splashed water on his face.
Jack reached out and placed a hand on Ed's forearm, grateful beyond measure when he didn't flinch or try to move away.
"Jack...." Ed swallowed hard.
"That was pretty bad," Jack said. "I'm sorry--"
"No," Ed interrupted him, "don't. It's not your fault--" He stopped abruptly and looked out the window, then met Jack's eyes again. "We have to get past this... this crap," he said softly. "We have to."
"Yeah, we do," Jack said. He hesitated, uncertain how to express what had occurred to him moments before their door was pummeled by an angry fist.
"What? Tell me. I can take it." Ed's eyebrows began to curl with anxiety.
Jack squeezed the muscle under his fingers. "No, it's not bad," he hurried to say, "at least I don't think it is. I just thought... I know what I need." He breathed deeply, exhaled slowly. "I need you to let me off the hook, Ed."
Ed studied him for too long of a moment; Jack was about to say something else, to explain further, when Ed's eyes softened. "You mean you need me to forgive you?"
Jack's throat closed too rapidly to stop, so he nodded. He suspected it was what they both needed. Ed to take him off of the hook of blame, and he to forgive Ed for keeping him there. He watched Ed's eyes fill, then one tear escape. He quickly wiped it off of Ed's cheek before it could continue, wanting to erase the track it left behind, wanting never again to be the cause of this man's pain. He willed his own tears to subside, and swallowed the lump pressing against his throat. "We need to let me off," he had managed to say.
Ed had pulled his hands out, and had gently cupped Jack's face, caressing one thumb across the end-of-the-day stubble. "Yeah, you're right," Ed had said slowly, in his gentle, smooth as honey voice, "we do. You're absolutely right." He had leaned in, and had kissed him.
"Jack? Did you hear me?" Ed asked. "Yo," he repeated, in a quieter tone, "you in there?"
Jack focused. He was standing in front of a smiling Ed, his face bathed with ambient light from the streetlights three stories below. "Sorry," Jack said, "what?"
Ed chuckled. "I was saying that I don't want to put the print of Chicago in here--I want it in the living room. Prominent." The smile vanished. "It's important."
Jack touched Ed's chest, the steady heartbeat under his palm soothing, as always. "I agree," he said, "living room it is." Without another word, he wrapped himself around Ed, taking in his scent up close, into his own pores, feeling the indescribable clutch in his heart as Ed's arms surrounded him. Feeling lucky. Feeling blessed. Loved, and in love. At peace. Amazed that he had come this far, that at this point in his life he was taking another plunge. He could hardly wait for it. All of it.
Ed sat on the floor, in front of the almost dead CD player and cursed loudly in the empty apartment. Fixing mechanical things was not his strong suit, nor was fixing electrical things, or bits and pieces of plumbing. That was what the building's super was for, in Ed's opinion, and therefore he had never, until now, been one to rue his lack of experience as a handyman. Still, he had retrieved one of Jack's screwdrivers from the tool kit, and attempted to, somehow, encourage the CD player to give forth the CD it was holding in its electronic grasp.
"Fuck this shit," Ed repeated, and let out a loud, heavy sigh. It really did look bad. Jack's player was in their basement storage room, but it was almost ten years old. He heard the scrape of a key first in one door lock, then the other--a sound which made Ed's heartbeat skip, once, softly. This reaction to Jack coming home still thrilled him, still buoyed him. He watched the door, feeling the smile spread across his face at the sight of Jack, who smiled, too. After initial greetings, a helmet stashed in the closet and a briefcase dropped on a chair, Jack finally noticed what Ed had been working on.
"What are you doing?" Jack asked, skepticism clear in his tone.
"It ate my CD."
"Won't give it up, huh?"
"No," Ed said, finally letting the full extent of his frustration show.
Jack chuckled, and dug around in his briefcase, eventually retrieving a color flyer with photos of computers on it. "How much money have we got in the household account?"
Ed's heartbeat, which had quieted, began to pound. "Around eight, nine hundred, I think."
Jack crouched next to him, and flipped through the advertisement. He pointed to a small stereo system. "Look. This is exactly what we've been wanting. On sale, too."
Ed studied the particulars; Jack was right. His heart was still beating harder than normal, as he glanced at Jack then back at the ad. They had not yet purchased anything together of this magnitude. They had almost acquired new sheets after moving in, but had talked themselves out of the unnecessary expense. Sheets were nothing like a piece of electronics. A stereo was serious. Permanent. Not easily divvied, should they need to divvy at some point in the future. And, it seemed clear that Jack had no second thoughts about doing this.
"Well?" Jack asked. "We'll go grab a bite at Pasand, then hit the store." He stood, and shook his legs. He held out his hand. "Come on," he said in a gentler tone, "it's time. I promise."
Ed handed the screwdriver over, then raised himself off of the floor. "You can have that back," he said with a grin, "I hereby relinquish all rights." He covered the tool and Jack's hand with his own. "I agree," he added, feeling sure, and putting every bit of love he held behind the words, "it's time, Jack. Let's do it."
The smile he received, complete with crinkled eyes, and a toss of the shock of silver hair falling across Jack's forehead, was perfect. Ed could think of no other description. Perfect. If there was joy to be had in the simple, and not so simple, act of them buying something together, for their home, Jack would find it. He would find it, too. How he loved this man. How much he was loved in return.
After putting shoes back on, retucking his shirt, and stuffing his wallet and cell phone into different pockets of his jeans, he and Jack walked out the door of their apartment. Jack locked first one lock, then the other, and slipped the keys into his pocket. Ed had left his on the hall table, exactly where they belonged. He stifled the urge to hold Jack's hand as they walked to the elevator, as they chatted about their day, as they continued a conversation they'd started that morning over breakfast. He stifled the urge to press Jack against the elevator wall and kiss him senseless. He let go enough to plant a slow one on his cheek in between floors. He thought about what he would do with Jack, once they were back home, on the couch, with a new stereo playing sultry jazz. He thought about how they would end up a pile of loose limbs and sticky afterglow. How perfect it would be. He had no further doubts. None. It was good; it was extraordinarily good, and he planned to savor it. All of it, until one of them was buried in the ground or had his ashes scattered to the four winds. All of it.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: McCoy/Green. How does a relationship survive?
Author's Note: This is a sequel to Lost In The Woods. Which, truly, is a sequel to Choices Made. Read on....
Copyright March, 2004, Cassatt
Jack slid his key into the lock and turned it. He opened the door to his apartment slowly, his arms heavy with fatigue, his step close to hesitant as he entered the short hallway. God, it was as bad as it had been when he left for work that morning. Boxes stacked along the wall: taped, and labeled. Mostly books. Too many boxes of books to be believed. How he had accumulated them, he wasn't certain. Where he had managed to store them all, over the almost twenty years of living in this place, was still a mystery. Each time a carton had been filled, he expected the mass of books to be diminished. At least, look diminished. The dent had been made somewhere around the seventh carton. He sighed at the sight of them.
End.