Story copyright October 2013 by Hollis Shiloh - Cover design by Hollis Shiloh - All rights reserved. Do not reproduce without written permission from the author. All characters and events are fictitious, and any similarity to real people or events is coincidental. Cover image Content is being used for illustrative purposes only, and any person depicted in the Content is a model. -

Jack & Julian

by Hollis Shiloh

I put my Gladstone bag down in the hall and unwound my scarf. Polly took my jacket, her hands friendly, her smile warm.

"Right. Where is the patient?" I tried to speak briskly, keep my professional distance. Polly's not the only woman in the village who telegraphs her interest clearly; she wouldn't mind getting closer.

Lady Jane stepped into the room and cleared her throat. "In here, Doctor Jamison." Her voice was chilly, and she glared at Polly, who was looking down now, not meeting my gaze, her hands clumsy and her cheeks red.

"Thanks, Polly," I said, and moved away quickly, leaving my coat. My leg twinged as I walked down the long, cool corridor. Lady Jane's steps matched mine, slow and steady. Her elegant skirt shushed quietly as we walked, and her smile was nicer now we were alone.

"My stomach complaint is much better. Thank you for the tablets," she said.

"Good. Let me know if you need more."

"Oh, I shall, Doctor." She touched my arm, a light motion of fingers resting there, cool and serene through my sleeve. After a moment, she removed them.

The sun shone in through the wide windows, and we moved into a big room in the manor where a small fire burned even in this weather. Two children splayed out on the carpet, as did a grown man with sandy brown hair and a bandage on his arm. They were playing knucklebones.

"Mr. Sandford," said Lady Jane, sounding disapproving. "The doctor is here to look at your arm."

He sprang to his feet, rumpled and hair askew in the most charming manner. "Hullo!" He turned to me, and I saw the bandage was makeshift and clumsy, bleeding through. His smile crinkled up around his blue eyes, and he held out his other hand, his left, for me to shake.

"Come back and play!" cried Leo, the youngest boy, running over and tugging at Mr. Sandford's jacket.

"After the sawbones fixes me up." He smiled down at the youngster, and then Lady Jane steered the boy away.

"Where is your governess?" I heard her ask him in a low tone, as if she didn't like touching the child herself.

"She went to make tea for Jack," said Leo in his high, childish voice.

"Mr. Sandford," said Lady Jane, sounding irritated.

"Jack is fine," said the sandy-haired man, facing me. His blue eyes snapped friendly and naughty. He was taking me in, looked like he liked what he saw. I did, too.

I gave him a small nod. "And you can call me Julian. Perhaps we'd best go to the kitchen, where there's more light." I turned away, and he followed.

After a moment, he reached out and took my bag with his left hand. I gave him a startled blink, but let him take it. It felt surprisingly intimate walking with him quietly through that great house. He didn't say anything, and he gave the Gladstone back to me before we arrived in the kitchen.

"How did you hurt yourself?" I asked, even though Lady Jane had already told me over the telephone, calling me up herself apologetically. The new tutor had fallen from a tree and caught his arm on some fencing, and could I come over and stitch him up?

He shrugged. "Foolishness." He gave me that smile again.

He didn't look like any tutor I had ever seen. He had the bluff, confident, laughing looks of a young pilot, or a wealthy landowner's second son. His hair was just that color that is nearly blond, light brown with streaks of paler hair burned in by the sun. He was the type I always fancied. I expected him to be noisy, chattering, but he was silent. I barely looked at him till I was bandaging his arm in the kitchen, sitting at the large, scarred wooden table together, our heads bent over his arm, the sunshine streaming in.

The kitchen smelled of apples. Behind us, the large, comfortable-waisted cook, Mrs. Smith, was peeling them slowly and cutting them one at a time into a pie crust. She glanced over at us. Her competent hands were thick and hardened with work, skin that didn't cut even when she pressed the knife against it, cutting each slice of apple.

The kitchen held a quiet, calm, sleepy warmth. A large bluebottle buzzed lazily around, stopping to bang itself against the window glass and then returning to the pie in progress. Mrs. Smith waved it away with her knife. The blade gleamed in the light, flashing reflected shimmers against the floor and then the ceiling with the quick movement.

He still hadn't spoken and neither had I. I washed and stitched his arm carefully in the warm stillness. His hand squeezed tight into a fist at the pain, but he only jerked once, closing his eyes, tightening his jaw, and enduring.

"Finished," I said at last, sitting back, a crick in my back as I straightened. A neat row of stitches ran up his arm, replacing the rough gash from the fence he'd managed to cut himself on while falling.

He looked up and met my gaze, his paler now, almost gray. His eyes held something, almost a plea or a longing, as though he wished to say something but knew he mustn't. He licked his lips and tried to smile. He gave a faint nod, but didn't speak.

"Head between your knees," I said, reaching up and putting my hand on the back of his head, drawing him down.

He breathed shallow, gasping breaths.

"Brandy, Mrs. Smith?" I asked.

She moved to fetch it quickly, making it clear she had been watching. I left my hand on the back of his neck for a moment, stroking his fine hairs gently.

"I'm terribly sorry about this," he said in a small, gasping voice.

I stroked lightly with my thumb. "Ah, there we are. Thank you." I smiled at the cook, and she smiled back, a fluttery sort of look. I got him to drink, and the color began to seep back into his face.

"Sorry," he said again as he straightened up.

"You're all right."

We looked at one another. He didn't speak again. He put the glass down on the table with a diffident movement that I thought was somehow unlike him, even though I barely knew him at all yet.

He looked at me again, sucking his lower lip between his teeth so that it turned white, and then releasing it. Color seeped back to the sensitive skin. His eyes looked vulnerable under his lashes. I wanted to reach out, to touch his pale, muscular arm, to comfort him.

I gathered up my things in my bag. "You need to lie down. Get some rest. I'll give you something for the pain before I go."

"Thank you, doctor."

"You're welcome." I touched his shoulder lightly. I left him some pills.

"Will you stay for some tea, doctor?" asked Mrs. Smith, looking at me. "I have buns, too."

"No thank you." I picked up my bag and left the room, feeling their gazes on my back.

"How is he?" asked Lady Jane. She had been waiting and now fell into step with me. Her tones were cultured and held an elegant concern.

"He'll be fine," I said. "He should rest today."

Her lips thinned, and she nodded. "I can't imagine what possessed him to perform such a foolish stunt."

"No doubt trying to get along with your sons, get them to respect him."

"Well, when I hire a tutor, I expect him to act nearer his own age than my sons' ages." Her steps quickened slightly to keep up with me now. "Will you come again to check on him, Julian?"

I didn't look at her. She took her hand off my arm after a moment.

"If you wish."

She cleared her throat. "Perhaps tomorrow? Don't forget to send the bill," she said after me, as I headed to my car.

"Of course." I got in and drove away, concentrating on the country lane. Around me, life bloomed and showered the countryside with greenery. Birds sang softly in the hedges. But I barely noticed any of it. I was thinking of a pair of pain-filled blue-gray eyes that held such a longing to be understood.

At the end of the lane, a man stepped into the path. I braked quickly.

It was Jack Sandford.

He looked at me a moment over the hood of the car. I looked at him too. He put his hands flat on the hood, and then walked around slowly to the passenger-side door, opened it, and climbed in. "Do you mind?"

I shook my head.

"I'd like to talk to you," he said, as we crept down the lane again, then picked up speed. I didn't look at him as I drove, but I wanted to. He was looking at me; I could feel the warmth of his regard.

I had to clear my throat. "What about?"

"Anything," he said softly, and when I glanced over, his cheeks held a color they hadn't earlier.

I snorted softly, but I smiled too. I fancied him a lot more than Polly.

"When did you come over from America?" he asked me.

"A few years ago."

"You don't talk much," he observed.

"It's one of my greatest charms."

His smile twitched up, looking friendly and sweet-tempered. "I doubt that."

At my cottage, he looked around, breathing deep of the smells of the garden and the plants growing there. I had a gardener come twice a week; I didn't have a green thumb, but I loved the cottage being surrounded by plants.

Jack stuck his good hand in his pocket and let his injured arm dangle at his side.

"Come in for some tea," I said, scraping my shoes on the mat from habit. I wasn't muddy, the way I would be from a trek to one of the local farms.

"Thank you." He ducked to enter the low doorway and looked around my small, dark kitchen. "It's like stepping back in time, isn't it?"

"I wouldn't know." I got the kettle filled and on. My leg was hurting me, and I moved slowly.

"Long day?" he asked.

"Very."

"Can I help?"

"Sit down before you fall down."

He bit his lip; his eyes danced. "I could say the same to you."

I snorted, and didn't look at his face again until I'd made the tea. I'd actually learned to like it, though I sometimes still preferred coffee. Both were difficult to get with the rationing; I was fortunate to have my mother's care packages from the United States.

We sat catty-corner at the small table, facing each other over our steaming mugs. He reached out and brushed a finger along my arm, his eyes asking me a question. His brows were raised slightly, his lower lip caught and vulnerable between his teeth.

I raised my cup, sipped the too-hot liquid. I put it down again. He withdrew, looking down at his own cup, ashamed.

"It's just I don't know you very well," I said. "And I don't really need any local trouble."

"We can keep it quiet," he said softly, still staring down at his tea.

"Can we?" I rose. I got a tin of biscuits from the cupboard and opened it for him. They had been a present from a grateful farmer's wife. "You should be lying down."

"Ta," he said, sounding sad. "These are very good." He ate hungrily, leaving crumbs, then pinching them up and eating them too. "I'm sorry I misunderstood," he said, rising awkwardly to his full height. He kept his gaze down, looking ashamed.

"Don't be. You're wonderful. I just, ah, I don't really." I looked down at the table, moving my cup on the thick wood grain. It made a scraping, heavy sound, comfortable in the quiet room. The smell of tea and biscuits was strong, and the smell of greenery came in through the windows. A bird sang nearby, joyous and loud.

I turned my chair slightly and looked up at him. "It's been years," I said in a burst of honesty. I reached down and touched my leg, a light pat. His gaze went there and then met mine with a compassionate question. He didn't speak. "It's hard to trust anyone enough," I said softly. "And I'm not up for much physically. But it's not you. You're lovely."

His gaze held mine, magnetic, almost burning me with its warmth and longing. "I can be careful," he said. "Nothing athletic."

I didn't say anything. My mouth was dry, even though I'd just had a drink. I set my mug down.

He moved nearer to me, nudged my knees apart, and slowly dropped to his. His hands were on my thighs, burning through my trousers. I let my legs fall open for him, my breath quickening. He never took his gaze from mine, asking me a silent question. Then he said it aloud, too. "Is this all right?" He reached up to touch me, sliding his hand up along my thigh, and further.

I nodded, biting my lip. I put my hands on his shoulders and closed my eyes.

When his mouth was on me and I was coming, I saw Ralph, with his eyes dancing, his smile wide, his chest sweet and bare and strong. I choked off a sob. I held onto Jack's shoulders tightly.

#

Jack moved around the kitchen, whistling as he worked. I watched him, feeling sleepy and hooded-eyed, and good. I was awash with good feelings because of him. He cast me a quick, shy smile and brought over another cup of tea.

I'd come embarrassingly quickly, quite out of practice. Then I took him to bed with me, so he could lie down as I took care of him.

Our tea had grown cold, and he was making us more now, his gaze bright and happy. He'd folded his clothing carefully while he got out of it. Now he was dressed again, unrumpled except for his hair. It seemed to have a life of its own.

I let my fingers trail along his lower back as he walked by.

"All right?" he asked, putting down the mugs of tea, a nice-sounding thunk.

"All right," I agreed. I added sugar and took a sip of the scalding liquid and smiled at him. The hot liquid was a pleasant burn, sweet and reviving. "Tell me about yourself."

He shrugged broadly. "There's not much to tell."

I reached across, let my hand rest lightly over his. It was like his cock, strong but tender, big enough but not overlarge. He cleared his throat. "I was in the war, of course."

"Naturally."

The war was close for all of us, even limping ex-pats like me, who had been country doctors the whole time. Plenty of men were still overseas. Rationing was still strictly in effect.

Jack took a slurp of his tea, not taking his gaze off mine, or his hand away. His arm had begun to bleed again a little. I made a mental note.

"Secret Intelligence Service. I was one of the lucky bastards, never captured." He shrugged. "But, there's no work for me now. I'm not, ah, wanted there at present. So a family member got me a job here. I hope I can keep it."

"Not good at keeping jobs, are you?" I let my fingers lightly tap the back of his hand, like a caress.

He smiled at me, warm and bright, almost glowing-eyed. "Guess we'll see."

I let him go and wrapped both hands around my hot mug.

He looked down. "I seem to have a wild streak," he admitted. "Suppose I do dangerous things sometimes."

I cleared my throat and got up. I went to the sink, carrying my cold mug of tea, and dumped it down the drain. "Like me?"

"No." I heard him move, his boots soft on the floor. He put his arm around me. His sharp chin rested on my shoulder. "Not like you." His voice was husky, and one of his warm hands rubbed my stomach. "Tell me about you sometime?" he asked softly, his words barely audible even next to my ear. "I know you're not ready yet, but when you are."

And then he kissed me on the cheek. I turned around in his arms. I took him in mine, and made it a proper kiss.

Then I re-bandaged him and drove him partway home, up the lane, so he could walk the rest of the way without tiring himself overmuch.

He climbed out of the passenger seat carefully, not using his sore arm. He turned and waved. In the mirror, I thought I saw him smile as I drove away. Then he moved off into the hedges, going back the way he'd come.

Chapter two

Jack thought about the doctor for the rest of the day. He thought about him a great deal the next day, too, and the next. He didn't feel he could invite himself over with no excuse, and his stitches were nowhere near ready to be removed. He used his arm gingerly and tried not to pull them; it would be a bit too obvious and would probably make Julian quite cross.

When the village fete came on Saturday, he tarted himself up the best he could before going, hoping to see the man again. He combed his hair particularly well, and then messed it up again, spending nearly a quarter of an hour going back and forth between the two extremes and eventually settling for something in the middle. He wore his blue shirt that brought out his eyes and was a bit tight. He left the top two buttons undone. He wore his tightest trousers and no pants underneath. Just in case.

He thought about the doctor as he walked to the fete, scuffing his shoes along the lane, pausing to pluck blades of grass and chewing them as he walked. The doctor, everyone seemed to believe, had a Sad Past. He'd moved here just before the War, so Jack hadn't seen him until he moved back home. He'd been busy working for the SIS for the whole of the War.

Most of the women in the village would have liked to help the doctor with whatever his Sad Past was. His limp drew their sympathy, but his quiet, gentle professionalism mixed with his mysteriously curmudgeonly behavior was enough of a mystery and a draw for any woman—even without his handsome face and beautiful body. All those things drew Jack too.

Though he'd only visited the doctor once so far, the man was affixed in his mind's eye. He had a sturdy, muscular build over an average-sized frame. Though no older than Jack, his face had lines and planes that showed he'd seen a lot and lived a great deal. His touch was gentle, competent, and soothing, confirming one was in the hands of an expert.

Jack's toes curled up a little when he thought of those hands in a non-professional capacity. He walked a little faster.

He reached the fete and stopped at the coconut shy, leaned against the stall.

"Hullo, Jack!" called the young woman who was running it. "Da will be back in a minute. Like a quick throw?" She gave him a cheeky wink, as if to imply he could have something else if he ever wished it, too.

"Ta, you're a love." He gave her a big wink back and accepted the balls she gave him in exchange for his money.

"Careful with your balls, my love," she said with a straight face.

"Oh, I am."

She giggled as he took aim with exaggerated care. He got a coconut, and after a bit more banter, carried it away with him like a little hairy head, perhaps a monkey skull. It sloshed inside, heavy with promise.

He whistled as he walked, passed the raffle and the white elephant stall, and called to one of his aunts at the home produce stand. He stopping for a bit of free cake when she offered. "Don't mind if I do." He supposed there were some black market goods involved; it was difficult to bake cakes on current rations. But perhaps there had simply been a lot of rations saved up. Anyway, it was none of his business. He munched the morsel and kept walking.

He still hadn't dared ask anyone about the doctor, but he kept his eyes open for the man. Every step of the little fete seemed filled with promise, the delightful surprise that made his whole being sit up and notice. What would have been a slightly boring entertainment had become intensely interesting, because the doctor might be here. Even the possibility of Dr. Julian Jamison was exciting.

Jack glimpsed his pupils, Leo and Philip, and waved. Thank goodness he wasn't required to watch them constantly—perhaps Lady Jane didn't trust him because of the tree incident. The boys walked with their governess, Leo holding her hand, looking thrilled, Philip pouting because he thought he was too old to be under a governess.

Ah, get a little older, lad, and you'll wish to be again, I'll wager. He smiled to himself at the thought. Philip was reaching that awkward age; he had started to notice women but had no clue why.

It would be easier for him than noticing men.

Jack's steps quickened as he bounded over to see his cousin, who wore a grimace on his face as he lugged a huge old bread tin that could only be a delivery from the white elephant sale. It made his muscles bulge noticeably. "Where's the fire, love?" Jack fell into step, lengthening his steps to mock the large man's gait. Harold gave him a purse-lipped look and on continued carrying his load.

"Give us a hand, Jack?" he asked maliciously.

Jack mimed grasping his arm and wincing. "Oh, my poor arm!"

"Your own bloody fault." Harold snorted, then quietly asked, "Free later?" His mouth barely moved when he spoke those words, low and clandestine.

Jack's steps faltered for an instant. "Um." He raked a hand back through his hair. "Thought you were married now?" He turned to look at Harold. Heat crept up the taller man's cheeks. Harold was a huge man who'd survived the war intact; he'd come home, married, and now his wife was heavy with child.

"Margery doesn't have much time for me lately," he said, flushing to his cheekbones.

Ah, how terrible it must be to blush! He touched Harold's arm, taking pity on him. "I'm sorry, mate. Wish I could help. But I don't do that anymore."

"What, blokes?" He looked at Jack quickly, looking startled and somehow a bit relieved.

Just married ones, he thought. He smiled a little and moved away, letting Harold make up his own mind what Jack meant.

Would he have said yes if Harold wasn't married? No, not unless the doctor hadn't moved here. Maybe he and Julian weren't a couple, but he felt like they were. Unless the doctor made it clear it had only been a quickie to him, Jack considered it a relationship. At least, by his standards.

It hadn't been with Harold. He liked anything that moved, did our Harold. Liked Jack because he'd go on his knees without a lot of fuss, give good head, and then not expect more than a hand job in return. No meal, no drink, no seduction necessary, just 'Come on, Jack, give us a mouth shag.'

"You're easier than the barmaids," he'd said once, holding onto Jack's shoulders with tight fingers that left ten small red bruises later.

Jack had laughed, because it was true; he was easy. But it hurt a bit too. After that, he started saying no sometimes. And then came the war and all of that. He'd been a bloody good agent in the SIS. Just the sort of devil-may-care, good with languages and numbers bloke they needed, or so his boss always said.

But he'd been indiscreet; he'd let himself get caught shagging someone with the wrong equipment. They'd have had plenty of work for him, if not for that; instead, after the war, he was put quietly on the shelf. Not exactly blackballed, but allowed to know he was bloody lucky not to be in front of a judge.

"Things happen in war, I know that," his boss Lightstorm had said, looking at him, a bit disgusted. Never been to a public school, had our Lightstorm. Quite the moral figure. "But we'll not have it anymore, do you hear?"

What could he say? 'Fuck you?' Actually, he probably would have if Lightstorm had been interested. Bloody good cheekbones, that man.

Jack sighed. He thought uncomfortably of the way the doctor had driven away without waving. Jack was probably still just a bloody great tart, even though he'd been trying to do better, trying to stay out of dangerous situations and only go with blokes he really fancied.

He thought again of Julian's sad, wistful face as he touched and kissed Jack. He'd been so very tender. Something about making love had brought it back for him, whatever it was that made him sad; but it must have been bearable, because he'd smiled afterwards, even kissed Jack. Bloody good kisser, too.

Julian had seemed as though he was really present with Jack, not just mashing their mouths and bodies together, not using him as a substitute for something better (a willing barmaid, perhaps), and he most of all hadn't tried to be blokey about it, making it into a crude joke.

No, it had definitely been lovemaking. He felt warm all over thinking about it again, and quickened his steps. His gaze fell on a figure walking ahead of him: Polly, who looked odd not wearing her maid's uniform. "Poll!" He caught up with her, swinging an arm round her waist. "Seen the doctor?"

She giggled, pushing him off and twisting away. She tossed her hair back, reaching up to fix a couple of loose tendrils. "You're dead cheeky. What d'you want with the doctor?"

He gestured to his arm again, grinning.

She laughed at him. "He is a love, isn't he? Well go on, I haven't seen him. Probably at home listening to records and sitting all alone in the dark. I'd love to take care of that man." She sighed.

"Think he'd let you?" He raised one brow, curious.

She looked up at him from under her eyelashes. "Go on, I weren't born yesterday. More likely to let you take care of him, if you know what I mean."

For a second he couldn't breathe. "Passed that around, have you?" he asked tightly. He'd already gotten into enough trouble falling out of that tree; they'd be sure to send him packing if it ever got out he fancied blokes. Bloody hell, then where would he go?

Polly smiled. "Don't get your knickers in a twist. I'm not the gossipy sort. I only told you because I thought you were the same. I won't pass it about." She caressed his arm gently with her work-toughened hand. She had a gentle face, kind eyes. If he fancied lasses, he could really go for a girl like her.

"You're a love," he said softly. "Not that I'm admitting anything, mind."

She laughed and drew away from him. "Oh, all right, our Jack! Go on, then. Get your bits out for him and make him smile again." She gave him a gentle swat, her smile just slightly wistful.

His steps took him like Hermes's winged feet down the lane. Sunlight seemed to bloom from every corner of creation, rejoicing in this day, verdant and resplendently alive. At last, he reached the doctor's little cottage, forced his steps to slow to a more respectable pace, and tugged his shirt straight. Carrying his coconut, he strode jauntily up the path, hesitated only a moment, and then knocked.

He knocked again. And again, waiting, leaning against the door, wondering if the doctor was out. His car was in, though, and he wouldn't likely have walked far with a limp like his. Perhaps out back, if he had a garden…? This old cottage used to have one, a big one. Perhaps he grew marrows in his spare time. Jack smiled at the thought of Julian bending over to check marrows, perhaps wearing a gardening hat.

Just then the door opened, and Jack had to straighten up quickly or fall. "Oi, guvnor!" he said, holding up his coconut and giving the doctor a cheeky grin. "Give you a taste of me coconut if you let us in!"

Julian's hair was neatly combed and his suit unwrinkled, but despite all of that he gave the impression that he was rumpled and half asleep. Perhaps it was the look in his eyes, as if he wasn't quite present somehow.

Jack backed off a bit on the teasing and raised his eyebrows, smiling more shyly now. "I'll go away if you wish...?"

"Huh? No, no." Julian shook his head. "Come in." He held the door open and stood back. The kitchen was just the same, but darker somehow and filled with an oppressive silence one could've cut with a cake knife.

"Surprised not to see you at the fete," said Jack, putting the coconut down on the table and looking around. He rubbed his hands together. "Mind if I make a cuppa? Have you enough tea?"

Julian smiled that sad smile of his. He touched Jack on the arm, a gentle, brief clasp of his hand. "Why don't you sit down and I'll make it?"

That pleasant American accent made Jack's spine shiver. It was soft, not grating like so many of the soldiers' he'd met, and without any of that braying quantity of a drunken sailor. Oh, he'd had a few of them and all; lovely men. But nothing like Julian.

"Cheers," said Jack, sitting down at the table.

He wondered if he should be talking posh for Julian. He'd thought the American doctor wouldn't care about that, but he didn't really know, did he? Life at the village had returned him to that old schoolboy pattern: talk posh at school, talk as unposh as possible on holiday. He used to get punched enough already for being a scholarship boy. The village lads' mothers no doubt told them they should be like that nice lad Jack and work harder at their studies. No wonder they resented him. They'd resented him at school too, so that sometimes he felt like an alien in both worlds. He supposed that was when he'd started working undercover. At home, he would run harder and climb higher than anyone just to prove he was one of the lads. At school, he'd talk posh and make jokes and go out of his way to be bright, helpful Jack.

He'd helped a few of them, and all.

One of the things he'd liked about the Americans he met during the war was that they didn't seem to care about class the way the English did. Money was a big thing over there, but he'd felt that he could mainly be just judged on his own merits. And his own merits included a very skilled mouth and a very willing backside.

He rolled the coconut round gently on the table and looked up at Julian from under his long lashes. "Fancy some coconut?" he asked softly.

Julian smiled. Holding the teakettle up, he said, "Tea first?"

"Whatever you'd like," said Jack, and meant it.

Chapter three

"Give us a fag," said Jack, looking up at me from under those absurd lashes. He was definitely flirting. I held out my pack. He plucked a cigarette with quick, clever fingers. "Ta!"

We sat there at the table, drinking our tea and smoking. The day seemed brighter now that Jack was here.

"So you grew up in the village," I said, knocking ashes gently into my saucer.

"Yes. You've been asking about me?" He sat up straighter, his smile brightening.

For someone who'd come here flirting and pushy and clearly wanting to go to bed with me, he was acting surprisingly shy now. He hadn't touched me even once. The hints were there, but he wasn't making a move. I wondered about that.

"I can hardly go anywhere without hearing about you," I replied, smiling at him and taking another quick drag. "You're their hero—village boy made good, and a war hero to boot."

He smiled modestly, his gaze sweeping down. "Oh, not so much of either, really."

I reached out, clasped a hand over his and squeezed. He looked so vulnerable there for a minute, I just couldn't resist. "Would you like to show me your coconuts now?" I asked him gently.

He raised his gaze to mine, and he looked so relieved and grateful, for a moment I thought he was going to weep. "Yes please."

"Come on, then." I pulled myself to my feet.

When he reached out to help steady me, I let him. We walked into my bedroom slowly, arms around each other.

We did the rest of it slowly, too.

#

Jack lay in bed looking wrung-out, relaxed, and pleased with himself. "I think I really will have that coconut now. I'm starving."

I smiled down at him as I dressed. He'd been wonderful in bed, skilled and giving and tender, flinging himself into the experience with hedonistic delight, giving himself to me utterly.

It had been very nice, but I wasn't going to loll about in bed undressed, even though Jack looked disappointed when I got up.

"If you'd rather, I have some eggs and bread set aside for lunch," I offered.

Several farmers' wives offered me eggs and baking from time to time. I accepted, where I didn't accept from unmarried women. That wouldn't be proper. I almost never ended up doing my shopping myself; I gave my rations to my volunteer bakers so they weren't shorting their own families.

There is an intimacy with being a doctor. I'd delivered babies for many of these women, the first face to welcome their newest family members into the world. They never seemed to forget that; it was almost as though I was family now too and needed looking after.

"Sounds good," said Jack, sitting up and clearing his throat. He sounded a bit hoarse.

No surprise, I supposed, smirking a bit as I turned away.

"Shall I cook?" he asked.

"Nah, you're the guest." I moved out to the kitchen, feeling the pleasant twinges in my body from our energetic hour together. My leg ached worse than usual, though, and I couldn't help wincing.

"Did I hurt you?" Jack sounded alarmed. He was behind me in an instant, catching me round the waist, hands gentle and touch light. "I'm sorry." He pressed his forehead against the back of my neck.

I felt uncomfortable standing there clothed while a naked man held me from behind. "Don't be silly. I'm fine."

"We'll be more careful next time," he promised, releasing me as I pushed at his hand. He stood back, regarding me. "If there is a next time?"

I hated the vulnerable, worried look in his blue eyes, as if the one moment of coolness from me had destroyed all his confidence and his pleasure in the sex. I relented quickly. "Of course."

He looked so relieved.

"Why don't you get dressed?" I suggested gently.

"Oh. Of course." He moved away, scraping a hand back through his hair. I watched his backside sway away, and his muscular back. For a daredevil, he was surprisingly gentle and giving in bed. He seemed to know what I wanted before I did, and offered himself to me without being asked.

I'd been inside his lovely backside not a half hour ago, with him panting and urging me to go ahead, to not hold back on his account. His voice shook, and he whimpered and muffled himself against my pillow when he screamed, so long and hard, as if this was the hardest he'd ever come or ever would.

I didn't know how a man I'd barely met—twice, and he'd gone to bed with me both times—could be so vulnerable to me, but Jack seemed to be.

His cheeks were flushed when he emerged from my bedroom, now fully dressed. "Do I pass inspection?" He held his arms up and turned around.

"You look very nice," I said, not sure what I should say.

His smile perked right up. "Thanks. Would you like me to fry the bread?"

"Yeah, all right." I pointed him to the drippings, and he went to work, whistling, cheery again. Our hips occasionally brushed as we worked side by side at the stove.

Since it was a special occasion, I opened a canned ham after I finished cooking the eggs. Jack's brows rose. "Ham? For me?"

"Yeah, my mother sends care packages: canned meat, sugar, tea and coffee, that kind of thing."

Jack shook his head. "I am ready for rationing to end!"

"Yeah."

He looked up at me, hesitant again. "Do you ever think about going back home?"

I shook my head as I carefully sliced the ham. "This is my home now."

And Jack smiled, a big beautiful smile, the one that made him look like a shining prince. I smiled back. "Come on, let me fry this," I said, because his eyes were really distracting me.

"Oh, I won't stop you. I love ham." He moved up behind me at the stove and slid his arms around my waist, holding me close to him. "And all sorts of meat."

"Let me work!" I gave him a swat, but I was grinning too.

We finished cooking and then ate, dividing everything carefully in half, and talked some more. He ate like a starving man or a glutton, bolting his food as if he hadn't eaten for days. But I knew very well they served a good table at the manor; I'd been invited more than once.

"They say you speak twelve languages," I offered.

He smiled and ducked his head. "Not quite."

"Well, perhaps they exaggerate. But several, anyway?"

"It's just a knack."

"You British and your modesty!" I got up and carried my plate over to the sink.

"Oh, well, it's not modesty, particularly. I've just gotten rather used…" He cleared his throat. "Rather used to downplaying anything about myself that's a bit different. Especially being 'clever.'"

"To fit in?" I turned to him, and after he put his plate in the sink, I took him in my arms, holding him loose but close, facing me.

He nodded. "I got teased and bullied enough without flaunting it. So I suppose even today I downplay my skills a bit."

I kissed him on the nose. "So you're clever at languages. Anything else?"

"Maths." He kissed me back. "I can do nearly any problem in my head without having to think about it. But please don't test me. I hate it when people test me. I always end up feeling like a performing monkey!"

"All right, Bobo. Anything else?"

"I have a good memory. I remember nearly everything I see, hear, or read." Again he looked embarrassed.

"Those are all good things. I think you should celebrate your intelligence, not downplay it. Why are you in such a small village, anyway? Teaching two boys. You could be working at a big company no doubt, or as a real schoolteacher."

He snorted, his head lowering to rest on my shoulder. "The SIS didn't want me anymore, so I came back here. It was the quickest job I could find, and I wanted to come home. I hadn't been able to get home during the war; they kept us rather busy."

"Are your parents still here?" I asked, rubbing my hands lightly up and down his back.

He shook his head against my shoulder. "No longer living," he said softly. "But I still have quite a few relatives scattered about." He raised his head and drew back enough to look me in the eye. "And now I'll tell you what else I'm good at. In fact, I'll show you."

I clicked my tongue. "Insatiable."

"For you? Always." He headed toward the bedroom, looking back at me to be sure I was following.

And we made love again. All his passion seemed to come out here in bed, and his shyness only returned afterwards, when he looked a bit embarrassed, as if he'd let too much of himself show.

This time I didn't tell him to get dressed. I stroked sweated tendrils of hair off his forehead and leaned down and kissed him on the mouth. He looked up at me with such a wistful longing in his eyes, but he didn't say a word.

Instead of getting dressed and kicking him out, I gave him a few more minutes, stroking lightly over his bare skin, soothing him with my fingers the way I didn't know how to with words. He watched me the whole time. Neither of us spoke.

#

I thought about Jack a lot over the next few days. Having a man in my life whom I was beginning to really care about brought up some old things for me. Specifically, Ralph. There was pain there, and regret.

But it had been a long time. If this gorgeous man wanted to be in my life—and clearly he did—then it was time to find a way to make that happen. Every step I took was a reminder of Ralph and what happened, but I didn't have to let it control every aspect of my life forever. This time, I would be worthy of my lover.

I tried to plan ways I could spend more time with him. A nice little picnic down by the riverbed would be comfortable. Nobody had to know we were more than friends. I supposed I felt safer here, because it wasn't back in the US. I felt like nothing bad could happen to us here. I didn't want to find out, of course, but if we were careful…

I thought about his skin a lot. The vulnerable paleness of it under his clothes. The way he shuddered slightly sometimes at my touch. Jack looked like the sort of man who had never had any confidence troubles in his life, but only until you got to know him a bit. Now I had—and I wanted more than a bit.

Thoughts of Jack filled my spare moments, until he appeared back in my life just as suddenly as the first time I'd met him.

"Julian!" he called. I was driving back through the village from a house call when I saw him. He raised a hand and dashed toward me in the street, his smile bright, his hair gleaming in the sun. My breath caught at the sight of him, looking so alive and athletic, his eyes shining as he looked at me.

I braked, slowing down, and he caught up with the car, running, and pulled the door open and hopped in while it was still moving. "Ta," he said breathlessly. "Where are you going?"

"Home from a call. You?"

"Anywhere you take me, baby." He did a passable American accent, and I couldn't help smiling.

I tapped the wheel with my fingertips. "How about a picnic?"

"Oo, lovely."

"I'll get a few things from home and we can sit by the river and eat."

"Sounds scrummy."

I cast him a quick smile. "I like your good moods."

"It's easy to be in a good mood around you," he said, giving me bedroom eyes and flickering his eyelashes.

"You are such a flirt!"

"Ooh yes." He reached across and gripped my arm as I drove. Fortunately, we were out of the village now, bumping along the lane alone.

"Wait till we're at my home," I suggested tightly.

He released me and sat back. "No, of course you're right." He sounded sober, even a bit sad now.

I glanced at him. "Tell me about the kids you teach. How's it going?"

"Oh, you know. Can't complain."

"Most people do."

He snorted, smiling a little. "Suppose so. Well, they're all right really. Good lads. I make sure they run around a bit every day. Boys that age need exercise or they go a bit mad. Not a cruel bone in their bodies, though."

"Isn't the bigger one old enough to go to a boarding school?"

"Yes, but his health's a bit off. That's why he's being taught at home at present." He drummed his fingers on his thighs. "I'm very glad you'd like to go for a picnic. But if you wouldn't actually like to, you needn't." He glanced at me, his expression insecure.

"Huh? Maybe you'd better run that by me again."

"I mean, if you feel you ought to invite me out, don't worry about it. You needn't."

I stared at him. Then quickly paid attention to the road again as we went over a bumpy bit. "I wouldn't have invited you if I didn't want to. Why are you being coy? Don't you want to?"

He grimaced. "You're so plain-spoken."

"Blunt. I'm blunt."

He grinned roguishly. "Yes you are!" His hand slid across my thigh, between my legs.

"Jack! You want me to crash?"

He drew back, chuckling. "Not a bit of it, dear. I trust your concentration skills…even with distraction."

"Well, don't." I drove grimly. I couldn't really go any faster on these back roads. He began to whistle.

"What's that song?" I asked after a bit.

"'I've Got A Lovely Bunch of Coconuts.' Couldn't you tell?"

"Ah. No, I couldn't. You're not terribly good at whistling."

"Thank you," he said, sniffing sarcastically. Then he cast me a smile. "Do you like music? Polly said something about your record collection."

"Sure, I'll put some on if you want."

"Ooh, lovely." He gave me that flirtatious grin again, one side of his smile tilting up more than the other. "While we fuck?"

I grimaced.

"Or I could suck you," he said quickly. "Whatever you like!" He drummed his hands on his thighs and went back to his out-of-tune whistling.

We got there, finally. He practically danced out of the car and into the cottage, leaned over my shoulder while I selected a record, and began to undress me before it had more than started. He had very nice hands: gentle, careful, clever hands. I lay back on my bed, closed my eyes, and let the music wash over me.

"Whatever you'd like," he said in a soft, husky voice. "Just tell me. It's yours."

#

"These are good sandwiches."

Jack ate carefully, trying to make the delicious flavor of the ham last as long as possible.

The long-legged doctor stretched out beside him on an old blanket. They were under a willow tree, staring at the water. Julian sat close enough to touch. But he didn't touch.

He was staring out over the water, his expression troubled. He looked so well pulled together, hair combed and suit arrayed properly, even as he sat relaxing on the riverbank.

"What's wrong, Julian?" Jack asked, after he finished his sandwich and Julian still hadn't spoken. The American doctor seemed to grow so distant sometimes, after sex and at other times. He had a sadness about him, as though remembering something painful that never quite left him alone.

Jack reached over impulsively and touched him lightly on the thigh.

Julian removed his hand without looking at him. "Not out here, Jack."

"I—I wasn't. I just wondered..."

"I was trying to decide how much to tell you." Julian turned his head and met Jack's gaze, his brown eyes solemn and serious. "I suppose there's no reason not to tell you everything." He looked away again; his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed.

"You don't have to tell me anything," promised Jack. "Not unless you want to."

"It's about my old lover."

"Don't worry," said Jack quickly. The doctor looked like he was in such pain! "You needn't. I've had lovers, lots of them. You don't have to tell me about it. I mean, there's nobody else now, is there? That's all that matters to me. For the record there's nobody else for me, either."

Julian smiled a little, looking amused. "No, there's nobody else. And I'm not expecting we have to tell one another every little detail of our past love lives."

Jack looked relieved, and Julian laughed at his expression. Putting on a wounded look, Jack sat back and crossed his arms, trying to look indignant.

Julian's face sobered to a look of sad, affectionate pride. "Jack, I don't mind, honestly." He put a hand on his arm, a comforting, reassuring touch, and then removed it. He had such gentle hands, Jack felt better instantly. The doctor's touch. "I knew when I first met you that a man like you could have anybody you wanted, and probably had. You're so damned beautiful."

"Really?"

Julian shook his head. "It's beneath you, Jack, to trawl for compliments. You damned well know you're gorgeous!"

Jack felt himself blushing, and he hadn't thought he could blush. "It's… it's the first time anybody's told me that, actually."

"Well, you are." Julian stared at him with those deep brown eyes, assessing, seeming to see to his core, and then he looked startled. "You must've had some awful selfish lovers if they couldn't even be bothered to tell you."

Suddenly he longed to tell Julian, to tell him all of it. "Well, I've always been a…a bit of a tart, really." He ran a hand back through his hair, trying to smile and look casually calm. "I was the bloke they shagged or got to suck them if they couldn't find somebody better. Oh, I'm not complaining. I didn't exactly hold myself to higher standards. I took what I could get, when I could get it, and everybody I met seemed to know I didn't need sweet talked or even bought a pint to put out. Good old willing Jack." He tried to smile, but it felt wrong on his face. "I'm not such a tart lately, though. Well, except with you." This time, his smile felt more real.

Julian gazed at him with protective affection. He touched his arm again, leaving his hand there a moment longer, and squeezed this time. Such a reassuring touch. It was almost better than his words when they came.

"I'm sorry. You deserved to be loved."

Jack ducked his head, uncomfortable with such talk. Next thing he knew, Julian would be say that he… Jack's heart fluttered in the cavern of his chest, and he was suddenly desperately aware of his surroundings, of every inch of his skin. All of him felt vulnerable, aching with longing, as much as he did just before Julian entered him. Oh, how good that felt: Julian's gentle, skilled fingers bringing him to a peak of preparedness, so he thought he couldn't wait one more second to be filled, the longing and intense passion of those moments. He desired Julian that desperately now in a different way, even though he'd never consciously thought he desired to hear those words at all.

The doctor cleared his throat. "Jack." He looked away, as though ashamed. "You need to hear. Before you start looking at me like that."

"Hear what?" asked Jack quietly. He was still throbbing, aching. This new desire, the one to be loved, wasn't going anywhere. Or at least it was going to take some time to leave. He tried to think, to concentrate on what was actually going on. Of course Julian hadn't been about to tell him he loved him. Jack ought to be ashamed of himself for jumping to conclusions. He told his cock, and his heart, to behave.

Julian spoke softly. "The only reason I'm here is because…because I wasn't man enough to…" He cleared his throat, bringing a fist to his mouth and coughing into it, sounding like he was in pain.

"You needn't tell me," promised Jack. "And you're all man. I won't believe any less of you no matter what."

"Well, you might," said Julian softly. "It was just before the War. I was back from…from medical school, just a new doctor, and madly in love. We were young; we'd been in medical school together. We were heedless. I lived in Florida, near the Everglades, and the swamps are something else there. We thought it was safe, that no one would possibly stumble upon us out there, making love. But one afternoon they did. I'd meant to get a job soon. He was going to work across the state. The tragedy of it is, he'd probably still be alive if we hadn't postponed parting for that one last week."

He leaned back, closing his eyes, facing the sun through the tree. The leaves and sun dappled light and shadow over his pained features. "I can't…believe they found us." He cleared his throat again. "A hunting party. They stumbled upon us when…well…it was impossible to misunderstand what we were doing together. He…he told me to run. 'Run, Jack,' he said, my lover, my beautiful Ralph, with a wild look in his eyes. He flung his arm one way, for me to go, and he ran the other. The men came after us…"

He swallowed, hard.

"I got away," he said simply. He reached down to pat his leg, like an old war wound. "Not without getting rather hurt in the process, though. Ralph didn't. They killed him. They'd have eventually found and killed me too, I think, but my mother bought me a ticket to England and gave me a letter of introduction through a friend. I got a job here. And I've stayed ever since.

"My injury kept me from serving, so I tried to do my best as a doctor on the home front. It never felt like enough. It never will feel like enough, knowing I lived and Ralph died." He stared into the distance, his gaze flat with despair and sorrow.

"I'm sorry." Jack spoke quietly. "How do you know Ralph died?"

He grimaced. "I saw him." He turned away, breathing shallowly, as if the memory still made him feel ill. He didn't elaborate.

Jack laid a hand on his thigh. "I'm sorry. But clearly it wasn't your fault. If you'd stayed, maybe you'd both have been killed."

"Yes," said Julian quietly. "But I should have stayed anyway. I dream about him. I dream about him dying alone, with those cruel men surrounding him, and me not there." His voice broke, quivering on the last words. He hadn't pushed Jack's hand off.

"Surely you living meant more to him than anything," said Jack softly. "Why, I haven't known you long at all, and he'd loved you for some time, and I can see…how…well, can't you see it? If it had been you, wouldn't you have rather he got away, even if you couldn't?"

"Sometimes I'd give anything to be back by his side," said Julian simply. "I'd rather have died than be a coward and let my lover die in my place."

"In your place? That makes it sound like you deserved to die, and neither of you did, surely. I'm sorry this happened, but I can't believe you're blaming yourself."

Julian turned to meet his gaze now, glaring and tear-stained. "I think you should go," he said quietly.

Jack's heart plummeted. He held very still for a moment, and then he climbed to his feet. "Yes. I'm sorry. I didn't mean… I shouldn't have said anything." He brushed off his trousers with elaborate care, giving Julian time to change his mind. "I hope to see you again," said Jack softly.

Julian looked away, squinting out over the water, his face tight and hurting. He didn't say anything.

"Goodbye," said Jack. "I'm sorry I said the wrong thing. And for what it's worth, I really am sorry about Ralph."

He walked away, slowly, hoping all the time that Julian would call out after him, tell him to wait, to come back, he didn't mean it.

Julian didn't say a word. Jack told himself he wasn't going to take this personally, wasn't going to overreact. A hard, tight knot in his chest threatened to choke him all the same.

#

Ralph tormented my thoughts for the next week, waking and sleeping. I'd thought that talking to Jack about it would help. That if he understood, old ghosts would be exorcized. Instead my guilt and grief seemed to return a hundredfold, as if finally talking about it, admitting how guilty I felt, had cemented those things instead of chasing them away.

I dreamed of Ralph's body; I dreamed of running, running, and the injury to my leg. I dreamed I would never be whole again.

When I wasn't thinking about Ralph, I thought about Jack. I thought about his gorgeous body, his expressive eyes, and the way he smiled at me. He liked me so much, and he couldn't keep it hidden. But could I ever be what he needed?

Worst of all, had I really taken offense so I had an excuse not to get any closer to him?

I knew very well he hadn't meant to hurt me with his words. But I'd sent him away anyhow.

After that, he didn't come around my cottage, and part of me was relieved. Another part that was getting quite used to his presence, his friendliness, and the very good time we had together in bed, missed him dreadfully. My kitchen seemed darker without him there drinking my tea, lowering his eyelashes and flirting outrageously with me.

I had taken in what he'd said about being easy, calling himself a tart. In a way, I could see it: he was so quick to give, and seemed to lack the confidence he should have, as if he'd never really had anyone like him enough to believe he was likeable. I'd wanted to be that person for him. But Ralph's pale, still face, smeared with blood, haunted me.

How could I be worthy of anyone's devotion ever again, when I had let the man I loved die? It was no good saying it had been years ago; the guilt remained.

I dreamed of Ralph, but I woke up aching for Jack. If only I could get past this. If only I could wake up in his arms, warm and muscular and keeping me in the present, pulling me away from the past and the swamp.

I tried not to let my work suffer, but not a few people remarked about the dark circles under my eyes, and that I seemed sadder than usual. Several women asked if I was eating and tried to press food on me.

Finally, it was time to take Jack's stitches out. I dreaded it as much as I looked forward to it. I knew I owed him an apology. I also knew it was more than likely I'd wouldn't give it, but instead allow this distance to grow between us, to keep myself from getting close to him or anyone. I felt like a man clutching a wounded hand close, till the muscles seized up and he couldn't straighten it out again. But that knowledge didn't change me.

When I went to take out Jack's stitches, he greeted me politely, but with restraint. For once I couldn't tell what he was thinking or feeling. He led me to the kitchen, and I went to work on his arm, picking out the stitches. It was a warmer day than last time, almost unpleasantly warm in the kitchen. The cook wasn't present just now, but a roast was baking, filling the kitchen with a heavy meat smell. Polly was there for a moment, and then she smiled at me, and slightly more at Jack, before retreating.

"Does she fancy you?" I asked softly, for something to say. I couldn't bear the silence any longer. It would be nice to lose Polly's regard without having to do anything to make her dislike me. I removed another stitch carefully, and he took a sharp breath, trying not to flinch.

"You're all right." I touched his shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. He felt very familiar under my hand, warm and good. My mouth went dry.

"No, she doesn't fancy me," he said vaguely. He squeezed his hand into a fist.

"Just relax." I touched his fist briefly and went back to work. "You're fine."

"I won't talk about it anymore," Jack said softly, his head still bent, watching me work. "I won't ask about Ralph, or tell you how to feel, or expect too much."

I didn't know what to say. It took me by surprise; I didn't think we were going to talk about that. I heard in his voice how desperate he was not to lose me. He was still wearing his heart on his sleeve for me after all. This man had called himself a tart, but when I was with him, all I saw was the depth of his generous heart. I wished he didn't think so little of himself. And for a moment, I wished he wouldn't settle for a man like me. He deserved someone better.

"Would that be all right?" he asked softly, flinching again. "I'll just… visit sometimes, and you can send me away, if you'd rather not see me just then. So may I still see you sometimes?"

"Of course." I took the last stitch out and straightened up, forcing myself to meet his gaze. I was disappointed in him making it too easy for me—and giving me no way out. How could I say no to him when he put it like that? "I'd like to see you," I added, and began putting my things away in the Gladstone.

"Good." He glanced down at his arm, then rolled down his sleeve. He hopped up from the chair, and suddenly flashed me a quick, shy, quirky smile, a smile that made the sun seem to shine more brightly. "Thank you, Doctor Jamison." He straightened his shirt, gave me a little salute, and then strode from the room with a swagger to his step.

I watched him go and snapped my bag shut.

#

Jack knocked lightly at the doctor's door. He'd waited two days, just to give Julian longer to get over being angry with him, if he still was.

Now his heart pounded painfully fast as he waited. To calm himself, he tried counting silently backwards from a hundred in Polish. Then he heard footsteps, bit his lip and held his breath.

Julian pushed the door open and smiled at him, looking rueful and disheveled. "Jack? Come on in. I was just putting the kettle on." He jerked his head for Jack to enter and shuffled back, holding the door.

"Cheers—I mean, thank you." He scraped his boots quickly and ducked inside. "Tea sounds lovely," he said witlessly, looking around the familiar dark room. He moved to the windows by the table and pulled the curtains wider. "It's always so dark in here."

Julian glanced at him. "Wouldn't you rather it was dark at present? I just pulled them." He arched an eyebrow at Jack, laughing at him without doing more than twitch his lips.

Jack's stomach flip-flopped. "Oh, I'd love to, Julian," he said earnestly, far more earnestly than he meant to. "But I think I ought to tell you one more thing first, and then we need never talk about the past again, all right?"

Julian just looked at him, and then gave a faint nod. His smile was gone, and he held onto the stove as if he needed it to stand up. "Go on."

"I'm not working anywhere better because I was blackballed from the…the service. My supervisor...well, they found out I've slept with men. Picked the wrong bloke, I suppose. I was such a dreadful slut in the war, never knew which day might be the last, and there were so many opportunities. I almost never said no."

He cleared his throat. "That's why I don't have a better job. I was too free with my favors, got found out and told off, and informed I was lucky not to face something much worse than unemployment." He shrugged. "Suppose I was, really. So now I'm a tutor. I don't know how long this job will last, frankly. But I'm here now, and I…I would quite like to stay friends."

They looked at one another.

Julian's mouth twisted in a frown, and he opened his arms. "Come here. I'm sorry." Jack moved gratefully into his embrace, hardly believing his luck. The feel of tweed and strong arms made him feel safe, loved. Julian kissed the side of his head, his lips soft and warm. "I'm sorry I was so cold, and I'm sorry they sent you away."

Jack laughed shakily. "You make me sound quite the martyr. I'm not. You don't feel sorry for me, do you? That's not it?"

Julian laughed and rubbed his back, swaying with him a little. "No, I don't feel sorry for you! Come on, I've gone off the tea. Why don't you show me your coconuts again?"

Jack laughed, lighthearted with delight. "Oh yes, plenty of coconut milk left…"

Julian laughed and gave him a little swat on the side. "You've got a filthy mouth, soldier."

"Ha!" He tossed his head, picking up his steps and almost bouncing along toward the bedroom. "I was never a proper soldier at all."

"Oh, no, quite a fancy one, were you?"

They headed to Julian's bed, teasing one another with lighthearted mercilessness.

#

Jack felt that they ought to be more careful, but Julian said it was perfectly all right that the town knew they were friends. It was certainly not unexpected; they'd been seen in one another's company by the riverbank, and driving together and talking more than once when they met by chance—smiling, too.

It was perfectly acceptable to go to the cinema together, he insisted.

And so they went and saw a film, but Jack barely registered a word the actors said to one another. All he could think about was the man beside him, the warm, very real presence, so solid and strong. Julian was a man with hidden depths, sorrows he'd let Jack glimpse but not help salve. He was so very much better than a shag behind the dustbins. Jack felt a wave of tenderness for Julian, with his American accent and his tweed jacket, his limp and his stubbornness. I mustn't lose this man. He's the best thing that ever happened to me.

Whatever became of them, even if they should happen to drift apart at some point, he knew this was serious to Julian, too. He didn't consider Jack a substitute for a willing barmaid. Nor did he think of his own pleasure first or only; there was no chance of him leaving Jack to catch as catch can, hurry up, put out, and shut up. He always made certain Jack was satiated as much as or more than he was. And with his strong, sure, knowledgeable doctor's hands, he knew just what to do….

Damn. Jack shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Have to stop thinking like that…

"You all right?" asked Julian softly. "You seem uncomfortable. Is this working for you?"

"It's…it's great," managed Jack, in a slightly choked voice.

"Just let me know if it isn't." Julian leaned nearer and slid a hand down his thigh, letting it rest just above his knee, and gave him a gentle, reassuring squeeze. And Jack sat there, transported, certain his face must be glowing more than the silver screen.

#

We fell into a regular schedule. I hid a key for Jack under a stone, and he came over whenever he could spare the time. If I was in bed or eating, he joined me in bed or at my meal, making love, making jokes, or just chatting. We kept all conversation away from the past now. He was rarely sad, almost always charming, friendly, and cheerful, as if just seeing me was enough to make his day better. Always a ready smile for me, or a warm mouth to kiss me. He made me laugh like no one ever had, even Ralph. For a sometimes (okay, often) rather dour man like me, it was a wonderful experience.

He could even make me laugh without a word. He'd grab a scrap of paper, a nub of pencil, and look at me, licking the end of the lead, his eyes dancing as if he was daring me to look away. Then he'd draw something with quick, sure lines and turn it to face me for my appreciation: landscapes, cartoons, sketches of birds.

I never sent him away after sex, let him stay and lounge as long as he wanted. And sometimes we held each other close. It made me think of Ralph, but that didn't hurt as much as it once would have. I might always carry that guilt, but Jack needed me now, and he deserved to be cherished. I tried my best to live in the present, to treat him right.

If I wasn't in, he let himself in anyway and made a cup of tea, washed a couple of dishes, waited for me, and then let himself out if I didn't arrive home in time to see him. I'd find little pictures he drew me, silly little cartoons or landscapes interpreted with a few quick lines, or intricate drawings of trees. He left them for me under the edges of my book or newspaper, whatever I was currently reading in the evenings. Once he replaced my bookmark with one of his little pictures. He never left me any notes or any dirty drawings; we didn't want to risk evidence.

If I was in a hurry and we only had a couple of minutes, he'd always try to put my pleasure above his own. I had to steer our encounters a bit to make sure I took care of him; the man was generous to a fault.

Altogether, he found a lot of time to see me, and I appreciated it. Sometimes when we lay in bed together after lovemaking, and he'd fallen asleep, I watched him for a moment and reached over to brush back his golden-brown hair. He looked so peaceful and innocent asleep. Looking at him, I felt something warm and friendly well up inside me. Sometimes I impulsively woke him with a kiss. I loved the look on his face, sleepy and sweetly surprised, and the sensuous way he stretched and then cuddled up to me, smiling like I was the best thing he'd ever seen.

Sometimes I saw it in his eyes, though he never said it: he loved me. He thought I was the best man in the world. It made me a little ashamed of myself, because I knew I wasn't. But blindness on that subject seemed to suit him, and it would be pointless trying to convince him otherwise, especially since I didn't actually want to scare him away anymore.

He let me guide our relationship, tell him if he couldn't come over certain days of the week and decide how we slept together if I showed any indication of wishing to. He let me make any choice about our relationship that I wanted to. It made me want to be generous. He trusted me, accepted gladly whatever time I could spare him, and thought I was wonderful even when I couldn't give him much. It was humbling, maddening—and absolutely amazing.

#

It seemed timeless, their days together, but time was passing. Jack noticed it in the peaking of summer, the warmest hours and heavy heat, and then the gradual change to autumn, the cooler, rainier days, the ripening fields and changing of leaves. His students required more tutoring time from him now so that they wouldn't fall behind in their studies. He also had to eat with the family most nights, so he didn't get to see Julian as often.

But everywhere he went, every day, he carried Julian with him. Thoughts of Julian buoyed him up, carrying him through the day, making him safe. Making him feel as though he could walk on air.

The best thing about Julian was how Jack always felt as though he had his full attention when they were together, even if one or both of them were busy and rushed. Unlike those first days, when the memories had crowded close, now he seemed able to simply set aside his concerns or worries, like closing a door, and turn his full attention to Jack. They joke together, ate, talked, and made love.

It was so wonderful to feel for once in his life that someone liked Jack for himself, not for what he could do. There was nothing false about the doctor's regard. Never any backhanded compliments, or behaving as though Jack was simply something for sexual gratification, to be disposed of afterwards as quickly as possible.

Jack hadn't realized how much he'd longed for that, since he never had it before. Oh, there had been plenty of blokes who didn't mind shagging a cheap and cheerful, willing, smiling Jack: some had even welcomed him in their beds, or for several months' worth of shagging. But it was different to feel like a man desired him for himself, not just to make the hours less tedious and soak up their excess lust. When the doctor looked at him, spoke to him, made love to him, Jack felt as if Julian really saw him, and liked him, not just the sex. Though they hid their relationship behind the guise of friendship, he never felt that Julian was ashamed of him, only trying to protect him.

Why hadn't he found a bloke like this before? Well, he knew why: there was no one, absolutely no one like Julian.

#

One day Jack was walking down the lane, whistling and tossing stones as if he was a child again. It felt good to not have to behave like an adult sometimes.

His thoughts were occupied with lazy memories, and looking forward to seeing Julian later today, when he was interrupted. Three men in a motorcar pulled up and idled alongside, keeping pace with him. The quiet, idyllic lane took on an ominous air. The men were clearly watching him—following him.

And I'm not armed, he thought, a chill running down his back. He couldn't think of any enemies who might have it in for him, but they weren't here for a drive, clearly.

And so he ran.

He took off straight through the hedge and into the fields beyond. He ran with the springing, loping, explosive steps that had saved his life more than once in the war when he'd needed to leg it. But these men were not taken by surprise. They poured from the vehicle and ran after him like young wolfhounds.

Briars tore at his clothes—a rather nice tweed that he certainly hadn't wished to damage. Mud sloshed up into his shoes, and he ran pell-mell, for his life. Whatever they wanted, it would be no good. Enemies made during his time in the service? But surely they couldn't reach him here, far from all danger in the English countryside. Bold as brass, to send foreign agents after him in broad daylight, and besides, what did he know?

No, it must be something else: criminal, not international. Someone wished him captive or dead. There were no gunshots—yet. Even if they had silencers, he would hear the little pop of their firing—and no doubt feel the sharp jab in his side just before he fell, soaked in red and drawing near to death.

He had one advantage, if it could be called that: he knew this land. He'd grown up here, played so many games that involved running and hiding—some of them not really games, but escaping from boys who resented him. He should at least be able to do that right this last time, when his life depended upon it.

He would give it his all, as he always had done, and if this was the time for him to die, he'd have no regrets. None except for Julian: he wished he could have longer with Julian.

#

I drove along, just slightly faster than the old car or the narrow, bumpy lane quite liked. The wind was in my hair, and I felt rakish and daring. Jack was coming to visit, and the prospect of Jack always made the days brighter, even when it seemed to make my rounds last forever. My leg was hurting today especially. It never quite stopped; the break had been a compound one, and I'd been lucky to keep the leg at all.

I thought of it again, that fateful day, even as I drove. The wind whipped my hair, and I remembered the fall that had left me twisted and agonized for hours, how I'd refused to cry out or call for help, how I'd pulled myself to hide in safety, tried to take care of my broken leg myself, and passed out twice before someone found me and brought me back to town on a makeshift stretcher. Each bump in the journey seemed to cause agony anew. And then I saw Ralph, and I knew my pain was as nothing, because he lay in a broken, twisted wreck, his beautiful boyish figure beaten as if he was trash.

The men who killed him were never caught. Or at least, never prosecuted. My mother sent me away as soon as humanly possible, limping on crutches as I boarded a train, then a boat, and going as far away as she could send me. It was the only way she had to keep me safe. But I had never been safe again, not really. I was not safe from the knowledge of what could happen in an instant, or knowing how I would react: that I would run instead of staying beside the man I loved.

Sometimes I'd give anything to take that back. If my leg hadn't been injured, I could have served in the war. I could've been an army doctor, instead of staying in a little English village. Or perhaps I'd have died with Ralph, but at least he wouldn't have been alone.

If they hadn't found us, hadn't caught us, Ralph and I could've lived on together happily, found some way to stay together and keep private our personal lives. Even as I thought that, I knew it couldn't have been: Ralph had spoken sometimes, reluctantly, about the future: he spoke as if the thing we shared was a sojourn, a brief respite in a longer journey that involved marriage and children and a respectable career, probably joining the Masons and the local school board as well.

I had never seen a future like that for myself, but no matter what, I shouldn't have left him to die alone.

At least now I was living again, truly living. Jack was here, and he made life worthwhile, not just a burden to be soldiered through but a place of beauty and tenderness, a place where I could notice the colors of fall without pain, and even look forward to winter, because it would mean sitting in front of a cozy fire with Jack. We would read and talk and make love and drink cocoa. And if we never talked about the future, we were nonetheless moving toward sharing it in whatever ways we could.

I knew without having to ask that Jack never wanted to marry a woman and have children; he wanted to stay with me, in whatever capacity we could. Perhaps, someday, we would even be in a position to live together.

I could hope, couldn't I?

As if conjured from my thoughts, I saw Jack ahead of me in a car. It was nearly outside my home, and moving fast, digging ruts deeper in the lane. I stared and blinked.

Yes, it was Jack all right. I'd have recognized him anywhere, even just from a glimpse at the back of his head. His shoulders were hunched, and he sat between two men in the back seat of the large black car, jammed between them in a way that looked uncomfortable. It was odd, because the front passenger seat was empty; he'd have fit better there.

A sharp, painful prickle ran down my back, and for a moment I could hardly breathe.

It was happening again, wasn't it? I was going to lose the man I loved. They were taking him away from me, and I couldn't stop it.

Except this time I could.

I revved the engine and shot after them, the car protesting such treatment as it grumbled down the lane.

We passed my cottage and didn't stop. The men were glancing back now. Jack turned also, and I saw he was bleeding. His face was pale as he mouthed the word 'no' to me. The driver sped up, and one of the men glared at me and tried to motion me past.

As if I would go past, even if there was room.

I revved harder, pushing my car to its limit, right up behind them, riding the bumper. One of the men in the back seat drew a gun. His face dark with anger, he pointed it right at Jack's head.

Jack flinched from the touch of the barrel to his skull. He closed his eyes, raising his hands a little. He looked ill and exhausted, weary and frightened. They'd hurt him, and probably meant to do worse.

He'd been less careful than me in his life; they probably knew he was homosexual and had come to kill him for it.

The bastards! It was always the same, wasn't it? And now they expected me to back off? Not a chance in hell.

I rammed the car.

#

When Jack saw the doctor's face in the car behind them, at first his heart leapt, and then it sank like a torpedoed submarine. Julian was here: Julian was here, and now he would be hurt, too. Nothing was supposed to happen to Julian, no matter what. Despair filled him as he tried to warn the doctor away, and they pulled the gun. If Julian had to watch another lover die, unable to do anything about it, it would just about kill him, wouldn't it?

Then Jack saw his chance when the white-faced, furious doctor rammed the car with his own. It jolted them all forward. The men who'd run him down and dragged him back, bloodied but unbowed (okay, a bit bowed; he couldn't quite straighten up by the time they got him to the car), were flung forward the same as he was. And Jack had his chance. He thrust his elbow out, connecting with the gunman, whirling and grappling for the gun the best he could. It slipped between them as they fumbled over it.

The car bumped up and over something quite hard that sent them all flying forward, and the gun sailed away over the side of the car. He saw a furious face, and a fist coming toward him. He ducked, but the tight confines and the earlier blows made it difficult; he took it on the shoulder instead of the face, and then the other man behind him had him in a headlock, and it was difficult to breathe….

As his vision clouded, he was still aware of the bumping of the car—and then when it came to a stop. Behind him, over a roaring in his ears and the thundering of his heart as he fought for air, growing weaker all the while, he thought he heard Julian's voice….

#

I stopped the car where I'd seen the gun fly, and scrambled out of the driver's seat, leaving the engine running. It was difficult to hurry, and my leg almost gave way in my rush; but there it was, the gun, lying gleaming and cold on the grass. I galumphed over to get it, dragging my aching leg.

I bent to get the gun and felt another awful twinge. I'd really overdone it lately, I supposed, but there was no time for that. I raised the gun in both hands and pointed at the men ahead.

Their car had come to stop halfway in a field; smoke poured from the engine, and it clearly wasn't going anywhere for a while. One of them had Jack in a headlock and seemed to be squeezing tightly, a vicious look on his large, rough-textured face.

The other two came pouring out of the car and toward me. I held the gun up, hoping I knew how to fire. I'd spent my life learning to heal, not kill: I'd refused every offer to go hunting, and I knew very little about guns. Still, what did one need to know to pull a trigger? My hands shook.

"Let him go, or you're for it," I gasped out, surprised by how breathless and desperate I sounded. And, in what might be some of my last moments, how English. No American would say "for it" like that, but those were the words that sprang to my lips.

The men separated and took another step forward each.

"I mean it."

They exchanged a look that said I was an idiot, and then rushed me, not even bothering to say a word.

I pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

"Didn't even know enough to take off the safety!" one of them crowed.

I fell backwards as they knocked me to the ground. And that was all for a while.

#

The ship was rocking, I could feel it. The ship taking me away from Robert and to a new life. My leg ached and ached with each jarring, and I wondered if I was about to be seasick.

A warm arm pressed against mine. It was a nice arm, sturdy. The man who owned it stirred. "Julian…" he groaned, and all at once I was back in England and the disturbing immediacy of reality.

I kept my eyes closed, my heart pounding as hard as my head. This was Jack, not Ralph. We were both in the back of a car. Had they gotten theirs working? No, it was mine! I recognized the sound of its engine groaning as we passed over some rough ground.

They'd stolen my car, and now they were taking us away.

"Less of the talk," said a gruff voice, and I heard a thump. Jack groaned and fell silent. I opened my eyes to glare at the man who'd hit him.

He was a beefy man, and he gave me an insolent grin, looking me up and down as if assessing meat at a market. "So you're his latest, are you? Never have guessed you for an arse bandit."

I grimaced and closed my eyes. They meant to kill us; I was absolutely certain of it now. They probably hadn't done it yet simply because they needed to reach a more isolated place first.

My heart ran a mile a minute, and even in the midst of this worry, I couldn't shut out the pain of my leg. I'd wrenched it badly at some point, and it was letting me know in no uncertain terms.

My mind raced, trying to find some way out of this situation. But they had us propped up in the back of my car, guarded on both sides. It was wider than the back seat of theirs, so there was room for all four of us easily.

I could never fight them off, even if they didn't have the gun again, and even if I was up to full strength. And Jack was clearly in a bad way, swaying beside me. He'd looked pale and ill in the brief glimpse I'd gotten of his face. I kept my eyes closed for a moment, then forced myself to open them, to face reality.

We were going over rough ground too quickly, of course, and I wondered how long my car would put up with it. Perhaps that would provide my chance…

But no. I doubted they'd let their guard down for a second, and even if they did, I couldn't run, and Jack clearly wasn't well enough to do so either.

At least I couldn't abandon him. This time, I would have to face death with the man I loved.

My heart lifted slightly, and I heard a bird singing in the trees just as we passed by. I raised my head, took a deep breath, and felt the sun on my face. I leaned against Jack, turned to him, and pressed a kiss to his pale cheek.

#

Jack felt the light pressure from Julian's kiss, and his heart sank. That kiss felt so very much like goodbye. He forced himself to open his eyes, despite how dizzy and ill he felt. The passing landscape blurred like a Van Gogh painting, and he blinked, trying to concentrate. He stared down at his lap, as the sight of their thighs next to one another became clearer. Julian's thigh looked sturdy. Jack remembered how Julian's bare legs looked when they were in bed together, laughing and smiling at each other even as they were trying to make love. There was always room lately for laughter with Julian: except for now.

Fumbling awkwardly, he reached over and caught Julian's hand and gave it a squeeze.

The doctor's soft voice spoke, filled with heartache, regret, and passion. "I love you, Jack. I'm sorry I never said."

A smile twitched Jack's lips, and he squeezed the hand harder, giving it a little shake. "That's all right. I knew. I knew when you gave me a key to your place."

"Oh, Ja—"

"Shut it," growled one of their captors, sounding appalled. "Save the sweet talk for when you're dead!" He cuffed the doctor, who winced. Jack burned with the desire for revenge—to raze the man's house to the ground and burn it, and dance on the embers. All he could do was glare at him, which earned him a cuff as well.

They were driving through scattered farmland, into more and more isolated landscapes. Here there was plenty of rough ground to hide behind. Soon a quiet lane or private bit of farmland would see them lined up and executed, no doubt, like spies. He hoped it would be quick.

He shuddered. And who were they? He still hadn't figured it out. Although he was starting to get a clearer idea….

The brakes squealed painfully as the car drew to a quick halt. "What the bloody—?" exclaimed the driver.

Jack tried to sit up straighter, to peer up ahead to what was going on.

"Sorry. Just moving t' sheep," called a deliberately mild voice that held a laugh underneath the words. Jack saw him the same moment he recognized that voice: his cousin Harold!

He was a big man, with a dangerous presence that his innocent shepherd's guise couldn't hide. There was a bulge at the side of his coat: clearly a gun.

How did Harold…?

"Well get a move on!" yelled the driver, standing up and waving at the sheep, as though that would make them part.

The woolly creatures continued around the car, baaing and getting confused, a great quantity of them.

"Sorry, sorry," said Harold, hurrying sheepishly after them, his head lowered. He had a look about him as though he was trying not to grin vacantly, but his eyes flashed with anger underneath. Jack hoped the men hadn't seen. He squeezed Julian's hand harder, hoping to get his attention. Harold was giving them a chance, if they were just strong enough to take it.

"I said—" The driver shoved the door open, pushing aside an indignant sheep, and started out of the car. "Get them going!"

"Not so fast." A loud click sounded as Harold's gun appeared, quickly and competently in his hand—and aimed directly at the driver's head. "Now you're going to let them go," he growled in a low, angry voice, addressing the men in the back seat. "Unless you'd like to see his brains scattered all around here. Oh, and don't worry about the two of you escaping, either. We take care of our own here, and there's nobody more our own than Dr. Jamison and my cousin Jack. If you run, we'll hunt you down like rabbits. Your bodies will disappear in some quiet wood, and if anybody comes a'lookin' for you, they'll meet a solid face of helpful indifference. But they'll never find even your bones."

Jack took advantage of their distraction and flung himself against the man on his side. Beside him, he could hear and feel Julian doing the same. One of the men grunted. Jack struggled to get the gun from the man's hands; they fought for it, and the gun raised high between them. On the other side, he heard the sound of a fist and a grunt, and hoped it wasn't Julian being hurt….

They struggled harder for the gun. Then Cousin Harold was there; he reached over with his long arm and plucked the gun from the man's hand, and aimed both revolvers at the driver before the man could take advantage of his distraction and flee. "You were saying?"

The man beside Jack slumped in defeat—just as Jack hit him across the jaw. It was a satisfying blow, though his hand was going to ache for days. He shook his fist out and turned dizzily to see how Julian had fared. The doctor sat beside an unconscious man, looking pleased with himself, almost triumphant, despite his disarrayed state.

"All right?" asked Jack, reaching over to give his arm an affectionate squeeze.

Julian nodded breathlessly. His eyes gleamed at Jack, more alive than they'd ever looked before. "I didn't run," he said softly. "I came after you."

"That you did." Jack gave him another squeeze and laughed a little breathlessly. He still felt shaky, and his head wasn't quite right yet, but he was alive: they were both alive.

Though perhaps Julian had never been quite so alive before. He looked like a man who'd conquered his past and now saw the world in a new and wonderful way. He reached for Jack's face, pulled him closer, and gave him a full-on snog, right in front of Harold.

"Doc," complained Jack, though he was grinning hard, almost wriggling with pleasure at being claimed thus. He glanced at Harold, who rolled his eyes skyward.

"Thought you'd quit that, eh our Jack?"

Jack blushed. "Well—"

Harold grinned and took pity on him, shaking his head. "I know. You just said that so I wouldn't do something I'd regret. And I appreciate it, really. Me and the missus…we're doing better." He gave Jack a small, slow nod, acknowledging his part in it.

Jack smiled in relief. "Thanks, Harold. You bloody great hero! Come on, then, let's get these blokes to the coppers and be rid of them. I don't know about you, but I could sleep for a week!"

#

I limped to the stove and then back again, carrying the hot teapot carefully. My leg still hurt, but it was getting better.

I glanced at Jack. "Did you ever figure out why they wanted you dead? Apparently they're still not talking."

He sat at my kitchen table, his head bandaged and the rest of him looking bruised and banged up, but so very, fully, and beautifully alive. He watched me as though I was the most interesting sight he'd ever seen, until my question registered. Then he grimaced.

"Let's just say I think one of my old mates—in the Biblical sense—wanted to tie up loose ends so I couldn't tell anyone about him. Heaven help the political world if I'm right." He shook his head.

"I see. Do you think he'll try again?"

"When his mates—in the non-Biblical sense—get prosecuted? I doubt it. He'll have enough trouble keeping them quiet from pointing the finger at him." He grimaced again. "That's not what I mean. You can't silence a finger. You know what I meant, though."

I grinned and nodded. "Do I. We've got to thank your cousin," I said as I poured the tea.

The way Harold knew to help us involved one of my neighbors. Seeing the men driving my car along so quickly, she'd recognized its battered exterior and rung Harold, who lived further down the road. She'd asked him to stop the car, because someone was kidnapping the doctor. And he'd done so, with sheep, good acting, and his gun. He'd saved our lives, and I wasn't going to forget it.

The police had arrived just as Harold was trying to work out the logistics of getting the men to the police station; my neighbor had called them, too. Our attackers had clammed up by then, and the local policeman had taken them away to be questioned.

"You should see a doctor," he'd said before leaving, and then flushed. Jack hadn't been able to keep the grin off his face.

"Oh, I can see him right here," he'd said helpfully, though I knew he wanted to say something saucier. Thankfully, he held his tongue from saying more.

Now, both rested, bandaged, and feeling much better for a night's sleep, we were once again at my cottage, sharing tea. It felt so ordinary a thing to follow the strange and violent events—and all the more profound for it.

"Spam fritters for lunch?" I asked lightly, as I raised my mug, looking at him over its rim.

"I'll help," said Jack, nodding decisively. "And, just so you know, you'll always be my hero, Julian."

He drained his cup, winked at me, and then leaned back, crossing his arms carefully behind his bandaged head. I could see what he was thinking, but he didn't say anything. Probably worried about my leg, of all the damned chivalrous nonsense.

So I was forced to say it for him. "Come on, then." I grinned. "Show me your coconut!"

"I thought you'd never ask."

He got up and offered me a hand so I didn't have to limp as badly. We walked sedately to my bedroom, arm in arm. "Couple of bloody old men," I muttered under my breath.

"Speak for yourself," said Jack haughtily. And then he gave me a wink. "Though I'll feel right lucky to make it to an old man—especially with you alongside."

"Alongside, on top, underneath—any way at all," I agreed, and winked back.

"Oh, Doc…" He pulled me into an embrace, tight and thorough, sighing as though he'd never felt happier in his life. "Any way at all!"

The birds sang cheerily outside the window as we made it to the bed, and showed one another our coconuts.

The end

Table of Contents

copyright

Jack & Julian

Chapter two

Chapter three