Ezekiel Jones is many things, but one thing he is not and has never been and likely never will be is good with alcohol. He's a bloody featherweight, and he knows it, too. Which is why he's not sure what in God's name possessed him to take up Jacob's offer of going to the pub for a victory round, but he did, and he's paying for it now.

"You good, man?" Jacob laughs, still unfairly steady on his feet, the bastard; he has one hand firmly clamped on the collar of Ezekiel's jacket, the other hand holding his arm to keep him from falling over on his face. They're standing in the alleyway behind the pub since there's a line to get to the men's room, and he does not want to throw up in the middle of the crowd. "Jesus, you're so completely tippled."

"Shut up," Ezekiel groans, still doubled over and trying not to empty his stomach of all its contents. He hasn't thrown up in years, and he's hoping not to break that tradition just yet. Especially since he's kind of hoping to get lucky tonight—the blonde back at the bar had been giving him come-hither eyes all night—and no girl's gonna kiss him if he has vomit-breath.

"Breathe through your mouth," Jacob reminds him, still sounding entirely too happy, and Ezekiel swats at his legs, about the only part of him he can accurately reach from this angle.

It takes him another thirty seconds of breathing slowly to make sure he doesn't lose it, but he straightens up and leans back against the wall, Jacob releasing his collar but not his arm. "See? Totally fine," he replies.

The cowboy snorts loudly. "Really?" he asks, a devious glint in his eyes, then says, "Vienna sausage."

Ezekiel clamps a hand over his mouth as his stomach tries to rebel again; Jacob howls with laughter. "You wanker," he sputters once he's swallowed back the surge of bile.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'll stop, promise," the other man chortles, leaning his shoulder against the wall. "You wanna go back in?"

"Nah, mate, hold off a second." The cool air is helping, and his legs aren't exactly the most trustworthy limbs at the moment. He tips his head back, eyes closed for a moment, but he opens them again when Jacob lightly swats his arm.

"I'm glad you came with, Jones."

"Yeah?"

Jacob nods, still leaning against the wall, a little closer to Ezekiel than he usually gets. The light from the single dim bulb bolted over the pub's back door catches on his hair, bringing out highlights of dark bronze and even bits of deep red. "It's nice."

"Dinnit think you like me that much, cowboy."

"Shut up, man. I like you...when you're not being an insufferable twat."

"Well, I like you too, when you're not being a stubborn arsehole."

They both laugh at that, giggling like a pair of teenage girls; when they get ahold of themselves again, Ezekiel notices for the first time that Jacob's way into his personal space, their arms pressed together, and he smells really good, like old paper and leather and apples. And, when he looks back at Ezekiel, his eyes look more violet than blue under the orange-tinted light, just like Liz Taylor in Cleopatra, which remains his favourite film to this day.

He throws up a mental prayer and leans forward to press his lips to Jacob's because he's drunk and lonely and Jacob smells so good and he's liked the cowboy pretty much from day one.

Jacob makes a faint noise of surprise against his mouth, then grabs Ezekiel by his lapels, hauling him closer, throwing himself into the kiss wholeheartedly. Ezekiel practically climbs up Jacob like a tree, arms around his neck, and the historian rumbles out a low growl in his throat, backing him up against the wall as one kiss becomes two, then three, hands grasping at each other blindly. Bracing himself against the wall for better leverage, the thief raises his feet and wraps both legs around Jacob's waist, knees hitched over his hips. Jacob growls again, his mouth tracking down to the side of Ezekiel's neck, sucking a livid hickey over his pulse point. Ezekiel groans aloud, head back against the rough bricks, arching into the warm mouth and firm body. His hands wander southwards, but when they curl around the well-worn leather of a belt, Jacob draws away slightly, hands on Ezekiel's thighs to push his legs back down, feet on the floor.

Ezekiel whines a little, but the historian insistently shakes his head. "Home first," Jacob growls against his neck, raking his teeth over Ezekiel's pulse point. "Home. Bed."

Bed. A bed sounds like a perfect idea.

He doesn't recall leaving the pub or hailing a cab. Ezekiel doesn't recall much of anything, really, time doing one of those curious spatial leaps that only occur when one is truly wasted. It's kind of like a magic trick. One moment they're in the dim-lit back alley behind a seedy little dive, and the next moment, they're staggering through the bedroom door of Jacob's flat. Ezekiel lets out a little yelp when Jacob pushes against him, sending him stumbling backwards, and the historian laughs aloud. The backs of his knees hit a mattress, and he goes over, falling over on his back atop a soft, quilted comforter. And then Jacob's on top of him, and the next few moments are all groping hands and eager kisses, trying to shimmy out of clothes without pulling away from each other.

Finally, it's just skin to skin, flushed and warm; Jacob draws the quilt up over them. It's warmer that way, and more intimate somehow, too. Ezekiel wraps his arms around Jacob again, exploring the contours of his back, how his muscles move as he shifts into position; he moans a little as those callused hands slide down his body with chafing tenderness, fumbling a little, but it's more from alcohol than uncertainty, or so he hopes anyways.

"Ow, fuck," Ezekiel hisses out. It's too much too fast, and there's a moment of sharp, stinging discomfort.

"Sorry. Wan' me t' stop?" Jacob murmurs in his ear, accent gone thick and broad the way it only does when he's really angry or really worried. Or apparently, really turned on.

"Don't you fucking dare," he replies, digging his nails into Jacob's shoulder blades hard enough to leave a mark. He'll be sore, but fuck it, he wants to feel it tomorrow.

Jacob growls, full-on growls at him, and gives as good as he's got. Ezekiel's reduced to a whimpering, begging mess underneath him in no time at all, hands scrabbling helplessly at his back, legs clutched tightly around his waist. And all the time, Jacob's hands are all over him, stroking over his ribs, his chest, his stomach, his hips. He purposefully doesn't touch Ezekiel's cock, the fucking tease, but it hardly matters. Ezekiel's already on the edge, and he's about one more good thrust away from—oh, fuck.

Jacob sinks his teeth into the curve of Ezekiel's shoulder. It's not a hickey, it's a bite, hard enough that there's going to be a lasting mark for days, and Ezekiel's done for. His back arches, his hands claw at Jacob's back, and he's falling over the edge without being touched at all. Jacob groans into the thief's shoulder, his teeth digging in a little harder, and Ezekiel feels him go, too, spilling inside him.

Jacob more or less collapses on top of him, but Ezekiel doesn't mind that in the least because it feels way too good to be wrong. After a few moments of catching their breaths, the historian rolls over and off of him, falling on his back next to Ezekiel. He shifts a little and swears. "Ow. You scratched me," he murmurs.

"You bit me," Ezekiel counters drowsily, already starting to succumb to the soporific haze creeping up on him.

There's a soft chortle from the other man, and then they're both asleep, alcohol and exhaustion catching up with them in an instant.

When Ezekiel wakes up, there's a foul taste in his mouth and a fucking Satanic headache pulsing behind his eyes. Fuck alcohol and the wanker who invented it.

He sits up slowly, cradling his head between his hands. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He's never drinking again. Ezekiel's always counted himself lucky that he doesn't get vomiting spells when he's hungover; no, lucky him, he just gets the most ungodly headaches.

He's sifting through his fuzzy recollections of last night when the pile of blankets next to him gives a drowsy moan, shifting a little, and Ezekiel realises for the first time that he's not actually at home in his own flat, although this place seems vaguely familiar somehow. He pulls back the comforter.

Oh…fuck. Fuck.

Displeased with the sudden lack of warmth, Jacob bloody Stone rolls over and tries to burrow further into the mattress, but he doesn't wake up, thank Christ. And now that he's lying on his stomach, Ezekiel can see the marks all over his back, red hairline scratches and crescent-moon marks where his nails had dug in hard. The sight of those very firmly obliterates the smallest iota of uncertainty he had been clinging to as to why he is in Jacob's bed naked. Oh, God, he is so very fucked. Criminals' rule number one: don't screw the crew. Sometimes it is a very good idea not to mix business and pleasure, especially not with temperamental bar-fighters hailing from the Praise-Jesus part of America.

Ezekiel swears under his breath over and over. Jacob's going to kill him. Not involuntary manslaughter kill him, just straight up murder in the first degree him. Two years, Jacob's never shown even the faintest sign that he might fancy blokes as well as birds, but anything's possible with enough alcohol. And of all fucking people, Ezekiel's the one who got to experience the outcome. Now he's sure to think that Ezekiel had taken advantage or something, and bollocks, maybe he had, he can't fucking remember. He barely remembers arriving at the pub at all. God-buggering-dammit.

He slips out of the bed—there's an intimate ache in his lower body that lets him in on a little more of what they've done—and quickly starts pulling on his clothes, praying to all the deities he knows that Jacob will not wake up. Ezekiel's head feels like it's ready to explode, a sharp, pounding agony behind his eyes, and he can't find his other fucking shoe. He thinks about looking under the bed for it, but he doesn't think that bending over at the moment is a bright idea.

Jacob moans again, shifting his weight on the bed.

"Bugger it to hell," he swears under his breath, snatches up his jacket, and makes a break for the door.

He's a dead man.

Jacob wakes up with a throbbing headache and an awful taste in his mouth that always comes with a hangover, at least in his case. He screws his eyes shut, burying his head underneath the pillow to avoid the fucking curse of sunlight glaring through his bedroom window—he forgot to close the curtains again.

Without removing the pillow from his head, he rolls over and stretches an arm out across the bed. "Y' up, Jonesy?" he murmurs thickly, swallowing back the unpleasant taste of hangover. His hand slides across empty sheets.

He raises his head, squinting a little blearily. The other side of his bed is empty, though the sheets still hold a ghost of body-warmth. For a moment, he wants to think that Ezekiel hasn't bailed, he's just in the bathroom or making toast or something, but the silence in his flat is perfectly still and empty. When he sits up a little more, he can see that his clothes are alone scattered on the floor. He's the only one there.

He lets out a low huff, trying to push down the pain that's curling up in his chest. He's an idiot. Jacob was actually thinking that maybe they could have something going, now that alcohol had given them the helpful push out of the confusing kinda-maybe flirting they'd been doing insofar. He'd actually thought maybe he and Ezekiel could've found something that would work. Sure, a night of drinking-induced sex isn't the most auspicious start, but it's a start, isn't it?

Jacob buries his head in the pillow again—he can still smell Ezekiel's stupidly expensive shampoo on it—before he untangles himself from the blankets and makes his way to the bathroom to scrub the taste of the hangover out of his mouth.

He's a fucking idiot.

It takes a week for it to catch up with him. Ezekiel's been saying prayers of thanks to who or whatever is listening for the fact that Jacob has not inflicted any variation of bodily harm on him, or thrown him through the Back Door into the middle of a swamp or something. The historian hasn't even looked at him, much less spoken to him or even stayed in the same room as him for more than three seconds, and he's a little less grateful about that. He's not going to complain, though. He'll take avoidance if he has to; he hasn't even entertained the idea of trying to slip back to the cowboy's flat to find his missing shoe.

He's kind of waiting for the other shoe to fall, but he's starting to think that maybe it won't. The cowboy's always been the 'conceal, don't feel' type. Since kicking the shite out of Ezekiel would be acknowledging they'd slept together in the first place, maybe he's just decided to pretend the whole thing never happened at all.

Cassandra and Jenkins have both been given them some odd looks, but Ezekiel's not worried about that. If either of them ask, he'll just call it a misunderstanding, and they'll buy it. He doesn't lie, but it's not technically a lie, in his opinion. Calling it a misunderstanding is like calling Chernobyl a minor work accident, but it's not a lie.

But of course, with his recent luck, it's not Jenkins or Cassandra who corner him. It's Eve. And nobody can see through Ezekiel Jones' brand of bullshit better than Eve Baird.

When the Guardian closes the door behind her with an authoritive snick, he shrinks down a little in his chair. He opens his mouth, but she holds up a hand before he even gets a breath in, and he snaps it shut immediately. "I don't know what went on with you and Stone, but it's a hell of a lot more than a misunderstanding. Now, go apologise for whatever it is you did before he does permanent damage to something."

"Oi, what makes you think it's my fault?" he protests; she only arches an eyebrow at him. "Okay, fine. What do you mean, permanent damage to something?"

She gives him another of those looks, and Ezekiel only barely resists the urge to squirm in his chair. She ought to give lessons to all expectant mothers and aspiring schoolmarms on how to give glares like that one. "He's been practically living in the bar the past three days, Jones. I don't know what happened between you two, and I don't particularly want to know, either, but trying to fix it at the expense of his liver is not going to work. So—" She throws his coat at him and points to the door. "—go fix it. Now."

"Stone."

Jacob looks up from the shapes he's been making in the faux-woodgrain countertop at the sound of his name, then winces when he sees it's Ezekiel standing beside him. "What are you doing here?" he mutters.

"It's not even eleven in the morning," Ezekiel says in a low voice, and it's definitely got to be wishful thinking on Jacob's part, but it almost sounds like he's concerned.

"Always five somewhere," he retorts, tips his head back to drain the rest of his drink, setting the glass down with a thunk, then huffs out a small noise that sounds almost pained, at least to his own ears. "Why'd you bail, Jones?" he asks, staring down at his glass like the dregs of amber liquid in the bottom hold the answer to the questions of the universe. "I mean…was it something I did? I'm curious."

Ezekiel only stares at him, eyes widening a degree.

"Y'know, that night, it was good. I mean, we both like each other. I thought…" I thought we had a good time, I thought we might've had more good times later, I thought you'd stay with me. He shakes his head and turns to look at Ezekiel. "Why'd you run?"

The thief's mouth opens, then closes, and finally he says in a small voice, "You…you like me?"

Jacob snorts loudly. "No, Jonesy, I go around sticking my tongue down the throats of guys I don't like," he replies. What kind of question is that? "Of course I like you, punk. I mean, I know I'm not the most expressive guys, but I thought you'd have figured that out by now." He gestures to the bartender, tapping his glass for a refill. Drinking probably isn't the most brilliant plan on his part, but fuck it. He doesn't want to feel anything at the moment, so he'll employ the services of the three wise men—Jim, Jack, and José.

He picks up his glass, but Ezekiel reaches out to grasp his wrist, stopping him before he can get it to his mouth. "The other night, you were…I mean, you didn't think…"

"What the hell are you going on about, Jones?" He's not sure what goal the punk's trying to achieve here, but he hopes Ezekiel will spit it out and leave so he can get back to repressing his memories.

"You aren't…upset…or anything because of…?" Ezekiel gestures between them furtively.

"What? No, of course not." Jacob blinks at him in confusion. The look on Ezekiel's face is so openly surprised, so…guilelessly amazed; there's a thought forming in the back of his mind, one that grows more tangible the longer he watches the thief's surprise. "Hang on a second. Jones, did you…did you think that I was angry about the fact that we slept together? What, like you took advantage of me or something?" he asks, and the expression that crosses Ezekiel's face is all the answer he needs. "Holy shit, you did."

"Well, I mean…you don't exactly set off anyone's gaydar, mate, and I thought since you were…" Ezekiel made a strange, abortive gesture towards Jacob, and maybe it's because he's already got a bit of a buzz on, but his mind makes the leap and understands.

"You idiot, Southern doesn't automatically translate to homophobic." Jacob turns on the barstool to face Ezekiel fully, staring at him in disbelief. Relief burgeons up in his chest, so abrupt that it almost takes his breath away, and a part of his mind is doing a shameless victory dance. "I've known I liked guys since I was twelve, Jones, it's just not something I've ever felt the need to broadcast. Is that why you bailed? You thought I was going to be pissed at you for…for taking advantage of me after I, what? Drank myself gay?"

Ezekiel has the good grace to look at least a little embarrassed, and he wants to kiss that look off his face, kiss him all over, actually. "Oi, you said it yourself, cowboy, you're not exactly an open book," he protests, albeit a little too chagrined to properly defensive.

Jacob can't help it—he laughs. He laughs so hard he nearly falls off the barstool, grasping at the counter for balance; when he glances up at Ezekiel's face, embarrassed and trying to be angry, he starts up all over again. The thief half-heartedly glares at him before finally cracking, a grin spreading over his face as he starts chortling, too. When they finally get their hysterics under control, Jacob grasps Ezekiel by the shoulders and leans forward to kiss him, tasting laughter on his mouth; the punk goes stiff under his hands for a bare second before leaning into him, his hands sliding up to grasp Jacob's biceps.

When he pulls away, Ezekiel's a little flushed but smiling. "You're an idiot, I hope you know that. A fucking idiot," he chortles, moving his hands up to cup Ezekiel's jaw.

"Apparently so. We can't all have IQs of 190, cowboy."

Jacob kisses him again before pulling back. "Now that we've cleared up the magnificent clusterfuck we managed to make, you wanna get out of here?"

"You read my mind."

They're lying in Ezekiel's bed this time, and he's glad that he doesn't have any neighbours or they'd be handing in noise complaints to the super. There's no alcohol-induced memory loss this time, so he'll remember tomorrow how nicely Jacob's body fits around his, how the historian can be incredibly gentle when he wants to, how he will moan in different languages under the right kind of manipulation. And it's good. It's absolutely bloody perfect, and Ezekiel agrees with Jacob wholeheartedly—he's a fucking idiot for running away from this.

"You really thought I was gonna be angry at you?" Jacob asks, slowly rubbing his thumb back and forth along the edge of the bruises on his shoulder where he'd bitten down on Ezekiel's shoulder. It's a little tender still, but he rather likes it, likes the idea of being…marked so plainly.

"Thought you might throw me out the Back Door onto a deserted island," Ezekiel replies. "You've got a temper when the mood takes you, mate."

Jacob curls himself closer and gently fits his teeth into the marks still impressed in his skin, biting down lightly before letting go. "Well, now that we've established that I'm not going to do that…is this going to be a thing now, Jonesy? You and me?" he asks in a low voice, his accent turning broad and thick again.

Ezekiel presses himself back against the historian's solid warmth, curling further into his body. He'll deny it if anyone asks, but he cuddles and he does so shamelessly. "I'm game if you are, Jake," he replies quietly. The nickname feels foreign in his mouth, but it's sweet, too, like candy that he's been denied until now.

He feels Jacob smile against his shoulder, then murmur in his ear, "Maybe we keep alcohol out of the equation from here on out, huh?"

"There's a good idea, love."

Jacob laughs against his back, the sound thick and warm, rusty from disuse, and Ezekiel laughs with him. Then the historian sits up on one elbow and grins down at Ezekiel, asking, "By the way, is there a reason that I found one of your shoes under my bed?"