Come after dark,
Ace's decided he hates the summer, when the days get longer and the nights shorter. As he tries off Striker to the side of the marine vessel he knows the object of his desires waits for him upon, he can't help but be frustrated that their time together is being cut short by these obnoxious summer nights. He jumps aboard and sets about orienting himself upon deck. The doorway he's looking for should be- ah, there it is. From there it's a quick walk to Smoker's cabin, with only two detours to avoid wandering crewmen. What are they doing up at this time of night, anyway? He quietly unlocks the door to Smoker's room, repocketing the key gifted to him on his birthday quickly. The door shuts behind him, the lock clicks sharply, and Ace feels a grin tug at his lips. It's always a bit of a rush sneaking into Smoker's room.
At that point Smoker looks up from whatever he's been working on at his desk, nasty paperwork or something of the like, and acknowledges him with a nod. There is no shouting, no chasing or fighting. They are meeting under different circumstances than when one happens across the other on some obscure island on the grand line. This is prearranged and operating under a delicate system so as to continue these meetings.
Ace is overcome by an emotion he chooses not to put a name to – because doing so would mean forcing his companion for the night to face a decision, one he doesn't want to face – and rushes to embrace the marine. Smoker resists, but not for long. Never for long.
Don't alert anyone but me to your presence, and I promise I won't arrest you.
They have to be quiet. Sound tends to travel far on a ship, and it wouldn't take much for someone to become suspicious and investigate. Their kisses start out tender, and their touches light, all while in a euphoric state of mind, trying to comprehend that their lover is there, really there, and they can feel them and taste them, and god, Ace has missed this. Then as they come to realize this isn't some perfect dream, things become a bit rougher. Necks are bitten and hair is pulled and nails are scraped against arched backs.
Smoker never has much trouble keeping quiet. Ace, however, is a vocal person, particularly in bed. Both Marco and Thatch can attest to this, as they have experienced it many times in the years they've known the pyromaniac. He has one hand clamped over his mouth in an almost futile attempt to muffle the moans constantly being wrenched from his throat; the other is either clenching the bed sheets or fisted in Smokers hair, depending on what naughty thing he's doing to Ace at the moment.
But you'd better be gone by morning, or I'll put you in sea stone cuffs and throw you into Impel Down myself.
When they've finished they lie in Smokers bed, breathless, Ace spooned in Smokers arms, and Smoker absentmindedly rubbing circles on Aces hip with his thumb. Ace would never have taken Smoker for the touchy feely type, being so cold, distant and down to the point most of the time, but is secretly glad he likes to cuddle after sex. He doesn't think he could put up with Smoker pushing him away each and every time after such an intimate act. It's mostly Ace who whispers things then; Smoker is either too tired to respond or content to listen, only adding his two cents here and there. He talks about menial things, like how they've acquired a new cat aboard the Moby Dick that's taken a particular liking to Ace and Marco, although its interest in the first division commander seems to be mostly predatory. This earns a slight chuckle from Smoker, who moves on to threading his fingers through Aces soft, but sweat soaked hair.
They're cooling down now, and even though its summer, nights on the ocean are still cold. They pull the blankets over themselves and readjust position so they're facing each other. Ace takes a moment to revel in the atmosphere, the scents of tobacco smoke and sex are predominant although a lesser dusting of cinnamon and coffee from Aces own presence prevails underneath.
Don't ask me to leave with you,
Ace watches Smoker fall asleep then. He could sleep himself, but he doesn't trust either himself or Smoker to wake him on time to leave, and he doesn't want to find out Smokers definition of dawn. He has a couple of hours until he has to get up and redress and leave, but until then he intends to savor his time. He spends it studying every aspect of his lovers face. (He wonders, is it okay to use that word in the privacy of his own head?) It's almost funny how Smoker manages to scowl even in his sleep.
It's not usually until about an hour before he must rise, after the brunt of the night spent trying not to think about exactly this, that he begins to wonder what it would be like for Smoker to leave with him one morning. Would they go their separate ways, or would he be convinced to join Whitebeard? Would Ace no longer have to crawl into Marco's or Thatch's bed when he awakes at in the middle of the night for fear of being alone? He dares not get his hopes up.
And don't say 'I love you.'
Ace likes to think there's more to their relationship than good sex and mutual physical attraction, but as he kisses Smoker on the head then makes a beeline for the door, he remembers the night Smoker pushed the Rules on him. Those Rules were made to protect himself, because he'd been a marine too long to know how to be anything else. The concept of freedom was not within grasp. He needed the constraints the government put upon him or he'd collapse mentally. He just wouldn't know what to do. He didn't know how to live for himself. Ace closes the door to Smoker's cabin wiping tears from his eyes, and Smoker rolls over in bed, pretending not to have just heard the most important person in the world to him leave his room crying.
By the time the sun rises all that's left of Ace is another chip off of Smoker's glass heart and the lingering scent of cinnamon.
Don't say 'I love you,' because I'll say it back.