AN: You ever do that thing where you cry writing fanfic? This is definitely one of those fanfics. It's a direct sequel to First Pass, so you should read that one first.
Spoilers: Takes place right before "Revelations"
Rating: Teen
Disclaimer: I don't even own action figures.
Character/Pairing: James/Declan
Summary: For most people, things only end once.
Last Pass
Declan pored over the list of medical supplies for the eighth time in the last hour. It wasn't as if he could somehow make a vaccine for the Lazarus virus appear, the medical staff was completely stumped so there was no way he'd come up with the answer, but he could facilitate their supply chain. That was, after all, part of his job. This late at night, however, there was not a lot he could do besides read and re-read the list, and hope for a miracle.
James hadn't gone back to the lab after dinner, but had instead gone to his rooms to pack. There was a great deal to do with his suit before he took it up to altitude, even in a pressurized cabin, and if Declan wasn't mistaken, the apparatus had been sluggish of late. He made a note on his blotter to ask James about it once he returned from helping Dr. Magnus as the Old City Sanctuary. Declan had wanted to go, and had said as much, but James reminded him gently at dinner that he was needed to hold down the fort. This was a fine theory, but in a medical crisis Declan always felt useless.
There was a knock on his office door, and Declan looked up to see one of the young heliopaths they'd recently relocated to the London Sanctuary standing there with a slightly singed note in his hand.
"I'm sorry," the youngling said. "I got excited."
"It's all right," Declan said with a smile. "What did it say?"
"He wants to see you."
There was only ever one meaning that. Declan thanked the heliopath, who left his office trailing smoke, and set his desk in order for the night. There was no point in going all the way up to the residential area and coming back, after all.
James wasn't in his sitting room when Declan arrived, but he could hear the machine in the bedroom, one room over. Declan hesitated, the feeling of something being wrong welling in his chest. He hadn't been into James's bedroom in a long time, not since…
But there was nothing for it. Perhaps James just wanted to pack and talk at the same time, as he had done when they had been closer. Declan took a deep breath, and knocked.
"Come in," James called, as though Declan were knocking on the office door instead.
Declan pushed the door open and took a few steps into the room. It hadn't changed, but he hadn't really expected it to have done so. James did have a suitcase spread out on the floor, and it was mostly full, but James himself was at the sideboard, holding two glasses of brandy. He was wearing a smoking jacket, but Declan could see that underneath, he was dressed for bed. Declan felt himself tense. This was, after all, how it started, when it had started at all.
"It's the 1967," James said, extending the second glass to Declan. "I thought we might finish it before I left."
"No," said Declan, to his own surprise. His voice was soft, but firm, and for a moment James looked hurt, but his expression cleared quickly.
Declan took another step into the room, shutting the door behind him. He crossed to where James stood, and looked down at the brandy.
"Not unless you tell me."
He'd never made that kind of ultimatum before. He'd never asked for nor expected an explanation for James's sometimes strange behaviour and mannerisms. But he was asking now. Because it has been years, and the machine was too loud, and they were in the bedroom, and as much as Declan wanted, wanted something, he wanted it on his own terms, just once.
"I'm not sure the suit will react well to travel," James said lightly. "It very well may fail."
"Then don't go," Declan said, coming almost within arm's reach.
"I have to go," James said. "She's asked."
"But there's something else." It wasn't a question.
"Yes." James very nearly choked on the words. "In addition to the frailty of the suit, there is someone else."
It was him, Declan knew then. From the way James's eyebrows flicked and the way his eyes looked down and away, as though they could ignore the blatantly obvious. And from the pain in his voice.
Declan reached for the brandy, and James lifted his glass in silent toast. Declan felt the warm burn of the liquid sliding down his throat, and closed his eyes. It tasted of memories, of times in this room with this man, in his bed or kneeling in front of the armchair. Of things they said, or didn't say. Of hands and mouths, skin and plastic, cool metal and heated touch. Of course he would stay.
When Declan opened his eyes, he let James read his acceptance in his face. For once, James's expression was very nearly open, and Declan thought his heart might break to see him like that after so long spent guessing back and forth by tone and movement what his lover was thinking.
James reached out with his free hand for Declan's shoulder, and traced a finger down the line of it. Declan nearly reeled at the memory. How many times had James said good-bye? And still, never like this. No wonder he couldn't find the words.
"I brushed my teeth, too," James said quietly, and the smile on his face had no trace of mockery. Declan wondered when he had last looked so impossibly young and fragile.
Deliberately, as he had all those years before, Declan set down his glass and leaned in. This time, James met him halfway, his mouth soft and undemanding, just solid and warm and, for now, within his reach. Declan felt James's hand wind into his hair and steadied himself with his hands on James's hips.
Warmed from the brandy and from James's touch, Declan let himself be drawn into his bed, for one last time.
finis
Gravity_Not_Included, May 13, 2011