A/N: Just a quick disclaimer to say that I have nothing against Uluru. I've been there; think it's an incredible and awe-inspiring place. I have nothing but the utmost respect for Aboriginal people, elders past and present, and its significance to them. But I couldn't help myself…
And dammit, there are too many Jacks in this chapter!
A word of warning in advance, the next chapter is going to be short. Really short. But hopefully with big impact and a big twist – have fun guessing what it might be!
This chapter is for GreenEyedSparrow, who always encourages me to get off my lazy ass and finish a chapter quickly, before the cliffhanger kills her - hopefully you like the one at the end of this chapter! :p
Chapter 21
On the way there, Schofield was almost glad they got stuck in traffic. Juliet was a stickler for being on time – she probably would have had Book II ready to go three hours early just in case – and Ralph insisted that if he had to go to these stupid things, he was at least going to be there early enough to get a head start on the canapés. Running late meant they could avoid the awkward questions for a little bit longer, lost in the throng of invitees. But he couldn't delay it forever and soon, the car was pulling up the impressive drive to the White House. Jack was practically buzzing with excitement. When you come from a country where the most exciting tourist destination is a giant rock in the middle of bloody nowhere, the White House seemed like a pretty big deal.
The silent secret service man who had been temporarily assigned the job or doorman/security mirrored the look of astonishment that the driver had given them when Schofield handed over the invitation and qualified Jack as his plus one. He couldn't discern whether it was disapproval or mere curiosity but either way, he was glad the glance passed unnoticed by Jack. As was expected with any event that included the president, the security was tight. Due to the rather large amount of metal on their dress uniforms – including Schofield's impressive collection of medals – they were subjected to a quick pat-down instead of passing through the metal detector. As they were both declared clear, the thought passed briefly through his mind; what would they have done if he'd worn the ceremonial sword that completed full dress blues?
Next time, he decided.
If there was a next time.
"You're sure about this?" Schofield asked, turning to Jack.
Jack turned to him as well and Shane could see he was smiling wryly.
"Absolutely," he replied.
And together, they walked into the throng of important people milling in their Sunday best in the grand ballroom of the White House.
Schofield was immediately struck with the difficultly of how exactly to make it clear they were here together, as a couple and not just a couple of marines hanging out together. He didn't think that just standing together would really cut it. Holding hands seemed a little soft and making out in a darkened corner was perhaps inappropriate. As luck would have it, he was distracted from that dilemma by a loud voice from behind him and a hand falling on his shoulder.
"Thought I recognised you," said the broad and weather beaten face of Captain Jack Walsh. "The only man I know with the balls to wear sunglasses in the presence of POTUS himself."
Schofield smiled warmly at him, taking the offered hand and touching the mirrored glasses he was wearing fondly with the other. He had at least, dispensed with the more casual Oakleys and gone with a classic pair of aviators – real Tom Cruise style.
"Nice to see you again too," he replied and they exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes. Although neither man was particularly gifted in the area of small talk, familiarity and long-standing friendship helped to ease the way. Walsh was happy to regale them with stories of the two loves of his life – his grandkids and his ship – but Shane could sense Jack beside him becoming increasingly tense as he failed to mention in return the significant details of his life at the moment. When Walsh asked him specifically how life was treating him, he answered with a non-committal "fine."
At which point, Jack physically bristled and Schofield could feel the annoyance coming off him in waves.
"Sorry," he said quickly before Jack could say anything they would both regret. "Where are my manners? Captain Jack Taylor, meet Captain Jack Walsh, a very old friend of mine."
He tried to emphasise the last few words so that Jack would understand – this man's opinion mattered more to him than most – but Jack was either oblivious or too angry to care.
"Pleasure," he said stonily with a hard glance at Shane before simply turning and walking away.
"Shit," Schofield said quickly to himself. He was now caught between a rock and a hard place. He owed Jack Walsh a better explanation than this but he also couldn't just let his Jack walk away without going after him. Clenching and unclenching his fists, he made a difficult decision as fast as was humanly possible.
"I'll be back," he added hurriedly to Walsh as he turned to race off after Jack.
Running through the host of important people didn't really seem to him like the dignified or safe option, so he settled for walking hastily, trying to match Jack's long steps to catch up with him. Thankfully, there weren't that many marine dress uniforms running around the place and they tended to stick out against the multitude of black tuxedos and evening gowns.
Not to mention that there was only one whose figure he would recognise anywhere, instantly.
Schofield pushed his way through the people, bumping plenty of shoulders he was sure but finally, he managed to get a hand on the crook of Jack's elbow, stopping him from behind. At the touch, Jack spun around, his face still stony and the ever present smile gone.
"You're mad at me," he said simply, knowing that the best way to avert an argument becoming a scene was to acknowledge it – avoiding a problem never solved it - but reason lost out when Jack didn't reply. He didn't say anything or so much as flick a muscle and so Schofield lost hold of his carefully held back temper.
"Dammit Jack," he yelled, "Be reasonable here."
Which was quite enough to provoke a response.
"Reasonable?" Jack repeated. He didn't yell, which Shane found all the more disconcerting. Instead, his tone was icy, dangerous. "You introduce me like I'm nobody to you and then tell me to be reasonable. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I am nobody to you."
Shane passed a hand over his eyes and said quietly, "You're not."
He had been trying to will his temper back under control but it was no longer necessary, the hurt in Jack's voice had broken it.
"You're not nothing," he said again, a little stronger this time, "but you've got a lot to learn about being out. It's not as simple as you think it is. Do you realise that even if you do this tonight, it won't end here. When you go back to base tomorrow, there will be thousands of people that still won't know and only a handful that will. Then, it'll start to spread slowly and with every retelling, the story will become more garbled and confused until everybody knows something different but everybody thinks they know the truth. So even after tonight, you've got months ahead of you of finding and telling the people that you care about before they hear it from someone else – and you never know what they might hear or already believe. Not to mention the amount of crazy misconceptions and rumours you'll have to debunk. You think you can control this but you can't. Once you're out, people will judge you based solely on the fact that you're gay and even better than that, they'll judge all gay people based on their experiences of you. Like it or not, you become an ambassador for the cause and it's a heavy responsibility, take it from someone who knows now."
He paused, took a deep breath.
"Now Jack Walsh is a very old friend of mine," he continued, gesturing back in the general direction of where he stood, "He put his career on the line to get my ass out of Bosnia. I owe him-"
"You owe him the truth," Jack cut across.
"Yes," Schofield replied sharply, "He ought to know and he will know when the opportune moment presents itself. In the near future, you're going to find that it's not always the easiest thing to drop into conversation. 'I'm gay,' is just plain awkward. 'Hey, what about those village people – I've always had a bit of a soft spot for the cowboy myself,' is effective but tacky and if all else fails, you'll find a couple of cocktails and a darling at the end of every sentence ought to do the trick."
"What's wrong with, 'this is my boyfriend'?" Jack said softly, stepping in closer to Schofield so they were practically nose to nose. Almost all trace of the anger had left his face and voice, leaving only hurt.
"It's clear, simple and truthful."
Shane was at an utter loss for what to say to that when somehow, the evening managed to get even worse. Internally, he was cursing whatever Irish relatives he didn't know he had because they had obviously brought Mr Murphy down on him all guns blazing tonight. He supposed that with all the fuss they'd created earlier, it wasn't that odd that people had taken notice of them. Likewise, they did stand out in their dress uniforms, so it shouldn't have been unforeseeable that they would be recognised, especially by those that knew them well. So in reality, he shouldn't have been surprised at all when Mother and Book II, with Ralph and Juliet in tow were suddenly standing behind him.
But he was.
Just his luck really.
"What's going on here?" Book II said diplomatically.
Mother however, chose that exact moment to say slightly less diplomatically, "What the fuck's going on?"
"What are you doing here?" She added, jerking her head at Jack.
Ralph, mostly disinterested, was looking for the nearest waiter. Mother and Book II exchanged a confused glance with each other. Juliet, looking resplendent in her gown but unsure of why this man she'd only met a couple of days ago was suddenly here, was looking at Jack. Jack was looking pointedly at Schofield, a muscle starting to jump in his jaw and Shane was looking up at the roof, wondering how the fuck he managed to get himself into these situations and what he was now going to do to get himself out of it.
When he spoke, the words that left his mouth managed to surprise even him.
"Dance with me."
He dropped his head from the admittedly very well sculptured roof to Jack's equally beautiful face to find that he was staring back at him with a look of shock that probably matched his own.
"Have you lost your mind?" Jack replied.
Heart feeling considerably lighter as if right then, he didn't have a single care in the world, Schofield sauntered off with his hands in his pockets in the direction of the very centre of the grand ballroom. As soon as he'd said it, he knew it was the right thing to do.
"Dance with me," he called back again over his shoulder.
If he'd turned around to look, he would have seen a broad grin start to spread across Jack's face as he started to follow, quickly catching up and sliding his hand into Schofield's, they laughed together at their utter ridiculousness.
"Are you sure?" He said.
Shane looked down at their clasped hands, saying, "Bit late now. Are you scared?"
"Yeah," Jack breathed back as he slipped his hand around Schofield's back and closed the distance between their bodies so his head rested against Schofield's.
In turn, Shane pulled their joined hands up, rocking them loosely in time with the music and pressed a quick kiss against Jack's temple.
"Me too."
For a moment, he closed his eyes and all he could hear was the music but when he opened them again and sight returned, faces overwhelmed him. Those of his closest friends - Book II, Mother, Juliet and even Ralph – looking stunned. Faces from his past like Jack Walsh, his mentor and old Hot Rod Haggerty – still a White House ladder-climbing pencil-pusher - flashed past in the crow; even the president himself with that asshole Nicholas Tate hovering close by as always. That was without even mentioning the hundreds of nameless faces all around that were stopped mid step or with champagne flutes half-way to their lips, all just looking at them.
Let's give them something to look at, he thought to himself as he closed his eyes again and surrendered to sensation – the smell of Jack like fresh mown grass and just the hint of vanilla, the feel of his heart beating against his chest even through the fabric between them, the taste of him as he pulled his own head back from against his cheek to press their lips together, long, languid and tenderly. Let them look.
He didn't care.
As the music faded away, Shane didn't let go of Jack's hand. Instead, he dragged him through the crowd, past their stares and out onto the first balcony he saw. Leaning Jack up against the elegant marble balustrade he kissed him with all the passion he could muster, with hands clutching at each other's faces, arms, waists, like they might never let go. Their lips sunk into each other's' mouths as though they were trying to pour out themselves into the other. They were so distracted, wrapped up in each other, that neither heard the soft footsteps of expensive leather shoes approach.
Schofield was startled. He had expected that it would be Mother who would find them first. Actually, he'd so much anticipated that as the most likely scenario that he was quite afraid of it – although she would be absolutely overwhelmingly happy for them, she'd also be absolutely bloody furious she hadn't known. He'd also considered the possibility that it would be Jack Walsh – coming to finish the conversation they really should have had earlier. So when a hand tapped him on the shoulder, Shane was more than surprised at the face he would recognise anywhere. It was wise and stern, but kindly, though there were quite a few more wrinkles present now then there had been the last time he had seen him.
The President of the United States was standing beside him, as he clung to Jack Taylor on a balcony of the White House, in the light rain he hadn't even noticed had begun to fall.
"Captain Schofield," the President said, "A word if I may."