Jack/Mark, 15: a kiss because I have literally been watching you all night and I can't take anymore

Mark glances away from the fireplace to find Jack standing at his shoulder.

"Finally got your courage up?" Mark needles. This is how he copes when change gives chase: deflect, deflect, deflect. Jack is transformation made flesh and Mark's first impulse to cringe. His second is to investigate. His third is to possess. Mark has his reasons for refusing to accommodate his third-level impulses, bar the one that led him to Bridget. They're rarely anything but trouble.

Much like Jack Qwant.

"What's that?" Jack joins him on the couch. Their shoulders brush. Mark shed his jacket and tie on returning home. His shirt is a negligible barrier, designed to be thin and airily made, not to keep out American mathematicians too well versed in the laws of attraction, affection, and love. Not to rebuff tempting body heat.

"You've been watching me all night. You're not very subtle." Mark reaches for his glass, remembers he's finished it, and sighs.

"And you're not very tactful unless you want to be."

"What do you want with me, Jack?" Cut to the chase. Get to the root of it. It'll hurt less. Not at all his experience, but even logical men resort to self-delusion at times.

"The same thing Bridget does."

Bridget, who is supposed to be refilling their glasses, has characteristically left said glasses behind. It's astonishing Mark didn't notice before. "Did she put you up to this?"

"Let's say she didn't discourage me."

Jack is the most spontaneous of the three of them, more so than Mark and Bridget combined. Mark isn't convinced Bridget has enough reticence in her body to contain him, if that was something she wanted to do. No, most likely this is some scheme they've devised together in the hopes that Mark might agree.

"Should she have done?"

"That depends on you."

Pretty banter does little for Mark. He speaks for a living, his words condemn and save lives; a wit is lovable for an evening, but for a lifetime? More is required in the day to day. Physical presence, emotional investment. The undefinable and yet often unattainable spark. Neither of his previous marriages had it, this one is aflame with it. Yet the lack of other vital components has condemned his relationship with Bridget in the past. Is Jack something they desperately need or something they will fail without? He doesn't know, and Mark loathes not knowing anything.

"What do you want with me?" he asks again, his patience nil, his nerves taut as violin strings.

Jack squeezes Mark's thigh. "Anything you'll give me." He moves to grab Mark's arm before he can recoil–but Mark doesn't withdraw. "Only if this is something you want."

Mark's nods permissively. Jack leans in and then stops. "Are you sure?"

"I won't be until you kiss me."

Jack leans over Mark to brush their lips together. Mark cups the back of his neck, ruffling the short hairs at his nape. The touch warms his blood. The way Mark eyes his lips makes him think this might work out. He isn't the only one who's wondered how this might feel.

"You don't have to worry about where to put your hands."

Mark rolls his eyes. "I have kissed men before, thank you."

"There's a surprise." To some degree. It makes Jack question what else Mark keeps buttoned close to the vest.

"Not to Bridget. She wouldn't have given her assent if she worried I'd lash out in gay panic. And you wouldn't try this behind her back." That isn't a warning; it doesn't need to be.

"She doesn't like liars. They can't be trusted." That hadn't been a fun time in their relationship, when he'd scared Mark off as he did. Bridget had 'needed space' for about three weeks. He'd been scared he'd lose her and the baby beyond simply losing her heart to Mark. She forgave him ultimately, but she had been firm. No more lies, not even white lies. Be true or be gone. He takes her words to heart.

"No, they can't," Mark confirms. "Can I trust you? With my family? My wife and son?" Mark is not a fighter in the physical sense, but Jack knows that he'd fight with his last breath to safeguard those he loves. That only spurs him on. What he wouldn't give to be counted among them.

"With everything. I'll be here, whenever you need. You have my word I'm not just going to leave in the middle of the night if, when things get hard."

Something devastated flickers in Mark's eyes, and Jack is momentarily taken aback. Then, it clicks.

"You, too?"

Mark doesn't have to confirm. Waking up after the best night of your life to nothing. And then three months later, another high, another moment that must have been a dream, and then nothing. Or not quite nothing, but less than you hoped for. A person can become accustomed to the uncertainty. They begin to rely on it. Better to expect loss than anticipate joy and be horribly wrong. You can't be injured by losing what you never expected to be allowed to keep. Looking at Mark now, he questions how the man has any hope left.

"Hey." He grasps Mark's shoulder. "Still not going anywhere."

"And still not kissing me," Mark deflects goodnaturedly, "a fact I find genuinely disappointing."

Jack remedies that instantly, tipping Mark onto the backrest of the sofa and kissing him soundly. Mark is responds beautifully, sliding his wide hands up Jack's sides and up his back to cup his shoulder blades.. His lips part sweetly at the slightest provocation.

Mark kisses like the kind of man he is. Restrained yet intense. Focused to the point of tunnel vision and cautious. His hands are more presumptuous. While his lips are firm yet seductively solicitous, his hands roam wherever they can. Jack's jaw, his hair, underneath his collar, skimming over his ass and up his spine. Jack melts into his ministrations, sliding down till they're chest almost to chest at an unforgiving angle. Neither complains.

"Sure yet?" he prompts, only half joking.

"Hm, yes. Getting there."

Kisses aren't magical, any more than intentions are, but Jack is struck as by a spell with the need to keep kissing Mark as he reclines in a sprawl on the sofa, long limbs splayed haplessly in every direction, flushed down to his open collar, his eyes invitingly dark and hooded. Jack might have been the aggressor, but his prey is beckoning him back and he wants to obey. He really, really does.

Self-control isn't actually an option.

Mark's shirt is soon completely undone. Jack's sweater is discarded across the room. They're skin to skin, already preoccupied with discovering how well they fit together–Mark knee presses carefully, deliberately between his thighs. Jack sucks intently at Mark's ear. He has sensitive ears, an erogenous holdover from his youthful ear piercings. Jack's finding out new things about Mark already. It's intoxicating, the privilege of taking the most repressed man in England apart. No wonder he binds all his passion in chains, it would burn the bravest people. But not Bridget and not me.

Mark maneuvers Jack onto his back and slides up his chest to return to their regularly scheduled foreplay. His lips are firmer, seeking, dominant without overpowering. He peppers feather-light kisses over Jack's lips. Jack shivers; his nerves tingle as their lips slide over each other. He grabs onto Mark instinctively. He feels oddly vulnerable being kissed that way. He hadn't allowed for emotional, chemical, burning connection when he calculated how this might go. Desire is predictable, but this…this is undeniable.

"Sure?" Mark asks from above him, capably turning the tables on Jack hastily-composed hypothesis. If we can get along, we can make her happier. This is more than getting along. This is an entirely new configuration.

"Very sure." Jack accepts that he's beat. It isn't a loss.

Bridget clears her throat indelicately from the door. They shift to look at her. She's brought out a bottle of champagne left over from her and Mark's wedding reception. She's splotchy down to her collarbones. She's stunning and Jack doesn't have to wonder how long she's been watching. They beckon her over; she comes gladly.

"This changes things a bit, I hope."

She doesn't sound so much delighted (though, there's that) as relieved, expectant. Mark looks calm and accepting, kiss-bruised and inviting as hell.

Yeah, Jack has to agree, this changes everything.