the Dalaverse

I still have requests, I still have earthquake, I still have polyficathon. But first I had bunny -- or, I should say, bunny had me. The James/Will bunnies are rare enough that I prefer to let them nibble. Set pre-film, PG-13, title from Led Zeppelin.



What Is and What Should Never Be



Nearly a year had passed since the last request. Will came to him the morning before they set sail, standing stiff and uncomfortable in the doorway of his office. The sleeves of his jacket were too short and he had a streak of soot on his chin. James guessed he’d spent hours arguing with himself over whether it was worth it to ask. The spark of hope evident in his brown eyes must have been the convicting factor.

He agreed to do what he could, as he always had. It turned out another dead end, which did not surprise James and would, he knew, not surprise Will. Still, it was some time before he could bring himself drop by the smithy. In the past the boy would have sought him out, but that seemed not to be Will’s nature these days.

“There was a man who called himself Bill Turner sailing with the Monarch,” he explained, sweating in the twilight heat of the day’s work, “but he is barely thirty, with a wife and two daughters in Brittany.”

James felt the disappointment keenly, like a clumsy twist of his innards, but Will just nodded slowly. His eyes darted up from the floor to James’ face, somber and regretful for having put him to the trouble. “It is a common name, and I had only the vaguest rumor. Thank you for trying, sir.”

James had long given up trying to get him to stop calling him that, although it seemed even more inappropriate now, when Will was seventeen, nearly James’ height, and inhabited the smithy as though he owned as well as operated it. “There is no need to thank me, William. I’m sorry I was unable...” He trailed off abruptly and cleared his throat. “Perhaps we will hear something more promising soon.”

“No,” said Will, pursing his lips in thought and carefully hanging a rasp on its hook. “No, I don’t believe I shall continue to ask for information.” He bowed his head, brushing back a few curls that were curiously short, as if they’d been singed by the fires. In the deepening shadows, James could not make out his face. His voice was quiet and matter-of-fact. “Either my father is dead, or he wishes no contact with his former life. It is high time I accepted that.”

There was no argument with which James could counter. Ten years with no word was a long time to go on searching, go on hoping. Even as a boy Will had been too practical for that, and he was a boy no longer.

And yet James hesitated, taking a step toward him, lifting a hand to his arm. Will was tense beneath his touch. “Are – are you all right?”

“Of course,” said Will, lifting his chin to look at James with a smile that did not meet his eyes, a mouth set too firm, a hint of defiance. And underneath, because he was looking for it, James could see how deeply the bitterness ran.

He breathed in the sharp scent of ash and iron, steadying himself on the packed-dirt floor. And he pulled Will into his arms, as he had done once years before, after another false lead. He half-expected the boy’s head to still fit under his chin.

Will did not move. James wondered how long it had been since anyone had embraced him, thought about the last time he’d given in to such an instinct, and began to draw back. But all at once Will responded, locking his arms around James’ shoulders, falling against him. His fingers curled against the wool of James’ coat and he made a sound like a sigh caught in the throat. He dropped his forehead to James’ neck and shuddered, loose curls tickling James’ skin.

A mistake. He fit too well in James’ embrace, he was too warm and solid, and when he raised his head James could see himself reflected too clearly.

“Wait,” Will said throatily when James shifted his feet. He would not release him, and he cupped his cheek in one shaking hand when James tried to turn his head. “James, please –”

“No, Will,” said James, hoping his voice sounded firmer than his resolve, drowning out the chorus of assent and demand racing through his blood. Will was young and knew no better; James had no such excuse. He caught the boy’s wrist, had to stop himself from stroking the broad, callused palm. “This cannot happen.”

Will pressed against his body, trying to provoke a response with his blacksmith’s arm tight around James’ waist. James twisted his hips away, already feeling the ache.

“But I –” the boy began, brown eyes desperate and hungry.

“It will not.” He took both of Will’s hands in his own, pulled them up to his chest, and let them go. The crushed expression on Will’s open face made him feel like a monster. It was only a fancy, he told himself, something all young men suffered, something the lad would forget in a few weeks –

Shaking his head, Will reached for him again. “I know, I understand, just...” He set his jaw, daring James to look away, fierce instead of pleading. “Kiss me.” Fingertips brushed James’ brow, his mouth, down his arms, too light and quick for James to rebuke. “Just once. So I’ll know what – what might –”

James couldn’t bear to murder that frail hope twice in one day. Never mind that he wanted, wanted –

His hands wound in Will’s hair, pulling it free, and he damned his own prudence. Will’s lips were as rough as his homespun shirt, the depths of his mouth hot as the coals. James kissed him deeply, and burned.

Will whimpered when James pulled away, running his tongue over the ridge of his top lip. His breath was labored, coming into his lungs in short bursts and leaving too quickly. Despite his eagerness, it was clear how seldom he had practiced kissing, if ever, and James sincerely doubted it had been with men.

He needed to retreat. Before he could lose himself again. Before the hazy fog of pleasure cleared from Will’s mind. Before –

“James,” Will murmured, eyes still closed as James back away. He opened them again as the doorknob turned, and James caught the briefest flash of hurt and anger before he ducked out into the Jamaican evening. The air was not so thick and close as inside the smithy, but James found his head still aswim and his chest still tight. He clenched his hands into fists to stop them trembling.

For a week after, he slept with the windows shut and blankets piled on his bed. If it was too hot to sleep, it was too hot to dream.