Paper Doll - Epilogue
Sep. 15th, 2011 07:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sonora_conejaPairing: Face/OMC, Hannibal/Face
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: mentions of domestic violence and underage
Summary:
A year after Templeton’s arrival at the Colonel’s Long Island estate, everything had changed...
The sun was setting by the time Templeton had finished inspecting the northern fence, untacked and cooled down his gelding.
He paused for a moment in the great doorway of the barn, looking west to the mountains, to the dominating heights of Pikes Peak, crowned in the black clouds of late summer storms, distant, their own skies clear to the failing light. The young man smiled at the sight, at the whinnies of the horses behind him, and looked down at the barn cat bumped his leg, wanting a pet. He knelt to scratch her ears. She’d been getting fatter and fatter of late, and John was convinced she was pregnant from the neighbor’s tom, the huge marmalade male that wandered where it would.
That would be fun, Templeton thought again, the prospect of kittens. Murdock would love them. But it was getting late, too late to linger, so he rubbed her neck with his knuckles and rose back to his feet. “See you tomorrow, princess,” he told the cat, and she jumped, rather unbalanced, up on the nearest stall and meowed at him as he shut the doors.
The walk back up to the main house was pleasant, smelling of grass and growing things and the hint of rain to come. Light was shining out the white-slat house’s front windows, spilling onto the porch, and Templeton took the front steps two at a time, stepping out of his filthy boots and in the small mud room.
“John!” he yelled, straightening and tromping back through the hall to the kitchen. “John, love, are you there?”
“In here, Temp!”
That wasn’t John.
He rounded the corner into the kitchen and smiled at the smell of Murdock’s chili bubbling away on the little stove, and smiled broader at the sight of of his friends. Murdock, wrapped around Bosco’s bulkier frame, the big man feigning annoyance as he kissed his lover back. Templeton leaned against the doorway, just watching for a moment, until Bosco caught his eye and ruefully untangled.
“How’ya doin’, Temp?” he grunted, sitting back down at the table and going for the newspaper, as if he hadn’t been up to anything at all.
Murdock was more direct, coming over and giving Templeton a hug, his flowery apron swinging loose around his neck, and he kissed the blonde, right below the ear. “John’s upstairs,” he said, and patted Templeton’s cheek, pulling away again, back to the stove. “He should be down soon. Said he had a surprise for you.”
“Ooh,” Templeton replied, sitting down next to Bosco. “A surprise. Any hints as to what it is?”
“My lips are sealed, Temp!” Murdock replied lightly, and went back to the stove.
Bosco looked up over the top of his paper, and then back down, grinning to himself, and Templeton smiled back, retrieving his own book from the little stack at the end of the checked tablecloth.
It was good to have them here.
Bosco and Murdock had arrived about a month ago, meeting John at the Colorado Springs terminal for the four hour ride out to the ranch. Murdock had arrived in good spirits, even if Bosco had been rather cranky over the split car system. They’d both been laughing by the time they’d gotten to the house though, hugs and backslaps exchanged all around, and over an uncommonly delicious supper, they’d gotten the story about Vance Lynch and his sallow-faced gumshoe friend, Brock Pike.
John had sent the bottle with Vance’s fingerprints to Major Harper, who’d pulled a few strings with people he knew in the New York City Police Department, and gotten an investigation opened. An investigation which was supposed to be handled quietly and discreetly, but then Murdock had “suffered” one of his momentary lapses of sanity at the wake, screaming about how the Colonel had been murdered by tall demon with dark hair and blue eyes.
A wake which had included members of the press corps.
And one of Major Harper’s friends in the Department.
And Vance’s supervisor at the Bureau.
The story exploded in New York as arrests were made, lurid details invented from thin air by the press. Rumors abounded, most false, some entirely too close to the truth for comfort, and eventually a narrative emerged. Not an entirely factual narrative, of course, a far more interesting story of familial double-crosses and filial betrayal, of a son driven mad by his own evil heart, who took out his fury on his family, torturing his dear cousin and his heroic father, trying to kill his cousin first and then, failing that, succeeding with his father, forcing an illegal change to the old man’s will on his deathbed.
There were other lovely details, too, whispers of a homosexual relationship between Vance and his accomplice, one Mr. Brock Pike, of women being forced against their will, perhaps even an assault on the cousin, which was why he ran, of course, horrified. It was all spoken in whispers, in bars in muttered tones, but it was enough to turn the jury completely against Vance during the trial.
The story, Murdock said, was still going strong, even after the hangings.
All’s well that ends well, John had said and cleared the table calmly, but that night, curled up together in bed, Templeton had heard his man crying, and held him until the emotion of twenty years of abuse had passed away.
But the will, the will, that was the one aspect in the story that had shaken Templeton badly.
The staff had all been given six months of full pay, room, and board, upon the death of the Colonel, per the original document, with John’s position, amazingly, a guaranteed employment for life. Murdock had been named executor of the estate and grounds, and had still the option of putting that up for sale.
Which Templeton did immediately.
For he was still the main beneficiary of the estate.
The papers signed the night of the Colonel’s death were dismissed by his employed law firm, on the grounds that accepting Vance as the sole inheritor would have been a vast embarrassment and a crippling business maneuver. Which meant that Templeton controlled the Lynch fortune, according to the papers Murdock had brought with him from New York.
Templeton hadn’t wanted to take any of the money he’d been willed, but he wasn’t a fool, and he’d found a source of funds he could live with collecting upon; the proceeds of the house sale had gone into a number of different accounts. He’d wanted to maybe put some of it into the stock market, but John called that entire system horseshit and they compromised on Treasury bonds and gold instead.
As for the rest of the Lynch millions, well, Saint Thomas’ Home for Boys and Blessed Mary Magdelena’s Boarding School for Girls had gotten quite sizable donations from an anonymous donor that July, along with several other orphanages in New York City.
But best of all, they’d picked up two very able-bodied ranch-hands. John had given them the downstairs bedroom, and despite the occasional fights about nightly noise levels or the odd meals Murdock was known to fix at times or Bosco’s strange motor projects in the spare shed or John’s compulsive reading habit or Templeton’s own boredom issues that came up from time to time, they all managed to settle into their shared space quite amicably.
“Did you have a good day, darling?” that beautiful tenor, his lover’s sweet voice, asked, a hand on his shoulder and lips on his hair, interrupting his musings.
“Speak of the devil,” Templeton laughed, and pushed around in his chair to face his lover. “Of course I did. You were right, John. It’s a beautiful country.”
It was. It truly was.
They’d found themselves a beautiful old house tucked up into a copse of low pines, on the leeside of a huge hill. The well water ran sweet and the land rolled away from their front step, down to the barn and pastures and wide plains beyond. It needed work, though, and John had set them to that the first few weeks, teaching Templeton how to measure and saw and fit and join and nail and whitewash and everything else the man remembered from his younger years.
They were in a part of the country that was hungry for horses and the tough little mules used in the mountains, and John was still in the process of ensuring they had good stock to start with. The first horse they’d bought, however, was the one he meant for Templeton, and despite the initial soreness and frustration, the young man had picked it up fast.
And while it had taken him a few months to get used to the routine and the roughness, he’d come to love it. The smell of the wind, being out in the green all day, hunting hare in the tall grass, the feel of a horse beneath him, the freedom of it all...Templeton felt complete in that world, like he’d been missing a part of himself all his life and had only discovered it here.
With John.
“Were you thinking about me, kid?” John asked, pulling Templeton’s chin up so their eyes met.
“Well, our housemates did say you had a surprise for me,” he replied, grinning.
“Oh they did, did they?” the older man whispered, their noses touching.
Templeton wound a hand up into that fine, silky, silver hair, craning up. “Mm, hmm...”
“I suppose I shouldn’t disappoint you, then, darling...”
“No, you truly shouldn’t...”
And their mouths came together in the briefest promise of a kiss.
“Hey, we gonna eat tonight or what?” Murdock pouted, hands on his hips, a big basket of fresh, steaming bread in his hands.
And came apart, just as quickly, a sheepish smile on John’s lips. “Of course, captain. Serve away.”
Supper was simple, hearty and good. As good as it always was, Murdock’s chili and sourdough rolls and fresh butter they bought from the girls down the road. Everybody tucked in with gusto.
It was, Templeton thought as he ate, watching Murdock tease Bosco and Bosco pretending to be upset and hiding his smile, and both of them chattering at him about who he thought was being the bigger child, almost like having a family. How he’d always imagined a family to be. Warm and comfortable and argumentative and joking, all in one loving package. Murdock and Bosco had almost been like brothers to him in New York, and there, in Colorado, he felt those ties even more strongly.
And then, of course, there was John. John. His John. His man. His lover. His...husband, he thought sometimes, in his heart of hearts. If such a word, such a status could be applied to another man. Certainly not something that his own Catholic upbringing would ever support him in, nothing decent society could ever embrace, but...there it was, shining and bright, and Templeton did not have it in him to push it away. He loved the man. He did. With all his heart...
“Are you okay, Temp?” John asked, reaching across the top of the table to slide his palm into the younger man’s, where it lay on the tablecloth.
He looked up from his bowl, catching those soft blue eyes watching him. “Of course,” he said, a little confused.
That hand left his palm, and fingers touched the join of his nose and his cheek, wiping away a bit of moisture that Templeton hadn’t even realized was there. “You’re crying, darling,” John murmured, and the blonde realized that his friends were watching him as well.
He shook his head, unsure of what he could say to match the fullness of his heart, and tried to smile. “I...I just...this place, being here with all of you, it’s...”
John’s eyes softened even more, and Murdock reached over the table, too, patting Templeton on the shoulder.
“I know what you mean, Temp,” and that was Bosco, who’d grabbed his own wrist and was staring at the far wall. “Lived all m’ life back East. Nobody ever see you for wha’ you worth there, only look at wha’ color you are...” and he trailed off, unable to finish, choked up like Templeton had never seen him before. Murdock’s hand left Templeton’s shoulder as the dark-haired man stood up to wrap himself around his lover’s shoulders.
John reached forward and touched Bosco’s, clenched then into fists. “I’m glad you’re here, Bosco. I’m glad all you boys are here with me. It’s the way things should be. What each of you deserves.”
Templeton felt another swell of love, deep down, his heart expanding, and he leaned his head on his fist, forward on the table. “What about you, John?”
His lover smiled, his eyes bright, shining with repressed emotion, and he held out his hand as he stood. “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve any of this, with any of you. I thank god every day for it, and I thank you for bearing with a silly old man,” he murmured, pulling Templeton to his feet and running a strong, calloused hand down his back, cupping his buttocks within the rough work Levis. “It’s more than I ever could have hoped for. It’s like a dream...”
A flutter went right through Templeton, that same feeling he had every time they were close like this, his body responding to his lover’s, opening, surrendering, begging. “John,” he sighed, and hugged that tall form close to his. “John, I...”
But John made a little noise in his throat, one more of indication than of lust, so Templeton pulled his cheek from the older man’s shoulder and looked behind them.
Towards where Murdock had crawled into Bosco’s lap, holding his face, big, dark hands around his narrow waist, the two of them kissing deeply. Speaking to each other no more, but saying everything they needed to, nonetheless.
A dark, happy little chuckle in his ear, and John bit the tender skin there, very lightly. “Now would you like your surprise, darling?”
Templeton laid one of his hands over John’s, where it had come to rest on his chest. “Yes.”
Templeton let himself be led from the warm kitchen, down the hall, but raised an eye when he saw where they’d stopped. Saw the blankets and basket John had piled by the front door.
“What’s this?” he asked, touching the old quilt lightly.
John shoved his feet back in his boots, and gestured for Templeton to do the same as he turned to light a lamp. “Come on, kid. It’s a beautiful night. The thunderstorms have gone, there’s nothing to worry about.”
Their hands slipped together as they left the house, held in the sphere of golden light from that lantern bobbing in John’s grasp. Templeton knew the property well enough now to know where they were headed; up the hill behind their home, through the trees and sleeping birds, up between outcroppings of granite bared from the prairie by wind and time, up to the very crest where, during daylight hours, one could see the entire country laid out for miles.
As it was, in the dark, all Templeton could see, in the light from the flickering flame within its glass, was John’s tall frame shaking out the blankets in a soft patch of grass. Not as tall or thick or rich as the grass in his gardens back in New York, but Templeton still had a flash of that morning, of them entwined together in the summer morning a year ago, John whispering sweet words to him, touching him so carefully, setting him free...
His eyes stung once again, tears coming as John came to him and kissed him gently. “Lay down with me, sweetheart?” he asked softly.
And there was only one answer for that.
Templeton sank to his knees, in synch with John’s movements, lips locked with John’s, John’s hands on his neck, holding them together. It lingered, no heat in it that night, no urgency, their connection thrumming through it still, and Templeton gasped for air as it ended with one last, soft pass of tongue.
“What ...what are we doing out here, John?” he breathed.
He shook his head and reached into the basket, a bottle of wine and a pair of new, delicate crystal glasses coming out. Templeton caught the label and gasped again; a French pinot noir, an old vintage, one of the ones they’d found in their dalliance at the Broadmoor earlier in the year, one Templeton remembered well from his days in France. “John, moonshine and whiskey is one thing, but this...how did you get this?”
“I thought we should have something special tonight,” he said softly, and carded a wonderful hand back through the younger man’s curls. “And you’re not the only one who can pull a con, kid.”
He watched with interest, the dexterity with which John uncorked the bottle. “What’s special about tonight?”
“You really don’t know?” John handed him a glass, ruby red liquid glinting in their sphere of light. “Really, Templeton?”
“Tell me,” he replied, sniffing appreciatively and smiling. “I’m on pins and needles here.”
John held up his own glass. “A toast,” he said in that same quiet voice.
“To what?” Templeton asked, holding his own glass just ever so slightly back.
“To that beautiful man who first let me take him to heaven,” John whispered, and clinked their crystal together, “exactly one year ago today.”
Templeton was stunned for a moment, remembering that morning, hiding behind a tree, listening to Joh pleasure himself, his own name on the older man’s lips, his fear as John caught him there, and then, and then, John’s lips around his cock, showing him for the first time, even if he hadn’t realized it at the time, what a sacred thing sex could be between two people who loved each other. “A...a year? Has it been so long?”
“Happy anniversary, my love,” John confirmed and leaned forward to kiss him as he’d kissed him before. And Templeton thought, as he kissed John back with every ounce of the love he felt for the man, that he could die happy and fulfilled, right then, right there. Nothing could be better.
They both sipped at their wine, savoring it, talking of inconsequential things both past and present, laughing a little, falling into silence as the last few drops were swallowed in the lamplight.
John took their glasses then and laid them aside, back in the basket by the recorked bottle, ready to enjoy on some other pleasant evening. Templeton snuggled down, head in the older man’s lap, eyes closed against the glory of fingers stroking back his unruly hair.
“I love you, John,” he whispered at length, the words welling out of him wholly inadequate to express how he felt.
But then had to shift, because John was laying down next to him on the old quilt. “Love you too, kid,” came the breathy whisper in his ear.
“It was a beautiful surprise,” Templeton said, playing a soft hand down John’s buttons, smiling at the man laying next to him. “Perfect.”
“But that’s not everything, Temp,” John replied, and turned, pushing up on an elbow, reaching for the lantern. “Would you like the rest?”
“Anything,” the younger man agreed.
And the light went out.
Templeton was about to ask, about to protest, but then John just tapped him on the shoulder, slotting up against him, and pointed up.
Without the interference of the lantern, the heavens above them were alive, the tendrils of the Milky Way stretching across the black sphere of the sky, eastern horizon to western mountains, billions of stars on fire in the firmament, bathing the world in pale silver light.
Marveling, Templeton felt a thrill go up his spine. He’d seen it before, of course, the night sky. Its muddied visage above New York and through the smoke smear of the War and on their own travels, from hotel window. But somehow, at that moment, wine warming his blood, John warming his skin, it seemed as if he was seeing it for the very first time.
Seeing it for all it was. Ancient and eternal, a beauty that would endure for all time, that would never dim, never fade, live forever in its glory...
Then it was obscured by a shape moving above him, and Templeton sighed as strong hands stroked his chest.
“He walks in beauty like the night, of starry skies and cloudless climbs, and all that’s best of dark and bright meet in his aspect and his eyes...”
Templeton arched up in response to that snippet of Byron, tangling their hands together and forcing John down flat over him, relishing the feel of his lover’s body against his own, straddling him, connected and alive. But still... “I...I think that’s supposed to be a woman in that poem, John...”
John laughed, and then lips brushed Templeton’s own. “Remember my promise, sweetheart? Remember what I swore to you?”
The younger man nodded, smiling, thinking back to that other blanket on that other grass. “That I could ask you anything, when we’re together like this...”
“You asked me once if we could make love under the stars.” A button slipped loose at Templeton’s throat. “I intend to make good on that tonight, Templeton.”
Templeton wanted to respond, wanted to give voice to all that soft murmur let loose in him, but then their mouths met again and clothes came away and everything in all of creation just fell into place.
Exactly where it always should have been.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: mentions of domestic violence and underage
Summary:
A year after Templeton’s arrival at the Colonel’s Long Island estate, everything had changed...
The sun was setting by the time Templeton had finished inspecting the northern fence, untacked and cooled down his gelding.
He paused for a moment in the great doorway of the barn, looking west to the mountains, to the dominating heights of Pikes Peak, crowned in the black clouds of late summer storms, distant, their own skies clear to the failing light. The young man smiled at the sight, at the whinnies of the horses behind him, and looked down at the barn cat bumped his leg, wanting a pet. He knelt to scratch her ears. She’d been getting fatter and fatter of late, and John was convinced she was pregnant from the neighbor’s tom, the huge marmalade male that wandered where it would.
That would be fun, Templeton thought again, the prospect of kittens. Murdock would love them. But it was getting late, too late to linger, so he rubbed her neck with his knuckles and rose back to his feet. “See you tomorrow, princess,” he told the cat, and she jumped, rather unbalanced, up on the nearest stall and meowed at him as he shut the doors.
The walk back up to the main house was pleasant, smelling of grass and growing things and the hint of rain to come. Light was shining out the white-slat house’s front windows, spilling onto the porch, and Templeton took the front steps two at a time, stepping out of his filthy boots and in the small mud room.
“John!” he yelled, straightening and tromping back through the hall to the kitchen. “John, love, are you there?”
“In here, Temp!”
That wasn’t John.
He rounded the corner into the kitchen and smiled at the smell of Murdock’s chili bubbling away on the little stove, and smiled broader at the sight of of his friends. Murdock, wrapped around Bosco’s bulkier frame, the big man feigning annoyance as he kissed his lover back. Templeton leaned against the doorway, just watching for a moment, until Bosco caught his eye and ruefully untangled.
“How’ya doin’, Temp?” he grunted, sitting back down at the table and going for the newspaper, as if he hadn’t been up to anything at all.
Murdock was more direct, coming over and giving Templeton a hug, his flowery apron swinging loose around his neck, and he kissed the blonde, right below the ear. “John’s upstairs,” he said, and patted Templeton’s cheek, pulling away again, back to the stove. “He should be down soon. Said he had a surprise for you.”
“Ooh,” Templeton replied, sitting down next to Bosco. “A surprise. Any hints as to what it is?”
“My lips are sealed, Temp!” Murdock replied lightly, and went back to the stove.
Bosco looked up over the top of his paper, and then back down, grinning to himself, and Templeton smiled back, retrieving his own book from the little stack at the end of the checked tablecloth.
It was good to have them here.
Bosco and Murdock had arrived about a month ago, meeting John at the Colorado Springs terminal for the four hour ride out to the ranch. Murdock had arrived in good spirits, even if Bosco had been rather cranky over the split car system. They’d both been laughing by the time they’d gotten to the house though, hugs and backslaps exchanged all around, and over an uncommonly delicious supper, they’d gotten the story about Vance Lynch and his sallow-faced gumshoe friend, Brock Pike.
John had sent the bottle with Vance’s fingerprints to Major Harper, who’d pulled a few strings with people he knew in the New York City Police Department, and gotten an investigation opened. An investigation which was supposed to be handled quietly and discreetly, but then Murdock had “suffered” one of his momentary lapses of sanity at the wake, screaming about how the Colonel had been murdered by tall demon with dark hair and blue eyes.
A wake which had included members of the press corps.
And one of Major Harper’s friends in the Department.
And Vance’s supervisor at the Bureau.
The story exploded in New York as arrests were made, lurid details invented from thin air by the press. Rumors abounded, most false, some entirely too close to the truth for comfort, and eventually a narrative emerged. Not an entirely factual narrative, of course, a far more interesting story of familial double-crosses and filial betrayal, of a son driven mad by his own evil heart, who took out his fury on his family, torturing his dear cousin and his heroic father, trying to kill his cousin first and then, failing that, succeeding with his father, forcing an illegal change to the old man’s will on his deathbed.
There were other lovely details, too, whispers of a homosexual relationship between Vance and his accomplice, one Mr. Brock Pike, of women being forced against their will, perhaps even an assault on the cousin, which was why he ran, of course, horrified. It was all spoken in whispers, in bars in muttered tones, but it was enough to turn the jury completely against Vance during the trial.
The story, Murdock said, was still going strong, even after the hangings.
All’s well that ends well, John had said and cleared the table calmly, but that night, curled up together in bed, Templeton had heard his man crying, and held him until the emotion of twenty years of abuse had passed away.
But the will, the will, that was the one aspect in the story that had shaken Templeton badly.
The staff had all been given six months of full pay, room, and board, upon the death of the Colonel, per the original document, with John’s position, amazingly, a guaranteed employment for life. Murdock had been named executor of the estate and grounds, and had still the option of putting that up for sale.
Which Templeton did immediately.
For he was still the main beneficiary of the estate.
The papers signed the night of the Colonel’s death were dismissed by his employed law firm, on the grounds that accepting Vance as the sole inheritor would have been a vast embarrassment and a crippling business maneuver. Which meant that Templeton controlled the Lynch fortune, according to the papers Murdock had brought with him from New York.
Templeton hadn’t wanted to take any of the money he’d been willed, but he wasn’t a fool, and he’d found a source of funds he could live with collecting upon; the proceeds of the house sale had gone into a number of different accounts. He’d wanted to maybe put some of it into the stock market, but John called that entire system horseshit and they compromised on Treasury bonds and gold instead.
As for the rest of the Lynch millions, well, Saint Thomas’ Home for Boys and Blessed Mary Magdelena’s Boarding School for Girls had gotten quite sizable donations from an anonymous donor that July, along with several other orphanages in New York City.
But best of all, they’d picked up two very able-bodied ranch-hands. John had given them the downstairs bedroom, and despite the occasional fights about nightly noise levels or the odd meals Murdock was known to fix at times or Bosco’s strange motor projects in the spare shed or John’s compulsive reading habit or Templeton’s own boredom issues that came up from time to time, they all managed to settle into their shared space quite amicably.
“Did you have a good day, darling?” that beautiful tenor, his lover’s sweet voice, asked, a hand on his shoulder and lips on his hair, interrupting his musings.
“Speak of the devil,” Templeton laughed, and pushed around in his chair to face his lover. “Of course I did. You were right, John. It’s a beautiful country.”
It was. It truly was.
They’d found themselves a beautiful old house tucked up into a copse of low pines, on the leeside of a huge hill. The well water ran sweet and the land rolled away from their front step, down to the barn and pastures and wide plains beyond. It needed work, though, and John had set them to that the first few weeks, teaching Templeton how to measure and saw and fit and join and nail and whitewash and everything else the man remembered from his younger years.
They were in a part of the country that was hungry for horses and the tough little mules used in the mountains, and John was still in the process of ensuring they had good stock to start with. The first horse they’d bought, however, was the one he meant for Templeton, and despite the initial soreness and frustration, the young man had picked it up fast.
And while it had taken him a few months to get used to the routine and the roughness, he’d come to love it. The smell of the wind, being out in the green all day, hunting hare in the tall grass, the feel of a horse beneath him, the freedom of it all...Templeton felt complete in that world, like he’d been missing a part of himself all his life and had only discovered it here.
With John.
“Were you thinking about me, kid?” John asked, pulling Templeton’s chin up so their eyes met.
“Well, our housemates did say you had a surprise for me,” he replied, grinning.
“Oh they did, did they?” the older man whispered, their noses touching.
Templeton wound a hand up into that fine, silky, silver hair, craning up. “Mm, hmm...”
“I suppose I shouldn’t disappoint you, then, darling...”
“No, you truly shouldn’t...”
And their mouths came together in the briefest promise of a kiss.
“Hey, we gonna eat tonight or what?” Murdock pouted, hands on his hips, a big basket of fresh, steaming bread in his hands.
And came apart, just as quickly, a sheepish smile on John’s lips. “Of course, captain. Serve away.”
Supper was simple, hearty and good. As good as it always was, Murdock’s chili and sourdough rolls and fresh butter they bought from the girls down the road. Everybody tucked in with gusto.
It was, Templeton thought as he ate, watching Murdock tease Bosco and Bosco pretending to be upset and hiding his smile, and both of them chattering at him about who he thought was being the bigger child, almost like having a family. How he’d always imagined a family to be. Warm and comfortable and argumentative and joking, all in one loving package. Murdock and Bosco had almost been like brothers to him in New York, and there, in Colorado, he felt those ties even more strongly.
And then, of course, there was John. John. His John. His man. His lover. His...husband, he thought sometimes, in his heart of hearts. If such a word, such a status could be applied to another man. Certainly not something that his own Catholic upbringing would ever support him in, nothing decent society could ever embrace, but...there it was, shining and bright, and Templeton did not have it in him to push it away. He loved the man. He did. With all his heart...
“Are you okay, Temp?” John asked, reaching across the top of the table to slide his palm into the younger man’s, where it lay on the tablecloth.
He looked up from his bowl, catching those soft blue eyes watching him. “Of course,” he said, a little confused.
That hand left his palm, and fingers touched the join of his nose and his cheek, wiping away a bit of moisture that Templeton hadn’t even realized was there. “You’re crying, darling,” John murmured, and the blonde realized that his friends were watching him as well.
He shook his head, unsure of what he could say to match the fullness of his heart, and tried to smile. “I...I just...this place, being here with all of you, it’s...”
John’s eyes softened even more, and Murdock reached over the table, too, patting Templeton on the shoulder.
“I know what you mean, Temp,” and that was Bosco, who’d grabbed his own wrist and was staring at the far wall. “Lived all m’ life back East. Nobody ever see you for wha’ you worth there, only look at wha’ color you are...” and he trailed off, unable to finish, choked up like Templeton had never seen him before. Murdock’s hand left Templeton’s shoulder as the dark-haired man stood up to wrap himself around his lover’s shoulders.
John reached forward and touched Bosco’s, clenched then into fists. “I’m glad you’re here, Bosco. I’m glad all you boys are here with me. It’s the way things should be. What each of you deserves.”
Templeton felt another swell of love, deep down, his heart expanding, and he leaned his head on his fist, forward on the table. “What about you, John?”
His lover smiled, his eyes bright, shining with repressed emotion, and he held out his hand as he stood. “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve any of this, with any of you. I thank god every day for it, and I thank you for bearing with a silly old man,” he murmured, pulling Templeton to his feet and running a strong, calloused hand down his back, cupping his buttocks within the rough work Levis. “It’s more than I ever could have hoped for. It’s like a dream...”
A flutter went right through Templeton, that same feeling he had every time they were close like this, his body responding to his lover’s, opening, surrendering, begging. “John,” he sighed, and hugged that tall form close to his. “John, I...”
But John made a little noise in his throat, one more of indication than of lust, so Templeton pulled his cheek from the older man’s shoulder and looked behind them.
Towards where Murdock had crawled into Bosco’s lap, holding his face, big, dark hands around his narrow waist, the two of them kissing deeply. Speaking to each other no more, but saying everything they needed to, nonetheless.
A dark, happy little chuckle in his ear, and John bit the tender skin there, very lightly. “Now would you like your surprise, darling?”
Templeton laid one of his hands over John’s, where it had come to rest on his chest. “Yes.”
Templeton let himself be led from the warm kitchen, down the hall, but raised an eye when he saw where they’d stopped. Saw the blankets and basket John had piled by the front door.
“What’s this?” he asked, touching the old quilt lightly.
John shoved his feet back in his boots, and gestured for Templeton to do the same as he turned to light a lamp. “Come on, kid. It’s a beautiful night. The thunderstorms have gone, there’s nothing to worry about.”
Their hands slipped together as they left the house, held in the sphere of golden light from that lantern bobbing in John’s grasp. Templeton knew the property well enough now to know where they were headed; up the hill behind their home, through the trees and sleeping birds, up between outcroppings of granite bared from the prairie by wind and time, up to the very crest where, during daylight hours, one could see the entire country laid out for miles.
As it was, in the dark, all Templeton could see, in the light from the flickering flame within its glass, was John’s tall frame shaking out the blankets in a soft patch of grass. Not as tall or thick or rich as the grass in his gardens back in New York, but Templeton still had a flash of that morning, of them entwined together in the summer morning a year ago, John whispering sweet words to him, touching him so carefully, setting him free...
His eyes stung once again, tears coming as John came to him and kissed him gently. “Lay down with me, sweetheart?” he asked softly.
And there was only one answer for that.
Templeton sank to his knees, in synch with John’s movements, lips locked with John’s, John’s hands on his neck, holding them together. It lingered, no heat in it that night, no urgency, their connection thrumming through it still, and Templeton gasped for air as it ended with one last, soft pass of tongue.
“What ...what are we doing out here, John?” he breathed.
He shook his head and reached into the basket, a bottle of wine and a pair of new, delicate crystal glasses coming out. Templeton caught the label and gasped again; a French pinot noir, an old vintage, one of the ones they’d found in their dalliance at the Broadmoor earlier in the year, one Templeton remembered well from his days in France. “John, moonshine and whiskey is one thing, but this...how did you get this?”
“I thought we should have something special tonight,” he said softly, and carded a wonderful hand back through the younger man’s curls. “And you’re not the only one who can pull a con, kid.”
He watched with interest, the dexterity with which John uncorked the bottle. “What’s special about tonight?”
“You really don’t know?” John handed him a glass, ruby red liquid glinting in their sphere of light. “Really, Templeton?”
“Tell me,” he replied, sniffing appreciatively and smiling. “I’m on pins and needles here.”
John held up his own glass. “A toast,” he said in that same quiet voice.
“To what?” Templeton asked, holding his own glass just ever so slightly back.
“To that beautiful man who first let me take him to heaven,” John whispered, and clinked their crystal together, “exactly one year ago today.”
Templeton was stunned for a moment, remembering that morning, hiding behind a tree, listening to Joh pleasure himself, his own name on the older man’s lips, his fear as John caught him there, and then, and then, John’s lips around his cock, showing him for the first time, even if he hadn’t realized it at the time, what a sacred thing sex could be between two people who loved each other. “A...a year? Has it been so long?”
“Happy anniversary, my love,” John confirmed and leaned forward to kiss him as he’d kissed him before. And Templeton thought, as he kissed John back with every ounce of the love he felt for the man, that he could die happy and fulfilled, right then, right there. Nothing could be better.
They both sipped at their wine, savoring it, talking of inconsequential things both past and present, laughing a little, falling into silence as the last few drops were swallowed in the lamplight.
John took their glasses then and laid them aside, back in the basket by the recorked bottle, ready to enjoy on some other pleasant evening. Templeton snuggled down, head in the older man’s lap, eyes closed against the glory of fingers stroking back his unruly hair.
“I love you, John,” he whispered at length, the words welling out of him wholly inadequate to express how he felt.
But then had to shift, because John was laying down next to him on the old quilt. “Love you too, kid,” came the breathy whisper in his ear.
“It was a beautiful surprise,” Templeton said, playing a soft hand down John’s buttons, smiling at the man laying next to him. “Perfect.”
“But that’s not everything, Temp,” John replied, and turned, pushing up on an elbow, reaching for the lantern. “Would you like the rest?”
“Anything,” the younger man agreed.
And the light went out.
Templeton was about to ask, about to protest, but then John just tapped him on the shoulder, slotting up against him, and pointed up.
Without the interference of the lantern, the heavens above them were alive, the tendrils of the Milky Way stretching across the black sphere of the sky, eastern horizon to western mountains, billions of stars on fire in the firmament, bathing the world in pale silver light.
Marveling, Templeton felt a thrill go up his spine. He’d seen it before, of course, the night sky. Its muddied visage above New York and through the smoke smear of the War and on their own travels, from hotel window. But somehow, at that moment, wine warming his blood, John warming his skin, it seemed as if he was seeing it for the very first time.
Seeing it for all it was. Ancient and eternal, a beauty that would endure for all time, that would never dim, never fade, live forever in its glory...
Then it was obscured by a shape moving above him, and Templeton sighed as strong hands stroked his chest.
“He walks in beauty like the night, of starry skies and cloudless climbs, and all that’s best of dark and bright meet in his aspect and his eyes...”
Templeton arched up in response to that snippet of Byron, tangling their hands together and forcing John down flat over him, relishing the feel of his lover’s body against his own, straddling him, connected and alive. But still... “I...I think that’s supposed to be a woman in that poem, John...”
John laughed, and then lips brushed Templeton’s own. “Remember my promise, sweetheart? Remember what I swore to you?”
The younger man nodded, smiling, thinking back to that other blanket on that other grass. “That I could ask you anything, when we’re together like this...”
“You asked me once if we could make love under the stars.” A button slipped loose at Templeton’s throat. “I intend to make good on that tonight, Templeton.”
Templeton wanted to respond, wanted to give voice to all that soft murmur let loose in him, but then their mouths met again and clothes came away and everything in all of creation just fell into place.
Exactly where it always should have been.
