silverflint, 58? :D
“You smell like a wet dog.”
John glared at James as he ducked inside the cabin, and for that he flung his wet jacket at him. To his delight, it caught James full in the face, and he yanked it off, scowling. John smiled back, faux-sweetly. “Well, some of us had to be out in the rain, we can’t all hole up in a cabin under the excuse of plotting a next move.”
“I am plotting our course,” James pointed out, watching John with a mixture of amusement and irritation that shifted to worry as John settled on the hanging cot, biting his lip as he tried to remove his peg. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“John.”
John looked up, and now James could see the exhaustion written all over his face. He got up, dropping down onto the cot next to John as the peg thudded to the deck. John sighed, and after a moment let himself tip sideways against James. “I hate storms at sea. Just, for the record. I fucking hate them.”
“If you weren’t so stubborn...”
“Pot, kettle, a chroi,” John murmured, and as ever, James wondered what the endearment meant, what language it was in. But pressing had never gotten him anywhere, so he stayed quiet instead as John’s head came to rest heavy on his shoulder. The damp curls left his shirt wet, but James decided to ignore that. One didn’t get through a day on a ship without getting wet one way or another.
“You can’t fall asleep in those wet things, idiot,” he said, the insult coming out more affectionate than anything else.
“I think I can survive a cold.”
“I’m not sure I can survive you ill and grumpy.” Or what might happen if the sickness became serious. There’d been far too much of that.
“I think you’re just trying to get me out of my clothes.”
“When was the last time I needed an excuse for that?” James asked, nudging John to sit up again. “Come on then. Get out of those and you can sleep.”
John tugged off his wet shirt and left it on the floor, then got to his single foot, holding onto the cot’s rope as he shimmied out of his trousers. James supposed he shouldn’t have been surprised when John found one of his own overlarge white shirts to pull on instead before he laid down. “Are you staying, or going back to work?”
He should go back to his charts and maps. He really should. And yet, he’s tired too. And those blue eyes were far more compelling than they ought to be...
Neither of them stirred until the sun was high the next morning.
