6 Sir Jack the Unwavering

Chapter Six

Wearing his own clothing, straightened up as much as possible given that he’d been up a tree and fearing for his life, Jack stepped through the marble arch into what seemed very like a Roman banquet hall. Half a dozen men lay around on Roman replica lounges, low to the ground and painted gold. Tuxedos in various states of undress still managed to look elegant, like some new form of onyx toga that Caesar would have worn, given the chance. Pretty youth, about the same age as Gael wore actual togas, barely long enough not to be obscene while moving between the diners, offering wine from pitchers, grapes, and other delicacies.

Gael sat up, his clothes all on properly, ankles crossed under his lounge. Jack noted that he did not like seeing Gael look scared. Somehow Gael had struck him as a great blond courageous lion, like there was nothing he couldn’t do. See him pale and distressed was an offence that Jack decided he was not going to forgive Alfred for.

Alfred had the head of the table, his head wreathed with laurel. He smirked at Jack, glanced at Gael, then back at Jack with a possessive smirk.

Jack paused in the arch, wondering if he had not just set himself up as Vercingetorix, the enemy to be strangled to show the triumph of the Caesar. Though Alfred was no Julius, more like a Nero. Jack straightened his brown little bow tie. With his hastily repaired coat hanging over his arm, he stepped into the room.

Alfred and he locked eyes and Jack felt like he would evermore know just what it felt like to be sized up by a king and found wanting. Nervous, he straightened his bowtie again and invoked the newly created idea of St. Washington, patron saint of rebel patriots to watch over him. “Sir, I do apologize for invading your garden. I would have knocked on the front door, had I made it that far.” He greatly hoped he sounded resolute and much calmer than he felt.

“Dr. Walker do you intend to offend me by coming to dinner dressed like a shabby clerk?” Alfred stabbed a bloody piece of steak on his plate and pointed it at Jack as he spoke, before putting it into his mouth and chewing as he waited for a response.

“While I am a doctor, there is nothing shabby about being a clerk. Should the Lord have called me to be a clerk, I should be happy to serve my community in that capacity.”

“What are your intentions towards my Gael?”

“Sir,” Jack said, making sir sound like equals, “I am unused to such dress and fine food. I am grateful for your hospitality, however. My intentions are to see that he is safe and happy for however long I shall live.”

“Modest goals are good to have,” one of the other men said. This set off a round of snickering.

Jack straightened his tie again.

“And what?” Alfred sat all the way up, knees spread, leaning over a bit, face twisting in dirersion. “You think you’ll come calling? You’ll get married, move in together? Fuck like rabbits and one of you will get pregnant with little cute little Protestants?”

“I am a medical doctor. I do understand the means of human reproduction,” Jack said, though honestly he hadn’t thought it that far through. “As for the rest of that, yes. We’ll find a way.

“How’s this,” Alfred said, lightly bouncing the side of his bloody steak knife on his finger. “I’ll retain you as my personal physician. I have many situations where I need a competent physician. Gael will continue as my personal secretary and on Tuesdays I will bend you both over my desk and decide who I want first?”

Jack’s cheeks flamed. “Sir,” Jack said face calm, words the same implacable authority he’d learned from his favorite maths professor, “apologize to Mr. McNeil, and to myself, immediately.”

Gael’s face was deathly pale and slightly green, his eyes wide, lips thin as he shook his head very slightly at Jack.

The steak knife sailed at Jack’s head, but the redhead glared, unmoved. “And for that as well. Men do not treat other men in such ways.”

Then Alfred broke into laughter. “Oh my god, Kansas Boy, you have some balls. Fine, fine. I shall suffer you because of the love I have for my little Irish poet. You should consider yourself married to him because if you ever harm him or break his heart, I will cut off your iron balls and make you eat them. Gael! Breath boy! You’re going to pass out again.”

Jack lost all sense and went to Gael’s side, catching his wrist to check his pulse. “Cover your mouth and nose with your cupped hands, breath like that until it gets easier. You’re hyperventilating.” He drew his pocket square and dabbed at Gael’s forehead. “Everything will be fine.”

“My god, you’re a walking fucking fairytale! Marcal,” he called out holding up his cup as a pretty raven haired man ran up to fill it. “Is Father Bristol in the house?”

“Yes, sir,” Marcal said as he filled the master’s cup. “Shall I ask him to come down?”

“Yes, ask him to meet us in the chapel, in say half an hour?”

“Of course, Master,” Marcal said, smiling adoringly.

Gael grabbed Jack’s hand, holding tightly. Jack rubbed his thumb against the back of Gael’s hand. There were, clearly, worlds he didn’t know about Gael, but to be fair there were worlds he didn’t know about himself too. The moment in the train station when Gael had told him that he was not a criminal, Jack believed those words with all his heart. Everything that had been before those words was gone. Likewise, the timid man who studied medicine in penance for the lusts of his spirit was gone as well. When Gael touched him, he’d never been closer to God than in those moments and he refused to let go the brightest and most vivid life he’d ever known.

“Come and live with me,” Jack offered, “We will work everything out. I promise.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Jack,” Gael whispered, even as Jack ran a thumb along the edge of fading bruise on Gael’s face.