Title: The Guilty Party
Author:  foxxcub
Pairing: Jack/James
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Like that night only happened yesterday...
A/N: Welcome back to Jack/Jamesverse. Um, let's just pretend that "Amateurs" ended right after Jack passes out, shall we? Because I can't quite let myself leave these boys in peace.
 

The problem with hosting parties was that word always got out—before and after. He’s not all that surprised when Coach pulls him aside later that week and tells him a little birdie’d whispered something to him about pot at Shephard’s house the weekend before. Jack tries to get all wide-eyed and innocent, but it’s too late; he was out for the next two games, on the condition that birdies never whispered in Coach’s ear about him ever again.

So he stands on the sidelines in his jersey and jeans and plays innocent bystander and civilian supporter, the shame of being a first string senior not being dressed out never really registering with him. He’s not in it for the glory, he’s in it for the college points.

Half time comes and he starts to wander off the field toward the locker rooms, thinking hanging out and shooting the shit with the guys was more fun than hearing the band butcher a rendition of “Sunshine of Your Love”.

He catches up with the team right before he sees him right at the edge of the bleachers, smoking.

It’s been four months since that night, a night he only sometimes lets himself admit to. He’d made himself sick wondering what he’d say to him when they laid eyes on each other come Monday, but it was as if he’d never existed. James’s gaze would pass over him like he was transparent, and Jack would tell himself he was relieved, grateful, it was for the best. There was no reason to feel hurt, anyway.

He’d never shown up again at Jack’s house parties, but Jack never questioned it, never asked around to see if they knew where James Ford was that night. But no one’s ever asked about James or that night, and Jack keeps it that way. He’s good at keeping secrets, always has been.

But tonight is different, for some reason. Tonight they just happen to lock eyes as they pass, and tonight James actually jerks his head in a half-assed greeting. His hair’s a little longer and his body’s a little leaner—not that Jack cares or has noticed or even remembers what he looked like before. He hasn’t seen him since school ended, and once the new term started he’d believed there was the possibility that James had transferred. Yet here he was, hiding out behind the bleachers at the first game of the season, smoking and surveying his surroundings like he could take it or leave it.

“Dude, is that Ford?” Stephens jabs him in the shoulder and Jack blinks, swallows hard.

“Uh, yeah.”

“What the fuck, is he like saying hi to you?”

And Jack starts laughing, a slightly nervous, twitchy laugh that makes him feel a little breathless. He looks over his shoulder, straight at James, who’s still watching him, and practically announces, “Whatever, I don’t even know the guy. Didn’t he just get out of jail or something?”

Stephens laughs back, and Jack keeps smiling even though he sees the way James’s eyes narrow and his shoulders roll in. There’s a visible tick in his jaw.

Jack’s stomach goes cold, but he’s still laughing.


///


James is gone when Jack emerges at halftime’s end. Jack doesn’t purposely look or anything; he just happens to glance over at the exact spot he’d occupied earlier, and it’s empty.

Fine. He doesn’t care, he really doesn’t. What the hell was James doing, anyway, showing up at a goddamn football game to simply acknowledge his presence after all this time? What made him so special that he’d suddenly materialized and become real to James, or real enough to actually make eye contact and keep it?

Now he’s pissed all over again, even after he convinced himself long ago that none of it mattered. One drunken, stupid night should never linger for so long.

It’s like his conscience reaches out and grabs him by the arm and yanks him into shadow. His shoulder shoves into James’s chest and he hears him mumble, “You’re pretty fuckin’ hysterical, Prep.”

“Get off me.” He tries to shove at him and free himself, but James holds tight, his mouth right against Jack’s ear. They’re tucked away beneath the bleachers, the flickering light of passing bodies hiding them, sheltering them, but not completely. And yet Jack still shudders at the feel of his breath warm and damp against his skin, his pulse convulsing in his chest. God, like that night only happened yesterday.

Jack puts enough force into his shoulder as he shoves James one last time that they’re stumbling backwards, slamming into the metal beams.

“You don’t wanna get in a tussle with me, Prep, trust me.” He almost sounds like he’s laughing.

“Why not? I could take you.” They’re practically nose to nose—too close, and Jack continues his struggle and the vain attempt to keep from shaking.

“Most likely. But I’d win in the end.” He lets go right as Jack’s pulling away with a sharp jerk, and they stand there for the moment in silence, facing off and panting and watching each other with an intent Jack doesn’t want to think too hard on.

Jack licks his lips. “Where’ve you been?” It just sort of tumbles out, without any thought.

“What, you don’t know?” He’s actually surprised.

“No, that’s why I’m asking.”

His mouth screws up a little, like he can’t quite decide if he wants to tell Jack or not. After a second he pushes his hands into his pockets and looks out off to the left somewhere and says casually, “Got expelled. For fightin’ and shit.”

“When?”

“I dunno, second day of school, I guess.”

“For how long?”

“The semester. You gonna stand there and play twenty questions with me all night, Prep?”

Jack’s suddenly angry and frustrated, some strange coiling sensation churning his gut. He doesn’t understand it, just like he doesn’t understand why no one bothered to tell him any of this. Surely someone would’ve mentioned it in passing, even as a rumor…

“So what’d you fight about?”

James is glaring at him, and that tick in his jaw is back. “Why, you want it to be about you or somethin’?”

“No, ‘course not.”

“Then why are you askin’?”

“I’m curious.”

“Yeah?” He’s leaning into him slowly, the glare becoming darker and fiercer. Jack doesn’t move, doesn’t back off, but his heart is pounding. “I’m curious as to why you’re spreadin’ rumors about me bein’ in jail.”

“It’s not like that. I was just…goofin’.”

“Right. You probably wanted it to be true. Sounds a lot more cooler than the whole expelled story, huh?”

“Fuck you.” Jack doesn’t want to say it, doesn’t mean it, but he’s losing ground, feeling so damned off balance it’s a wonder he doesn’t fall over.

James doesn’t throw it back, but he gets up in Jack’s face and smirks, like he did before, letting Jack know he’s aware of things that Jack only wishes he knew. One small smirk meant to say simply, Yeah, we covered that already. Thanks.

Jack’s fists are clenching as James shoves past him. But he’s the one grabbing his arm now and hissing, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, just showing up here and acting like we’re friends all of sudden, because we’re not, we never were, so don’t fucking act like you know me.” He doesn’t even breathe until the words finish rushing from of his mouth; he can feel the force of his pulse just behind his ears.

“I’m ain’t actin’ anythin’, so get off.” He jerks against Jack’s hold, but Jack only digs his fingers deeper into his skin.

“No.”

”Let go.”

”No. I asked you a fucking question.”

“And I’m tellin’ you to fuck off.” James shoves him again, harder this time, but Jack throws him back into the beams, planting his hands on both shoulders and gripping him until his knuckles turn white. He’s barely conscious that they’re suddenly flush against one another, chest to chest, struggling and pushing and it’s too close--

“Just tell me and I’ll let go.” He stops fighting him and ducks his head, gasping for breath in a way that’s got nothing to do with physical exertion.

“I said no.” James gives one last attempt to free himself, but it’s a small halfhearted tug, a tug that somehow, inadvertently, causes his hips to jerk up.

They both gasp, a faint sharp suction of shared air. Jack can feel James’s fingertips flex in their hold on his upper arms.

James licks his lips. Jack swallows.

“Tell me.”

“No is no.” They’re whispering now, and even through the roar of the crowd above them Jack can still hear the familiar deep buzz in his voice.

“I’m not letting go.”

“I don’t care.”

“Yeah, you do, or you wouldn’t be here.”

There’s a small strangled noise from the back of James’s throat, and for a second he looks tormented, helpless, but it vanishes before Jack can barely see it, and his nails dig into Jack’s arms as his teeth sink into Jack’s bottom lip, sucking hard before his tongue swipes along the edge. Jack tries to pull back, to see his face again, but James has his eyes squeezed shut and his hand is burrowing into his hair, cupping the back of his head and forcing his mouth back down on his and Jack’s pulse nearly explodes.

It’s faster this time, wetter, more frantic now with the threat of being caught looming backstage. James tastes different than Jack remembers; still dark and hot, but missing the bite of whiskey. But the nicotine is still there, reminding Jack he hasn’t smoked in days, he’s trying to quit, but God, it’s so good, and he’s running his tongue over the inside of James’s lips, the roof of his mouth, panting and craving the way James tastes him in return with every wet tangle and slick glide as their mouths pass back and forth.

He can feel the blood pounding in his cock, trapped inside his jeans and begging to get out, and as he thrusts up hard against James's crotch, their groans vibrating through every inch of his body, he hears himself saying, “I got laid this summer.”

James actually grins against Jack’s mouth. He nips roughly at his jawline and replies softly, “Good for you.” His hand slips under the sleeve of his jersey and Jack has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep the pathetic moan at bay as he feels James’s thumb skim over his tattoo.

“Told ya this thing would work.” He says it like he’s totally unaware of the fact that he’s lifting his hips to meet Jack’s as he grinds into him fast and hard. But he’s breathless when Jack leans in and bites the skin just above his collarbone, his jaw going slack as he sucks in air in tiny jagged spasms, and his fingers trail down Jack’s sides to wrap around his waist.

Christ, it’s not enough, Jack wants closer, but it’s wrong and he’s stone-cold sober and he can see the flicker of shadows, people so close by they can surely see. He shouldn’t want any of this, but he does, fuck he does, more than anything, and he wants James to want it to, wants him to say it out loud and make it real—

Jack blinks slowly and looks James straight in the eye; neither speak when his hand jerks open James’s fly and slides the zipper down. He waits--his cheeks pulsing hot--for James to stop him, to grab his wrist and shove at him and tell him to go to hell, you fag.

Instead, he licks his lips again, making them glossy and wet in the slashes of light.

And Jack is shaking and sighing and letting his head fall forward to press against James’s as his hand reaches inside cotton and around hard, burning flesh, the tip already slick when his thumb sweeps across. James groans something incoherent that only Jack can hear, his head slamming back against the beam, his teeth clenching, his body shivering and thrusting into Jack’s hand buried between them that squeezes and twists and pumps the way Jack likes it, because God knows he’s never done this to anyone but himself and oh, he likes making James say fuck like that, his voice breaking every so faintly.

He wishes he could take his own dick in his hand and feel the hot skin-on-skin sensation he’s only recently learned feels like fucking heaven, but it’s too late, they’re too far gone, neither one of them can let themselves stop now. So he pumps James faster, pressing their bodies together as close as he can, both to shield themselves and take part in the friction he desperately needs.

But then James’s hand is there, cupping him and pressing the heel of his hand into the denim, trying to give him something back, and Jack nips his ear and lets him come in his hand. James growls Jack’s name in a rush (he later convinces himself he imagined it), and then Jack’s not far behind him, his body convulsing in one sharp jerk. He sags against James without thinking.

He can feel his heart pounding right under his.

Eons go by before Jack staggers back from him. He yanks his t-shirt from the waistband of his jeans and tugs it down low over his crotch as he watches James carefully zip up.

“Is this it, then?”

James looks up. “Is this what?”

“What you came for.”

His eyes narrow and he pushes off the beam. “No.” His cheeks are all flushed and damp, and his shoulders are still rising and falling. “But it was nice anyway.”

“Sure.”

James opens his mouth, words starting to form, but then he stops, looks away. He sighs and to Jack it sounds a lot like fuck.

“Whatever. I’ll see ya around, Prep.”

“Yeah.”

They don’t move at first; they just stare at the ground and try to look at each other without the other catching on. Then James reaches back and takes his soft pack out of his back pocket. He pulls a smoke out with his lips, and then without looking at him, offers the pack to Jack, who takes one like it’s water in the Sahara.

They smoke in silence once again, the roar of the crowd blending into nothing more than white noise.