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Sunrise at the Canadian Shack

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“If I had a porch like this, I don’t think I’d ever go to work.”

“Yes you would. You couldn’t stay away. Last night you called Jo, what, four times?”

“I called Zoe four times.”

“And asked to speak to Jo every time. About work.”

“I’d learn to delegate.”

“I’ve been saying that for years.”

Nathan comes up behind Jack with a steaming mug of freshly-brewed Kona in hand. It’s just sunrise, and a faint mist hangs over the lake. One of the perks of being the former head of GD is that the housing allowance is a generous one.

They spend more time here, now that Zoe’s seventeen and Jack’s gotten used to the fact she's with Jo. As a father, Jack has finally come to the realization that even former federal marshals can’t do much in the face of adolescent sexual exploration other than drive it underground or give their kids a chance at responsibility.

In the end, he chose the later. But not without some growing pains.

Jo had wisely kept her mouth shut and her head down while Zoe tried the frontal assault and Nathan had backed them both from the rear flank (and the promise of debauched weekends by the lake without fear of ill-timed interruptions). And eventually, the concerted efforts of the relentless majority had de-fanged the fierce paternal minority.

Which brings them here, to the porch, on a Sunday morning, coffee in hand, gazing out at across the lake to where the first rays of the sunrise behind them are gilding the tops of the trees on the far shore.

Jack is naked.

It’s a fact that Nathan has been studiously ignoring for the past fifteen minutes in the interest of caffeination but which he now, mug of steaming black coffee fresh from the French press in hand, he feels able to appreciate, luxuriate in even.

They’ve been together now -- what, three years? Though it’s only retroactively they’d been bullied (by Zoe and Jo and Allison and Taggert and Vincent and Fargo and -- well, yes, pretty much the entire town) into acknowledging it’s been going on for that long in that way. In the together-together sort of way. So it’s been three years, give or take, since Nathan first saw that gorgeous narrow-hipped behind currently in front of him, first slid his hand with no small measure of amazement down from the small of Jack’s back, measuring the curve of his hips, cupping the underside of his ass, pulling him closer, discovering he could have more.

He reaches out now, with the hand that isn’t holding his coffee, and trails his fingers down the familiar path of Jack’s spine, enjoys watching Jack’s shoulders relax at the touch, then pull together again with an altogether different kind of tension as Nathan slides two fingers into the groove that begins at the base of Jack’s spine, a faint suggestion, an echo of past and future intimacies.

Jack clears his throat: “Want something?”

“Just you,” Nathan says, content, “Always you.”

Jack snorts affectionately, but reaches back and captures Nathan’s hand in his own, pulls Nathan’s arm around his waist, pressing Nathan’s palm to his naked belly. Nathan can feel the softness there, a gentle roundness that has waxed and waned with the seasons, but which Jack never seems to pay much attention to. Something Nathan doesn’t think he’ll ever fully understand -- or cease to envy. What must it be like to move through the world so at ease in your averageness that even your lack of concern about it seems unremarkable to you?

Nathan feels under his fingers the rise and fall of Jack’s diaphragm as he breathes, the dimple of his belly button, the rough curls tickling Nathan’s ring and pinky finger as he spread his fingers wide, shifting his feet and moving in closer, crowding Jack up against the porch rail, enjoying the feeling of Jack pinned and exposed, even if there’s no one there to see.

“Mmmm.” Jack hums in the back of his throat, pushes back into Nathan with familiar ease: hips and thighs and ass and shoulder blades pressing into the curve of Nathan’s own thighs and pelvis, belly and chest.

Nathan sets his coffee on the rail and uses both arms to gather his lover in, to hold him, to keep him. Jack twists in Nathan’s grasp, turning, and tilts his head so that his mouth aligns with Nathan’s, presses a coffee-tinged kiss against Nathan’s bottom-lip.

“Morning to you, too,” he murmurs the words into Nathan’s skin.