Title: Finer Things
Fandom: Eureka
Rating: R
Length: ~1600 words
Summary: Jack stays over at Henry's, the first time.

Finer Things

Jack stays over at Henry's, the first time. They don't discuss it, but Henry can easily imagine what Jack would say if they did: "Whatever's happening, here, I'd really rather it didn't happen in front of SARAH."

It's Friday. That morning, Jack had mentioned Zoe's away for the weekend on a school fieldtrip. Then his phone had rung, heralding chaos, because this is Eureka, and they'd spent the rest of the day trying to outsmart a cloud of airborne information particles that were scrambling people's memories. Now, in the aftermath, standing by the crater that was recently Jack's car, Henry holds Jack's gaze a little too long, and Jack gets that self-conscious flush he's been wearing more and more often lately, and he smiles back.

The particles are neutralized, the casualties are receiving medical care, and Jo's dealing with the scientists responsible and requisitioning a new sheriff's car. Henry takes advantage of the moment's lull to offer Jack a beer, and instead of going to Café Diem, by unspoken mutual agreement they go back to Henry's garage. Or, more precisely, to the rooms behind the garage. Henry's home.

"You know, I've never been back here before," says Jack when Henry ushers him inside, and then he falls silent, his curious sheriff's gaze taking in every detail of the room.

Henry refuses to feel embarrassed. He goes through to the small kitchen and takes a couple of beers from the refrigerator, which looks like a relic of the sixties but is actually powered by a gen 5.1 quantum motor.

Jack appears in the doorway. "You know, this is not what I expected from world-famous scientist Henry Deacon. Where's the Tesla arc thingummies and the state-of-the-art electro-magnetic house robots?"

"In the garage," says Henry drily. "I inherited these furnishings from my grandmother."

"That explains a lot." Jack casts a quick, nonjudgmental glance at a cross-stitched sampler bearing the mathematical formula for the Mandelbrot Set and takes the beer Henry offers him. He toasts, "To a hard-earned weekend."

"To the weekend." Henry clinks his bottle against Jack's and leads the way onto the back porch, which is bathed in early evening sun. They ignore the old rocking chairs and sit side by side on the wide wooden steps, their knees touching in a way that could be casual but isn't.

Jack is doing his best to seem calm, Henry can tell, but there's a thick aura of waitingness about him. Henry idly toys with the idea of waiting expressed in particles—anticipatrons, perhaps—and a complex chain of equations blooms in his mind. He shuts it down. Something to think about later. He leans into Jack a little less subtly.

Jack swallows. "You know, this is the first time since Zoe's mom that I—" He's talking quickly, and he stumbles there. "I mean, I'm not expecting anything, any kind of serious—I—" He casts Henry a desperate glance. "Help me out here."

Henry smiles, affection welling up. "Jack. Relax."

"Right." Jack's head bobs up and down. "Relax." The single word is flat with irony.

Henry laughs low and their eyes meet. "You know, we don't have to do anything."

"But we're going to," says Jack. "Aren't we?"

It's a real question, not rhetorical, and Henry's mouth is suddenly dry, his body tinglingly aware. "I hope so."

"It's just, you know, small town, everyone knows everyone's business, Jo'll figure it out in about point five of a second, and then there's Zoe, and your grandmother's furniture, and you're like a gazillion times smarter than me—" Jack breaks off. Without warning, he leans in hard, craning over both their shoulders, and presses his mouth to Henry's.

They've been building up to this for weeks, months, ever since Jack first moved to Eureka. It shouldn't be such a shock, but the warm pressure of Jack's mouth on his makes Henry's head spin as if all the air's been driven from his body—a physical impossibility, but he's in no state to analyze. His beer slips from his grasp and clunks to the ground, and he barely notices, too busy turning to Jack, wrapping his arm around Jack's shoulders and hauling him closer.

Henry gets a lot of pleasure from life—he enjoys food and music, he finds his work profoundly satisfying, he has good friends—and over the last five or six years, he's somehow convinced himself that's enough. This kiss reveals the lie. His mind is flooded with sensation; his body hot and eager, invigorated with age-old, fundamental need. The feel of another mouth on his, another man strong in his arms—these things have been missing without him even knowing it. Jack's badge digs into his hip, and he doesn't care; it's more than worth it.

Jack seems to agree. He's climbing on top of Henry, covering him with his long body, and probably acquiring all kinds of grease stains from Henry's overalls. Henry stretches back on the uncomfortable steps and groans helplessly, holding Jack's head, sliding his tongue into Jack's mouth. Jack shifts in response, pressing his hips forward, but he slips and his knee bangs the hard edge of the step. The jolt mashes their teeth together.

"Ow." Jack sits up and rubs his knee, checks his front teeth with his tongue.

Henry wipes the back of his hand across his wet, sensitized lips and inhales deeply. "Jack," he says. "Would you like to come upstairs?"


*


Sex between them is a heady mix of urgency and humor. Jack's always been quick with a wry observation, and that's the case even here, though he seems to lose his train of thought when their clothes are finally stripped away. Their bodies fit together, cocks aligned in the tight press of their bellies, thighs interleaved. Henry lives immersed in complex mathematics, and it's refreshing to step back and rediscover the beauty of simple arithmetic: one plus one, two plus two.

Jack's hand squeezes Henry's ass hard, an expression of Jack's own arousal, and Henry grunts and pries him free, rolls Jack onto his back, follows and looks down at him as their hips move almost of their own volition.

"Oh, shut up," says Jack with a smile, and drags him into a kiss.

Henry manages to tear himself away. "I didn't say anything."

"You're radiating smug," Jack informs him.

Henry laughs. "I think that's justified."

And then they're rolling together, back and forward, and Jack's hand curls around Henry's erection, capable and gentle, easing him toward release. Henry gives himself up to it utterly, without hesitation. The last time he came close to this, all those years ago, it didn't go nearly so well. This here, with Jack, is deeper, richer, an incomparable experience. It probably shouldn't come as a surprise that trust is a critical variable in the equation.


*


Henry wakes early, unused to another body in the bed. He moves the dead weight of Jack's arm from his waist and makes a careful exit, visiting the bathroom and then the kitchen, where he makes coffee and fries bacon and eggs. Jack deserves breakfast in bed after yesterday's exertions, both professional and private, and Henry's fully aware of his own ulterior motive: that with sustenance, Jack might linger and take advantage of a quiet Saturday.

He carries the tray into the bedroom, sets it on the nightstand and wakes Jack with a warm kiss. Eyes still shut, Jack smiles against his mouth and pulls him onto the bed. "Good morning."

"'Morning," says Henry, glad neither of them is having second thoughts. They make out for a long minute, until he reluctantly pushes Jack a few inches away. "I made breakfast."

Jack's eyes fly open at that. "I thought I was hallucinating the bacon smell." He sits up and reaches across to snag a piece of toast. "Oh, and coffee. You're a good man, Henry."

"I try." Henry picks up his own cup and takes a long drink, then raises his eyebrows at Jack, who is examining the toast in detail, apparently transfixed. "What?"

"I just—you know, SARAH toasts everything perfectly, an even golden brown on both sides, and Vince's toast could win awards—"

Henry can't read Jack's tone, and despite the comfortable vibe between them, he starts to feel a little defensive. "I'm sorry if my old toaster doesn't meet your standards."

"Wait," says Jack. "You have a toaster? An honest-to-God, middle American, real live toaster? Do you know how long it's been since I had unperfect toast? This is heaven!"

Henry grins, partly at his own foolishness. He should've known; of course Jack wouldn't want perfect. "Happy to oblige."

"You always are," says Jack, grinning back around the toast he's stuffed into his mouth. He helps himself to a plate of bacon and eggs and starts shoveling them in too, and then stops dead and points his fork at Henry. "Hey—"

"Mmm?"

"I don't suppose—"

Jack's eyes are alight with hope, and whatever he asks for next, Henry will give it to him, even if it means breaking the laws of physics or the DoD, or flying them both to Mars. Luckily, it doesn't come to that.

Jack swallows his mouthful and absently licks crumbs from his thumb. "Your shower," he says in a hushed voice, so hopeful it's almost reverent. "It's not—is it water?"

Henry laughs out loud. "It is, as a matter of fact. Ye Olde Spray Shower."

Jack groans in obvious ecstasy at the prospect. "Don't tell SARAH, but I think I'm in love." Henry shoots him a teasing look, and Jack nearly chokes on his breakfast, and then smacks him on the arm. "You know what I mean!"

"Yes." Henry settles back against the headboard, enjoying his breakfast and, even more, his breakfast companion. "I know exactly what you mean."


END