i did it. i wrote cheeseshipping fic. even worse, i enjoyed writing it. i'm posting this now so i can wash my hands of it and never use the term cheeseshipping ever again.
Chris usually prides himself on being a pretty diligent kind of guy, conscientious and hardworking, putting in extra hours, more sweat and time than the average person. When the WBBA headquarters get too busy and the office is too noisy for him to get a lot done, he often takes his reports home with him and fills them out at the kitchen table while his dinner is slowly getting cold next to him, untouched and forgotten.
This had been his plan for today as well... but.
But Jack has set up his canvas and painting supplies in the living room, in full view of Chris' seat at the kitchen table. The radio is playing lowly, a slow and melodious song that Chris hasn't heard before. The sun is beginning to set and Jack, sat in front of his canvas, elegantly swinging his paint brush in patterns that only make sense to him, is gorgeous, face bare from makeup, with golden light setting his red hair aflame, lips slightly pursed, eyebrows drawn together in concentration. He looks like a statue, fine-boned cheeks and the graceful arch of his eyebrows made from the finest marble, like someone with exceptional talent took the time to carve out every detail of his face with painstaking precision. He himself looks like a painting.
Not for the first time, Chris wishes he had an ounce of artistic talent in his fingers, to be able to capture this image forever, but since he only has this moment, he tries to commit every detail to memory, greedily soaking in every twitch of Jack's fingers, every half-smile that graces his lips when he adds something to his painting that pleases him.
With an inaudible sigh, Chris gives up on getting any more work done and pushes his reports to the side. His half-eaten soup is definitely cold now, so he grabs it and stands to make his way to the kitchen and heat it up again. As soon as he stands, Jack calls out to him.
"No, wait!"
Confused, Chris pauses mid-movement, chair pressing against the back of his knees. "Jack? What is it?"
Jack throws him an exasperated glance, fondness smoothing the stern wrinkle on his forehead. He gestures towards the painting.
"Please sit back down, exactly as you've been before, love. I promise it won't take long but I really want to finish this before the light vanishes entirely."
Chris blinks. "You were drawing me?" he asks, perplexed. Absently, self-consciously, he runs a hand through his hair, ruffling it, then immediately petting it down when he realizes what he did. "Can I see it?"
Jack smiles at him, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way that makes Chris' heart flutter in his chest. "When I'm done," he promises.
Chris smiles back automatically, helplessly, and slowly sits back down, trying not to let his discomfort show on his face. Jack is so lovely, radiant and bold and bright, with or without makeup. He already is a piece of art by himself, his charisma, his whole presence, the way he holds himself. Chris is more than content to fade to the background at Jack's side, to let Jack shine all the brighter, bask in the attention and awe from everyone around him as he deserves.
This. This is way out of Chris' comfort zone.
He sits stiffly and tries not to move or think about what his face is doing for what feels like half an eternity, until Jack eventually sets his paintbrush aside. It is considerably darker than before, the sun having set almost completely now, the sky streaked with dark pinks and purples. It has probably not been an eternity, or a half of it, but Chris' ass is a little numb when he squirms slightly in his seat. Jack turns towards him and holds out his hand, beckoning him to come over.
"Come. You wanted to see it, right?"
Chris doesn't want to admit it but he is a little apprehensive. Jack's work is always beautiful, no doubt. Chris has done his best to be worthy of the time and affection Jack gifts him with but he doesn't know if he can be worthy of his talent, his art, the very thing he is most passionate about in the entire world. Still, when Jack wiggles his fingers in his direction, even this silly motion somehow full of grace and purpose, Chris follows the request without hesitation.
When he sees the painting, Chris sucks in an audible gasp of air. Jack shoots him a curious glance but doesn't say anything. Chris can feel his eyes on his face, scrutinizing his every reaction. He doesn't know what to say.
The painting is gorgeous but that doesn't surprise Chris and it is not what made his heart skip a beat in - wonder? Awe? Plain old shock? It depicts their dining room bathed in golden light from the setting sun, dust particles swirling through the air looking like burning sparks or tiny stars blinking in and out of existence. The shadows of their furniture in the painting are longer and the warm lighting makes it seem the way Chris imagines a dream might look in the waking world. In the middle of the picture, there is a figure with messy hair and tired eyes slumped over a table. The figure's visible exhaustion does nothing to diminish its handsome features or its expression, which is pleased or fond or maybe even amused, affection sparking in its warm eyes, lips faintly tugging upwards as if by an invisible string.
It is so obvious, through the painting and through the way Jack is watching him taking it all in, how much Jack loves the figure in the painting, him, Chris. It is so obvious how much he loves Chris.
This is what has Chris' heart hammering loudly in his ears. The realization that Jack has been seeing him the same way he has been seeing Jack. Beautiful, ethereal, mesmerizing. Gazing at him with such overwhelming affection and love, just like Chris has been doing to him all this time.
He startles out of his thoughts when Jack takes his hand in his.
"Do you like it?" he asks, smiling almost shyly.
"It's amazing. You're amazing," Chris breathes and presses a kiss to Jack's temple, who allows it for a moment before cupping Chris' face and angling his lips towards his own.
