"Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell."
- Edna St. Vincent Millay
—
When he wakes up, the space next to him in bed is empty.
"Ricky?" Jake mumbles, sitting up straight and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He frowns as he looks around the bedroom. Something is wrong. Ricky, who usually never leaves until Jake wakes up, is nowhere to be seen.
It's fine, it's fine; he's probably just downstairs makin' breakfast or something, he assures himself hurriedly as he slips his discarded clothes on. Ricky's fine. Ricky's always fine. Nevertheless, he rushes to get down the stairs and into the kitchen-slash-living room that is the Preachers' primary base of operations.
"Ricky?" he calls again, biting his lip as he looks around. "Ricky, where are you?"
The empty house only echoes his words back at him.
"Ricky!" he yells, striding through the hallway to the washing room and Thin Jimmy's study. "Ricky, this isn't funny anymore!" Though Jake doesn't want to admit it, his stomach has twisted itself into a painful knot of fear. "Ricky!"
"Jake?" It's a sleep-addled Mrs. Moore that greets him from the end of the hallway, not Ricky. "What's wrong?"
"Er… d'you know where Ricky is?" the young man asks, a faint, guilty blush spreading up his cheeks and to the tips of his ears as he realizes that he probably woke up Mrs. Moore with his cries. He's being silly, really. Childlike. It's embarrassing, once he thinks about it- he knows that Ricky can handle himself. He shouldn't be panicking just because Ricky probably popped out to… to buy milk, or something.
"Sorry, I don't." Mrs. Moore gives him a sweet, apologetic smile. "I think he and Thin Jimmy went out to do something. Dunno when they'll be back. You know how they are."
"Yeah," Jake mumbles, running a hand through his mussed hair. After all, it's not the first time Ricky and Jimmy have disappeared in the middle of the night, off to do some important mission that apparently can never wait until morning. "I guess you're right. Sorry if I woke you."
"Quite alright, m'boy. I shouldn't have been sleeping so late, anyway," she replies briskly as she walks back to the kitchen. He trails after her, feeling a bit like a lost puppy.
"D'you want any breakfast, Mrs. Moore?" he offers, feeling that it's the least he can do after disturbing her from her sleep.
"I know how you cook, Jake," she replies wryly, taking a frying pan from the cupboard. "Last time we let you cook…"
"… I nearly burned the house down," Jake finishes with a groan. "While making ramen. I know, I know."
"Exactly," Mrs. Moore says firmly as she pulls a carton of eggs from the fridge and cracks two into the frying pan. "Eggs?"
"Please."
"Sunny side up?"
Jake can't help but let a grin spread across his face. The uncomfortable knot in his stomach is slowly starting to ease as he distracts himself from worrying about Ricky's whereabouts.
"Of course. You know me too well, Mrs. Moore."
—
A week passes by without sign of Ricky or Thin Jimmy, and even Mrs. Moore is starting to get concerned. Jake keeps himself busy so he doesn't go insane with worry. First there are repairs on the van that need to be done, then he decides to replace the faucet in the shower because, really, it's dripping water instead of gushing it, and at the end of the day, if he can't find anything else to do, he heads to the shooting range that he, Ricky, and Thin Jimmy constructed a while back outside the city limits. He empties round after round of bullets into the plywood targets of different shapes and sizes, familiarizing himself with all the different guns they have available. He stays there for hours on end, shooting and shooting until his fingers cramp and his shoulders hurt from the kickback.
Jake decides that the windows at the front of the house could use a bit of touching up, so he buys some sandpaper, paint, and primer from the hardware store and sets about repainting the window frames. Mrs. Moore watches him quietly from inside. She doesn't say anything when he repaints the window frames that have a fresh coat. She knows that he's just trying to make the chore distract him for that little bit longer.
He does the grocery shopping every day that week, and he always looks to see if there's any sign of Ricky. There never is. He sometimes "forgets" to buy something, just so he can go back and look again. Once again, Mrs. Moore notices but doesn't comment.
He even buys a cheap, battered guitar and some songbooks, and he starts to teach himself how to play. He manages to waste away a day or two by mastering the basic chords, and then he spends a few more hours figuring out the chords for his favorite Mumford & Sons songs. They never sound like they do on the LP, of course, but that's only to be expected. After all, he is still an amateur.
"Oh, that's a pretty one," Mrs. Moore comments one night as they sit together in the living room. She is clutching a cup of tea and a romance novel to her chest while Jake's Agatha Christie mystery sits on the coffee table, abandoned in favor of his new-old guitar. (They've both taken up reading again to fill the hours. Mrs. Moore lent him some of her books.) "What's it called?"
Jake looks up from his guitar and plays the chord again.
"D minor."
"No, I meant the song."
"Oh. Little Lion Man."
"Will you sing a bit of it for me?" she asks hopefully, smiling and setting her book down.
"I… don't really sing often," Jake replies cautiously. "I'm not that great."
"Just one verse." At his reluctant look, she adds, "It's only me here, Jake."
He flinches- of course he knows that; Ricky's absence takes up more space than Ricky himself- but gives a slow nod.
"Alright, fine. Just this once." He takes a deep breath before beginning to sing, strumming along as he does. He isn't a beautiful singer, no, and his voice is slightly scratchy from disuse, but he keeps the pitch well enough.
"Weep for yourself, my man.
You will never be what's in your heart.
Weep, little lion man.
You're not as brave as you were at the start.
Rate yourself and rake yourself;
Take all of the courage you have left.
Waste it on fixing
All the problems that you've made in your own head…"
—
Another week passes by. Jake has exhausted his knowledge of Mumford & Sons songs and has figured out the few John Lennon Songs he knows (most of them written after the incident with the would-be-assassin in New York; Jake likes the turn Lennon's music took after that, with Shattered Glasses and Betwixt and Beneath. The only one he has committed fully to memory from before that era is Working Class Hero. He doesn't like to admit how well it fits him). He finishes all of the Agatha Christie novels Mrs. Moore owns, then reads A Passage to India (and finally figures out why she's called Mrs. Moore), and once that's done he finally resorts to reading those trashy romance novels she's so fond of. However, he refuses to go out and buy his own books, because that would just be saying that Ricky's return will be even later than it already is. He marks the days by how many chapters he's read and spends far longer than necessary poring over each and every word, trying to draw them out for as long as possible. Surely, Ricky will return before he finishes the last book…
Jake is starting to wish they carried cell phones, Cybus Industries and their tracking devices be damned. At least then he could call and find out if Ricky's even alive.
He considers going to the pub and getting plastered but eventually decides not to. He'd just end up going home with a stranger and feeling like guilt-riddled hell in the morning.
Besides, maybe Ricky will come back in the middle of the night, the same way he left.
Mrs. Moore stops speaking to Jake once he stops responding to her attempts at conversation. She focuses on her work and casts him anxious glances when she thinks he's not looking. Maybe he would feel guilty, if he wasn't so busy worrying.
—
Week Three, Day One.
Two weeks and twenty-four hours. One thousand, four-hundred and forty minutes. Eighty-six thousand, four-hundred seconds. One hundred and fifty more pages of Midnight Magic (he still hasn't figured out the plot or the characters, but there is a shocking amount of bedroom scenes in it for a book that formerly belonged to Mrs. Moore).
Ricky still hasn't come back.
Week Three, Day Two.
Two weeks and forty-eight hours. Two thousand, eight-hundred and eighty minutes. One-hundred seventy-two thousand, eight-hundred seconds. He finishes Midnight Magic and reads fifty pages of Frolicking With the Fae, a novel even more absurd than the previous one.
Ricky still hasn't come back.
Week Three, Day Three.
Two weeks and seventy-two hours. Four-thousand, two-hundred and thirty minutes. Two-hundred fifty-nine thousand, two hundred seconds. Jake ends up throwing Frolicking With the Fae out of the window in exasperation at its rubbish writing. He tries to start The Rose of the Highlands but finds that he can't concentrate on its lackluster plot. Ricky occupies his every thought, both waking and in dreams. The man has never disappeared for so long before- something has to be wrong.
Maybe Ricky isn't going to come back.
For the first time in three years, Jake prays. He takes a piece of string and ties knots in it to make a rosary, and he locks himself in his bedroom. He prays all day, straight through lunch and supper, muttering Hail Marys and Our Fathers until his throat goes sore and his voice becomes hoarse. One hand fingers the makeshift rosary; the other clutches the tarnished silver cross he wears around his neck.
Jake Simmonds has not been a religious person for a long time, not since he ran away from home and his strongly Catholic family, but he figures that it can't hurt to try and curry favor with God, if He exists. He needs all the help he can get.
Week Three, Day Four.
Jake is lying on the couch downstairs, staring up and counting the cracks in the ceiling, when the door opens.
He's immediately on his feet, and before anyone has the chance to say anything, he pushes past a weary Thin Jimmy and barrels into Ricky, wrapping his arms around his boyfriend's waist and burying his face into the familiar-smelling leather of his jacket. The scent of leather, sweat, and that soap that Ricky likes using so much enters his nose, and he can feel the steady beating of Ricky's heart. He closes his eyes and hugs him close.
The ache in the pit of his belly finally goes away with the realization that Ricky isn't hurt, that Ricky is safe, that Ricky is home.
To be honest, Jake had planned on greeting them with angry words and a reprimand for being away for so long without warning. However, he can't help but cling to Ricky as the other man squeezes him tightly, chuckles, and presses a kiss to the top of Jake's head.
"Miss me?" that oh-so-familiar voice murmurs with a grin, oblivious to the other man's fragile state.
"You left," Jake whispers shakily as he pulls back. At last, he manages to scowl and bring a biting edge to his voice. "You left for two and a half bloody weeks-" His voice cracks on the last word, and he takes a moment to steady himself (and swipe away the tears threatening to collect in his eyes.) When he resumes, his voice is quieter, but chilly. The anger is finally coming, filling his veins with fire, giving him a bitter kind of determination. "You left for almost three weeks without a word before just popping up again, and all you can say is 'Miss me?'"
Ricky frowns, reaching out to stroke a thumb over Jake's cheek, but his boyfriend swats his hand away.
"Jake, you know how it is with Preacher stuff," he says quietly, unperturbed. "Me 'n Jimmy had to go investigate some rumors up in Edinburgh. It was urgent."
"Oh, and you couldn't even be bothered to leave a note?" Jake snaps sarcastically, crossing his arms and glaring obstinately at the other man. Neither of them notices Mrs. Moore and Thin Jimmy slip away to escape the fight that will surely take place.
"No, it's not at all important to let me know that you're safe and you haven't just been found and executed by Lumic!" Jake continues as he starts to pace, fury turning his face red as all the bottled-up emotions of the past two and a half weeks come flying out at once. "Why bother telling Jake what's going on? Ha, he doesn't matter! No mind that he's your bloody boyfriend! Why should he be kept in the loop?!"
"Jake," Ricky begins with a frown, but the blond won't let him continue.
"It's like you don't even care how I feel, Ricky! I was worried sick about you!" Jake growls. "I thought you were dead, I thought-"
Ricky rolls his eyes and pulls Jake in by the jacket collar for a kiss to shut him up. Still spitting mad, Jake snarls, jerks away, and punches Ricky in the nose.
"Don't touch me," he hisses before turning away and storming upstairs.
—
"Jake?"
The voice at his door is hesitant, careful, like the knock that came before it. It's an uncharacteristic tone for Ricky to use, and Jake feels a brief stab of shame for how he had treated the man earlier.
"Come in," he sighs, unable to summon up the energy to be angry anymore. It's late, he's tired, and he just wants to sleep.
"Can I sit down?" Ricky asks softly once he's walked to the edge of the bed. Jake doesn't turn to face him, and he keeps his eyes shut, but he can perfectly picture Ricky's posture- tall but slightly slumped, hands held together or arms crossed, his body language screaming for forgiveness.
Jake sighs.
"Yeah, fine. Whatever."
"Thanks." Ricky slides into bed next to him, and for several minutes, they just listen to the sound which has been missing from their lives for two weeks and four days- the sound of each other's breathing.
Eventually, just as Jake is starting to nod off, Ricky breaks the silence.
"I'm sorry."
"It's okay." It's not, really, but Jake is too tired to put up a fight.
"The thing is, it isn't," Ricky continues softly, though his boyfriend wishes he would just shut up and they could discuss it in the morning. "I shouldn't make you worry like that, Jake."
"Nope."
"Yeah… Do you forgive me?"
"Dunno." A pause. In the end, he always does, so what's the use in fighting it just to prove a point?
"… Okay, yeah."
"Thanks."
"Jus' don't do it again."
"I won't."
"Good."
The minutes tick by. Once again, Jake has almost drifted off to sleep when Ricky speaks.
"Jake?"
"Yeah?" he asks, voice groggy and rough with exhaustion.
"I love you."
At last, a small, weary smile appears on the blonde's face, and he flips over to curl up next to his boyfriend. Though he is drowsy, he finds the energy to lift his hand to Ricky's face and reacquaint himself with its features. Jake runs his fingers over first Ricky's cheekbones then draws a smooth line along his jaw and the curve of his neck. From there, he traces the outline of Ricky's lips before tenderly brushing the man's closed eyelids. He is careful to avoid the nose- though not broken, it looks tender and slightly bruised in the darkness. Another stab of guilt hits him in the stomach.
To finish, he tugs Ricky's head down to his and presses a fond kiss to his lips. Jake can't help but smile when the gesture is returned with a loving pressure, and he pulls away to rest his head on Ricky's chest.
"I love you, too, Ricky," he mumbles softly. "G'night."
"Night, Jake."
When he wakes up in the morning, Ricky is still there, chest rising and falling in the gentle rhythms of sleep.
—
A/N: So, I really loved the Rise of the Cybermen/Age of Steel episodes. I've seen a lot of Jake/Mickey fic floating around the interwebs (which I love, don't get me wrong) but I haven't seen much Jake/Ricky that shows the relationship between them without comparing Ricky to Mickey. I felt inspired and, for the first time in quite a while, decided to pick up my pen... er, keyboard. Laptop. Whatever.
This was the result. I'm really happy with it, actually. I think I'm especially happy because I actually finished it, for once!
I hope you enjoyed! Feedback in any way is always appreciated and loved, especially if it's constructive, so don't be shy! Leave a review- it would make my day. :)
Oh, I almost forgot- I don't own Doctor Who or any of the characters (they belong to the BBC.) I don't own Little Lion Man, either- it was written by Mumford & Sons. Working Class Hero belongs to John Lennon. A Passage to India isn't mine, either; I don't remember who wrote it, but it's some 1920's novel that I looked up on Wikipedia in an attempt to find where Mrs. Moore took her name from.
However, I did come up with the names "Shattered Glasses" and "Betwixt and Beneath" for Pete's World John Lennon. I also came up (with a little help from a friend) with the names of Mrs. Moore's trashy romance novels. As far as I'm aware of, they aren't actual books. I sincerely hope not.