I don't own any of the Crossing Jordan characters. I just had to play with
them once.
Author's Note: This is my first time writing Fan Fiction of any kind.
Please give me some sort of feedback. Any feedback. Also, I'm sorry if the
formatting is kind of screwy but as I said, its my first time posting and
so I'm not very good at it.
I, Nigel decided, am a masochist. True, this realization only came to him after a few too many drinks, but, like most Johnny-Walker wisdom, it was the only thing that made sense. After all, if he didn't utterly relish the sour taste of his own misery then surely he wouldn't be carrying on about Jordan the way he was. Lusting after her like a schoolboy and doing nothing about it. He had wanted to end it for years; this charade of being the politely platonic friend. But each day that he wore the mask, the harder it became to even think about taking it off. People expected it of him. Garrett, Bug, Jordan...bloody hell Jordan. She more than anyone else saw him as merely the carefree computer jockey of the morgue.
Oh well. It had always been that way. He'd never really "fit" anywhere. Life had been a series of meaningless wanderings from one place to another, one job to another, always on the outside looking in. Of course, most people wouldn't exactly assume that acceptance was something he courted. Everything from his dress to demeanor practically screamed "make me your black sheep!" and it was true, the odd looks thrown oh so often his way did provide a sort of vicarious thrill but still, it would be nice to have someone who saw behind the plate of one-way glass that was his life.
With a small sigh, Nigel looked down at the shot glass that he had been idly turning about with his long, bone white fingers. With mild surprise he noted that the liquor was gone. That, he knew at once, explained precisely why he was dwelling on such unhappy thoughts. Not. Enough. Whiskey. He had learned long ago that when unpleasant thoughts reared their nasty heads, the appropriate response was to make a joke. If that didn't work, the only alternative was to get completely and totally knackered. Time to continue option two.
As he began to rise he felt a hand on his shoulder. Even through the thick leather of his jacket he knew instantly who it was. Easing back into his seat he forced himself to greet her with some semblance of his normal lighthearted cheer. "Evening Jordan. And how are we on this booze enchanted night?" She sighed and raked wet hair back from her face as she sat down across from him. It must be raining outside, he thought to himself. Odd how one notices the insignificant details sometimes to keep from drowning in the important ones...
"I'm fine," she replied, taking a large gulp of the beer that she had brought to the table. "I'm not at dad's so I'm fine". She shook her head ruefully and sighed. "Ahh," he murmured, "I was wondering why you were out mingling with the hoi polloi. What are you fighting with Max about? "We're not fighting Nige," she protested "its just that he's been walking on eggshells around me since Woody left and I got sick of it." She shrugged defensively and sought further refuge in her beer. Nigel nodded patiently, slipping into the well accustomed role of the listening, supportive friend. "Well," he pointed out tentatively, "everyone did sort of think you two were going to make a match of it". "I know" she groaned, burying her face in her hands. "But it's over now. He got the promotion, he took it, he left, he's gone, its done." "Is it luv?" he asked quietly. "Those are the facts right enough, but how do you feel about it?" She glared at him. "God Nige, not you too." He raised his hands in a placating gesture and started to apologize but she had already relented and begun answering his question. "Ok, ok, I guess I did take it kind of hard at first. It's been a month though! I'm over it. I'm fine. Or at least I would be if dad would stop acting like I'd been left standing at the altar or something." "He just wants you happy Jordan," Nigel pointed out, "We all do". "Thanks," she replied with a wry half smile on her lips, "but I think I'd be happier if everyone would just stop beating a dead horse." "Well," Nigel said, "in the hopes that no one will accuse me of equine mistreatment, let me buy us another round". As he stood up to get their drinks, Nigel found himself wondering if this was all somehow his fault. After all, if he had exerted his not- inconsiderable charm and made his decidedly less than platonic desires known sooner then perhaps Jordan wouldn't have become involved with Woody at all, wouldn't have gotten hurt this way. But no, much as he tried to hide it, Nigel was actually a very decent person, not one to intrude where someone else had already staked a claim, so to speak, and Woody had made his intentions known from the get-go. He sighed and let his suppositions go. Too many "what ifs" and nothing to be gained by them. Returning to the table, Nigel forced himself to resume his façade of lighthearted cheerfulness, engaging Jordan in a debate over which would emerge triumphant in a fight between Spiderman and the Incredible Hulk. They conversed, between rounds of shooting pool and downing beers until nearly two in the morning. It was about this time that Nigel became aware that he was quite possibly drunk. This diagnosis was confirmed a few moments later as he stood to get the next round of drinks and found himself clutching his chair to remain upright. "Luv," he said, raking his fingers through his hair, "much as I hate to admit it, I think I'm well and truly knackered." He really did hate to admit that. He had always prided himself on his ability to hold his liquor and yet, there was Jordan looking stone cold sober while he wasn't able to stand unaided. How did that vixen do it? Then, as she rose yawning and stretching, she too began to wobble unsteadily and it was only by latching onto Nigel's quickly outthrust arm that she was able to save herself from collapsing in an undignified heap on the ground. Nigel reassessed her sobriety and noted wryly "I certainly hope that you're not planning on driving." Jordan blinked and replied "ahh...no Nige, under the circumstances I don't think that would be a good idea. In fact, can I crash at your place tonight? Your apartment's closer than mine and..." Nigel waved away any further explanation and gave her a lopsided grin. "I think," he told her as he steered her towards the door, staggering only slightly, "that if you lean on me, and I lean on you, we just might possibly make it there". "Deal," she replied and the two of them set off into the night, each trying to keep the other from falling. By the time they made it to the door of Nigel's flat, he found himself feeling slightly more clear-headed. Not much, granted, but enough so that he was able to unlock the door with a minimum of fumbling with his keys. Once inside, he placed a hand on either of Jordan's shoulders and looked into her eyes intently. "Can you stand on your own luv?" he asked. "I'm fine Nige," she smiled, "I've been drunk before." "Right then. I'm just going to make sure there isn't anything embarrassing laying about in the bedroom and then its all yours. I'll take the couch for the night." He made his way into the bedroom and found that yes indeed, there were quite a few things that Jordan did not, precisely speaking, need to see. These he hurriedly stuffed into his closet and, praying that he hadn't left anything out with which Jordan could blackmail him at a later date, he came back out into the living room, only to find Jordan sprawled on the couch, fast asleep. She looked so peaceful, he thought to himself. No one would ever guess at the fiery spirit within if they were to see her like that. He tried to assess the level of his sobriety and, after a moments thought, deduced himself up to carrying her into the bedroom. She would have the worst neck cramps if she slept on the couch like that all night. He knew, having done it a few times himself. Nigel knelt and gently eased his arms around her. He lifted her in one fluid movement, being careful not to wake her, and carried her into his bedroom. There he laid her down as softly as he could and then just stood, watching her. He would never be able to have her, he knew that, but at least he could watch her for this little while and pretend. Without so much as opening her eyes Jordan said, "Nigel, stop staring at me and come over here". Nigel nearly fell over from shock and stammered "I wasn't staring...I thought you were asleep...I..." A small smile curved her lips and she replied, "I know what you thought. Now come over here and let me show you what I think." Her eyes opened with languid slowness and she began unbuttoning her blouse. Nigel felt all previous drunkenness spilling out of him to be replaced with a new kind of intoxication. "Sweet Nancy! Jordan don't do that!" She eyed him, still smiling, and asked innocently, "Why not?" "Jordan, don't do this to me! You're drunk, I'm not going to take advantage of you like that. Put your clothes on. Please!" Her blouse fell away from her shoulders, revealing a silky black bra. Nigel felt a tightness in his loins and noted distractedly that the room was far, far too hot. "I know exactly what I'm doing Nige," she told him, wriggling sinuously out of her skirt. "No," he stammered, "You most certainly do not. You don't know what you're doing to me, you don't..." His eyes slid along the newly revealed expanse of her long, voluptuous legs. "Oh dear God," he groaned. His head was spinning, far more than it had been at the bar and every hormone he possessed was telling him exactly how long it had been since he had last made love to a woman. He needed her so badly. He needed...he needed to get out of the room! He couldn't possibly jeopardize their friendship by doing something so incredibly stupid. He couldn't take advantage of her. He needed to stop drowning in the sight of her so-nearly-naked body. He spun and took a stride towards the door when her hand closed on the waistline of his jeans. Without speaking she began unfastening the button and sliding down the zipper. It would have been so simple to take that one tiny step that would take him out of her reach. There was nothing in the world that was harder. He was rooted to the spot. His pants fell down around his ankles and he closed his eyes, willing himself not to be so incredibly weak. She would hate him in the morning. She would never speak to him again. But then her fingers touched his bare skin and he was lost. He found himself sliding into the bed and enfolding her in his arms. His mouth fastened hungrily on hers and he could feel his body trembling with the urgency of his need. Jordan seemed to share the feeling, stripping him of the rest of his clothing and running her hands over his naked flesh. "Jordan," he panted as he fumbled with her bra, "Tell me to stop. Please". But she was easing out of her underwear and showed no sign of wanting anything to stop. "Dear God," he moaned against her throat, "I'm only a man" and with that he lost track of anything except for losing himself in her body. It was bliss. How many nights had he brought a girl to his bed and made love to her, all the while wishing it were Jordan? How many times had he spent himself, only to collapse in exhaustion and frustration, knowing that he had found only a pale imitation once again? But now, in her arms he found himself completely sated, emotionally as well as simply physically. For once in his life he didn't feel alone. The next morning he opened his eyes and found himself staring at the peacefully sleeping countenance of Jordan Cavanaugh. Sheer panic coursed like ice water through his veins and he scrambled hastily out of bed. Jordan was going to kill him! What had he been thinking, shagging her while she was drunk? He stumbled into the dresser and Jordan came awake with a start at the noise. "Wha...what's wrong Nige?" She asked groggily, blinking and yawning. "Oh God Jordan," the words came tumbling out of his mouth "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have. I'll get out of here...I...I'll understand if you hate me, it was unforgivable...I..." "Nige, what in the hell are you talking about?" She asked. "I...what do you mean?" Nigel demanded, "I took advantage of you while you were drunk! You..." Any attempts at further apology were cut off by Jordan's burst of laughter. "You took advantage of me?" She asked with a wry grin on her lips "it seemed sort of the other way around last night." This wasn't going at all as expected. Nigel, making a final plea for his villainy cried "you were drunk!" "Drunk doesn't equal stupid Nige," she replied teasingly. Then, realizing that she was going to need to be a bit more straightforward and spell it out for the poor man, she continued, "I knew what I was doing then and I know what I'm doing now." She caught him by the hand and pulled him back into the bed. "You mean..." Nigel let the question trail off and Jordan smiled, running her fingers through his hair and bringing his head down towards hers. "Yeah Nige, I do," she whispered against his lips. All Nigel could think of as he settled into the embrace of the woman he had loved so long was: I'm finally not alone.
I, Nigel decided, am a masochist. True, this realization only came to him after a few too many drinks, but, like most Johnny-Walker wisdom, it was the only thing that made sense. After all, if he didn't utterly relish the sour taste of his own misery then surely he wouldn't be carrying on about Jordan the way he was. Lusting after her like a schoolboy and doing nothing about it. He had wanted to end it for years; this charade of being the politely platonic friend. But each day that he wore the mask, the harder it became to even think about taking it off. People expected it of him. Garrett, Bug, Jordan...bloody hell Jordan. She more than anyone else saw him as merely the carefree computer jockey of the morgue.
Oh well. It had always been that way. He'd never really "fit" anywhere. Life had been a series of meaningless wanderings from one place to another, one job to another, always on the outside looking in. Of course, most people wouldn't exactly assume that acceptance was something he courted. Everything from his dress to demeanor practically screamed "make me your black sheep!" and it was true, the odd looks thrown oh so often his way did provide a sort of vicarious thrill but still, it would be nice to have someone who saw behind the plate of one-way glass that was his life.
With a small sigh, Nigel looked down at the shot glass that he had been idly turning about with his long, bone white fingers. With mild surprise he noted that the liquor was gone. That, he knew at once, explained precisely why he was dwelling on such unhappy thoughts. Not. Enough. Whiskey. He had learned long ago that when unpleasant thoughts reared their nasty heads, the appropriate response was to make a joke. If that didn't work, the only alternative was to get completely and totally knackered. Time to continue option two.
As he began to rise he felt a hand on his shoulder. Even through the thick leather of his jacket he knew instantly who it was. Easing back into his seat he forced himself to greet her with some semblance of his normal lighthearted cheer. "Evening Jordan. And how are we on this booze enchanted night?" She sighed and raked wet hair back from her face as she sat down across from him. It must be raining outside, he thought to himself. Odd how one notices the insignificant details sometimes to keep from drowning in the important ones...
"I'm fine," she replied, taking a large gulp of the beer that she had brought to the table. "I'm not at dad's so I'm fine". She shook her head ruefully and sighed. "Ahh," he murmured, "I was wondering why you were out mingling with the hoi polloi. What are you fighting with Max about? "We're not fighting Nige," she protested "its just that he's been walking on eggshells around me since Woody left and I got sick of it." She shrugged defensively and sought further refuge in her beer. Nigel nodded patiently, slipping into the well accustomed role of the listening, supportive friend. "Well," he pointed out tentatively, "everyone did sort of think you two were going to make a match of it". "I know" she groaned, burying her face in her hands. "But it's over now. He got the promotion, he took it, he left, he's gone, its done." "Is it luv?" he asked quietly. "Those are the facts right enough, but how do you feel about it?" She glared at him. "God Nige, not you too." He raised his hands in a placating gesture and started to apologize but she had already relented and begun answering his question. "Ok, ok, I guess I did take it kind of hard at first. It's been a month though! I'm over it. I'm fine. Or at least I would be if dad would stop acting like I'd been left standing at the altar or something." "He just wants you happy Jordan," Nigel pointed out, "We all do". "Thanks," she replied with a wry half smile on her lips, "but I think I'd be happier if everyone would just stop beating a dead horse." "Well," Nigel said, "in the hopes that no one will accuse me of equine mistreatment, let me buy us another round". As he stood up to get their drinks, Nigel found himself wondering if this was all somehow his fault. After all, if he had exerted his not- inconsiderable charm and made his decidedly less than platonic desires known sooner then perhaps Jordan wouldn't have become involved with Woody at all, wouldn't have gotten hurt this way. But no, much as he tried to hide it, Nigel was actually a very decent person, not one to intrude where someone else had already staked a claim, so to speak, and Woody had made his intentions known from the get-go. He sighed and let his suppositions go. Too many "what ifs" and nothing to be gained by them. Returning to the table, Nigel forced himself to resume his façade of lighthearted cheerfulness, engaging Jordan in a debate over which would emerge triumphant in a fight between Spiderman and the Incredible Hulk. They conversed, between rounds of shooting pool and downing beers until nearly two in the morning. It was about this time that Nigel became aware that he was quite possibly drunk. This diagnosis was confirmed a few moments later as he stood to get the next round of drinks and found himself clutching his chair to remain upright. "Luv," he said, raking his fingers through his hair, "much as I hate to admit it, I think I'm well and truly knackered." He really did hate to admit that. He had always prided himself on his ability to hold his liquor and yet, there was Jordan looking stone cold sober while he wasn't able to stand unaided. How did that vixen do it? Then, as she rose yawning and stretching, she too began to wobble unsteadily and it was only by latching onto Nigel's quickly outthrust arm that she was able to save herself from collapsing in an undignified heap on the ground. Nigel reassessed her sobriety and noted wryly "I certainly hope that you're not planning on driving." Jordan blinked and replied "ahh...no Nige, under the circumstances I don't think that would be a good idea. In fact, can I crash at your place tonight? Your apartment's closer than mine and..." Nigel waved away any further explanation and gave her a lopsided grin. "I think," he told her as he steered her towards the door, staggering only slightly, "that if you lean on me, and I lean on you, we just might possibly make it there". "Deal," she replied and the two of them set off into the night, each trying to keep the other from falling. By the time they made it to the door of Nigel's flat, he found himself feeling slightly more clear-headed. Not much, granted, but enough so that he was able to unlock the door with a minimum of fumbling with his keys. Once inside, he placed a hand on either of Jordan's shoulders and looked into her eyes intently. "Can you stand on your own luv?" he asked. "I'm fine Nige," she smiled, "I've been drunk before." "Right then. I'm just going to make sure there isn't anything embarrassing laying about in the bedroom and then its all yours. I'll take the couch for the night." He made his way into the bedroom and found that yes indeed, there were quite a few things that Jordan did not, precisely speaking, need to see. These he hurriedly stuffed into his closet and, praying that he hadn't left anything out with which Jordan could blackmail him at a later date, he came back out into the living room, only to find Jordan sprawled on the couch, fast asleep. She looked so peaceful, he thought to himself. No one would ever guess at the fiery spirit within if they were to see her like that. He tried to assess the level of his sobriety and, after a moments thought, deduced himself up to carrying her into the bedroom. She would have the worst neck cramps if she slept on the couch like that all night. He knew, having done it a few times himself. Nigel knelt and gently eased his arms around her. He lifted her in one fluid movement, being careful not to wake her, and carried her into his bedroom. There he laid her down as softly as he could and then just stood, watching her. He would never be able to have her, he knew that, but at least he could watch her for this little while and pretend. Without so much as opening her eyes Jordan said, "Nigel, stop staring at me and come over here". Nigel nearly fell over from shock and stammered "I wasn't staring...I thought you were asleep...I..." A small smile curved her lips and she replied, "I know what you thought. Now come over here and let me show you what I think." Her eyes opened with languid slowness and she began unbuttoning her blouse. Nigel felt all previous drunkenness spilling out of him to be replaced with a new kind of intoxication. "Sweet Nancy! Jordan don't do that!" She eyed him, still smiling, and asked innocently, "Why not?" "Jordan, don't do this to me! You're drunk, I'm not going to take advantage of you like that. Put your clothes on. Please!" Her blouse fell away from her shoulders, revealing a silky black bra. Nigel felt a tightness in his loins and noted distractedly that the room was far, far too hot. "I know exactly what I'm doing Nige," she told him, wriggling sinuously out of her skirt. "No," he stammered, "You most certainly do not. You don't know what you're doing to me, you don't..." His eyes slid along the newly revealed expanse of her long, voluptuous legs. "Oh dear God," he groaned. His head was spinning, far more than it had been at the bar and every hormone he possessed was telling him exactly how long it had been since he had last made love to a woman. He needed her so badly. He needed...he needed to get out of the room! He couldn't possibly jeopardize their friendship by doing something so incredibly stupid. He couldn't take advantage of her. He needed to stop drowning in the sight of her so-nearly-naked body. He spun and took a stride towards the door when her hand closed on the waistline of his jeans. Without speaking she began unfastening the button and sliding down the zipper. It would have been so simple to take that one tiny step that would take him out of her reach. There was nothing in the world that was harder. He was rooted to the spot. His pants fell down around his ankles and he closed his eyes, willing himself not to be so incredibly weak. She would hate him in the morning. She would never speak to him again. But then her fingers touched his bare skin and he was lost. He found himself sliding into the bed and enfolding her in his arms. His mouth fastened hungrily on hers and he could feel his body trembling with the urgency of his need. Jordan seemed to share the feeling, stripping him of the rest of his clothing and running her hands over his naked flesh. "Jordan," he panted as he fumbled with her bra, "Tell me to stop. Please". But she was easing out of her underwear and showed no sign of wanting anything to stop. "Dear God," he moaned against her throat, "I'm only a man" and with that he lost track of anything except for losing himself in her body. It was bliss. How many nights had he brought a girl to his bed and made love to her, all the while wishing it were Jordan? How many times had he spent himself, only to collapse in exhaustion and frustration, knowing that he had found only a pale imitation once again? But now, in her arms he found himself completely sated, emotionally as well as simply physically. For once in his life he didn't feel alone. The next morning he opened his eyes and found himself staring at the peacefully sleeping countenance of Jordan Cavanaugh. Sheer panic coursed like ice water through his veins and he scrambled hastily out of bed. Jordan was going to kill him! What had he been thinking, shagging her while she was drunk? He stumbled into the dresser and Jordan came awake with a start at the noise. "Wha...what's wrong Nige?" She asked groggily, blinking and yawning. "Oh God Jordan," the words came tumbling out of his mouth "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have. I'll get out of here...I...I'll understand if you hate me, it was unforgivable...I..." "Nige, what in the hell are you talking about?" She asked. "I...what do you mean?" Nigel demanded, "I took advantage of you while you were drunk! You..." Any attempts at further apology were cut off by Jordan's burst of laughter. "You took advantage of me?" She asked with a wry grin on her lips "it seemed sort of the other way around last night." This wasn't going at all as expected. Nigel, making a final plea for his villainy cried "you were drunk!" "Drunk doesn't equal stupid Nige," she replied teasingly. Then, realizing that she was going to need to be a bit more straightforward and spell it out for the poor man, she continued, "I knew what I was doing then and I know what I'm doing now." She caught him by the hand and pulled him back into the bed. "You mean..." Nigel let the question trail off and Jordan smiled, running her fingers through his hair and bringing his head down towards hers. "Yeah Nige, I do," she whispered against his lips. All Nigel could think of as he settled into the embrace of the woman he had loved so long was: I'm finally not alone.