London After Midnight

DISCLAIMER: Sorry about the few misspellings in the last chapter, I had "hot off the press" syndrome I guess. Actually I did do a spell check but I just forgot to upload the corrected version. That won't happen this time. Keep the honest reviews coming. Special thanks to the person who said my Nigel sounds like Nigel, because this is the first time I'm ever actually writing as him, although I've wanted to for a long time.

Chapter Two

"She Just Wants Her Ears Scratched"

Jordan

Dead in the water.

That's what they tell me. Dead in the water, butter side down. He jumped from a window. But not really. He didn't really jump, he fell. Tipped himself over. Backwards, like a prophet of God. Like a holy sacrifice. James Horton, my big brother. He gave himself unto the Lord.

I watched it happen. I watched him climb up and I watched him go down. I held out my hand and he held out his, both asking the other to join them. One in life and one in death, and neither was willing to comply. Jordan and James, light and dark. Watching him ascend that window ledge was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen in my entire life. He did it with such grace, such purpose. Come with me, he whispered, his palm outstretched like he was asking me to dance. And he just looked so fucking happy up there that I thought about it. I did. I thought about what it would be like to let him pull me up and what it would be like to jump off with him, our arms around each other like a pair of skydivers, James my big brother keeping me safe even as we met our mutual demise. I thought about how twisted it would be, how sickly beautiful; how all the torment inside of me would be vanquished before I even hit the water, and if I were still alive how poetic it would be to drown, my corpse floating to the surface, white and glimmering in the moonlight. Blissful. Peaceful. Like a movie. I thought about it all. I thought about how easy it could be.

And that's what scared me out of it. How easy it would be to make it all go away, to do something so reckless and insane for the sake of simply ceasing to be. The easy way out. And it wasn't just that. In those last few seconds before it happened, I thought about how much I loved to live. Not about how much I loved my life, really, but just the immeasurable joy of living. The taste of food. The way your whole body wakes up when you hear a really great song for the first time. The way someone can say the simplest thing and validate your entire existence, make you feel like you're worth it, you made it, you are.

In an undeniably real and unexplainable way, that's how James made me feel when he asked me if I would commit suicide with him tonight. It tugged at my heart and I knew that he loved me and I didn't want him to die. I held out my hand and he wouldn't take mine and I wouldn't take his, either, and I yelled at him to get down, to trust me, that I would help him, that I wanted to help him, and I did, I wanted to, I wanted it so badly.

But I didn't say I loved him. I should have. I know that I should have, it should have been the last thing he heard. That someone finally loved him, that I, at least, loved him. But I couldn't say anything. I didn't know what else to say, because suddenly he stopped waiting for me and he leaped alone. Fell alone. Dove alone, and landed alone. Maybe not. I don't know. Maybe he landed with God.

I'm in my office now. Somehow I got to my office. Somehow Woody got me into the elevator, onto the ground, into a car. I don't even know how. I don't even know how much time has passed since then. I'm a zombie, I'm the undead. I might as well have jumped off that fucking window ledge, for all the lifelessness I feel right now. My moment of revelation in the abandoned building crashed as heavily into depression as my brother's body crashed into the water.

I fall onto my couch.

I don't know where Woody is. I don't know where anyone is. I don't feel like crying. I don't feel anything..

There's a knock on the door. I don't get up to answer it. It opens anyway.

"Jordan?" British vowels curl around my name and I look up to confirm my guess.

"Hey, Nige."

He stands wedged between the door and the wall, the top of his head just brushing the top of the doorway. The tallest guy I've ever met besides Dad; I took to calling Nigel My Giant when I first met him but the nickname never really stuck. After a few months of knowing him, I realized I couldn't define him by any one aspect, let alone his size, which is the least of what makes him Nigel.

He seems afraid to get too close right now, which I don't blame him for - I have a tendency to bark when riled up and there have been lots of times when he got the brunt of it. And while I feel I could snap at any moment and for any number of reasons, I don't have the heart to turn him away. He probably just wants to make sure I'm okay. Nigel's like that; a sweet guy. My best friend in the place, next to Garret. But more than that. Nigel and I relate on another level, a deeper one, probably due to the fact that our mothers both died when we were ten. We never really acknowledged that to each other but we both know it's there, and sometimes it crackles the air between us like static, begging to surface. I don't know what would happen if it did. I've never really talked to anyone who knew what it was like to lose a mother so young.

Except James.

"Come in," I finally relent to saying, because like a vampire, I know he won't until I invite him. "And close the door. I don't feel like talking to anyone. Actually, I don't really feel like talking at all, Nige."

"All right," he softly replies, doing as I said and closing the door behind him. His hands slip into his front pockets as he walks awkwardly to me, his steps lingering. It reminds me of the way a boy would walk over to a girl in elementary school, afraid of bridging the gender gap for the first time. But Nigel's so overgrown and lanky that it makes me smile a little. Just a little. I didn't even know I was capable of it right now. He doesn't sit down; he'll need permission for that too, I guess.

"I can do the talking, if you like," he suggests. He didn't press me and I appreciate that, because I know that every other person I come in contact with tonight will.

"Sure," I reply, slightly less enthused than I wanted to sound. "What the hell." He still won't sit but I don't ask him to; I don't even pat the seat beside me. Just another of all the little games Nigel and I play with each other; I want to see how long he'll wait for me.

"All right," he says again, relenting to perching just on the arm of the sofa for now, and facing the wall on the other side of the room as he speaks. "I had a thought tonight that I'd like to move to a smaller apartment, one I could afford to live in on my own. I suppose it wouldn't really matter if it was a shitbox or anything, as long as they allowed pets, because I think I'd like to get a dog. A proper English bulldog, a female. And she'd have a spiked collar. And she'd bark very loud at anyone who looked at her funny, but inside she'd really be a big sweetheart who just wanted her ears scratched. I think I'd like to name her Jordan. Would that be all right with you, love?"

My hand goes immediately to my forehead, hiding my eyes as I roll them, and I smile, small but grateful. Thank God for Nigel and his jokes. I don't answer him but I do laugh; a very small, brief chuckle.

"No, I'm serious," he continues, successfully encouraged, still seated a good two feet away from me on the arm of the sofa but turning to face me now, one knobby knee bent towards me. I try my best not to look at him directly; this is Nigel's slick way of making me comfortable, getting me to open up. It's starting to work already and if I look at him it'll be the undoing of me. "Listen, I could put a sidecar on my motorcycle." My smile widens. "I could get her a little helmet with the union jack on it." I laugh again. "Jordan, come on, look at me," he pleads, his tone still pleasant, comedic. I don't look. Okay, maybe one glance. A tiny, almost unnoticeable glance out of the corner of my eye. "Jordan... here, girl... come on, girl..." He pats his lap, snaps his fingers, whistles lowly.

"All right!" I exclaim, turning my head to face him. Turning my whole body, actually. "Jesus Christ, Nige. Talk about persistent. I don't know why I egg you on."

"Because you love me!" he exclaims, proud as a little boy. He still won't sit next to me, the crazy bastard, now he's leaning over so far he'll probably fall onto the damn couch any second. I wonder if he would jump right back up and return to his place on the arm if he did fall, just because I still haven't given him a written invitation yet. "Come on then, seriously," his tone softens when he speaks again, his eyes relaxing into solemn observance. "Are you all right, Jordan?"

"Sneaky limey," I scold him halfheartedly for his trickery, my smile disappearing into reluctant compliance. "Sit down."

And he does, moving so carefully and quietly that you'd think I really was an English bulldog with a spiked collar, and a rabid one at that. I catch a gust of his cologne as it settles into its new position, something fresh and herbal like basil or sage. The couch is far too small for him; he stretches his lanky legs out in front, crossing one ankle over the other, and rests his long arms behind his head, elbows bent, hands folded. It never ceases to amaze me how unified Nigel's body is, the same length and width all the way down like a gangly rockstar or something. In its own strange, unique way, it's perfect.

I'm staring at his stomach, flat and hidden underneath his thermal shirt, when he looks at me again. I pull my eyes immediately away, gazing at the space between us, then at the wall, then at my fingers in my lap. I use a few of them to push hair behind my ears.

"So, love?" he gently prods, looking for an answer to his former question.

"I'm fine," I reply, robotic and instinctive. I'm fine, two words I've clung to my whole life. Denial, pure and sweet. No one has to know when I'm upset. If I need help then I must be incapable, weak, incomplete. Worthless. I don't need your comfort, Nigel Townsend, no matter how hell-bent you may be on giving it. I'm fine and I can take care of myself.

"Really," I go on to assure him, because I know he doesn't buy it. "I'm just still in shock, that's all. There's really nothing to talk about, Nige." He softens reluctantly, maybe accepting my explanation, or maybe just accepting the fact that he tried to get it out of me and failed. If I didn't know him better I'd swear I just saw him frown.

"All right, Jordan," he nods, straightening to a rigid sit as if he's about to stand up again. A slight panic rises up in me; I don't want him to go yet. I want him to tell more jokes at my expense, to say something lighthearted to take my mind off all of this again. I'm not ready to talk about this yet, Nigel, please understand. I wouldn't even know where to start.

But he stands up anyway, heading slowly and unwillingly to the door, hands in pockets again. He pulls one out to turn the knob and open it, then he turns back to look at me, and in that experienced Nigel way that's so genuine it actually makes my stomach drop with guilt and sorrow, his whole face brightens into sudden forgiveness and he smiles, closed-mouth, and shrugs. "If you do want to talk, love, you know where to find me. I don't suppose I'll be getting home tonight, there's lots of work to be done. Bloody wish I had a couch in my office. But then, I suppose I'd have to share it with Bug, and the little blighter's rumored to snore like a cartoon bear, so perhaps I'm better off without it."

"Nigel, wait." The words leave my mouth before I even think them and his face brightens in a different kind of way, eyebrows raised in surprised attentiveness.

But before I can finish whatever it is I was going to say, the door opens wider and Woody Hoyt pushes his way through.