London After Midnight

DISCLAIMER: AAAAIIIEEEEEE!! Jeez!! dodges rotten tomatoes Sorry about the cliffhanger, all right? Thoroughly sorry!! I'll never do that to you again, I promise!!

MANY THANKS: Wow. Wow wow wow. I literally couldn't ask for more where feedback is concerned. I never thought I'd get a single positive review. You're all so awesome and I love every last one of you. Thank you canadianfan and Upside for your compliments, thank you to the lovely Nikki, many MANY thanks to NCCJFAN who has all but completely restored my optimism in converting J&W fans (guess it isn't impossible after all), and of course thank you to my favourite person in the whole world Watson for your continued praise which means so much to me. I love soppy Englishmen as well.

I hope this chapter lives up to the last.

Chapter Eight

"An Entire United Nations of Emotions"

Jordan

He loves me.

I have known Nigel Townsend for the last ten years of my life. We didn't spend every waking moment together, but somehow we always ended up that way. Together. On a case or in a meeting, in my office or on his bike. Together in an opinion or a conspiracy theory or the appreciation of the same rock bands. Some nights we'd be the only ones alone in the morgue, the both of us as empty and as apathetic as the corpses that filled the crypt.

I probably could have been a better friend to Nigel. I shouldn't have worried him as much as I did, or kept him out of the loop for as long as I did, or made fun of him like I sometimes did. I know that there were times I took advantage of him, of his talents and his intelligence and his strange fondness for me, a thing I could never wrap my head around. I always knew Nigel liked me, even though I never understood why. I even figured that he was kind of attracted to me, because in my experience, man only does for woman if he thinks there's a chance she'll sleep with him.

But love me? No. I can honestly say that I never knew Nigel was in love with me. The thought never even entered my mind. He's always been so quiet about it, playing this inexhaustible role of the perfect plutonic guy friend... I mean Christ, for the first three years we knew each other, I even thought he was gay. I can't count how many times I've laid the details of a one-night stand on him or complained about my inability to retain a functional relationship. And oh God, Tyler... when Tyler visited and that fucking awful dinner party... that whole fucking awful chapter of my romantic life. Did Nigel still love me even through all of that?

I'm not just embarrassed. I'm mortified, standing here soaking wet in this rainstorm outside the club, our club, the place we just disappeared in for the last couple of hours, the place in which we had our first waltz and our first kiss. The memory of it makes my face feel like it's going to burst into flames. The gentle softness of Nigel's lips and the meek, unthreatening gestures of Nigel's tongue, Nigel's hands on my waist and in my hair, the Cure in the background. Oh God, oh my God... I kissed him. I kissed Nigel. I kissed him as though in finality of something, the long-awaited completion of an extremely desired task. I wanted to kiss Nigel. All night. And not just tonight. Not just tonight...

What's wrong with me, I whispered aloud before I pulled his mouth to mine. But not, What's wrong with me tonight? Or, What's wrong with me that I want to kiss you? No, nothing like that. I think I meant it more like, What's been wrong with me these past ten years that it never occurred to me to do this before?

And now that one simple gesture has set off an irreversible chain of emotions that I don't think we'll ever be able to recover from, but I'm not even sure that I want to. The truth is I kind of like the way this feels, standing out in the rain, freezing and wet, my eyeliner running, my leather jacket bunched up in both of my hands. Nigel Townsend stands less than a foot away, and his eyeliner is running too, and his words are kind of like the rain somehow, wistful and honest and cleansing, baptizing me with their soothing truth and that immaculate contrast of cynicism and innocence that makes Nigel who he is.

I like the things he's saying to me. I like what he's confessing to. I even kind of like the way he chooses to scrutinize all of my past relationships and my behavior where love is concerned, because it's so true, and at the same time so completely untrue. Nigel, you crazy limey fuck, you know me so well but you don't know me at all. I don't always run from love. I'm not running from you. No, I'm definitely not running from you at all.

Why does he think I'll break his heart? Why is he so convinced of that? Because I rejected Woody Hoyt? Looking at him now I know that must be why. For the past three years he's watched the game of chess I played with Woody from the sidelines, cheering for a stalemate and I never even noticed. How could I not have noticed? Was I really so preoccupied with Woody that I couldn't even see what had been right in front of me for so many years before? Maybe that's why Nigel has no faith in me. It's not because I rejected Woody, it's because without even realizing it I rejected Nigel, and many times at that. Continuously.

I never meant to. I never wanted to hurt Nigel, I could never hurt Nigel. He's so gentle and unselfish and compassionate. To consciously hurt him would be wrong, a sadistic crime, because I know he'd never hurt me. I mean, Christ, the only times he's ever said no to something I requested of him were the times he thought I'd get hurt in the process. He loves me, of course he does, and the fact that I never saw that makes me feel like the biggest asshole in the world. I hurt him, yes. By not noticing, not paying attention, not listening. I never did really listen to him. He's right.

But now I know. Now I know, and just being fully aware of being loved by someone like Nigel Townsend - no, being loved by Nigel Townsend specifically - fills me with so much warmth that my whole body blossoms with goosebumps and I know it's not from the cold and I know it's not from the rain. It's a special kind of love, I know this right away. It's special because it's been kept secret for such a long time, it's special because in his mind it came with such high stakes. It's special because he never pushed me or nagged me or complained. It's special because he only revealed it when I acted on it first. It's special because he is a much better person than I am, and I respect him so tremendously, and I don't deserve his feelings, not at all, but I will welcome them with opened arms.

"Nigel," I say. I want to tell him all of this, everything I think and everything I feel. But I can't. I'm not good with words, I'm not good at this, I've never really known anything like this before. So all that I can do is sigh, and it's a sigh not of defeat exactly, but of content and willing submission, and as I do it I step forward to annihilate the empty space between us. Lowering my wet brow to his wet shirt, I drop my leather jacket to the sidewalk in order to wrap both arms around his soggy frame. "Nigel," I say it again though I don't know why, my voice brimming with respect and adoration and joy. My arms constrict, squeezing him tightly, and I bury my features against his sweater, feeling the material divest itself of its moisture as though I had just pressed a sponge to my face.

I don't feel a physical response from him at first, and I wonder if I shocked him into paralysis. But then his arms go around me, too, and tighten, and I feel his head bowed against the top of mine, the soft cartilage of his nose pressed into my hair.

"I'm so afraid of you, love." His voice isn't much louder than a whisper, especially underneath the rumbling of the thunder in the sky and the crash of the rain against the sidewalk, and it kind of reverberates, like it would in a dream.

"Crazy limey," I scold him without heat, turning my face to the side so he can hear me. I'm surprised to discover that my voice, too, sounds dream-like. "There's nothing to be scared of."

I'm attracted to him. I realize that now. It's a thought so completely unplanned that it takes me by surprise, because I never actually put it in such blunt terms to myself before. I've always thought that Nigel is beautiful, that his features are soft and friendly and uniquely, unconventionally handsome, that his body is long and thin and pale and sexual, and his accent is sexual, and even the way he moves is sexual because he doesn't overtly try to make it sexual, like so many other men I've known before, Detective Woody Hoyt included. No, even when Nigel is having one of those days where every move he makes is awkward or clumsy or goofy, he's still so extremely, incredibly sexual, at least to me, simply because he doesn't even realize it.

I've always known all of this, but I always kind of saw it as like a general opinion, that in a theoretical way everyone thought those things about Nigel, or rather that everyone thought those things about everyone at some point or another. I never really applied it to just me, or thought that it was a deeply personal, intimate feeling that only I had, and only about Nigel Townsend.

But it was, oh God, it definitely was. And is. Standing here so close to him, my entire body pressed to his, the rain enhancing the scent of his cologne... I want him. I want Nigel. I wanted him when I kissed him in the club and I want him now and I've wanted him for a really long time, and now that I realize it, it all culminates into this incredible wave of desire for him, a living, breathing need.

"I don't want to just be friends anymore, Jordan," I hear him whisper. I separate myself from him enough to look into his eyes, and I find latent shame and distress there. I reach up with five fingers to gently wipe away the smeared makeup forming dark circles underneath his eyes. I know I must look the same way, maybe even worse because of the way I buried myself in his wet sweater, but for some reason I don't feel embarrassed at all.

"I don't, either," I softly reply, trying to make my voice sound soothing and unthreatening despite the accusatory nature of my words. I don't want him to be afraid of me anymore. "Oh God, Nige, you're such an asshole. How could you think I'd want to break your heart? How could you think I'd ever do that to you? Do you really think I'd have come out with you tonight if I didn't like you? I do, I like you so much, more than anyone. I think you're so beautiful, and different, and you don't care what people think of you and I respect that so much. Don't be afraid of me, Nigel. Don't be upset. I came out with you tonight for a reason, there's a reason I dressed like this and asked you to dance with me and kissed you. I could never break your heart, Nigel. I love that you love me. And I want to be with you. I think I've probably wanted that for a long time. While I was getting dressed tonight I couldn't stop thinking about you and how beautiful you are, and all I wanted was for you to think I was beautiful, too."

"I do, love!" he exclaims through a jubilant laugh that is louder than the rain, a smile stretching wide across his features. Both of his hands go to either side of my face, cupping my cheeks protectively. His palms are wet but warm, he strokes my temples with his thumbs and causes a shiver to roll down my spine. "I always think you're beautiful. Every day. And brave, and sensitive. All of the things that make you my dear girl. I'm so in love with you, Jordan. I'm so in love with you that when I see you in the mornings, I feel faint. I'm so in love with you that sometimes I just want to spit at you or strike you because you make me so crazy and so frustrated and it's terrible of me to think those things, I know, but I can't help it. It's been such hell trying to hide this from you. I probably should have told you sooner, years ago. Before Woodrow... I mean... I wanted very much to tell you but things happened, didn't they, between you and he? He just sort of took over, and there wasn't anything I could do about it. I didn't feel like it was my place anymore. To love you."

"Nigel, nothing happened!" I cry. I want to put Woody out of his mind as fast as I possibly can, I want to banish him to some forgotten corner of my subconscious and never think or speak of him ever again. I know that things changed after I met Woody, I know that suddenly my time with Nigel was cut in half and I got distracted, I did, he saved my life in Los Angeles and I allowed myself to get distracted with him. I wish I didn't. I didn't know how badly I hurt Nigel's feelings by doing it, I never meant to. "Nothing happened between us. I never... I never slept with him, or anything. I never wanted to sleep with him. We're just friends, that's all, and sometimes not even that much. Woody isn't like you, Nigel. He isn't patient. He didn't wait. He tried to rush me, he was always trying to rush me. But I didn't want him. I like Woody, I even love him in a way I guess, like how I love my Dad. He saved my life once and I owe a lot to him. But not that. I don't want Woody. I want you."

The astonishment I feel at my own words is physically represented on Nigel's face, in spades. His eyes are wide, his brows raised, his cheeks full of more color than I ever thought it possible for my ghostly pale Nigel to achieve. His smile fades but not completely, and then grows wider than before.

"Is that so?" he asks, sounding dumbfounded and more than a little bewildered. "Do you want me, Jordan?"

I'm smiling too, now, from shyness and the vocalization of desire. I'm probably even blushing, a rare feat for me. "Yeah," I confess, my voice hushed and calm. "I do, Nige. Of course I want you."

His hands slip a little lower, cupping my jaw instead, his thumbs plucking up my chin. "Shall I kiss you then, love?"

I withdraw my own hands from his face and wrap them around his wrists, stroking the smooth, wet skin there with my fingers for encouragement. "You don't need to ask me first," I reply.

It's a very nice kiss. It isn't rushed or frantic like how the first was. We take our time and linger at each other's lips, our tongues playing intricate games together. Every so often Nigel breaks away to kiss my chin or the tip of my nose, and I smile and he smiles and our mouths return to each other again. It's still pouring all around us and sometimes people hurry past, smart people with umbrellas whose jackets are covering their bodies and not draped along the sidewalk. But I hardly feel the cold or the rain anymore, because Nigel's breath is hot and his hands are warm and his mouth tastes like red wine. My whole body is stifling and all I really want to do is take my dress off, and his sweater besides. I wish we were indoors, I wish we were in bed.

"Come home with me," I murmur against his lips. "Or take me to your apartment."

"It'll be better at your place, love," he replies, unwilling to stop kissing me long enough to speak articulately. He doesn't ask me if I'm sure a half a dozen times and I like that, I like that so much. "No one will be there to bother us. I've got a roommate."

"I've got a telephone," I remind him, noticing that the speed of our contact is increasing, and my breathing is growing harder. I can hear Nigel, too, gasping for air between kisses and words. "Two of them, actually, and they both have a really nasty habit of ringing at all the wrong times."

"We'll toss them over the fire escape, then," he suggests, and without warning tilts his head and opens his mouth against my neck. A whimper passes my lips as he sets his teeth against the skin, but he quickly soothes the bite with his tongue at the sound. "Did I hurt you, love?"

"No," I cry. "No. Jesus, Nigel, we can't just do this out on the street."

"And why is that?" he retorts cheekily, picking another patch of skin to nibble on. My second whimper is hidden in a windfall of nervous laughter.

"Because we're successfully becoming two of those people who like to neck in public," I announce, pushing both palms against his chest in an attempt to pry him away. "And we hate those people. Don't we?"

"Oh, I don't know, love," he murmurs, moving his hands to my waist and pulling himself closer against my struggle to break free. His attentions move to my earlobe and the little patch of skin just behind it, and it tickles, and I can't help but squeal. Nigel speaks louder so he can be heard over it. "I sort of respect those types of people! They've got a lot of self-confidence!" He doesn't let up on my ear, and even takes his torture to the next level by digging his fingers into my ribs and beginning to tickle me mercilessly, all the while shouting louder and louder over my squealing protests. "You shouldn't be wary of the physical representation of affection, Jordan! There's something to be said, after all, for two people who are completely unafraid to show the world how very much in love they really are!!"

"Nigel Nigel NIGEL GET OFF ME!!!" I scream, my own laughter threatening to burst my stomach open. I try to twist out of his grasp but only succeed in turning around and giving him a better angle to stab his fingers into my waist. The involuntary spasms of laughter continue until I feel like I have no strength left at all, and then I sink down to the pavement, burying myself against our jackets in the ultimate surrender. "No more," I plead. "Cease and desist."

Instantly I feel his arms around my waist again, hoisting me up off the sidewalk. I take our jackets with me. "All right, love, I'm sorry," he apologizes, cradling my back against his front and leaning forwards to rest his chin on my shoulder. "That was terribly cruel of me. But I think I've got a way I can make it up to you. What would you say to spending the rest of the evening in a slightly cozy, extremely inexpensive, roommate-and-telephone-free motel room? Now before you say anything, I realize the very thought does seem quite torrid and seedy, but it doesn't have to be that way if we don't want it to be. We can just think of it as... well, as refuge, I suppose. A little safehaven where no one will disturb us. Yes?"

Refuge. Actually, it's the perfect word, and at the mention of a cozy room my body remembers how fucking cold it is out here and begins shivering almost on cue. I know that there's a motel about a half a mile up the street because I noticed it as we passed on our way to the club. It might be nice to curl up with Nigel on a foreign bed, one that isn't mine or his so neither of us will feel out of place. We can take all our clothes off and dry them under the heat lamp in the bathroom. Oh God. Just the thought of our wet clothes hanging over the shower stall makes me realize what's really about to happen tonight. The same fluttering of excitement that overtook me when I realized where we were going tonight starts up again. It's been a long time for me. A long, long time. Two years. I wonder how long it's been for Nigel. Oh God, Nigel... it's going to be with Nigel. An entire United Nations of emotions washes over me, each with a different origin. Fright and hysteria and embarrassment and comfort and irony and affection and lust, most of all lust, and somehow that neutralizes everything else.

"Yes," I agree, slipping my bare arms into the sleeves of my jacket. It's just as wet as my skin is, but the extra layer provides a decent amount of warmth. "Refuge. That sounds good, Nige. Really good. Let's do that." I separate from him without having to put up a struggle this time, but after he puts his jacket on, he throws his arm around my shoulders just the same. I slip my hand casually inside the soggy back pocket of his jeans and it's like this that we finally continue on down the block to his motorcycle, still slightly dazed by the startling new discovery of what's just happened and curious about all of what is yet to come.