London After Midnight

DISCLAIMER: I'm so upset. NBC finally took the Steve Valentine interview where he says Nigel has a "kind of heavy crush on Jordan" off its Crossing Jordan homepage. I guess that means no J&N action in Season Four. Also, I can't even view the new preview for Season Four because my computer is too damn ancient. Can someone who has seen it Email me like a summary of what you see on it? I know that's ghetto but I'd really appreciate it, lol. I'm screwydamexo at aol dot com.

MANY THANKS: Thank you Moo, Brandi, ShadowyFigure, and NCCJFAN for your continued praise. Thank you Aesear for laughing at Nigel poking fun of Woody in his head - I was cackling as I wrote it, and quite evilly. Thanks also for your compliments on my Bug - he was actually the first CJ character I ever played so I have a special soft spot for Buggles. And thank you jtbwriter for using the term "barn burner" which is so esoteric (just what IS a barn burner anyway?) but always sounds so extremely cool.

Chapter Twelve

"Hydrotherapy"

Jordan

I sleep until housekeeping knocks on the door at around noon, and then I jump up and rush around putting my clothes on before they let themselves in to clean up. Begrudgingly I take the twenty dollar bill Nigel left for me on the nightstand and leave, avoiding the eyes of one of the maids who undoubtedly thinks I'm a low-priced prostitute because of it.

I use the payphone on the corner to call a cab and wait in a coffee shop across the street for it to arrive, letting a waitress talk me into picking at a stale black-and-white cookie in exchange for taking up space at a stool by the counter.

At home, a small army of voicemail messages are waiting for me on both my answering machine and my cell phone, but I ignore them all at first and head straight for the bathroom, where I take off my clothes and step into a shower, lukewarm and wonderful. I haven't really felt awake up until this point. The water reminds me of the rain and the rain reminds me of last night and last night reminds me of early this morning, and I feel my whole body blossom with goosebumps at the memories. Reaching down to get a good grip on the porcelain rim of the tub, I lower myself to sit Indian-style directly underneath the flow of the shower head, something I do sometimes when I need to think. There's something serene and natural about it, like sitting beneath a waterfall by a quiet temple in Japan. The shower water drips from my hair down my brow and catches on my eyelashes, so I lower my head and watch the droplets bead off and splash against my skin.

I slept with Nigel Townsend last night. But not just that. We didn't just sleep together. It wasn't so much a sexual act as it was a realization of something that had been there all along. Respect and adoration and... love. I told him I loved him this morning while I was still sleepy but I don't regret it at all. The way he made me feel last night... the way he always makes me feel, no matter where we are or what we're doing. Safe and young and happy. All good feelings when I'm with Nigel. It's right. I know that it's right and I didn't make a mistake.

Knowing all of this makes me grow anxious to see him again. He's probably at lunch right now or maybe working through it. I wonder if he's thinking about me. I wonder if any of the messages are from him.

None of them are. I stand by the counter in my little kitchenette, dripping on the floor and holding my towel closed with one fist, and I listen to each message in succession. One from Dad, three telemarketers, a hang-up, and precisely five from Woody Hoyt. One, two, three, four, five. Count them. Five. He says pretty much the same thing in all of them, too. Jordan, if you're there, please pick up. I've been trying to get a hold of you all night. We really need to talk. About everything. Call me as soon as you get this message. I don't call him. I probably should, but I don't want to. I know I owe him an apology and he probably wants to give me one, too, and I should just get the whole thing over with so everything can go back to normal again. But the thing is, I'm not so sure I want things to go back to normal. I'm not so sure about normal anymore. I don't think normal is what I want. Besides, it would feel wrong somehow, calling Woody after this morning with Nigel. Probably because I know it won't just be a mutual apology. He'll want to talk about... well, about us. He always wants to talk about us. In my office he told me he wasn't stupid and he knew I wasn't interested, but I have to wonder how much of that he really meant. I don't think he'd leave five messages on my answering machine if he really meant it.

The last message in the bunch is from the ocean. At least, that's the first recognizable sound; waves lapping onto the shore. A sea gull squawking somewhere off in the distance. I know who it is before he even says a word. Tyler.

Hey, Jo. It's me. You hear that? It's the Pacific, calling you home. Do you still think about it, Jo? Whenever I'm away from it for more than a few days I get this weird sensation of being right in the middle of it, the water pulsating around my body, waves coming up over my head and taking me under. Hydrotherapy, Jo. It's better than any vice. Anyway. Um. So the wife and I gave birth last week. Nah, she did all the work really, I just kind of stood there gobsmacked, staring at the miracle of life acting itself out right in front of my eyes. It was a girl and she's... she's totally incredible, Jo. Totally awesome. This little peanut nugget with bright red hair and big blue eyes... I'm like, in love. I mean it, Jo, she's the one. I'll Email you some pics of her. We named her August Jordan. So like, even if you never come back to California, your legacy lives on. Hopefully she doesn't turn out to be as much of a handful as you were, though. But whatever. Hope you're doing okay out there in Beantown. Send me a can of Heinz when you get a chance. Peace.

I wasn't prepared for that today. I haven't heard from Tyler in a really long time, not since he sent me an invitation to his wedding almost two years ago. It's strange to hear from him now, to have him tell me he's a father, that he has a little girl and her middle name is my first. It's weird to think about Tyler having a baby with some woman when just two short years ago we were both too commitment-phobic to even think about moving in together, let alone having kids. I don't know. It's just weird, and it leaves me with the incredibly undeniable awareness of getting old. I'm thirty-five and I don't think I've ever really had a serious relationship in my life. I've fallen for a married man and a future priest. I've had all kinds of casual sex. But I've never experienced anything that could last. Tyler was the closest I ever got to anything real and when he came up to Boston I blindfolded him, spun him around a few times, then turned him in the direction of California and gave him a good hard shove.

I'm sitting on the couch now but I'm not really sure when it was that I crossed the room. I'm completely engrossed in the fact that Tyler is married with a baby and I'm still just fucked up Jordan Cavanaugh with absolutely no plans for the future.

Except there's Nigel. It's still so new that it's going to take me by surprise every time I remember it. But yes, I have Nigel. And it's not just casual sex, and he's not married or even remotely religious, and I'm not afraid of him. That's the most important part, I'm not afraid to get close to Nigel Townsend. We're so close already that we're just making everything even better than it was, and there isn't anything scary about it. I could get serious with Nigel.

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.

Yeah. I think I could get very serious with Nigel. I also think maybe I made that decision long before this moment, because it just occurred to me that we didn't use protection last night.

We didn't, and I didn't even think about it. I wasn't drunk, at least not so much that I could forget something like that. It was more like I just didn't care. Like it wasn't important, or at least not as important as being with Nigel. He didn't remember, either, because I'm sure if he was thinking about it he would have stopped somewhere on the way to the room. We were both just so focused on each other that we didn't think of anything else. That's serious. That's serious, and if I don't get my period next week like I'm supposed to, it's going to be even more serious.

I don't have time to lament on that for much longer, because almost as soon as the thought pops into my head, there is a knock at my front door. I'm still not wearing anything but my bath towel, so I stand quickly and start an immediate search for clothes. "Gimme a second!" I call out as I head to my bedroom.

"It's me, love!" the door replies, and I make an abrupt U-turn and pass the couch again.

"Are you alone?" I ask when I reach the doorway, my hand curling around the knob but not turning it yet.

"Um... no, actually, I've brought my good friend Johnny Walker with me."

I can't help but smile. "Is he black?" I ask, without missing a beat.

"Is there any other kind?" he replies incredulously.

"Good answer," I say. If Nigel had brought red label scotch to my apartment, I'd have him flogged to death. "Isn't it kind of early for Johnny to be paying a visit?"

A brief moment of silence. "Actually, under the circumstances, I believe he's right on time."

At the seriousness of his tone, I quickly turn the knob and let the door swing open. Nigel stands leaning against the wall in clean clothes, different ones from this morning. A t-shirt layered over a thermal shirt and a pair of beaten-up brown slacks with pinstripes on them. Sure enough, hooked in the crook of his elbow is one of those plastic liquor store shopping bags with a yellow smiley face and the phrase Have A Nice Day! printed on it. Everything about Nigel's expression tells me he is most definitely not having a nice day.

"What happened?" I ask, but I can barely get the words out before he steps forward and folds his lanky body down over mine, his arms gathering me up in an embrace. But they're limp, and I get the impression that he wants me to hug him, rather than the other way around. I wrap my arms around his shoulders and squeeze. He smells just like he did last night. I breathe in deeply before continuing. "It's not even two o'clock, why'd you leave work so early?"

He pulls away enough to bring his hands up and tuck one corner of the towel snugly between my breasts so I don't have to hold it closed. It is, in a weird way, fatherly. But maybe I just have fathers on the brain today. Nigel doesn't answer my question but moves instead to the coffee table and sets down the bag. I push the front door closed, watching him as he rifles through the contents.

"I've brought some things for us," he announces, avoiding my question thus far. "Besides the Johnny, but here that is." He produces a slim brown paper bag and from that, a tall cylindrical bottle of Black Label, dark amber and gorgeous in the light. The perfect present. I retrace my steps to the kitchen and open an overhead cabinet to take out two glasses. "I've also got a couple of CD's I burned the other day. One of them's an Eighties mix, it's absolutely fantastic. You'll love it. Ahm... what else... some menus in case we want to order in supper later. Oh yes, and condoms."

The way he says it makes me bite back laughter - he just slipped it in like I wouldn't notice. If I comment on it, he'll probably get embarrassed. Instead, I look up at him and ask, "On the rocks?"

"Yes, please," he replies. I open the freezer and fill only one glass with ice - I like mine straight up - before bringing both to the coffee table. One hand wraps automatically around the neck of the bottle and I bring it close, twisting off the cap with my free hand.

"Love," Nigel continues as I pour out shots for both of us. "I wondered if perhaps, since we didn't have time this morning to shower together, you'd like to have a bath with me?"

I can't help but smile. It's such a completely random question but Nigel makes it sound so profoundly British that I find myself wondering if people ask each other for mutual bathtime regularly in England. "Have a bath with you?" I echo, glancing over at him to decide if he's serious.

"Certainly," he replies. "No monkey business. We can just sit there. It'll be weird, and lovely." He reaches for his drink and takes a sip. "Bleh. Bloody fucking awful, that is," he cringes. In response, I raise my glass and chase its contents down my throat without so much as flinching. Nigel smiles. "We'll finish it in the tub, yes? Come on, love, it's not like it's going to take much effort on your part." To prove his point, Nigel's fingers go to the little corner of towel he tucked in for me and expertly flick it open again so that I have to throw my arms around myself to keep it from falling to the floor.

"All right, you crazy bastard," I relent, my smile widening despite my suspicions about this little visit. "Go run the water. I'll bring in the booze."

Nigel's smile fades suddenly, and he steps forward to embrace me again, his lips brushing against my temple in a brief kiss. "Don't worry, love, I'll tell you everything." His voice is serious again, a hushed whisper. I press my lips against the bulbous little hill of his adam's apple to return his affection before he pulls away to start for the bathroom.

When he's left the room and I hear the water beginning to run, I slip the towel off and reach for my glass of scotch and the bottle. I'm just about to follow after Nigel when a sudden attack of preparedness overtakes me and I tuck the bottle in the crook of my elbow and grab the little box of condoms with my free hand.

My little bathtub doesn't take long to fill, and I have to wonder how we're both going to comfortably fit inside it. When I enter the room, Nigel is taking his shirts off and littering them on the floor. It still feels a little weird, being naked in front of him, but he doesn't seem to mind, studying me with a small smile playing on his lips. He steps forward and takes the liquor off my hands, setting my glass on the wide rim of the tub next to his and the bottle on the floor.

"I thought I said no monkey business," he softly remarks, his fingers transferring the contents of my hand into his.

"Just in case," I reply. He shoves the little box in his back pocket and my free hands go to the zipper on his slacks. "Tell me what's going on."

His fingers comb through my hair, half-dry and curling. I take off the rest of his clothes.

"I was called in to Dr. Macy's office this morning," he begins, using his heels to slide off his Converse sneakers, and then his socks. While he speaks, I let my eyes roam over his body, looking the same as it did last night. Pale ivory straight through, no blemishes and hardly any hair. His ribs are just visible below his skin, as well as the sharp protrusions of his hipbones. His stomach is flat and his navel is long and deep, his waist curved subtly inward almost like a woman's. His thighs are slender, his nipples pinkish-beige, his shoulders broad but bony. It's a beautiful body, soft and streamlined and sexual. I don't know why he's so self-conscious about it.

"He started asking me a lot of questions about immigration," Nigel continues, pulling me out of my observation. "And reminded me I haven't applied for citizenship yet."

A feeling of dread drops like a bomb in the pit of my stomach. "Wait a minute," I interrupt him as we hold onto each other for balance in order to step over the rim of the tub. "Garret didn't call INS... did he?" It's so weird, talking about Garret while we climb into a bathtub together.

"No," he replies, and settles himself down first, stretching his long legs out in front of him and resting his shoulders against the tiled wall. My tub isn't very long but it is deep, the water comes just about up to Nigel's chest. He gazes at me for a moment before reaching up with both hands to help me maneuver myself down. "But Walcott did. I don't think she cared too much for my autopsy on your brother."

The ball of dread grows a little bit larger, burning as an accoutrement to the scotch. "Yeah," I begin, ignoring his arms for now. "Listen, about that, Nige... I'm sorry I made you go behind Macy's back. I didn't mean to get you in trouble." God, listen to me. How many times have I said that to Nigel over the years? It sounds canned and insincere. "I know I always say that. It's stupid of me to even get you involved in this shit because you're always taking the fall for me and I don't want you to do that anymore. I don't want you to think I'm using you. Because I'm not. Really. I don't know why I always come to you. I guess because you know what you're doing. You're really good at what you do, Nige. The best. I mean, better than me sometimes. And I respect that. I respect you. And I trust you more than anyone else. I don't know who I would go to if I couldn't come to you about things."

He straightens up further and clasps his hands around mine. "Lay down with me, love." There's a kind of desperation in his eyes that makes it difficult to resist. I intertwine my fingers with his and lower myself down, my body slipping beneath the water. I stretch myself out all along the length of his legs, my chin just above the surface, my brow nuzzling his neck. His arms go around my waist and every movement is slow and feather soft because of the warm liquid surrounding us both.

"I'm sorry," I say again.

"Sshh, love, I don't care that I got in trouble." He loosens one hand to bring it up to my hair, gently cupping the base of my skull in his palm with each stroke. "It isn't going to hurt me. Walcott didn't say anything about our many misadventures to the INS. She only phoned them to get information on me, I think. Find out if I was legal yet. The fact is, I've been ignoring them for quite some time. Not a very smart move on my part, I'm afraid. Now that they've finally gotten in contact with me, and through the district attorney's office at that, I don't think I have much choice but to obey their orders."

My hand floats up above the surface of the water and curls around his shoulder, stroking the skin there with my thumb. "What do they want you to do?" I quietly ask.

The only sound in the bathroom for a long stretch of time is the dripping faucet. "They want me to leave," Nigel finally answers, his voice barely more than a whisper. "I'm being deported."

I raise my head from his neck so I can find his eyes. "They can't do that to you. I mean, it's got to be some kind of mistake. Walcott was probably just fucking with you. It's probably just a threat. To scare you out of helping me anymore, or to make you go to the police about me or something."

His smile is grim, apologetic. "I don't think so, love." He shakes his head.

"Wait a minute," I say again. My head is spinning, thoughts begetting new thoughts at top speed. I'm finding it extremely difficult to process this. "Did Garret fire you?"

Again he shakes his head. "Not exactly, though I was asked to leave. Temporary sabbatical, I think was what he called it. Extended absence without pay. Something of that nature. He said we could discuss my employment opportunities when I get back into the country."

"And when is that going to be?" I can feel panic beginning to worm its way up into my throat.

"I... don't rightly know," he sighs. "I've never been through this before. Walcott said it could take as much as six months. I'm inclined to believe her."

"Six months..." It's a figure so tremendous that I can't even fully comprehend it. I can't do six months. Six months is not going to work for me. Too much can happen in six months. We only just started this, it isn't fair. "Okay," I say. "Okay. What can we do to make the process as short as possible?"

"Well," he replies thoughtfully, staring at the dripping faucet. "Once I'm back in England, I suppose if I establish that I have very strong ties to the States, it will help speed things along. Thankfully I still have my job, so I can have Dr. Macy speak on my behalf about that. I've got friends, and a roommate..."

"And you've got me," I interject, my touch moving from his shoulder to one of his big ears. I tug on it gently, my fingers strumming over the little silver hoops that decorate the lobe. I make them clink together. Ear-music. "Maybe I can do something. Maybe we should..."

The idea clobbers me in the back of my head like the largest volume of the Encyclopedia Britannica. I bite my lip against it at first, unsure if I should vocalize it. It has the potential to change everything in any number of ways, and I don't know how he'd react. Plus, I mean, it would just be so... obvious. I wonder if he expects me to say it. I wonder if he's hoping I'll say it.

"Maybe I..." I begin, deciding to phrase it in a slightly different way. "...Should tell them we're engaged."

His eyes widen a bit and he shifts in the water, speechless for the moment. I turn from my side to my stomach, our chests stacked on top of each other. Nigel's hands go to the small of my back and begin to pet it soothingly, bending both of his knees to give me more room and cradle me at the same time. I watch his lips, waiting for a response.

It's a while before I get one. "I don't want to make you do that, love."

"You're not," I reply. "It's my idea."

He's quiet again for a few moments. "But it isn't true."

My hands go to either side of his neck, massaging it gently with my fingers. "I know," I softly say. His reaction to this is kind of baffling. I assumed he'd be all for it - I mean, he did ask me to do this for him once before. I see now that maybe I should have. Nigel would have been a citizen for real and we wouldn't be going through this now. Who knows, maybe we'd even still be married, living together, best friends with a weird, unexpected relationship. But I guess it doesn't matter. We're doing it now, after all, and it's better like this. It's real.

"They wouldn't know it, though," I add, despite his reluctance. "It could seem true to them. We've known each other for so long. We know everything about each other, and you're always helping me out, and everyone could attest to how close we are. And now... there's all this between us, and..." I catch myself starting to smile. "It's just an option, Nigel. Wow, who knew you'd be so against marrying me."

His arms tighten around my waist. "I'm not against it, Jordan," he insists, his voice sounding much firmer than before. "Yes, it's an option, and it's a very good one - undoubtedly INS would buy right into it and maybe I could be back in America in thirty days, but..." He sighs and goes quiet again. "It wouldn't be true for us, that's all. If I ever... if it ever happened for us, I wouldn't want it to be like that. It should be the real thing."

My smile is wider, my hands creeping up to either of his cheeks. I pull myself further up along his body, my mouth drawing closer to his. "This is the real thing, Nige," I whisper, my lips brushing against his in a warm, brief kiss. "Let me come with you to England."

His lips fumble around with mine as I speak, his eyes sliding closed. "Are you serious?" he mumbles into our kisses.

"Yeah," I reply, my tongue sliding against his and then quickly retreating. "For a few weeks. I have a lot of vacation time saved up. I can stay with you and help you get through to INS. Or I can talk to them here first and get the ball rolling, then fly out and meet you there. Come on, Nige. I make you do so many things for me, and I'm partially what got you into this mess in the first place. Let me do something for you. Just because I tell them we're engaged doesn't mean we have to get married. We can wait for it... to be the real thing."

He opens his eyes halfway, smiling cryptically and gazing at me from just beneath those thin ebony lashes. "It will be one day, Jordan Cavanaugh. One of these days, I'm going to ask you."

I think of Tyler and August Jordan, his little red-haired baby girl down in California.

"I know," I whisper in return, and when I kiss him this time, it seems to seal our promise.