London After Midnight
DISCLAIMER: SO upset. Got my TV Guide on Tuesday and it's positively plastered with pictures of Jordan and Woody. All the Crossing Jordan advertisements allude to them finally getting together this season. That means a WHOLE new crop of J&W fics are going to start popping up on here and totally bury me. All us J&N writers need to band together and totally bombard this site with J&N fics. Revolt!!
MANY THANKS: Thank you Moo, Aesear, and Brandi for your continued praise. Thank you ShadowyFigure - I'd go to Mars with Nigel too lol. And gladly. Thanks NCCJFAN for the definition of barn burner and for applying such a tremendous phrase to this story. I'm glad I'm converting you a little. Thanks Watson for your honest review. I actually didn't feel like I was floundering, but I'm glad you at least liked my last chapter.
Chapter Thirteen
"The Awkward Sense of Disruption"
Nigel
We stay in the bath for an hour more at least, perhaps even two, cuddling and drinking without toasting, something I very rarely do. Where I come from, we toast always, even if it's not more than a prayer to make it back home without being picked up for public intoxication. But today, even with my whole life on the brink of tedious, exhaustive change, I can't seem to find anything to wish for. Everything I need is right here with me already.
The water grows cold once so we let it out and fill the tub up again, Jordan switching positions and laying on her back against the porcelain. She reaches for me and I throw one arm over the rim while we kiss, my fingers fishing around blindly for the back pocket of my trousers. Then I make love to her, swiftly and ardently, until she yells my name and water sloshes onto the bathroom floor, soaking my clothes.
We sleep for a time. A soggy little catnap, just Jordan and I. Until the water grows cold again and all our fingertips are wrinkled; then I stand, taking both of her hands to pull her up. We hold onto each other and the sink and the walls as we untangle our legs from the bath and step out onto the slippery tile floor. Jordan gives me a fresh towel from her linen closet, plush black and smelling like her, patchouli and sweet pea and tangerine. I wrap it around my waist and tuck it in, all the while watching her retrieve my t-shirt from the floor, the only article of clothing far enough away from the bathtub to avoid being drenched by its rocky seas. She pulls it on as though she purchased it especially for herself, tugging her wet curls from the collar and smoothing out the creases. It hangs nearly down to her knees and looks infinitely better on her than it ever has on me.
We move back to the living room and she puts on my Eighties mix, giving an excited gasp at the first track and pulling me off the couch to dance with her. Me in my towel and Jordan in my t-shirt, dancing to "Bizarre Love Triangle" by New Order. I spin her around and around and when she gets too dizzy she collapses against the sofa, content in just singing blithely along with the music.
"Everytime I see you falling, I get down on my knees and pray..."
We drink far more than we should so early in the evening, finishing off the bottle at around five. I can't quite remember the last time either one of us got up for any reason, but I'm beginning to seriously doubt my ability to stand. The whole world wobbles on its axis when I lurch to the side in order to gather Jordan in my arms, and I nearly slump off the couch to the floor in the process. We've reached the last track on the CD, "Come On Eileen," ah yes, I remember this one. I knew a girl named Eileen around the time the song came out, a miniature Irish lass no taller than my collar, pale as the moon with long apricot-colored hair laid out down her back. Her eyelashes were white and I lost my virginity to her in my best friend Algernon's bunk bed at a party while he was passed out on the mattress above our heads, snoring like a cartoon bear. He leaned over to throw up once and a little bit got in her hair. I took her to the loo to wash it out afterwards. I remember. I remember.
"Jordan," I mumble, my head resting on her narrow shoulder, my face pressed into her neck. I have both arms tucked securely around her little waist. "You'll love England, dear. I'm glad you're going."
"Will you take me to Piccadilly Circus?" she asks, her words slurred and soft. Her arms are strewn across my back, cradling me. "And Buckingham Palace? And Abbey Road? Where else... where else... Scotland Yard, I always wanted to see Scotland Yard. I want to ride on a red bus and stand in a red phone booth and eat something with a weird name. Will you do all that with me?"
Quietly I laugh, tickled by her candid fascination. "Yes," I promise. "We'll do all of it. We'll do everything together. I'll even pretend to be American and we can ask the natives stupid questions to see how quickly we can rile them up. How's that, love?"
"Splendid, love," she replies in an imitation of my accent, turning her cheek to rest against my forehead. Then, in her regular voice, "Where will we stay?"
"Hm," I reply, having not quite thought about lodging yet. "Well, I certainly won't have enough money for a hotel. We'll have to stay with my family, I suppose. Not my father's side, though. We'll stay with me mum's younger sister. My Auntie Bea. You'll like her, I think. She's a bit... out there. She was a hippie, actually. Used to live in San Francisco for a time, in the seventies. Then she had some children and moved back to London to open a tea shop on Sydney Street. Now that I remember it, above the tea shop used to be an apartment that she would sublet every so often. Perhaps if it isn't in use right now, she'd let us have it. I'll have to ring her tomorrow. Hopefully my cousin isn't living in it."
"You have a cousin?" Jordan inquires, shifting to relax against the back of the couch so she can look at me.
"Indeed," I smile slightly, reminiscing. "Two of them, actually. But I haven't been home in almost fifteen years, so one of them I haven't even met yet. A little girl, though I don't recall her name." My smile fades guiltily. "It isn't right, really. I should know her name. She's a teenager by now. I suppose it's good I'm going back, it'll give me a chance to reconnect."
Her fingers brush against my cheek, then drift up into my hairline and sweep away damp strands. "What's the other one like, the one you know?"
"Well, that's Duncan, he's... Christ, about twenty-nine now. The last time I saw him he was eleven. I was in the Royal Navy at that time, so I'd brought him round to see my ship and meet the crew and all that. Auntie Bea didn't want me to; she didn't believe in the military. But Duncan had an odd penchant for that sort of thing. Typical eleven-year-old boy, I suppose, though last I heard he never went into the military. He became a professional chef. Hangs around with Jamie Olivier and everything. I guess you never can tell." I give a lighthearted shrug and sigh. "I've been in America far too long. Home feels so far away."
"Doesn't this feel like home to you though?" Jordan softly asks, shifting again, burying her face against my shoulder. "Boston? Your job? Your friends?"
I tighten both arms about her, wishing I could take back what I've just said. You feel like home to me, Jordan. I feel more comfortable and safe in this moment than I've ever felt in my life. "Yes, it's home here, too. A different kind of home. I wasn't born here but I made a place for myself here. It's weird that I'm being kicked out after all this time. Especially since I was finally starting to feel settled. Everything finally fell into place."
We're quiet for a long time after that, my arms around the unfamiliar texture of my t-shirt on Jordan's little body, her arms warming my bare back. The song ends and we sit there in pleasant silence, lost in thought and lost in each other, until a loud, sudden knocking at the door begins to hammer at my brain.
"Oh no," Jordan murmurs, stirring from my arms. "People." I reluctantly release my hold on her as she fumbles for the edge of the coffee table to pull herself up. Once standing, she takes less than a handful of steps, swaying violently with each one, before she crumbles to the floor.
"Aww, look at you, love," I cry, grinning in appreciative amusement as I lurch to my feet to help her. "You're smashed." I soon discover, however, that my balance isn't what it used to be either, and I have to stagger slowly but steadily in order to remain upright. The room swings back and forth like a pendulum. "Bloody hell, so am I."
Jordan seems to find this hilarious, as she is sitting up on the carpet with her shoulders shaking, her cheeks bright red with laughter. I reach her eventually and extend both hands for her to take, but she refuses, peals of her laughter still ringing off the walls. Whoever is at the door can surely hear us. "Come on, love," I plead, grabbing her underneath her arms and beginning to hoist her to a stand. "Up we go, then."
"Okay," she gasps between giggles, leaning heavily against me. "Okay. I'm sorry. I'm okay. I'm just gonna go answer the door now." She pushes away from me, reeling backwards a few paces before knocking right into the closed apartment door. It makes a loud banging sound, the rusty hinges rattling, Jordan's laughing fit refreshed and starting all over again.
"Jordan, is that you?" A familiar voice from the other side of the door. "Is everything okay in there?"
"It's Woody," Jordan mouths the words, but no sound emerges, just silent, hysterical laughter. Then I can't contain it any longer; I, too, double over, all the breath in my lungs escaping in a snort that turns into a series of snickering. We're like two troublemaking little children, Jordan and I, hiding from this kid that we both love to torment, unable to contain our amusement and satisfaction at the mischief we create.
Her hand goes for the doorknob.
"Don't answer it!" I hiss, gesturing wildly against it. "We can't open the door like this."
"Why not?" she whispers back, all traces of laughter suddenly wiped clean from her face and replaced with mock innocence. "I'm decent."
"I'm not!" I cry, wrapping the towel tighter around my waist. "Bugger all, go ahead and answer it then, you wasted slut. Shall I hide?"
"Hide?" she echoes, furrowing her brows. "Why would you hide? No... no, just go put your clothes back on." She starts for the doorknob again and then turns back abruptly, as if remembering something. "And I'm not a slut," she hisses. "You are."
I scoff audibly before retreating into the bathroom, the chorus of Woody's pounding on the door and yelling, "Jordan, are you in there?" continuing to sing out. I roll my eyes and begin gathering up my clothes, not as soaked-through as they were an hour ago but still fairly wet. I loathe to put them back on, would much rather walk back out there completely naked, sit down, and not say a word the entire time. Let the detective draw his own conclusions. The very thought causes me to giggle, but then I hear the door creak open and stifle myself, wanting to be very quiet so I can hear each word exchanged between my arch-rival and my...
Yes, I do believe Jordan is my girlfriend now. I'll have to ask her to make sure, but I'm fairly certain that's what this is. Jordan is my girlfriend. I can feel myself blush at the notion like the teenager I once was. Bloody hell, but wouldn't Bug flip if he knew? I'll have to ring him up to tell him at my earliest convenience. Undoubtedly he won't even believe me.
"Good evening, Detective," says Jordan, my girlfriend, in greeting. I can't help but imagine her standing out there in nothing but my t-shirt, her hair damp and rumpled. I zip up my trousers, button the fly. "What can I do for you?"
I step closer to the bathroom door, opening it a crack so I can listen more intently. "Is everything okay with you, Jordan? I mean, I've been calling you all night with no answer... then it takes you five minutes to open the door, I'm standing here hearing all these weird noises and..." He takes a brief pause. "Have you been partying or something?"
A grin spreads wide across my face. I slip my arms into the sleeves of my thermal. I could walk into the room right now if I wanted, answer Woody's question for him without even speaking. I don't, though. Something keeps me rooted to the spot.
"Just a little," Jordan replies, slurring her s and sounding cheerful about it. "It's kind of like a... private party." I enjoy that comment, myself. I'm still smiling as I pull my shirt over my head and smooth it down the length of my chest.
"It's a little early in the day for scotch, isn't it?" Either Woodrow entered the apartment and saw the bottle or leaned close enough to Jordan to smell it. She must let that remark slide, for Woody continues speaking. "Listen, maybe we could talk. Do you want to get dressed? We could grab dinner. Or I could just come in. I really want to talk about some things. I think we owe it to each other."
My smile fades immediately, the hairs on the scruff of my neck beginning to bristle up again like they did this morning. Only this time, I'm most positively in a situation where I will be able to mark my territory if I so please. I barely have time to prepare myself before I'm grabbing the doorknob and giving it a good yank. Both girlfriend and arch-rival look up, and suddenly I'm thrust into an extremely rare role - the center of attention.
I love it. I bask in it. I positively eat it up.
"'Allo, Woodrow," I holler across the room at him, grinning from ear to ear. "What brings you round this neck of the woods, then, eh?" I stand in the bathroom doorway with one hand pressed against the wall and one long leg crossed over the other.
It doesn't take him long. I catch the flicker of understanding in his eyes right away, watch the muscles in his jaw flex themselves a few times before he smiles too, a grin wide enough to compete with mine. "Just touching base," is his altogether too chipper reply. "Nigel." Making a point of saying my name very firmly, like I did something I wasn't supposed to. "I guess I could ask you the same question."
My cheeks are starting to ache with the responsibility of all this grinning. I shrug both shoulders in an overly casual manner, folding my arms across my chest as I take a step into the room. "Oh, I dunno..." My accent seems even more pronounced when compared with Woody's white-bred, middle-American lilt. I have to wonder if I'm subconsciously exaggerating it as a way of intimidating him. "S'pose I just needed a bit of cheerin' up, that's all. Twasn't the best of days, today."
"Nigel's getting deported," Jordan chimes in, dear silly drunken girl, sounding as if she's trying to be helpful.
Woody's tight smile still plastered on his face, a twinkle of real mirth appearing in his eyes at the prospect of my leaving the country. "Well, is that so?"
"Indeed, it certainly appears that way," I reply, taking a few more steps, and then a few more, until I'm standing directly behind Jordan. I don't put my hands on her; undoubtedly she'd see that as a possessive move and wouldn't be too pleased about it, even smashed as she is. I keep my arms across my chest, but I do straighten to my full height - maybe a challenge, maybe a threat. "Jordan's made plans to join me in London. That is, until my appeal goes through and I can get a new Visa to re-enter the States. Isn't that right, love?"
"Yeah," she agrees, and I do believe Jordan's is the only genuine smile in the room. It's beautiful, really. My favourite smile. It lights up her whole face and makes her look like a little kid. "I kind of always wanted to see England. And after everything that's happened... I just really need a vacation. So... we're going to go." She glances at me over her shoulder just once, and then, bless her - bless her, bless her, bless her - she reaches both hands behind her back and grabs my arms, pulling them out of their tangled position and wrapping them around her waist. She does it right in front of Woody Hoyt, for bollocks sake! I'm gobsmacked. I'm practically swooning. I'm convinced she hung the moon. My dear, dear girl. I've never wanted to kneel down and worship Jordan Cavanaugh more than I do at this very moment.
Woody closes his mouth and flexes the muscles in his jaw a few more times, his eyes still twinkling, but it's different now - like the hard glitter of radio tubes out of the back of an old CB. A cold and agitated glint. He doesn't say anything for a really long time. I busy myself with fixing my arms so they fit around Jordan's stomach perfectly; jigsaw puzzle pieces pressing together. She covers my hands with her own. I can't wait to take her to bed.
"Private party, huh?" is what Woody finally says, and then his laughter fills the room. My head snaps up, my smile finally fading. "Wait a second, wait a second. I get it now. You guys are yanking my chain, aren't you? Wow, you really had me going for a minute back there. Private party. That's really funny. So are you finished fixing Jordan's computer, Nigel? Do you mind if I steal her away for some Chinese?"
I have to take a moment to ensure he really just said that and this isn't all just some drunken hallucination. I react to his question in the same order of emotions as I would if he had punched me in the mouth - shock, pain, anger, retaliation. Jordan starts to say something but I open my mouth and talk right over her, loudly, and I get the inkling that if I didn't have so much liquor in me I probably wouldn't say anything at all. Maybe I would have just let Jordan handle things and gone back to the couch to sulk. But those days are through. I will let myself get trampled upon by Woodrow Hoyt no longer. I am not a push-over anymore.
"Actually, yes, I do mind," I practically growl, my nostrils flaring, my face growing hot. "I mind very much, and no, I am not over here to fix Jordan's computer." I spit the words out, despising the taste of them. I'm torn between squeezing Jordan closer to me and pushing her away in order to get right up into Woody's face. In the end, I decide to take my arms from her body and step aside, but I don't go any closer to Woody just yet.
"Is it so inconceivable to you," I continue, breathing heavily through my nose now - I can just imagine my countenance being that of a raging bull; if Woody held up something red I would surely charge him. "That I could be anything more than Jordan's Internet lackey? Does it really seem so ridiculous that I'm a real person with feelings? That I have feelings for Jordan, and I have since you were still in the bloody academy back in the boonies of Wisconsin!" I grind my teeth and flex my own goddamned jaw muscles a few times. "Fix her computer. You fucking wanker!"
I take a threatening step forwards, uncertain of exactly what I intend to do, but then Jordan's hand is there on my wrist, urging me not to go any further. I don't intend to disobey her wishes but before I can stop myself I wrench my arm away from her and grab the collar of Woodrow's jacket in both fists, too riled up to even see straight.
"Hey! Whoa! Whoa!" Woody holds both palms up, calm and rational. Of course calm and rational, and that makes me even angrier than before. Everything about Woodrow Hoyt has always made me angry, and I'm sick of keeping it all inside. I don't want to anymore. "Jordan, would you tell him to chill out??"
"Nigel, come on." Her voice is soft behind my shoulder. I barely hear her. The power surging through my blood is phenomenal. I feel like I could do anything. I feel as if I should.
"If you've got something to say," I begin, glaring at those pretty boy turquoise eyes. "Then why don't you say it directly to me, instead of speaking around me like I'm not here? I'm not nothing, Detective. I won't be a piece of background scenery any longer just so you can play the hero all the time." I'm not positive what it is I'm talking about anymore, and yet at the same time I'm more sure of these words than I have ever been of any others. Things I've wanted to say for a very long time.
Testing my strength, now. I give Woodrow a good hard shove against the partly open door. It slams shut with the force of his body. I grab up his collar again. I have no bloody clue what I'm doing. It's... exhilarating.
"What do you think of that, then? Eh?"
Woodrow's nostrils are flaring now, too, his entire face red. I hear Jordan say my name again from somewhere behind me; I feel her delicate fingers tug at my shirt. "I think you're fucking crazy," the detective responds, that annoyance-furrow welding itself deep between his brows. "I think you're fucking crazy, and jealous, and pathetic. I also think you need to take your hands off me, you fucking freak, before I arrest you."
My hands pick him off the door and slam him against it again. The hinges rattle and clang. "What the fuck did you just call me?" My voice is verging on hysteria.
"Nigel," comes Jordan's voice, her arms around my waist, trying to pry me away. "Christ, he's on duty. He can arrest you. Calm down."
"I called you a freak," Woody replies, his voice nowhere near faltering or showing any sign of trepidation whatsoever. "And crazy and jealous and pathetic. Jordan, you're not really going to England with him, are you? He fucking got himself deported. He's too much of a loser to even apply for citizenship and you're going to leave the country with him?" The entire time he speaks to Jordan, he's looking directly into my eyes. "Have you even noticed how he is with you? He's like some kind of stalker."
"Fuck off," I growl, resisting with every muscle in my body the urge to spit on him. Testosterone is running rampant through me, lacing every instinct, and all I want to do is pull my fist back and smash his chipmunk face in. Jordan yanks harder at my waist, far stronger than before. Reluctantly I release Woodrow's collar, my pride wounded as I stagger backwards a few steps. "Fuck you."
"That's enough." It's Jordan's turn now, and I'm convinced she's speaking to me. I hang down my head, staring at my own strange, pale toes against the dark carpet and preparing for admonishment. My eyes flicker upward when she goes to the door, fully expecting her to throw her arms around Woodrow, perhaps ask if he's all right. Instead she wraps one hand around the doorknob and flings it open so hard that it bangs against the wall. "I think you should leave."
I swallow hard, but the lump that's developed in my throat refuses to go down. That's it, then. I've blown it. I had everything I could have possibly wanted and I let it all go down the toilet just because I'm a drunken sod who can't keep his mouth shut and isn't thinking with the right head. This is more than I can possibly take. To be shot down by Jordan Cavanaugh is one thing, but to have it done in front of Woodrow Hoyt... I'm castrated. Emasculated. Crucified. I can't bear it.
"All right, love," I say, all traces of rage having fizzled out of me. My voice is barely louder than a whisper. "Just let me get my shoes on, then."
Her head snaps up; she looks at me over her shoulder. "Not you," she clarifies, returning her stony stare to the doorway. "Woody, I think you should leave."
"...What?" He sounds as dumbstruck as I feel. "But Jordan... come on..."
"That was too much. Okay? What you said. You went too fucking far and I want you to go." She has one hand on her hip; the other is flush at her side. Her back is facing me again and I can't see her expression, but I know she means business. "I don't even know why you came here in the first place. If I wanted to talk to you I would have called you back. You're too pushy, Woody. You're always pushing me to talk about things that I don't want to talk about, like maybe if you badger me enough I'll tell you what you want to hear. But that's not going to happen, okay? I'm telling you right now that it's not going to happen because I don't feel those things, so I'm not going to say them. And yes, I am going to England with Nigel. Because I want to. Because I like him. Love... him. He's my best friend and he takes care of me, and he isn't any of those things you said. I really don't appreciate you saying them, either. At all. So just go. Just... get out. Now."
He's reluctant to leave, I think, and I'm sure I hear some heated, whispered protests uttered in the hopes of getting Jordan to change her mind. But the fact is I'm no longer listening; I've heard everything I needed to hear, all the important things. I'm a little bemused, and more than a little surprised, but in a pleasant way. A very pleasant way, and I'm almost smiling as I maneuver my convoluted, off-balance path back to the couch. The door slams shut.
"I'm sorry, Jordan." I say it automatically, still a bit too ashamed of myself to meet her gaze, whether she blames me for what just happened or not. It isn't often that I come out of my proverbial shell like that. I'm not used to the way it feels afterward. The awkward sense of disruption.
I hear her sigh. "What are you sorry for, Nige?" She moves silently across the carpet, perhaps not as wobbly anymore. I'm still not looking at her even as she boots herself up to sit on the arm of her sofa, right above me. I catch a glimpse of her hands folded between her bare, knobby knees.
"Behaving like a categorical jackass," is my reply. I, too, sigh. "He just brings it out in me, is all. Always, really. You may find this hard to believe, but I don't much care for Woodrow Hoyt."
Jordan laughs once, briefly, my desired reaction. She isn't angry with me. "No! Really? Jesus, Nige, you could have fooled me." I feel her head lean down against mine, our temples nestled together. "I've never seen you more pissed off in my life."
I give her head a gentle nudge with mine in response. "Don't exaggerate. Surely you must have."
She's quiet for a moment, perhaps thinking it over. "No. I never have. Not even when I tried to force you into helping me find Frank Arnett that time."
I smile at the memory. "I wasn't pissed off then. I was just a bit frustrated with you."
Jordan falls silent again, then gradually slides from the arm of the couch and settles down into my lap instead, turned partially sideways. I can feel her staring at me. "Because I was treating you like a piece of background scenery?" she asks, her voice husky and soft and knowing my answer before I can even give it.
"That doesn't matter now." I stare at my hands in my lap for a few moments more, the eerie translucence of my fingernails. Then I finally lift my eyes to hers. They're brown right now, a beautiful chestnut brown with a hint of auburn to them. I wonder if mine look the same. "I'm not a stalker," I whisper.
"I know that," she whispers back.
"It's never been like that," I press onward, needing to clarify this. "I love you deeply, Jordan, but it's never been like that."
"I know," she says again. Her hand takes my hand and folds it over her knee.
"Crazy and jealous and pathetic, though, I can't deny any of those." My voice is solemn; I'm still gazing at her. "But I'm not possessive, Jordan, and I won't push you. I've never pushed you before, you know I haven't. I've waited for you."
"I know you have." Her hand moves my hand further up, beneath the hem of my t-shirt. My fingers are two steps ahead of my brain; they knead at the velvety flesh of her inner thigh, massaging and gradually working their way upward. She leans in closer to me.
"...Am I your boyfriend now, love?" I timidly ask; the most important question of all.
Our lips are precious centimeters away from touching. She pauses briefly, then smiles wide. "Yeah," she whispers. "That sounds good, Nige." Her breath cools my lips before they're burned by her mouth, and as she stands and leads me to her bedroom, I realize I was wrong.
I haven't felt this close to home in years.