London After Midnight
DISCLAIMER: Hey guys, sorry this chapter took so long but I've been feeling a little depressed/uninspired. In other news, it certainly was a crappy season premiere. Woody and Devan should have never left the fucking elevator if you ask me.
MANY THANKS: Thank you Brandi, NCCJFAN, Aesear, ShadowyFigure, Goddess Nemesis, and Jordan Cavanaugh for your continued praise (although I was a little weirded out by the slash innuendo from some of you). Thank you ryn the whitepanther for your first review and gryffingirl for your MANY first reviews (always glad to convert the J&W shippers a little). And special thanks to Nikki for appreciating the chipmunk face line so much - it was my favourite part too!
Chapter Fourteen
"You Sort of Match"
Jordan
All in all, everyone takes my decision well. Dad doesn't totally understand it, but he accepts it, and Garret is just happy that I'm happy, I think. In not so many words he inferred that he always figured Nigel and I would end up together. He wished us both luck and told us he hoped to see us back in the country as soon as possible. Since I'm just taking some vacation time I'll be back before Nigel. My job is on hold, while his has been temporarily filled.
Lily continuously gives me smiles and nudges and asks how it happened, and after about the fiftieth Spanish Inquisition, I finally tell her. She coos and gasps and muses about how romantic it all sounds. I request for her to please not use that word, and she scolds me with a frown and a pair of slashed eyebrows.
"But it is romantic, Jordan," she insists, and goes on to regurgitate my entire story, putting a spin on it in that passionately objective perspective that is so uniquely Lily. By the time she's finished, my cheeks feel warm. I guess it is pretty fucking romantic, after all.
Sometimes Nigel stays at my apartment and sometimes I stay at his, but either way we're together every night. We have spontaneous sex where ever we please and at all different times of the day, and mostly we're protected but sometimes we forget and those are always the best times, the most intense, full of screaming and clawing, strength and love. And sleep when it's over; blissful, sated sleep.
Woody leaves us both alone and after a week or so I learn through the grapevine that he's started seeing Devan, and that strikes me as funny considering he was supposedly so in love with me. If it was only going to take him a few days to get over me, then I don't understand what the big deal was in the first place.
But in the end I don't care, because I have Nigel, and in just about two weeks after he receives his deportation notice in the mail, he and I are on a British Airways flight bound for Heathrow Airport.
I had the window seat at first but about an hour into the flight I started to feel like I swallowed a jar of butterflies courtesy of Bug and I asked Nigel if I could switch with him to be on the aisle. He readily agreed, but not before he pressed his palm to my forehead with some mixture of the clinical concern of a doctor and the protective tenderness of a father and announced, "You're quite clammy, love."
"I'm fine," I assured him. "It's just been a while since I've flown, that's all. Now switch."
He gave me a long, skeptical look, his eyes narrowed, his lips pursed, before he finally relented and stood, backing into the aisle. I followed suit, each movement taking a valiant effort; I felt lethargic and achy all over. Nigel moved to sit in my seat and I collapsed into his, fully realizing it probably wouldn't be long until I had to take advantage of my reason for switching seats and beat a quick path to the bathroom to throw up.
"You're feverish as well," Nigel muttered, attempting to get the last word.
"I'm fine," I repeated, not letting him.
The stewardesses passed by with their rolling trays and I ordered a couple of jack and gingers in an attempt to steady my stomach, and about an hour later here I am, still feeling like the lowest form of life to ever roam the earth. I went for a long stretch managing to keep the nausea at bay, but now it washes over me like a tidal wave, pulling me in and sucking me under.
"Oh, Christ," I quietly moan, lurching up from my seat and nearly toppling over the glasses on my tray in doing so. I somehow manage to reel down the aisle without tripping and falling over, although I do bump into a stewardess who places her hand on my shoulder in passing and asks if I'm all right. I don't have time to answer her as I fumble for the handle on the unlocked bathroom door and spill inside. The room is too small for my knees to buckle and immediately hit the floor, so my skinny body rattles around inside the little cubicle for a few seconds like a ball bearing in a ringbox before finally slumping to a kneel over the toilet seat.
I don't even realize Nigel has followed me until I feel his hands on my upper arms, then on my cheeks, my forehead. His fingers rake through my hair, curling and matted with sweat, and pull it tightly back into one fist. His other hand goes back to my arm, his palm boiling hot against my freezing skin, his thumb stroking it gently, and all I can think is God, I'm throwing up in front of him, I'm throwing up in front of Nigel, and maybe a year ago that wouldn't have mattered but right now I'm so embarrassed I want to die. I also can't seem to stop; it goes on for almost a full minute before I finally push myself away, and thank God for the automatic flush, it's gone before I even have to look at it. That might have made me even more sick than I already am.
I wipe off my mouth with my wrist but that does nothing to clear the abominable metallic taste on my tongue. I don't want to look at Nigel, not at all, but I can't just ignore him either. I glance over my shoulder to find him hunched in a half-standing, half-bending position, wedged between me and the wall. The door is wide open, giving us even less room. It's funny somehow, and I can't help but smile, and that simple act seems to take most of the ache away. I'm actually feeling much better by the second, as though I were never sick in the first place.
"I don't know what's wrong with me," I try to explain. "It's the plane I guess. I'm sorry."
"What for?" he gently asks, releasing my hair and wrapping both arms around my waist for support as I struggle to stand up in the little squeezebox bathroom. "No harm done." He turns on the faucet in the sink and fills a triangular paper cup with cold water to offer me. I accept it and gulp it down under Nigel's watchful eye. "There's a good girl," he approves, and takes the cup from me when I'm finished, crumpling it in one hand and tossing it in the wastebasket. "Are you all right now, love?" Both his voice and his face are full of concern.
"Yes, Doctor," I reply, taking a mild jab at him. It's the only way I know how to respond to his taking care of me. In truth, I'm shocked by it; it's instinctive and tender and selfless and not what I'm used to at all. I'm grateful for it. Grateful for Nigel.
"Good, then," he continues, a brilliant smile spreading his features. "Just think, love. In a few more hours we'll be in my homeland, and there will be so many things to do and see and focus on. You can't be ill on your first day in England, I won't allow it. I'll see to it you get a nice hot cup of tea in you straight away." His palm smoothes over my scalp again in slow, repetitive motions. "Come on, love, back to the seats now. You can lay your head on my shoulder and take a nap for the rest of the time."
That's exactly what we do. We go back to the seats and I lay my head on his shoulder and fall into a sleep so deep that when Nigel finally succeeds in waking me up, I discover that not only have we landed, but we're the only ones left on the plane, which comes as a surprise to me because I've never been able to sleep so well and so long while travelling. In the terminal, Nigel sets me up inside a little cafe with a very hot, very soothing mug of English Breakfast tea and a corn muffin which I devour in under a minute, suddenly ravenous, as though I wasn't violently nauseas mere hours ago. Meanwhile, he phones his relatives to let them know we've landed. As far as he told me before we left Boston, his aunt knows we're coming and is willing to let us stay in the apartment above her store rent-free for the duration of our visit. She thinks Nigel is coming home for a kind of impromptu reunion, and that he's bringing me along to see the sights. Apparently she has no idea about the deportation; that the real reason her nephew is returning home is that he's being forced to by the U.S. government. Nigel pleaded with me not to let the cat out of the bag, that it would "break the old girl's heart." I've made my vow to remain mum on the subject.
I figured we'd take a taxi to the apartment, but instead Nigel's oldest cousin comes to pick us up - Duncan, the one Nigel told me about, the professional chef. I see the family resemblance right away - the same long, narrow face and large, protruding ears, and Duncan is just as tall and just as skinny as Nigel is - although his hair is not black, but a long, curly apricot blonde, and his eyes are not hazel, but a piercing blue. He's friendly, albeit being a man of few words. He greets us with a half-wave and an uttered, "'Lo," and then whisks us away in his little black Volkswagen, Nigel and I squeezed together in the backseat and half of our luggage in the front, not all of it having been able to fit in the hamper-sized trunk.
During the drive, Nigel and Duncan make lighthearted conversation about the last few times they saw each other, and summarize the time spent inbetween. Nigel transforms into a fantastic backseat driver, dictating which route Duncan should take and directing him to slow down whenever we pass a sight that he deems worthy for my "untried American eyes," as he puts it, to take in. So we drive around Piccadilly Circus seven consecutive times, For good luck, Nigel explained, It's a family tradition. I see Big Ben, I watch Carnaby Street pass slowly by, and Nigel and I even pile into one of those tall red phone booths and make Duncan take half a dozen pictures of us with Nigel's digital camera - most of them of a playfully risqué nature. And it's only my first day. I still have plenty of time to try spotted dick.
My first impression of Nigel's aunt, before even meeting her, is that she must be a very busy woman. When we arrive at her shop, the line to make a purchase is nearly out the door. Duncan places his hand on the knob to turn it and is promptly whacked in the face with the door by a couple of old ladies exiting the shop, their arms full of brown paper bags containing what looks like a week's worth of English staples - tea, bread and jam, boxes of biscuits, you name it. Nigel emits a low whistle.
"Looks like Auntie Bea's doing well for herself," he remarks. "I don't remember her ever filling the place like this before I left."
"Nigel?" A voice from somewhere in the middle of the crowd chimes in, and chimes is just the right word for it - the voice is high and airy and melodic, the voice of a woman full of happiness and peace. "Nigel? Is that my big bad sailor nephew I hear?"
"I haven't been a sailor for a good many years, Auntie Bea," Nigel grins, as a very short, very small-framed woman with a long broom of apricot hair straight down her back struggles through the crowd to get nearer to us. When she opens her mouth to speak, the voice matches the one that chimed just seconds ago, and I realize I am now in the presence of the infamous Auntie Bea.
"Good bleedin' Christ, I forgot how tall ye are," she remarks, having to extend her arms all the way up to reach Nigel's shoulders. "Like a giant. I do believe I've shrunk."
Nigel bows down to collect the fiftysomething year old woman in his arms. "I do believe you've always been quite miniature," he retorts.
"Bite yer tongue," she warns him, squeezing tightly before pulling away. "Ah, it's good to see you, love. Is this your girl, then?" Her eyes - the same crystal blue as her son's - are on me now, a warm smile suspended on her lips.
"Ah!" Nigel exclaims in agreement, as if he'd temporarily forgotten I was here. "Yes. Jordan, this is my Auntie Bea, and Auntie Bea, this is Jordan Cavanaugh." His arm slips around my back, his hand firmly squeezing my opposite shoulder to snuggle me closer against his body. "She's my very, very best friend and I love her more than anyone in the world, so do be nice to her, yes? For me?"
Auntie Bea gives Nigel a good solid whack on the shoulder. "Don't be a jackass, I wouldn't dream of being anything but nice to your young lady. Hello, dear." She extends her hand for me to take and I do. Her skin is slightly wrinkled and just about the softest thing I've ever felt.
"Hello," I reply, my voice containing the amused, slightly exasperated finality of someone who hasn't gotten a word in edgewise for quite some time. "It's good to meet you. Nigel seems to only say nice things about you."
"So far," Auntie Bea adds, with a slight wink. "Wait until you've lived above my shop for a week or so, then that canary'll be singing a different tune. Speaking of which, you might as well go on up and have a look round the flat. It's furnished but it hasn't been lived in since I subletted it to some German tourists last summer, so some things may need a bit of fixing up. Just let me know and we'll see what we can do about it. But right now, I've got to get back to my customers - it's a bloomin' madhouse in here on Sundays. Perhaps we'll all get together for supper later, yes?"
She doesn't wait for an answer before disappearing into the crowd again, giving me the impression that Auntie Bea is a woman accustomed to getting what she wants, whether anyone has any objections or not.
Nigel expresses his gratitude to Duncan for chauffeuring us around London for the day, and then both men step outside to retrieve our luggage from the car. After they bring it all up the back staircase and then come down again, Nigel takes my hand and leads me up to our new apartment. The door is unlocked and Nigel finds a set of keys on a hook in the wall to the left.
The apartment itself - the flat, as Auntie Bea called it - is small, but beautiful in its way. It contains about three and a half rooms; a square kitchen off to one side, big enough to hold a small dining table, a tiny bathroom next to it with a shower stall but no tub, a room on the opposite side with the door shut that I can only assume is the bedroom, and the room we're currently standing in, which is the biggest. The living area, I guess, painted pea green and cream, with a modest sized television set against the wall, a large plush couch facing it, and just a few paces behind is a huge bay window with a seat. I cross the room to it, automatically attracted by its unusual charm, and discover it is directly stacked atop the bay window of the shop below, and the view is overlooking Sydney Street, with its many odd shops across the road and the many odd people scuttling to and from each one.
This is about when it hits me that I'm not in Kansas anymore. I don't have to go to work tomorrow to cut up dead people, I don't have to worry about avoiding Woody Hoyt or what I'll say to him if that isn't possible, I don't have to worry about stumbling upon and digging up old family relics better left uncovered, and I don't have to worry about being alone for the rest of my life and drying up a bitter old prune who never got to experience what it's like to spend time in a foreign country with someone you really love.
Probably the only thing I do have to worry about is that my period is almost two weeks late.
I don't know why I didn't realize it sooner, or why it occurred to me now, of all times, and not four hours ago when I was puking my guts up in the airplane bathroom. But for some wildly illogical reason, sitting here on a padded little window seat looking out over a street I've never seen before in a country I've never been to, all I can think about is the unexpected, terrifying possibility that I may very well be pregnant.
"Is it all right with you, love?" Nigel's voice breaks through the sudden London fog that clouds my thoughts, doom and gloom hovering in the air around me, making it heavy and thick.
I look up, my eyes meeting his over my shoulder. Mine feel wide, and I can imagine that I must look either guilty or scared. In truth, I feel both. "Is what all right?" I ask, afraid he sensed what was on my mind.
"Well the flat, of course," he replies, beaming brilliantly as he practically bounds across the room to the window seat, settling down next to me and stretching out his long legs all the way. His eyes go away from me for a moment as he gazes distantly out at the street below. "Isn't it a lovely view? I remember when I was a little boy and me Mum would visit Auntie Bea, I'd sneak off and come up here to be by myself. I liked to watch all the people pass by and make up little stories about them; where they were going and where they had come from. I was a bit of a lonely kid, I suppose. The flat seemed so much bigger back then," he muses, taking his eyes from the window to roam around the room, wall by wall until they collide with mine again. His smile reappears, accompanied by a slight nod of approval. "D'you know something, love? You look just exactly as though you belong here. Right here, in this very spot. You sort of... match."
I like that idea; the idea that I match with this completely random place I've never been to before and never even knew existed until a few short weeks ago. I take sudden, desperate comfort in it. Abruptly I stand and take the half-step to get to Nigel, my arms going frantically around his shoulders as I climb up into his lap, straddling him with one knee bent at either of his hips. I press my cheek to his neck and close my eyes against the view of Sydney Street, nauseas vertigo having crept upon me again because of the height. Because of something else, too, maybe. I think about Tyler and August Jordan, and I think about Lily lecturing me about appreciating romance, and I think about Nigel, who thinks I look just exactly as though I belong here, right here, in this very spot. Maybe he's right. Maybe they're all right.
My hand drifts into the roots of his hair, fingers tangling themselves up. I shift my cheek to rest against his and I press my lips to his earlobe, loops and all. "Thank you for bringing me to where I'm supposed to be," I whisper.
And I don't just mean England.