A Crossing Jordan Fanfiction
Written by Kate "SuperKate" Butler
The bar clattered and clanged, rich with the noise and hubbub of two-or-so dozen patrons
well on their way to utter inebriation. Billiard balls cracked together, glasses clanked into
each other, voices rose and fell in rapid crescendos, and poker chips rattled in piles. The
scent of stale smoke and flat beer mingled in his nostrils as he leaned back in his seat and
took a long swig of his beer. The dim lighting and lazy motions of the other resident barflies
blurred in his vision, hazy and muddled. Was this what drunkenness felt like? Or, if not
full-fledged drunkenness, mild intoxication? He could not remember an instance of being
honestly, truly pissed off his arse since his second year at Oxford, a full decade earlier.
He remembered it vaguely, as most people tended to remember painful moments. It had
been the weekend when his first collegiate relationship had crashed and burned in a
manner not dissimilar to a jetliner explosion.
What had that particular kiss of death been? 'We make better friends than lovers,
Mahesh. Besides, do you really think our relationship can last, with you beginning your
studies in medicine? It's a serious program. You won't have time for romance, then.'
Ah, yes. Those words gunned down his lovely, lust-filled romance.
He greedily gulped down a few more mouthfuls of sweet, Miller-brand ambrosia.
This situation, despite its own, unique subtleties, reminded him of the previous one.
'I have a date, my dear mate! She's a lovely girl, very free-spirited.' Nigel's merry
smile warmed the crypt a few dozen degrees as he tugged on his coat, pausing briefly
to rumple his friend's hair. 'Sorry to turn you down, though, Buggles. Perhaps Trey
will join you at the bar, hmm?'
He watched the pale amber liquid bubble in his stein. No, Trey had been set up on a
blind date, and he found himself drinking alone, listening to poker chips and billiard
balls and happy people, laughing and chatting.
"Hey, this seat taken?"
Glancing up from beneath thick eyelashes to see a young woman looming over his
table, hands on her shapely, breakneck-curved hips. A quick once-over, conducted
with a scientist's careful eye, revealed knee-high, flame-red leather boots, a short,
tight black skirt, a low-cut, chest-hugging shirt that perfectly matched the books,
and a black leather jacket slung over one arm. He swallowed, hard, and shook his
head weakly, staring as she tossed her bobbed curls and slid down into the empty
seat opposite. "I hate to see a man drinking alone," she declared, flagging a waiter
and ordering herself a beer. "Especially one with sexy, dark eyes."
"Yes, well, it's not something I make a habit of," he admitted, sipping his drink
tentatively. She watched him intently, her eyes surveying his face, rumpled dress shirt,
and unbuttoned waist-coat. He suddenly felt rather self-conscious, and his face warmed
accordingly. "My mates from work couldn't make it out with me, is all."
The waiter arrived with the stranger's drink and another beer for him, though he could not
remember having ever ordered it. "'Mates'?" she mimicked, arching an eyebrow. "You're
not from around here, are you?"
"Boston by way of Liverpool by way of New Delhi," he replied with a wave of his hand.
She allowed herself a gracious swig of her drink, seemingly fascinated by his story. "I
decided to try out life in America after graduation from the university, and here I am."
He shrugged.
She stuck out a hand, flashing him a gap-toothed, warm grin. "The name's Roz," she
introduced. He stared briefly at her long fingers - tipped with long nails and bright
cherry-red nail polish - before accepting them gingerly and shaking hands. "What's
yours?"
"Roz? Isn't much of a name, is it?" He finished off his nearly-empty stein and reached
for the full one. "And my name's Bug."
"Oh, Roz isn't much of a name, but Bug is?" she inquired with a smirk. "Hello pot, meet
kettle."
He wrinkled his nose and took another long drink. "My real name is long and difficult,"
he informed her coolly, "and, since I like bugs, it made sense."
Roz smirked and ran a hand through her unruly hair. "Yeah, well, I like rozs," she teased,
winking at him. "So, we're even."
Bug rolled his eyes. "Bah."
"Right back at you, Buggy."
"Buggles." The word slipped clumsily from his tongue and he flinched, watching as her
eyebrows arched dangerously. He forced a small smile. "It's just... It's a nickname I
sometimes go by," he explained gingerly. The golden beer burbled in his glass. "I never
really liked being called 'Buggy,' but I can live with Buggles."
She pursed her lips - equally as red, he realized idly, as her fingernails, top, and boots -
and studied him carefully, eyes narrowing ever-so-slightly. "And why is that?" she
questioned after a moment's pause, bring her drink to her lips. "A favorite pet name from
an ex-lover?"
"Something like that, yeah." He glanced away, studying the billiard table, watching as the
colored balls spun across the green felt. His head was muddled, disoriented, dazed, and
he felt himself swoon slightly in his seat. "Say, Roz," he questioned, turning back to the
red-garbed woman and her now half-finished beer. "What do you do for a living?"
"I'm a cop," she replied, rubbing the stain of lipstick from her glass. "Vice right now, but
I'm aiming for homicide eventually." She smiled slightly. "Frightened to know you're keeping
company with a cop?"
Their knees brushed under the table as he sipped his drink. "No. Frightened to know you're
drinking with a medical examiner?"
She paused for a moment, stein sitting on her plump lips for the briefest of seconds before
she tipped her head back and took a long swig. "Not really, no," she said. "We all have our
demons to deal with."
"I suppose we do." Bug glanced at his drink, nearly-empty, and hers, which was in much
the same state.
'We make better friends than lovers, Mahesh.'
Roz's dark eyes peered at him curiously, watching his motions. Or maybe her eyes looked
beyond him, to something else altogether. Perhaps she danced in his vision, a figment of his
imagination, a red-garbed illusion of his own desperation.
"Hey, Roz?"
She leaned forward, resting her arms on the table. "Yes?"
'I have a date, my dear mate!'
Misery, it once was said, loved company, and, in his experience, it tended not to be particularly
picky about which type of company it preferred.
"Want to get out of here?"
The bar swirled around him, and red lips curved into a smile as she bent down and pulled a
ten-dollar bill from the top of her boot.
"Buggles, my dear, I was worried you'd never ask."
Fin.
Author's Notes: The history between Roz and Bug that is implied in "You Really Got Me"
intrigued me greatly, especially since I don't think Roz is his type in the least. So, I played around
with how exactly the two of them could have been that close, and this is the response I made to
it. Being as I am a Bug/Nigel 'shipper, there had to be some implied B/N-ness, but again, nothing
too "out there."
That said, I hate Roz. On principle, and all that.
February 25, 2005
1:01 a.m.