Aaand we're off! Have the next chapter, fresh and hot from my wonderful beta reader, lawand_disorder. Hope you enjoy it and drop me a line; this was a . . . an interesting section to write and I'll admit to being a little nervous about it. So if you're so inclined, let me know what you think.
So — on with the show!
November 21, 2013, post Children in Need special, Chris' London flat
The silence was so profound, it demanded its own moment.
And Robin was more than happy to give it that moment, because he needed a minute himself (or fifteen) to really wrap his head around that. Although, once the implications and (refreshingly, for once) flat-out clarifications had sunk in on a surface level, he found that he wasn't nearly as surprised as he would have thought. But then, he knew Jayne as well as he knew Chris and, like a disproportionately large number of the population, he'd found himself . . . well, to be honest, he'd been sucked just as deeply into the 'Couple Next Door' romance as the giggling teenage girls who sighed over pictures and sightings of the pair. Which meant he'd been paying more attention than he'd realized at the time (or wanted to admit, even now, thirty ridiculous years later), and so many things finally began to make a Torvill and Dean™ kind of sense.
It certainly explained why Encounter had made everyone cry the first time they saw it.
And Song of India . . . what on earth could have induced Chris to put himself through that? The man was many things, but masochistic wasn't one of them.
Well, maybe a little . . . no. No, he wasn't. But now that Robin knew more of the background, it didn't take a genius to figure that logic out after a minute of thought. The challenging nature of the routine itself would have been nearly impossible for either of them to say 'no' to. But the sheer amount of control it would have taken for Chris to prove to himself that he could be trusted to dance with Jayne that way without slipping . . .
It was actually mind-boggling.
Yes, it was typical for Chris, but it was still mind-boggling.
Also, more than a little confusing.
Then again, could that be why Jayne—
"So, is that why Jayne thought she wanted to date Graeme?" he asked carefully, well-aware that he was treading an infuriatingly thin line between 'pushing' and 'prodding'. And Christopher Dean was the only person he knew for whom the two were mutually exclusive, damn him for it. But he had always wondered about that, and so had the few people who'd known about it at the time. In Robin's case, it was because he had inside knowledge of some well-hidden aspects of Graeme's character; not that they made him a bad man, not at all, but . . . well, suffice to say, Graeme Murphy wasn't remotely someone he'd thought would appeal to Jayne Torvill.
Chris shook his head and took another sip of coffee, his lips twisting in a smile that was almost bitter and his eyes hardening with . . . oh.
Robin swallowed. Hard. He'd long known just how protective of each other the partners were, though how he'd never noticed that Chris could actually be — well, dangerous — was a mystery he would have to solve later. But it was definitely good information to have and something he would be sure to keep in mind for the rest of this conversation.
And possibly the rest of his life. Just in case.
"No," his friend quietly replied, eyes dark now with recollection, and Robin couldn't stop himself from blinking in surprise at this. He'd been so sure . . .
"No, Jayne and Graeme were the result of . . . oh, how to put this?" Chris mused to himself, and Robin blinked again. "Jayne — well, she and I don't hold anything back on the ice, but back then, neither of us was really much for, um, oh, praise or compliments. We just expected ourselves and each other to be the best every single day, so it never occurred to us that the occasional 'good job' was something that might be welcome," he said matter-of-factly.
He showed no guilt or shame at this, which Robin understood; every true competitor had to have some aspect of that, after all, and Jayne and Chris were definitely competitors. And quite frankly, while they'd taken it to their usual extremes, that trait was one of the primary reasons they were what they were: Torvill and Dean. The dictionary definition of 'The Best'. Also, 'Perfection'.
Despite being aware of that, it had only been a peripheral awareness. Robin hadn't known this and so found himself taken aback as he quickly reevaluated everything he'd seen and heard, first while they were setting the world on fire, and then during the Years of the Eternal Flame, as Scott Hamilton had christened the decade after Bolero. However, this revelation made no discernable difference to his memories, other than finally laying out the beginning of the logical path as to why Torvill and Dean had never become Jayne-and-Chris. He wasn't sure whether he was grateful for that or not.
Still oblivious to these internal musings, Chris gave him a smile that tried and failed to be sincere; Robin nearly winced when he saw it, because this was clearly an unhappy memory for his friend. To his credit, he soldiered on. "Plus, Graeme was a completely different personality from anyone we'd known before and Jayne responded really well to that. Well, once she got used to it," he added just a touch sardonically, and Robin did wince this time, albeit subtly. No, not a happy memory at all. "But even then, I never thought she'd . . . leave. Well, not 'leave', no, but — go outside of me, of us. I knew she wasn't in love with me yet, but for some reason, I never — it just didn't occur to me that she might look for that from someone else. We'd been each other's everything for so long, and I loved her so much, that I really thought I'd be the one she chose when she was ready to start thinking about it."
To his eternal shock, Robin actually wanted to cry on hearing this. There was no self-pity in Chris' voice or eyes, or even his body language, but Robin knew him too well and so was one of maybe four people who could see the lingering traces of hurt that still haunted him, even after thirty years.
And then, because he was Christopher Dean and turning people, places, and things on their head was his favorite (well, second favorite) activity, he changed tone and attitude so quickly, Robin actually choked.
"So, yeah; Jayne reached out for someone who wasn't me and I didn't take it well, which was the reason for me and Kelly. But what was weird is that it was less because I was in love with her than the fact I was terrified of being left alone. By then, she was all I had and if things had gotten serious with Graeme . . . what would happen to me? To us?"
He said nothing else, which was a Godsend, because Robin actually had to bite his tongue to hold back a gasp as he absorbed that.
Once he had, there was yet another mental headshake. Those two! Obviously, at no point did it occur to Chris to actually talk to the woman. And Jayne just as clearly hadn't yet realized that she might think about doing the same.
He now officially stood by his prior assessment of 'Idiots'.
Trust Chris to be so tight-lipped for thirty damned years that clams had used him as a role model for good behavior, only to shatter every last public barrier with two dozen words.
Though, really, why was he surprised? The man had made a very impressive career — career, hell, it was his life's work — out of doing the unexpected, twisting every rule with a skill and imagination that would likely never be matched while managing to stay within those very precise lines, and, with the help of his literal other half, setting the ice on fire because he could not do anything else.
Basically, when Christopher Dean decided to do something, he did it so thoroughly, the world itself always ended up reshaped.
So no, Robin having his preconceived notions shattered into dust by one lousy sentence (and an hour of backstory) wasn't at all shocking.
Irritating?
Hell, yes.
But that was just how Chris was — and Jayne as well, actually, though she wasn't nearly as obvious about it — so Robin didn't let himself get annoyed. They were only up to 1985, after all; there were still twenty-plus years to go.
Fabulous.
Still, he was finally getting the truth . . . and with it, more than a few inklings of another truth, one he'd only started to seriously wonder about in the last year. Actually, given the timing of this little 'chat', those inklings were quickly expanding to honking big clues. But he digressed; also, Chris still needed to get them from there to here, so he schooled himself to patience. It was clearly going to be a long, stupidly convoluted path.
"It was . . . you know, looking back, it's so obvious," Chris said, sounding reflective, and Robin blinked, not expecting that. Patently oblivious to his reaction (thankfully), Chris laid bare another truth that, really, was less 'a truth' than a moment of 'oh, duh'. Robin would have been chagrined by this, except it was rather obvious that Chris had only just realized it himself.
Though he didn't want to think too hard about what that said — about either of them.
But it was what it was, so he mentally shrugged it off and returned his full attention to his friend. And when he took one look at the emotion building in that intense hazel gaze and actually physically braced himself against the table in a completely involuntary response, it wasn't like anyone could blame him.
"So I didn't handle Jayne looking to another man with any kind of grace, and thank God it didn't last long, though even that wasn't much of a relief, because that was when she really started to develop her appreciation for 'pretty boys'," he said, again so falsely casual that Robin actually tilted his head to one side and gaped at him for a few seconds. Thankfully, Chris was looking at the table, so he was able to pull himself out of his mini-stupor and get his poker face back before the other man noticed, depressingly aware that he was going to have whiplash before this was over. "And there were two or three after Graeme, which was why I finally said yes to Salome, but none of them were serious. But then she met Phil, and I—"
No, wait a minute. She'd met Phil in 1989; why was her partner skipping nearly five years and one major near-death experience (not to mention a veritable host of smaller, but still major, occurrences)?
What was he trying to hide?
Or avoid?
Well, it was Chris; he was doing both, even as he was trying to talk about it. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Robin couldn't help but feel a little sorry for him. No one knew the whole story about his parents, with the possible exception of Jayne, but it didn't take a rocket scientist to understand at least a few of the reasons behind the man's lack of any real kind of communication skills. It was sad, and a shame. But right now? He couldn't afford to take the time or energy to even try working on that.
No, instead he decided to take a small risk and call the other man on his attempted evasion. He was almost positive that his friend wouldn't stop now; they were too far along and despite his waffling, Chris clearly wanted to unburden himself. And frankly, his tongue hurt from the number of times he'd bitten it to keep quiet.
"Hold up," he said quietly but firmly, catching Chris' gaze and refusing to let him look away. "Are you seriously telling me that you left things alone for that many years? I mean . . . your father died, you did two huge tours, you nearly died, and then you really almost died, and that's just the really 'big' stuff. Why are yo—oh," he breathed, cutting himself off mid-word and feeling stunned at the sudden realization of what had to have happened.
And why Chris didn't want to talk about it.
Son of a bitch.
Well, it couldn't be helped. If what he now suspected (and by 'suspected', he meant 'was absolutely certain') was true, then it had to be spoken of.
He couldn't prevent the small spurt of amusement at seeing the panic flash across Chris' face, though it faded instantly; this was going to be ug—well, not 'ugly', necessarily, but it wasn't going to be pleasant. Still, it had to be done, so he steeled himself and asked the other question that reporters on every single continent (including Antarctica, though none of them knew (or cared) why the fool had gotten himself sent down there) had been asking for nearly forty years now.
"When did Jayne realize she was in love with you?"
April, 1989, Australia
Hey, look at that. When you thought you were going to die, your life did flash before your eyes.
Who would have thought?
Other than the people who'd nearly died, that is. Duh.
Oh, poor Larry; his car was trashed. And his dad was so disappointed, because he'd always wanted a better car and now Chris had wrecked it. And Jayne was unhappy, because she'd always hated the way he drove and now he'd gone and proved her right. But then she smiled at him and stroked his hair, because she was Jayne and she always forgave him when he did something stupid. And now Betty was chiding him for an improper hold, and saying that if he'd just had a better grip on Jayne, this foolishness wouldn't have happened.
Wait. That wasn't — that wasn't right.
Was it?
Oh, ow. Headache. He'd clearly hit his head at some point, because his thoughts were sliding all over the place; had he been more coherent, he'd have given a rueful smile at how often Jayne featured in them. But he wasn't, so he didn't. Instead, thinking of Jayne made him think of Jayne and reality slammed into him about as hard as he'd slammed into that wall.
Wall.
Race.
Race!
Oh, bloody fucking hell.
He'd been racing and gone off the track face-first into the wall. After Jayne's forceful, not-to-be-disobeyed command to be careful, Christopher, and do not hurt yourself while you win.
Jayne!
With more than a little panic, he remembered that she'd been watching him race. God willing, no one had been stupid enough to tell her it was his car, but he knew better even as the thought occurred. He just wasn't that lucky.
The sudden loud (and painful) noise of the emergency workers trying to get to him broke through his scattered concentration and he turned his head as carefully as he could, wincing at the pain in his neck and vaguely wondering why the hell his chest and foot hurt so badly. Their worried voices were overlapping and making his headache worse and he winced again, closing his eyes against both the light and the noise. Thankfully, someone was paying enough attention to realize what that meant, because the cacophony mercifully went silent for several seconds before a soft, authoritative male voice asked his name.
Grateful that his mind had calmed enough that he actually knew his own name, Chris answered, a little surprised at how raspy his voice was. This set off an endless barrage of questions, but they finally seemed satisfied that his brain was mostly intact and he wasn't going to die in the next ten minutes, strapped a bulky collar around his neck, and started working on getting him free. Left to his own thoughts, they returned to Jayne and he came to the admittedly-groggy conclusion that he needed to not worry her more than she doubtless already was, nor did he want to get shouted at if it could be avoided, so he kinda-sorta decided that being the smartass he always was when he hurt himself was the best option.
So when she got there however long it was later, breath choked with sobs and blue eyes wide and terrified, instead of assuring her that he would be okay, or telling her that he loved her, he bemoaned the fact that he'd just cost the car's owner the rest of the racing weekend.
He was quite proud of himself for managing to work through the pain and mental fog well enough to pull it off . . .
. . . and then he really looked at her.
She was biting her lip and staring at him, eyes huge and scanning his body frantically, returning to his own gaze every few seconds, and what he saw should there have sent him to the stars with pure euphoria.
Because in that moment of raw, unshielded emotion, Jayne was unable to hide the fact that she loved him.
That she was in love with him.
And he cursed everything and everyone in the galaxy, because he'd waited six years for this moment — and he couldn't even acknowledge it.
The woman he was in love with finally returned his feelings . . . and he couldn't do a single fucking thing about it. He couldn't even take her hand.
Not here, surrounded by what seemed like half the population of Melbourne, and not now. Not with him shaken up and Jayne flat-out traumatized from the crash, and that was without knowing just how badly he'd hurt himself.
So what should have been one of the happiest moments of his life was turned to ash by the very circumstances that had made it possible to begin with.
If he'd been anyone else, Christopher Dean would have cried from the irony.
But he wasn't, so he didn't; instead, he gave his partner a tender smile and made the executive decision to just . . . let go . . . for a while. Her emotion-filled whisper of his name followed him, and he clutched it like the talisman it was, protecting him in the darkness until it was safe for him to come back.
His next memory was of pain, that scratchy feeling of hospital sheets the world over, and his partner's hand in his.
Jayne.
It took him a stupidly long time to remember what he'd seen and by the time he'd gotten his brain to wake up enough to be useful, it was too late. The entire world had apparently decided that the party was happening in his hospital room. He would have been okay with that, only they managed to simultaneously ignore him while still somehow keeping him from asking any questions, much less speak privately to his partner. And when they finally let him go, hobbling on crutches and hating the world, Jayne was at his side . . . but so was their physiotherapist friend Rob Hannah. Also, he was hobbling. On crutches, which wasn't the best venue for any kind of conversation.
Then there was the restaurant and that accompanying brouhaha, quickly followed by the somewhat-delayed misery of pain flaring up as the meds wore off and his brain defogged a lot more. Suddenly, all those dull aches and minor twinges felt neglected and decided to make their displeasure known at the same time. Add that to the headache he'd been dealing with since he'd woken up in hospital and the actual pain in his chest and leg, and Chris was, quite frankly, useless for anything except whining (all right, and bitching and moaning, too. He hurt, dammit.).
For the obvious reasons, he couldn't be left alone, and Jayne didn't want to be left alone; she was watching him to make sure he didn't die of a brain injury overnight, but their friend and PA Debbie was with them, and he wasn't up for anything deep or intellectual anyway. Plus, desperate as he was to talk about their relationship, even Chris wasn't foolish enough to broach the subject until after they knew just how much damage he really had. So he bit his tongue and suffered for two days, trying not to be too much of a jerk and failing more than he'd like.
And then the joyous news: surgery. Immediately. Which meant staying in Australia for at least the next two months if he wanted to skate again.
The doctor, thankfully, would never know that Chris' acquiescence was based solely on Jayne. Had she not been able or willing to stay with him and returned to England, he'd have gone with her and dealt with things from there. But Jayne loved him and wanted him to heal fast and thoroughly, so there was no hesitation in her agreement to stay.
At least they both loved Australia — and thank God the tour was over (the thought of this happening during the Russian tour gave them both nightmares for a couple of weeks. They would soon be joined by equally hideous nightmares of recording that thrice-damned album, because it only needed that.).
So the surgery happened and they settled in for a long recovery (Chris) and a longer exercise in patience (Jayne).
But he almost didn't care, because with Jayne mostly-confined to the house and Chris flat-out trapped there, they would finally have the chance to talk.
Only they didn't. Because Debbie had decided to stay as well, and she was always there. She had no problem letting Jayne handle Chris, especially when he was in a mood, but she wouldn't leave them alone together for longer than a minute. And he knew that because he finally got so suspicious that he actually fucking timed it. The longest amount of time he had alone with Jayne was 65 seconds.
And it didn't matter how subtle — or not — he was. She would not take the hint. Debbie would happily stay with him while Jayne did whatever, or go with her to get out of the house, but she would wait until Chris was down for the night before she did anything that took longer than a quick trip to the kitchen or bathroom. And Chris adored Debbie, he really did, but he wanted to strangle her by the fourth day. What was worse, Jayne was apparently oblivious, dealing with his boredom and moaning (and whining, he privately admitted; he never had done well with being injured, but his frustration at being kept away from his partner was making it balloon to truly epic proportions) with the calm, unflinching composure that she always showed. This did not help, because emotionally, Chris was drowning and didn't have a clue how to handle it. And he couldn't ask Debbie, because like hell he was bringing up something that personal to anyone but Jayne.
So time passed like this, with no real communication between the partners, and Chris got more and more frustrated. And irritable. And tetchy. And all of this was on top of the fact that he had officially gone stir-crazy.
Since God does have a sense of humor, this served to sharpen his wits rather than dull them, which was what should have happened (and had, when he'd broken his wrist). So when Jayne would bring him things to do to help alleviate his boredom, things that should have taken him a few days to work through, his pent-up emotions would roil up and he would just burn through them, no matter how hard he tried to rein himself in.
And still, Debbie was there Every. Single. Minute.
He was embarrassed to realize it had taken him two sodding weeks to figure out that Debbie being underfoot all the damn time was because Jayne had asked her to. And he was so hurt and confused he couldn't breathe when he realized that his partner was doing a stellar job of avoiding being alone with him.
Because there could really only be one reason for it.
Once he'd finally worked that out, though, it took him a day or so to decide how he felt about it, and while Chris would never describe himself as a pessimist, he found himself hesitant to go completely to the other side; instead, he decided to tread the line of what he chose to call 'cautiously optimistic'. Who knew Jayne's dislike of confrontation and messy personal issues better than him? He was making a rather big assumption about her reasoning, true, but really, that was the only thing that made any kind of sense. Hence, 'cautious optimism'.
But the only way to find out was for him and Jayne to actually talk. And that meant getting rid of Debbie.
To this end, Chris eyeballed his surroundings with the eagle eye of a desperate man (and one who was also astronomically bored; this was not a good combination) and decided to do Something Stupid. He wasn't really expecting to hurt himself, and he wasn't so dumb as to think he would actually be able to defy gravity for all that long, but that was, at best, a secondary goal. His aim was to engender a situation where Debbie would gladly stay away while Jayne was compelled to take him somewhere private so she could yell at him for being a stupid prat before hugging him and cuddling with him for a bit in commiseration for the pain and boredom he was suffering.
Had he mentioned that God has a sense of humor?
His plan went exactly as he intended . . . until Jayne sighed at Debbie's frustrated scream and, with her usual composure, made sure Chris hadn't killed himself with his foolish stunt before heading to the bathroom without a care in the world.
Worse, without a care for Chris.
And that rejection caused Christopher Dean to do something he hadn't done since his father died: once he'd hobbled alone to his room, he curled up on his bed . . . and cried. He honestly didn't know what else to do. He needed to talk to Jayne so badly it hurt, but his feelings, and hers, weren't even foremost on his mind now. He just . . . he missed her. He missed talking with her, teasing her, sharing nonsense gossip with her, brainstorming new routines with her, bitching with her. He even missed simply sitting in silence with her, communing in a way that was unique to them. She was his constant, his touchstone, the center of his world, and being deprived of that, especially like this, was devastating.
It was made so much worse because he suspected the reason, but it was only that: a suspicion. He really didn't know why she had abandoned him, much less understand. But short of telling Debbie to leave them the hell alone — which he couldn't do if only because he knew Jayne would slap him with his own skate, blade guard optional — he was at an utter loss. He had to get some time alone with his partner.
But how?!
He drifted off without forming any kind of plan or even a vague idea, but after he woke up however many hours later because his bladder was informing him in no uncertain terms that it didn't appreciate being ignored and hobbled to the bathroom, he paused mid-hobble as he was heading back and registered the dark, silent house. This was it! This was his moment. It was the middle of the night, which meant that Debbie was sound asleep in her own room!
Much more importantly, JAYNE was alone in a completely different room.
FINALLY.
And in his current emotional state, he didn't give a damn about waking her up, though he would stay on the far end of the bed, at least at first (she couldn't be woken just by having her name called; no, she actually had to be poked. He never thought he'd say this, but thank God for his crutches). She had a bit of a habit of throwing things at him when he disturbed her rest, and very rarely was the pillow her weapon of choice.
Decision made, Chris took a deep breath and very, very carefully, eased himself down to his knees; Jayne was a heavy sleeper, but Debbie wasn't and it wasn't possible to hop on crutches for that long without making enough noise to wake the dead. So . . . crawling it was. He took exactly ten seconds to be embarrassed before getting over it. After all, if he'd torn up his knee, he'd be screwed. At least he had a way to get to Jayne, so he would do it and be thrilled at the chance.
His determination was such that he might actually have broken a record for a grown man with a dodgy ankle crawling twenty feet in a dark house, carrying a pair of crutches over one shoulder. He would wonder later just how he'd managed that without banging the damn things against the wall, but he also felt it was well past time for him to receive a minor miracle, so he didn't question it as he carefully eased open Jayne's door.
The moonlight spilling through the half-open curtains fell across her face, lighting her beloved features, half of which were smashed into the pillow. The glow made her look like the angel he knew she wasn't — and he loved her so much, it hurt. For the first time in days, he was able to simply look at her, drink her in, and he indulged his need with a desperate hunger that honestly surprised him. But he didn't try to fight it or rein himself in, and gradually relaxed as he basked in her presence and finally began to understand just how deeply entrenched she'd become in his heart, his soul, the very essence of his being. Somewhere in the last decade, Jayne Torvill had literally become half of Christopher Dean.
And once he realized that, he made the immediate decision that they would never be separated like this again. Never. He wouldn't survive it. Whether as friends or lovers, he would not — he could not — let her leave him. She'd take half of him with her and he refused to suffer that torment ever again.
Thankfully, his knees broke through his maudlin thoughts by choosing that moment to remind him that he was still pressing them into very thin carpet and would he please get up now?
This was accomplished with a lot less grace than he would ever admit, but after he closed the door and scuttled across the floor as quickly as he could, ignoring his unhappy body, he managed to crawl up the footboard without falling or cursing (well, not out loud, anyway). Once he was upright, he sat very carefully next to Jayne's feet, took a minute to catch his breath and gather his courage, and then curled his hand over her ankle and shook it firmly even as he leaned back, ready for a projectile.
No reaction.
Holding his breath this time, he tightened his grip and shook her leg harder, tilting to the side and biting his lip. She snorted loudly and buried her face deeper into her pillow. It was adorable and a goofy smile spread over his face as he watched.
But she didn't wake up.
Right.
Taking a deep breath, Chris lifted a crutch and slowly, carefully, pressed the base against her shoulder. Then, with a little more glee than he really should feel, he pushed so firmly, she actually rolled onto her back.
And woke up spitting mad, coming bolt upright as her hand fumbled at the nightstand and closed around her watch, which she flung with surprising accuracy at his face. With the ease of practice, he caught it before it made contact, unable to keep his grin at bay.
Ah, yes. That was his Jayne.
God, he'd missed her.
"Chris?!" she whisper-shrieked, squinting through the semi-darkness of the room. "What the hell are you doing?!"
Any and all amusement fled at her indignant question and he put the crutch back on the floor, his gaze never leaving hers as her watch slipped from his fingers to the mattress. Whatever she saw in his face made her go completely still and he was genuinely surprised when she hunched her shoulders and bit her lip, a complicated mix of emotions swirling through her eyes — and then something he didn't quite recognize blazed up in that brilliant blue gaze, hot and intense, something that made his skin prickle, before she looked away.
He waited for her to speak in an agony of anticipation, but the silence stretched out until he realized he was actually vibrating from the tension. Unable to maintain his control, which had been steadily eroding since his surgery, his breath hitched before he choked her name.
Her eyes snapped back to his, but before he could take another breath, she lunged forward, burying her fingers in his hair and sealing her mouth to his, kissing him so deeply, so passionately, that nothing in his world existed but her. Absolute bliss and pure, unfettered joy burned through his veins as he returned her passion, coaxing her tongue to play with his while his hands roamed her back and shoulders hungrily, finally able to touch her the way he'd wanted for so long, the planes and angles and lines of her body more familiar to him than his own.
Her fingers tightened in his hair and she moaned before slowly falling back, smiling against his lips as she came to rest against her pillow. He followed eagerly, settling between her thighs like that was the only place in the world he belonged, euphoria spiraling through him when she began to map his back and sides, her touch tender but bold as she started to learn his body as her lover as well as her partner.
He wanted her so badly his vision actually went white at the edges, but as he shifted so he could see her better, his foot bumped the bedpost and he involuntarily winced, unable to stifle his soft gasp of pain.
And between one breath and the next, Jayne was gone.
The shock of her disappearance from his arms jolted him from lust to reality so quickly, his neck hurt, and he pushed himself to his knees, absently realizing his hands were trembling as he turned to the window; she would either seek solace in the soft touch of moonlight or she would have already left the room, and he couldn't bring himself to look at the door first.
And she was there, the very picture of serenity, standing in profile, her hands loosely clasped and her eyes tracing the lines of the stars. But he knew her too well and could see that she was shaking. Despite the knowledge that he was not going to like what she was about to say, this tiny crack in her composure was still reassuring. It meant that her emotions were deep, and real. It meant that what he'd seen in her eyes all those days ago hadn't been the shadow of his own hopes reflected in her face.
Jayne loved him. She did. She was in love with him. And that was wonderful, amazing, the greatest gift he'd ever been given.
But as he watched her, seeing her emotions play out in her body language as clearly as if she were speaking, he also realized that she was terrified of him, of how much and how deeply she felt for him.
And even as it shattered his dreams, he understood. He hated the entire fucking universe, because he understood and knew he was going to break his own heart for her.
But he couldn't bring himself to say it. Not yet.
Because even now, in one of the darkest nights of his life, he couldn't do anything but love her.
They simply waited in a very still silence, Jayne watching the stars and Chris watching her, before he finally let out a soft sigh and eased himself down until he was sitting on the bed, back resting against the footboard and both legs stretched out in front of him. Her attention instantly shifted to him and he swallowed, caught again by the depth of emotion swirling in her eyes.
lovefearsorrowlovepainlovefearsorrowlovepainloveLoveLOVE
Seeing her heartbreak was too much. He couldn't take it any longer and bit his lip, glancing down for the shortest of seconds before steeling himself to meet and hold her gaze.
"Ja—"
"I'm sorry, Chris," she whispered, sorrow and love now battling for dominance on her face, and he swallowed, nodding once before he stared down at the bed, unable to bear seeing his despair etched on her features. He heard her slow, hesitant footsteps approaching him, but made no effort to look up. He didn't want to see the ashes of his hopes and dreams in her eyes.
When she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and sank into his lap, burying her face in his neck, he swallowed again, returning her embrace because he had to touch her, even as the knowledge that he would never touch her as her lover seared his soul. When she started to cry, her tears soaking his shirt, he didn't bother to try holding back his own. God only knew how long they stayed there, entwined in a heartbreaking embrace of love and loss and goodbye. Jayne finally sniffled against his throat and leaned back, scrubbing furiously at her eyes to wipe some of the tears away.
When he watched her summon the strength to meet his gaze, Chris' heart swelled again with love. She was so incredibly strong, his Jayne. Strong and so very, very brave.
"I love you," she told him, and he knew she did. It was radiating from her. "But I can't — I don't — I can't be with you like that, Chris. I just can't. It's too . . . it's just too terrifying. When you — when they told me it was your car and they didn't know if you were — they weren't sure you were alive, I died. Everything stopp—I . . . we . . . you were gone, Chris. And I can't do that again. If I let you in all the way, I wouldn't survive losing you," she explained haltingly, her voice raspy and shaking, fading to a whisper on the last words as she looked away, tears once more sliding down her cheeks.
He didn't try to speak, accepting this even as he began to rebuild his walls. She wouldn't let herself have his love, but he couldn't let it go, either. No. There was no way he could or would ever stop loving her. It would just have to be from behind the wall of protection that had served him so well for so long. When her breath hitched, his soul-deep need to comfort her flared up and he put a finger under her chin, gently tilting her head up so she could see him, see his sincerity, and know that she would always be safe with him because he would always put her needs first.
"It's okay," he whispered tenderly, swiping his thumbs over cheeks to catch her tears. "It is. I understand."
He did, because he felt the exact same way about her. The difference was that he'd known for years that he wouldn't survive losing Jayne, lovers or not. She was just too much a part of who he was. But ironically, given that 'he panicked and she didn't' — and yes, he remembered that interview very well — he was also more in tune with his emotions. Whereas Jayne . . . she gave him every ounce of passion she possessed. On the ice. But outside the barrier, she was methodical and logical and — well, she was the perfect foil for him. She didn't make impulsive decisions, and rarely did she do anything without thinking it to death.
So he'd already fought the battle of loving her versus losing her, and knew that for him, there was no difference. There was something intrinsic in him that was made to love Jayne, and thus made it impossible to be separated from her. If that should ever happen, it would slowly kill him, and while he had no intention of ever letting it come to pass, he had long since made peace with this knowledge.
Jayne . . . had not. And she wouldn't, especially because she'd avoided talking to him about this and in doing so, had allowed her fear to take root. It didn't help that she had no reprieve from seeing the hurt and damage from his wreck, which only stoked those fears and set them even more deeply in her mind. And if that wasn't enough of an issue, they both possessed an uncanny ability to compartmentalize and lock down their emotions. For Chris, that simply meant not letting it affect how he behaved with her. He was fully aware that he was in love with her and made no effort to hide it from himself. He just had to ensure that Jayne didn't realize the truth before she was ready to hear it.
But now . . . now he knew she never would be.
And unlike him, Jayne would use the impetus of her fear to tuck her feelings away so tightly that she would eventually trick herself into believing they were gone.
He would be lying if he didn't admit that his heart was aching with pain and despair and even a little anger at the knowledge of what she was denying them both, but he wasn't masochistic enough (or stupid enough) to try changing her mind. For Jayne, this was the only solution she could live with. He could give her every argument in existence, logical or not, and it would make no difference. Her fear had taken control and there wasn't a damn thing anyone could do until she was ready to conquer it.
If she ever was.
He loved Jayne beyond all reason, but she was the most stubborn person he knew and, unless skating was involved, once something had taken root in her head, she would cut out her own tongue before admitting she was wrong — which tied directly into her ability to change reality to match what she wanted it to be. It was just Jayne, a part of who she was, and he had no wish to change her . . . but it was still devastating, knowing that she would never allow herself to try the path that had so much potential for both of them, and one he knew could make them happy.
But Jayne had made her choice.
With a single, shuddering breath, he nodded to himself.
Then so be it.
He'd done fine so far without being her lover. She was still his best friend, the only partner he would ever have, and the best part of him.
And he flat-out refused to let this ruin everything they'd built.
So he gave her a smile, tiny but genuine, and leaned forward, catching her lips in a kiss so soft and sweet, it cracked his heart again even as it soothed him, and she returned it just as tenderly.
When he finally drew back, her eyes were clear and he knew they'd be okay. This wouldn't break them. So he gave the woman he loved one last smile full of that love and then carefully stood up, gathering his crutches in one hand as Jayne came to his shoulder, taking his weight with the ease of practice and helping him hobble to his room so he didn't wake Debbie. And by the time he was in bed, being tucked in by the world's least solicitous mother hen, it was with the knowledge that they were still the closest of friends, and when he woke up, this night would never have happened. She'd make pancakes for him in the morning — one of three things she could reliably cook — and he'd tease her because they would be in the strangest, most lopsided shapes imaginable (how she managed that in a perfectly round pan, he could not understand), and life would go on. Nothing would change for them.
But sometimes, in the lonely silence of the night, if he occasionally grieved for what could have — should have — been, well . . . well.
He was only human. But he loved her, and if this was what made her happy, then so be it. As long as she was by his side, he would be fine.
He would.
What else could he be?
