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An “unmanly moment,” is what he’ll call it later, to a reporter looking for a story, looking for tragedy and sensationalism. When the news on Richard’s status isn’t forthcoming enough, or isn’t updated with acceptable regularity, the press will turn their pens toward his friends, toward the colleagues whose careers could end with just a touch too much pressure on a short bloke’s brain.
James will give them that, give them their soundbite, but he’ll refuse to go into detail. Won’t want to talk about the tremors in his hands as Andy told him the news, or the heave of his stomach as his tea made an unwelcome reappearance at the bottom of the sink as he stood, bone-white fingers grasping the edge of the counter.
He doesn’t cry, though his vision blurs as he puts a bag together and searches for his car keys. Allowing tears to fall would feel to James like giving up. He doesn’t cry as a rule, stiff upper lip and all that, and what good would it do? It won’t make him feel better, losing control, blubbering with only his reflection and Fusker to see. Richard will be back in no time, taking the piss out of them for all the fuss they’d made. He has to be. And when that happens, James won’t think, “So glad I had that big cry. It made everything so much easier.”
--
Jeremy has clearly made a different agreement with the world. In the hallway outside Richard’s room, he sits slumped forward in an uncomfortable chair, elbows pressed to his knees, hands clenched. His eyes are red rimmed and glassy when he raises them toward the sound of James’ approaching footsteps.
“Jezza,” James says softly. “How…?” He swallows the rest of the sentence. His throat is dry. He needs tea.
Jeremy stands and reaches toward James. He’s going in for a hug, James can tell, but at the last second drops one arm to his side and curls a large hand around James’ elbow instead. James could take the initiative, give Jeremy the hug he’s both itching to give and desperate to receive, but he can’t make himself close the gap. He’s no good at that; he accepts the occasional hand on his back or squeeze of his shoulder with little fuss, but it’s different when it’s real.
He can’t tell if the feeling gnawing at his gut is guilt or worry, though he suspects it may be both.
“Alive,” Jeremy says finally. James can feel the fingers around his arm tighten briefly before Jeremy lets go and drops heavily back into the chair with a sigh. “Alive, but…but still unconscious. I just,” he gestures toward the room with an exhausted nod of his head, “I just needed a minute.”
James watches Jeremy’s hands grip the sides of the chair harder, with tightly restrained anger, veins standing dark under pale skin. “Stay with me?” Jeremy rasps, his voice so quiet, so unlike the bombastic Jeremy Clarkson that it’s almost like hearing the news again for the first time. “I – I know you want to see him, but…just for a bit?”
“’Course.” James settles into the empty chair to Jeremy’s left. After a moment, when the too-shallow breathing next to him doesn’t change, when Jeremy’s clutch on the chair doesn’t relax, he stretches his own arm until his fingers fold loosely over the end of the armrest then shifts slightly. A pinky finger’s worth of dry skin and coarse hair brushes against his, rests there, and Jeremy tilts his head toward him.
The smile James receives is sad yet grateful, and James feels a warmth of relief that his bumbling attempt at affection is helping, if only a bit. But when Jeremy drops his gaze toward their not-quite linked hands, the curve of his mouth flattens into a dull line and James can detect a hint of something he’s seen on Jeremy’s face before, something he’s never been able to work out.
--
After those first few days, they’re not allowed to see Richard. Too many visitors is slowing his recovery, making him pretend to be more healed than he is. So James soldiers on, thinking of his friend, looking forward to the nightly updates from Jezza or Mindy, or sometimes from Richard himself, but not pausing his own life while waiting for Richard’s to resume.
He talks to his agent about other projects (not to replace Top Gear - which would be back, and soon, and just the same as before – but just for something to do in his free time), takes Sarah to the cinema and even indulges her desire to paint his kitchen, tinkers with his bikes, and goes to the pub with Jeremy. But his mind is never too far from his friend. He sends him toys - Lego and Top Trumps mostly - and when Richard calls, breathless with excitement, he sends more.
He and Jeremy arrive together at the hospital the day the ban is lifted. As they stand in the chilly car park, a last-second fag between their fingers, James can’t help but glance at Jeremy mid-drag. He wants reassurance, wants someone to tell him everything is going to be the same again. But, of course, his friend’s craggy face holds no promises, no answers.
Then Jezza looks up with a grin and tosses his cigarette to the ground. “’Nuff stalling, May,” he says as he grinds out the butt with the heel of his shoe. “Let’s go see our Hamster.”
--
Head down, a jumble of bright yellow plastic in his hands, Richard doesn’t notice them at first when they slip into his hospital room. It’s the Lamborghini Gallardo Lego set James had sent him the previous week, and while the image of Richard so enthralled with the toy is strangely endearing, James can’t help but wonder how much of his friend is still in there.
Then the dark head lifts and there it is. That brilliant Hamster grin. James bites his bottom lip to prevent another rather unmanly reaction and stands back while Jeremy and Richard greet each other.
The size difference between Jeremy and Richard is usually good for a laugh or two, but this is different. Still seated on the bed and engulfed in Jeremy’s embrace, dark shadows under his eyes that James doesn’t remember, Richard looks small. Fragile. There’s soft murmuring, and when Jeremy pulls back he wipes surreptitiously at his eyes, but both men are grinning like mad. Suddenly, ten years are taken off Jeremy. Years that James hadn’t even seen appear.
One hand still on Jeremy’s arm, Richard slides off the bed, slippered feet hitting the floor with a quiet thump. Jeremy’s muscles tense as he holds himself back, letting Richard be independent, despite the hesitance James knows he must feel.
Hands on his hips, Richard looks up at James, still smiling. “Cockface,” he greets fondly. For just a second, James is back there, weeks ago, when everything was so much grimmer and unsure. Ducking his head briefly, hiding behind a curtain of hair, James takes a deep breath.
“Hammond.” He holds out his hand, allowing his smile to show. He really is quite chuffed that everything seems to have turned out so well, that Richard is standing alive and whole and him in front of them.
Richard’s smile dims for just a moment as he accepts James hand. It’s a perfunctory gesture, as the other man tugs him close and wraps his other arm around James’ waist. “Give me my hug, you fucker,” he mutters into James’ collarbone and at the first sensation of warm, moist breath against his neck, James drapes his arm around his friend’s shoulders and squeezes quickly.
Richard releases him after just a moment then steps back. “I am so glad to see you two. You have…just no idea.”
Next to him, James hears Jeremy clear his throat then answer, “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” in an alarmingly husky voice. Suddenly, James finds the pattern of tile on the floor to be fascinating.
--
Richard decides he wants to talk about it, needs to talk about it, with someone who isn’t Mindy, or the doctors, or Health and Safety. So they sit, three grown men with their legs dangling off the side of a hospital bed, handing bits of Lego back and forth as they half-heartedly follow the instructions.
And they listen to Richard talk. About the exhilaration that comes with having that much speed and power beneath you, of the fear when you realize it’s all going horribly wrong and there’s nothing you can do about it. Of the confusion when you don’t recognize your wife, about the anger and frustration when you know you’re disappointing everyone around you, but you just can’t remember what you had for breakfast. About how a father never wants to put such pain on his little girls’ faces.
Listening is something James can do. It isn’t hesitant touching under the guise of comfort or awkward platitudes that don’t solve anything. He can listen, he can commiserate, and he can sit there quietly. He doesn’t deal well with tears, but that’s why Jeremy’s there. A crying bloke isn’t the same as a crying child, but at least Jeremy has the foundation to deal with Richard. James has two sisters he used to torment and girlfriends he’s never known how to help.
Eventually, Richard is talked out, and the Gallardo is nothing but a mangled mess of pieces in the wrong place. James takes it from his hands and begins systematically disassembling it, tossing each piece carelessly into the box next to him. “We’ll do this some other time,” he says quietly, and Richard huffs a quiet laugh.
As James is pulling apart what was supposed to be the front bumper, he feels a heavy weight against his shoulder. He looks down to see the top of Richard’s head as his friend rests slumped against him. He allows it for a moment; the other man still tires easily, and today has been fraught with emotion.
But then he begins to feel uncomfortable, can feel Jeremy’s eyes on him, can feel the heavy burden of Richard, of the very brain and body that had been so badly damaged. Now he’s the one holding him up, he’s the one Richard is depending on to keep from falling.
“I – I can’t….” James wants to stand, to get some space, but he can’t just let Richard fall. Gently, he lifts the small body and shifts him until he’s leaning the other direction, against the more solid, more dependable Clarkson.
“You worthless sod,” Jeremy mutters quietly. He’s trying not to wake Richard, but as James slides off the bed, he notices the smaller man’s eyes opening, sees him looking confused up at them. “You’re going to die alone if you’re not careful, May. If you can’t pull that stick out of your arse, you uncaring bastard.”
“I – I’m not….” James stuffs his hands in his pockets and looks down at his shoes.
“What’s going on?” Richard mumbles.
Jeremy sighs. “May here’s got Asperger’s so bad he can’t handle you falling asleep on him, even after all you’ve been through.”
James wants to deny it, but he can’t. It’s true, after all. Still, he wants to explain himself, but no words will come out.
Richard is sitting up now, sliding his arms into his dressing gown.
“Try showing people how you feel every once in a while, Slow,” Jeremy says, his voice thick with an urgent finality, and James knows this is the last he’ll say on the subject. At least for now. “You be all right for a minute with him?” he asks Richard, and suddenly, his voice is normal. “I’m going to see if I can find a cup of coffee.”
“Yeah.”
James doesn’t lift his head until Jeremy is out of the room. He opens his mouth, and Richard waits patiently, but still there are no words.
“Thought so,” Richard mumbles, but then he smiles tiredly and James thinks he might understand. Or at least accept. “Gonna take a shower. You – you should take this opportunity for a fag break. You look like you need one.”
Once Richard has disappeared into the loo, James turns back to demolishing the Lego car. It’s while he’s spinning the wheel between two fingers that he realizes what he wants to say. And how he can say it.
--
When he returns to an empty hospital room, Jeremy nearly panics, but then he hears the sound of water being shut off and a shower curtain being slid to the side. “You okay in there?” he yells.
“Yeah, Jezza,” Richard laughs. “I’m a big boy. I can take a shower by myself.”
“Can’t drive a simple jet car by yourself, though, can you?”
Richard’s laughter is even louder when he responds, “Fuck off!”
Jeremy drops into the visitor chair to wait and notices bright yellow Lego strewn across the floor. “I thought May picked these up,” he grumbles, reaching out to pick one off the floor. He can’t reach the rest, and it’s too much work to get up, so he settles back into the unforgiving plastic chair.
Richard is towel-drying his hair when he walks back into the room. “You and May make up?”
Jeremy shrugs. “Didn’t see him.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “Nothing to make up for anyway.”
Richard’s shoulders drop in frustration. “You could have been nicer.”
“He’s a basket case.”
“He’s James. And he’s your friend.”
“Careful,” Jeremy warns, just before Richard steps on a Lego. “Slow made a mess. Some sort of a hissyfit, I guess. Reckoned I’d leave it. With his OCD, he’ll be back in a minute to clean it up.”
“Jeremy,” Richard breathes, crouching down on the floor in front of the mess. Jeremy’s heart stops for just a second as he wonders if he’s witnessing some soft of relapse, but then he realizes Richard is gesturing at the Lego. “Come look at this.”
Groaning, Jeremy kneels on the floor next to his friend and looks down at the floor. “Oh my God.”
Spelled out on the floor in bright yellow Lego are the words:
I LOVE YOU BOTH
JM
“He even took the time to spell out ‘you’,” Jeremy chuckles around the lump in his throat.
Richard turns his head to dig his chin into Jeremy’s shoulder for a moment, eyes closed. When he opens them, they’re shiny, but Richard is grinning. “Well now we know it was really James. Of course he did.”
They sit quietly, just staring at it, for a while. For once, Jeremy doesn’t want to break the silence, but he has to. “You do realize, that this is it, don’t you? This is all we’re going to get from him. Ever.”
It’s a moment before Richard replies. “Your mobile has a camera on it, doesn’t it?”
--
One fag turns into two and James is halfway through the third when Jeremy joins him in the same spot they’d taken their earlier smoke.
Jeremy smiles as he accepts James’ cigarette. Two puffs, two long slow breaths and he’s offering it back.
“Keep it. It’s my third.”
Jeremy smirks and takes another drag. “I didn’t mean what I said. You know, earlier.”
“Yeah you did.”
“No, I…. I didn’t, James. I worry about you, being all….”
“Asperger-y?” James suggests with a smile.
“All closed off. All alone.”
“I’m not alone,” James insists. “I have Sarah. I have Fusker. I have you two, and Wilman.”
It’s muttered, but James can still distinctly hear, “You do have us.” Then, louder, “We just…you’re our mate, and we want to be sure you know that. Sometimes we need to show you.”
“I know.”
Jeremy takes an unnecessary amount of time stubbing out this cigarette, and James knows he’s biding his time. When he looks back up, his eyes are suspiciously wet, but James makes sure not to break eye contact.
“I know you hate it, so I’ll try to make this quick all right?”
Before James can ask what he’s going on about, Jeremy has a hand – warm despite the chill – curled around the back of his neck and is pressing cool, dry lips to his forehead. Instead of breaking loose, Jeremy leans down until their foreheads are touching. James can’t help but rest his hand on the other man’s hip.
“I love you, too, James,” Jeremy says softly.
James can feel the shifting of weight that means Jeremy is about to straighten, and, of their own volition, James’ fingers grip the bony point of Jeremy’s hip until he stills.
“It’s not that I don’t like it, Jezza,” he mumbles. “It’s that I don’t know what to do with it.”
“You’re doing pretty well right now,” Jeremy answers with quiet conviction. He steps back with a cough and that smile that means he has a brilliant idea. “We’ll help you figure it out, Hammond and I. Those’ll be our projects for next year,” he ticks them off on his fingers, “fixing Hamster’s brain and your emotions.”
James grins back, and notices everything is slightly blurry again. “And what’ll we fix of yours?”
“Me?! I’m perfect.” Jeremy gives that a second to sink in then claps James on the shoulder. “C’mon, let’s go say good-bye to Princess Diana.”
“Oh, all right,” he grumbles good-naturedly as he turns to follow. Hammond had had a rough few weeks. Maybe he did deserve a real hug after all.