James slides over to the right a little trying to avoid groping hands. If Giorgio - Was that his name? - will just keep talking then James can pretend he’s having a good time and maybe in the end he’ll believe it. He’s too exhausted for this tonight but he’s still elated. It’s been a fucking long journey but one he doesn’t regret – not much of it anyway. It feels good to finally be his own person, wearing his own clothes bought with his own money. To be free.
He’s working at the Almeida in Islington doing Death of a Salesman with Richard Dreyfuss and last week he had a call back for the new Danny Boyle movie. Fuck. And not for a dead body either. Friar’s still giving him shit for the fact that his only TV role so far has been a murdered Irishman in a mortuary.
He hangs out with Friar a lot. The guy’s outside the Storm Force circle enough for James to be comfortable but still sees a lot of Cullen so James can press for information. He can’t just turn off his feelings however much he pretends to.
Gio makes his way to the bar to get more drinks even though James has hours worth of Breezers lined up and is sitting there wishing with all his heart that the Italian guy would just fuck off upstairs and go get laid in the playroom. It’s not as if they have anything to talk about. He’s just a friend of a friend who James thought was pretty enough to try the dating thing with.
Fuck.
James’ world stops spinning and the deafening blend of dance music and chatter dulls down to a rush of blood as he stares at a familiar back that was always strong and upright and is now half slumped over the bar. Cullen’s hand is gripping someone else’s forearm and James feels his stomach clench the way it used to from the hepatitis because that’s not the man Friar’s been telling him about for the last six months. Doing okay? Yeah right.
“Gio, I’m sorry but there’s some stuff I gotta do, so thanks for the drinks,” he says when his date returns to their corner table and he knows he sounds wrong because he is. All wrong and fucked up again just from one look at Cullen. It’s why he stayed away.
His date looks as pissed as hell with him and James wonders why because it’s not as if he’d put his dick anywhere near him even if it was rubber coated ten times over. Everyone’s the same old disease when you look deep enough.
“It’s Gianni, you slag. Have you listened to one word I’ve said or have you just sat there drinking my drinks and smoking my cigarettes all night ‘til something better came along?” he says waving his arms around in an expansive way.
James just pushes past him with a “What the fuck ever,” and makes his way through the crowd, shoving people out of the way and acting like a crazy fucking bastard until he’s standing behind Cullen with his hand reaching out to him and he’s still too afraid to fucking touch. It’s like this reel of images in his head every time he comes close. He can see Cullen in that cell just five feet away from him - five short feet that may as well be a million miles. Only now he’s even harder to reach.
“Mal?” Does he say the word? Mal, it’s okay. Talk to me.
Jesus fucking Christ. James bites his lip ‘til he can taste coppery salt. So this is what Friar and Hobbs think is ‘doing good?’ Fucking heartless mercenary bastards.
“They came for me but it was too late…”
James watches Cullen collapse forward against the stranger and he’s sees fucking crimson and grips the back of that Hugo Boss jacket, dragging Cullen away from this guy who’s got his filthy fucking hands all over him. Except Cullen’s not his man anymore, is he? James gave up that right when he turned his back on him.
Ignoring everything that’s going on around him, James grabs Cullen by the biceps and pushes him against the wall, sobering him up with a vicious slap to the cheek.
“Get your fucking shit together, you fucktard, you’re coming with me.”
Who is it he’s angry with?
The bar lights paint Cullen’s face a sickening blue-green as he stares down at James, swaying slightly from the force of the blow.
“Jim?” Cullen says. His face scrunches up into a frown, ‘cos
try as he might it’s still Jim he’s seeing. And that ain’t
right, ‘cos Jim’s not around anymore. Jim don’t love him anymore.
That thought hits him hard, like a punch to the belly. “Jim,” he says again. There should be more words that go with the name, but if there are, Cullen can’t think what the fuck they might be.
He reaches out meaning to touch, ends up getting his aim somewhere near Australia and falls over his feet. James catches him and hauls him upright, then keeps on tugging ‘til Cullen’s staggering out of the club into night air that tastes of petrol fumes and piss.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Jim’s saying and Cullen peers at him. He’s still not got words but seeing Jim’s face under the streetlamp makes Cullen think of times him and Jim shared kisses.
This time when he reaches out, his aim’s true. His hand strokes down the side of Jim’s face, a face that looks so damn fine. “Missed you, Gentleman Jim,” he says. “Missed you like it was part of me cut out.”
James swallows hard and looks away because that’s exactly what it feels
like to him. Like there’s this big space inside him that he’s trying
to fill up with all these fucking positive things. If he keeps focusing forward
never looking in his rear view mirror- he’ll get rear ended soon enough.
“Home,” he says ignoring all the ‘Jims’ because they seem to hurt more than anything else. The ‘missed yous’ aren’t real, that’s just the drink talking.
It’s fucking hard work getting a six foot four man home via three different tube stations, especially when Cullen can’t stop talking now; making no sense but still talking, about need and loyalty and blood and guilt and more fucking need that has nothing to do with James.
Once they’re back at the apartment, James holds Cullen up against the wall while he fumbles in the suit pockets for his keys.
“Home sweet home,” he says as they fall through the door. He just about manages to stop them collapsing onto the floor and directs Cullen over to the couch, watching the man slump down like a rag doll. “Why the fuck are you doing this to yourself, Mal? Wanna end up like me, do you? In the fucking gutter.”
“Not, not in the gutter.” Cullen shakes his head slowly, keeping
his eyes on the floor. Words, that had flowed while they were outside, keep
flowing, and making about as much sense. “Gotta keep going. Gotta keep
on slogging.” He makes a fist and pumps it clumsily in the air. “Keep
everything runnin’ smooth. Everyone ends up. Ryan.”
The information that’ll string those thoughts together squirms around in Cullen’s head desperate to clamber out and before he can stop himself, he’s spilling. “Shouldn’t be talkin’. Not to someone who listens.” ‘Cos if he does then Astley’ll find out and then his ass is grass and then the fucking… “Boys end up dead,” he finishes out loud.
Collapsing sideways on the couch, Cullen grabs a cushion and hugs it tight to his chest. The rest of the world might be spinning like a whirlybird, but at least that’s staying still. “Tell the tricks. ‘Cos they don’t matter. Reckon they’re fucking a crazy man. Reckon they’re right.”
His eyes slide shut and he drifts for a long moment, teetering on the edge of sleep until Ryan’s face springs up in front of him. That brings him to his feet, reeling from the sudden movement, and awake enough to finish what he was saying. In bits and pieces anyhow.
“Least if someone’s fucking me, he ain’t fucking in here with me.” And it ain’t just Ryan. “It’s Johnson and Carlo,” and the boys Astley lost when he sent some still wet behind the ears punk to do a man’s job. The one Cullen “was too fucking scared” to do.
The pieces are fitting together slowly. Maybe it’s just a couple of outside
edges at the moment but James is starting to get an idea and he’s being
real fucking quiet wanting to listen, knowing how important this is. It feels
like he’s balancing on this high wire and the slightest move he makes
wrong s’gonna bring everything tumbling down.
Ryan, he was the one ended up with his body parts spread over the wall wasn’t he? He’s dead. Everyone’s dead. Course they’re all fucking dead, that’s why James wanted no part of it, but he’s not what’s important right now.
When the words stop, James stands between Cullen’s legs, leaning over, one hand squeezing his shoulder, the other cupping his chin and he’s stroking a thumb over that strong jaw.
“Listen to me, Mal. It’s not all about you, however much you think it is. You don’t have to carry everyone.”
Cullen tries to look back down at the floor but James won’t let him, keeps holding that chin firmly in place, trying to get some eye contact. Cullen’s never looked him in the eye since the day he was rescued. Not until he told James how much he missed him.
Now it’s lump in the throat time and that’s gonna be no good for either of them.
“You’re allowed to be scared. Fuck, I’ve been scared most of my life. Hobbs said I’d piss myself out there and he was near as damn it right.”
Cullen yawns and slumps forward, catching James unawares and nearly toppling them both onto the floor.
“Let’s get you to bed, we can talk more in the morning,” says James as he pulls the man up to his feet. It’s like the dark space inside him is shrinking back a little. Maybe he’s not so useless.
Maybe he is. It takes half the fucking night to get Cullen into the bathroom and out of his clothes and into bed, then he reaches out and James knows for both their sakes he oughta go but he can’t bring himself to leave. Struggling out of his clothes he climbs into the bed and wraps his arms around Cullen.
“We’re a fucking pair you and I,” he mutters into the warm crook of neck. “You’re trying to fuck away your feelings and I don’t want anyone near me.”
Cullen slams his hand down on the alarm before it’s done more than squawk
once. Curled up next to him and with one hand resting on Cullen’s belly,
is Jim, nestling in like that’s just where he belongs. But it ain’t.
Last night Jim was just doing a favour for a guy who was out of his gourd. Nothing more to it than that, so there’s no damn point getting his hopes up.
Leaving Jim sleeping, Cullen grabs a quick shower and gets dressed, soothing away his hangover with hot water and painkillers swilled down with instant coffee. The expensive coffeemaker sits gathering dust on the counter. There’s no point firing it up for one and Cullen don’t plan on being around for when Jim wakes up. It might be Saturday, but there’s always something at the office for him to do, so he’ll go in today like he goes in every day. Plus Astley kinda expects it now. Calls damn near every day just to see how he’s doing. But Cullen can’t bring himself to leave without seeing Jim.
Walking back into that bedroom’s like being given a window onto could have beens. Jim’s moved over in the bed and his arms are round the pillow where Cullen’s head was resting not so long ago.
The temptation’s there to say fuck Astley and slink back between the sheets, hide away and pretend ‘til Jim wakes up and… Maybe wants to talk?
Damn! Cullen shudders. Talking never did go good between them. Better to go than risk fucking up all over again.
Closing down his emotions, he turns away and comes face to face with a memory perched on the dresser. The Thorpe Park bear. Goddamned thing turned up in the post one day; Cullen never has worked out who sent it back. Maybe one of the journalists he was babysitting.
It’s the one Jim bought, that day they spent after Jim got the all clear. First day everything went right between ‘em. Or damned near anyhow. A smile tugs at the corners of Cullen’s mouth as he remembers the good times. Before it all went to hell in a fucking handbasket. Maybe the bear’ll help Jim remember too.
Carefully pulling the pillow from Jim’s arms, Cullen replaces it with the bear, then turns and walks out.
Makes him smile it does when he wakes up with that dumb growling bear in his
arms. He would have preferred to wake up with Mal, but seeing as it’s
gone eleven already that’s not likely.
“Hey,” he yells as he climbs into the shower, “You better not have drunk all the coffee.” There’s no answer but then maybe the noise of the water drowned out his words.
It’s Saturday but there’s no matinee and he doesn’t have to be at the Almeida until six so they have plenty of time for talking. Still wet from the shower, James hunts in the closet and the clothes he left behind are still there and that makes him bite his lip and swallow back a choked sob because he honestly didn’t think they would be.
Dressed in the Diesel jeans and mechanic’s shirt that they bought in Macy’s all those months ago, he wanders through the apartment wanting to see the TV on and coffee brewing and the balcony doors open but no. What a fucking prick he is.
But he’s not giving up that easily. The roles are reversed and Mal needs him now. All those words that spilled out last night terrified James. He can’t stand thinking of Cullen so destroyed and no one even noticing. No, he’s not giving up. Doesn’t take much brainpower to figure out where Cullen’s gone.
An hour later he’s biting his nails and finishing his cigarette as he lurks around the entrance to Cullen’s office and there’s a white envelope stuffed in the back pocket of his jeans. This isn’t just an excuse. There’s things he’s proud of that he wants to tell Mal and now’s as good a time as any.
Stubbing out the cigarette, he pushes open the glass door and wanders through the deserted reception. He’s been here once or twice but it was never this silent.
Mal’s so wrapped up in whatever he’s doing that he doesn’t even notice he’s got a visitor.
“Hey,” says James perching on the edge of the desk and grinning, “How are you feeling?”
Cullen jumps. His hand shoots out, colliding with the cup of coffee on the desk
which topples over in slow motion, and even though Cullen grabs for it, the
damned thing slips through his fingers and dumps its contents into his lap.
“Christ, are you okay?” James asks, immediately leaping off the desk.
“Cold,” Cullen mutters. There’s tissues in his desk drawer and he digs out a handful using them as excuse not to look up at Jim.
Never expected him to turn up here. Did that mean…? No, Cullen’ll be damned if he’s gonna go that route, even in his head. Jim was probably just giving the keys back or some other thing that didn’t mean nothing.
Screwing the wet tissues into a ball, Cullen risks a quick glance up and says, “There a problem?”
“I just wanted to see you,” says James feeling about as unwelcome
as he’s ever felt anywhere in his life and, Jesus, that’s saying
something.
Is he reading this all wrong? Maybe Cullen’s happier now he’s screwing his way ‘round London and getting drunk off his ass every night. After all the sex between them wasn’t so great once they’d got back. When Cullen said he missed him, just for that second James felt like they were connected again, and now here he is less than sure of anything again. And the pain is back. And the insecurities.
Pushing away the worries he smiles, trying to look as happy and positive as he can because things are good and he’s doing good. “I’ve been a month clean now, thirty eight days drug free. No more methadone, no more docs, still going to counselling though.”
He looks at Cullen but the man’s still staring down at his paperwork. It must be a hell of a lot more fucking interesting than he is.
“So I wanted to give you this.” James puts the envelope on the desk. “There’s not enough in there because I asked Hunter how much all the treatment cost but I’ll pay you the rest back as soon as I can.” The money that Astley gave him for the job will do as a start. He doesn’t want it.
There’s no response from Cullen. He’s talking to himself here just like before. His words are getting faster and he’s beginning to stammer trying to get them out.
“And I wanted to say that if you wanted to get together sometime soon to talk, maybe we could go for a meal...”
And that’s fucking typical isn’t it? Fucking telephone has to ring right when he’s found enough balls to start saying what he’s really here for.
Cullen looks up at him just before he answers the phone and James can’t decipher the expression but when he recognises the distinguished voice on the other end of the line even from this far away, it makes his skin crawl with fear.
He’d forgotten, hadn’t he? Fucking forgotten that Astley was willing to sacrifice Cullen as long as it meant James was out of the picture. How can he help Mal if all he’s doing is putting his life in danger?
Leaving quickly, while Cullen’s too involved in his conversation to notice, James races to get out of the fucking office. He makes it as far as the waterfront before doubling over, almost brought to his knees from the ferocity of the panic attack.
It takes a while to recover, but he does. Enough to light a cigarette and collapse onto a bench, staring at the sluggish water as he wonders what the fuck he can do.
Furious at Jim for walking out and at himself for letting it happen, Cullen
switches his phone to hands free, stands up and peers out of the window. Astley’s
voice fills the office, droning on about some job that’s already covered
six ways from Sunday but Cullen ain’t listening. He’s more interested
in the small figure sitting hunched up on the seat by the river. There’s
a column of smoke rising from it and that tells Cullen he’s got about
three minutes to finish up and get his ass out there before Jim moves on.
“Got another call coming in,” he snaps at the phone and hits disconnect. Two more buttons redirect all incoming calls to voice mail, so if Astley tries again he’ll end up having to leave a message. Then it’s grab his jacket, tell the receptionist he’s taking lunch, and finally freedom comes in the shape of an open door and a heat haze rising off the sidewalk.
Trouble is, that was the easy bit. Crossing the fucking huge space between his office and the bench feels like hiking through the Sahara; wading through shifting lies and too many memories.
By the time he gets there, Cullen’s stomach’s doing back flips and his knees feel like he’s been walking for fucking ever. He stands next to the bench like a kid outside the principal’s office and shuffles his feet.
Come on, Jim, say something. Even if it’s just fuck off. But nothing. And when Cullen glances up, he realises Jim’s not seen him. He’s miles off by the look on his face, thinking about stuff that ain’t got nothing to do with dinner and a movie.
This is dumb. Jim don’t want him. Not after he got dragged into fuck knows what with that stupid ass plan Astley came up with. What sort of idiot sends a civilian into a set up like that? It was pure dumb luck that Jim hadn’t gotten killed.
Still, he should at least say something. Jim says he’s clean, so maybe Cullen can offer to buy him a drink. Kinda congratulations or something along them lines.
Before he can second-guess himself again, Cullen opens his mouth and says, “Lunch sounds good.”
James jumps, totally freaked by the sound of Cullen’s voice. Where the
hell had he disappeared off to? Glancing from side to side as paranoid as anyone
in their right mind can be, he looks up, shielding his eyes from the sun with
the flat of his hand. It’s also good for hiding a lot of unwanted emotions.
He’s got to say no to lunch – to everything. He needs to turn around and walk away back to his life which is pretty fucking unbelievable right now but in a good way, one that’s not straight out of the script of an action adventure movie. But then if he says no and walks away then Cullen’s never gonna be safe. There’ll be some other boyfriend or girlfriend Astley takes a dislike to and it’ll be disposal time all over again.
James sighs and looks out at the water. Sometimes the river looks so clean and calm and he misses staring at it while he’s smoking his morning cigarette. There’s not much of a view from the spare room window of John’s flat but at least when he’s staying there he’s got friends. Living on his own would near as fuck kill him right now.
Why the hell won’t Hobbs deal with this mess? Cullen needs to be told before it’s too late and this isn’t James’ problem any longer.
Who does he think he’s fucking kidding? He can’t walk away because he cares and he can’t fuck other people because he cares and he can’t get on with his life because he fucking well cares so much it’s killing him.
“Okay,” he says getting to his feet and trying not to kiss Mal or hold his hand like he’s used to doing when they walked along beside the river before, “but we both need to do the talking. I’m not gonna sit and babble at you for an hour while you’re all switched off, okay?”
There’s this long silence.
“Talking ain’t easy,” Cullen says eventually. “But I
guess we could try.” If that’s the only way he gets to spend time
with Jim then he can suffer through some silences.
The first one comes on the way to the eatery. Cullen tries thinking of something to say, and comes up empty. He can’t remember the last time he spoke to anyone about anything ‘cept work. When he’s sober that is. When he’s drunk he don’t stop talking, but that’s something different again and not something he wants to do ‘round Jim.
They end up in a pizza parlour, which is just plain funny when Cullen thinks about it. And then, when Jim orders for both of them, he has to laugh.
“Something funny?” James asks, gazing at him quizzically over the menu.
Cullen stops laughing immediately. It sounded too loud and kinda insane anyhow. “Reckon everything’s gotten changed round,” he says. “Remember ordering for you in New York. Now it’s you doing the ordering.”
In the last six months James has spent half his life eating out in restaurants
and ordering pizzas and he’s never once thought back to that little place
in New York. He tries to block as much of that life out as possible, it’s
not gonna make him any happier to keep reliving his nightmare of a past.
“Yeah, kinda weird huh? You spilt the beer everywhere and then I stormed off.”
James remembers Cullen catching up with him and dragging him into that alleyway, jerking him off so hard James can almost feel it now. Come to London and be my boy, Cullen had said to him. He’s done more than that though, he’s his own man at last.
“Gotta quit smoking next,” says James as the waitress arrives with a plate of garlic bread and he stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray. “I keep losing my voice on stage.”
There’s no point in fucking around with the small talk any longer. Cullen’s not comfortable enough to say anything and why should he be? There’s nothing between them anymore and that’s been apparent the whole day. James’ll give it these last couple of hours and then, Astley or no Astley, that’s it. Mal’s on his own, right where he wants to be.
“You said when I left you’d be here for me if I needed you?” he says.
Cullen looks up and nods quickly.
“Well I want you to do something for me.” He fishes in his wallet and pulls out a business card holding it out between finger and thumb. “Hunter gave me this guy’s number,” the day I walked out and left you. “He’s a psychologist who used to work for the military. He specialises in the kind of trauma that you’ve been through.”
The pizzas arrive just at the wrong moment. Fucking no one’s on his side
today. Cullen hides the card away inside his pocket without a word and that's
it, game over, everyone comes out a loser.