Chapter Text
The warm slide of skin against skin. The imagined electricity running from one body into another. The shiver down his spine as fingertips ghost over his palm.
The slight brush of fingertips should not mean this much.
James has gotten better with what they jokingly refer to as ‘man contact,’ but Jeremy realises it’s only because they aren’t strangers anymore. They’ve been friends for almost four years now – their trio has meshed together into one entity – one of their names cannot be mentioned without the other two in tow somewhere in the next word, sentence, or paragraph.
They begin as simple, innocent touches – an arm wrapped around shoulders, a pat on the back, or the slide of fingers as a pen is passed between them during a meeting. But for Jeremy those slight seconds mean something – the barriers between them are broken and he can get away with touching the person he wants the most.
He’s aware it makes him seem like a sentimental woman – mooning over the slightest touches like a love-sick teenager with their first real crush, but that’s almost how he feels. These feelings are still brand new for him. He’s never had a longing for a colleague before, most certainly never a male colleague, and he hasn’t felt this pang of lust – or is it love? – in his chest in decades.
It begins when a teenage-like scuffle almost breaks out – a physical tussle over who will strap the extended door mirrors on the Kia. After Hammond’s attempt fails, James attempts to take over – he’s the only one of them that will use logic and reason instead of powerrrrr or manhandling the thing until it either breaks or cooperates.
Jeremy doesn’t see the opportunity presented to him at first, just automatically knows that James will be just as pedantic with this as he is with everything and they’ll be standing here until the snow falls before they get one of these bloody door mirrors on the car.
All he can think of is that he needs to get the wing mirror out of James’s hands so he can strap it onto the Kia and they can finally commence with this blasted trip to Dorset. But then as he’s trying to help James put the blasted wing mirror on correctly, their fingers brush and Jeremy feels the rush of warmth from James’s fingers into his own – and then that’s all he can suddenly concentrate on: how close James is to him, how their fingers are almost tangling together while trying to attach this stupid fucking wing mirror on this stupid fucking Kia, how Hammond is suddenly butting into their duo and trying to help them again when the mirror suddenly decides to cooperate, and how he longs to feel the warmth of James pressed against him once again.
He finishes attaching the straps and hopes that the bloody thing falls off within two minutes so they’re forced to try it again. Perhaps he can feel that electricity from James’s fingers flow through him once again.
Jeremy hasn’t planned on doing anything while caravanning – the three of them are going to be in close enough quarters as it is, he can’t risk indulging himself and possibly scaring away not only one of his best mates, but the man he loves. But after three-and-a-half hours in the Kia, being so close to James that he feel the heat radiating off of his body and can smell the American hard gums he’s been eating almost the entire time, something inside him snaps and he knows he must touch the man next to him, some how, some way.
It’s the oldest trick in the book. He’s used it countless times, especially when he was younger, trying to impress whatever girl he happened to be driving home after he wined and dined them. It’s a simple enough move that no one ever expects it, but this time, he’s not driving, not on the right side of the car to attempt it. But how hard can it be?
He thinks of a quick excuse in case his reasons are transparent – he’ll deflect the blame on James himself. Or he’ll blame the damn Kia and its lack of space. Or blame Hammond somehow. Anything to put the blame on anyone but himself.
He spreads his legs using the minutest motions he’s ever used, his right knee hovering closer and closer to the gear knob. The realisation hits him – this is his excuse – he can’t help that he has such long limbs and that the trip is taking so long that he needs to stretch them. He’s sure even Hammond in the back seat will begin complaining about the lack of legroom soon enough to corroborate his alibi.
Phase two: he places his hands on each of his thighs as his right knee gets closer and closer to the gear knob. He shifts in his seat, making sure he looks as casual as possible – like he hasn’t been planning this in his head for the last ten miles.
He feels like he’s sixteen again, wanting to fake a yawn and then strategically place his arm around James’s shoulders – but there are cameras everywhere in this car, Hammond in the backseat checking to see if TG’s all right every five minutes, and they are not teenagers on a date: they are middle-aged motoring presenters attempting to film a television show.
Jeremy can feel the warmth of the gear knob along the back of his fingers, can feel the heat of James’s body so very close to him, and wants nothing more than to reach out to him. Instead, he continues on, waiting as patiently as the most impatient man in the world can, and pretends to look at the map resting in his lap.
It doesn’t take long before James has to switch gear and puts Jeremy’s plan into action. Their fingers interlock for the briefest of moments as James puts the Kia into fourth gear, and Jeremy tries to hide the smile that’s threatening to creep across his face as the warmth of James’s hand creeps in through his fingers, up his arm, and into his heart.
James’s hands always surprise him. He can easily imagine them dirtied with oil and grease while working on one of his motorbikes. Nimble, callused fingers knowing exactly which part does what, which ones need to be replaced, deftly using a spanner before putting it back in its correct spot in the toolbox.
But then he can just as easily see them cascading over the keys of the piano the man has in his tumble-down house. Jeremy can almost hear Maple Leaf Rag in his head as he sees those long fingers while music floats into the air. He hasn’t heard James play much – only when they’ve been pissed and he and Hammond bugged the man until he played them something. But he still thinks those fingers can work musical magic.
Jeremy wracks his writer’s mind for the correct metaphor or anecdote on how he feels. He could compare it to the first time he heard the roar of the Veyron’s 16-cylinder engine, that euphoria of sitting in the back of the convertible people carrier that they had created, or that slight buzz of adrenaline of doing something wrong when it feels oh-so right. But he can’t compare it to anything – his mind blanks and all he can focus on is the slight contact that’s been made.
It ends as quickly as it started – James throwing him a questioning look before Jeremy automatically rolls out the next stage of the plan – denial.
“You held my hand there,” he accuses, placing the blame on James himself.
“No, you put your hand next to the gear stick- I’ve got to change gear!” James fires back.
His pre-planned excuses roll off of his tongue automatically, “There’s nowhere else –”
Hammond cuts them both off, “Stop fighting in the front – we’ve got a long way to go.”