Pancakes For One (PG-13)
A/N: I wrote this aaaaaages ago, the beginning of a sequel to Fast Fuse. I don't have a lot of time to write these days, so I don't know when/if I'll finish it, but I thought I might as well share this since I've been sitting on it for months. :) Takes place about 4 months after the end of Fast Fuse. Also, some of you will have seen this already.
Pancakes for one are always depressing
Because having breakfast with you was such fun
Pancakes for one are no fun
Jon watches the digital numbers on his alarm clock change from 6:59 to 7:00. The radio clicks on and he allows himself to lie there for a few more minutes, listening to the news headlines. There's something about a hunger strike, something about another government scandal, a story about a murder in Edinburgh. Nothing that could be even remotely related to Neil, and he's not sure whether he should be relieved or disappointed.
Jon drags himself out of bed, puts his glasses on, and makes his way to the bathroom. He catches a glance of himself in the mirror as he empties his bladder and can't help but smirk at his own reflection. Surely there is no better image for 'going to seed' than this man who's looking back at him, the state of his hair, or the length of his beard.
It's getting a bit long now, well past 'rugged and masculine' and into 'crazy old tramp' territory. He scratches his chin, thinks of the frightened look in that little girl's eyes yesterday, when he sat across from her and her mother on the Tube.
A few minutes of rummaging through drawers and boxes he never bothered to fully unpack, he finally locates an electric razor. Seven weeks of beard growth, an ever growing reminder of Neil's absence - it's a bit maudlin and pathetic, really, worse than crossing off the days on a calendar.
He switches the razor on.
***
He eats breakfast looking out of the window, watching builders put in some new windows in the identical block of flat across a shabby courtyard. The only thing he can hear is the crunch of the cereal he's eating and the obnoxious irritatingly loud clock ticking on the kitchen wall. The builders outside are arguing about something, gesticulating on each end of the small courtyard and Jon watches them shout at each other, imagines that they're having a lover's spat.
He walks to work, and the street seems filled with an eerie dead calm despite the constant buzz of traffic. It's a cool day and it rained overnight, making the street smells fresh and crisp.
He still works in a book shop, and it's so monotonous and mundane than Jon often finds himself missing the pub and its shabby regular clientele. The shop's not even a proper book shop. It's not like a book shop should be, musty and dark, with shelves upon shelves of second hand books that have seen better days, their spines cracked, their covers dog-eared and peeling. No, this is one of those unbearably slick and soulless chains, the kind that requires a uniform and a name tag: Hello, my name is JOHN. Please allow me to assist you!
"You shaved the beard!" his manager says approvingly, and the supercilious 'it's about time!' isn't voiced put implied very strongly from the look she gives him over the rim of her glasses. Jon hates her, and suspects the feeling is mutual -- she probably would've fired him weeks ago if it hadn't been the police that had gotten him the job in the first place.
***
Jon doesn't really know how he manages to make it through the day, tired, half-existing, his mind trapped miles away.
He's only half-way up the stairs leading up to the flat when the phone starts ringing. He swears and takes the steps two at a time, bursting through the door just in time to catch the receiver before it switches over to voicemail.
"Hello!" he gasps into the telephone a little too loudly, a little too desperate. The voice that answers him is familiar, but it's not the one he'd been hoping for. "Oh, hello Irene," he says, trying to stamp down the irrational surge of disappointment. Wrong family member, but it's not like he really expects Neil to call, anyway.
It had taken a little while for Neil's dad to warm to Jon - Jon didn't blame him, considering the way he'd met his son - but his mother had seemed to take to him from the start. They've almost become friends now, in Neil's absence, and he speaks with her more often than he speaks to his own mum.
"How are you, dear?"
"Oh, fine, fine," Jon replies automatically, wedging the receiver between his shoulder and his ear as he unbuttons his coat and goes back to shut the front door he'd left hanging open in his haste, "The usual. Just got home from work. How are you?"
They chat for a while, talking of this and that, the weather, her husband's health, Jon's job, carefully skirting around the subject of Neil, even though his absence looms heavily between each sentence.
"What are you doing this bank holiday? Are you going up to see your mum?"
"No, no, she's off to Blackpool with her sister."
"Why don't you come down for the weekend? Tom and I would love to see you again. Only if you're not busy, of course."
"I might do, yeah, that would be lovely. May have to work over the weekend, though, but I'll let you know."
Jon already knows he could have the weekend off if he wanted, but he's not sure what's worse between staying home being miserable on his own, or spending the weekend holding hands with… what, his in-laws? While they all pretend that they're not worrying themselves sick.
His in-laws. That's probably an optimistic term considering the 'We'll see what happens when I come back,' conversation he'd had with Neil just before he left - now they've been apart for nearly as long as they've been "together" and Jon isn't entirely sure where he stands. Probably best not to say any of this to Irene, though.
"Alright, well, I won't keep you any longer. It's always nice talking to you, Jon. I'm glad that... Well."
She breaks off suddenly, and Jon has the horrifying feeling that she might start to cry.
"Yeah, yeah, me too," he says kindly, and says his goodbyes before the conversation takes turns he'd rather avoid.
He hangs up and stands in the middle of the kitchen for what feels like hours, unable to make himself move. He thinks of the next 24 hours, of another evening spent staring at the walls, of another fitful night in his dingy flat, of another unsatisfying wank in the shower in the morning, of another mind-numbing day at work. And the following 24 hours, more of the same, and the next day after that again, waiting, waiting, waiting, and for how long?
He'd thought he could cope with this, but maybe he can't.
***
***
Some days, everything goes wrong.
A power outage during the night resets his alarm clock and Neil wakes up to see it blinking 12:00 obnoxiously back at him and he scrambles out of bed to fish his mobile out of the back pocket of last night's jeans. It's 8:27 and he's got about three minutes to make it to work before he's late.
"Motherfuck!" he swears under his breath and forgoes the shower, even though he stinks of cigarette smoke and sweat.
He's barely out of the door when he gets splashed by a passing car driving through a massive puddle, misses the bus by about 2 minutes and has to wait for what feels like ages until another one shows up, and squeezes his way in between the commuters packed together like sardines.
He gets told off for being late, burns his tongue on his coffee, and by lunchtime he's got such a pounding headache that he feels about ready to crawl under his desk and weep.
***
When he finally makes it out of the office -- and to think that all his life he's worked so hard to avoid a boring office job and yet here he is, doing his best to pass as an eager temp -- he dry-swallows another aspirin and lights a cigarette. His fingers brush over the mobile phone in his jacket pocket and he pulls it out, staring at the little blue screen. It would be so easy to dial his number. The pad of his thumb drags over each key in slow succession, pressing in the sequence of numbers until all that's left to do is hit the key that will send it through.
So easy. He thinks of Jon's voice, of what it would sound like buzzing against his ear. Then it's just a tiny jump from there to imagining Jon's hand settling at the small of his back like it always does, and the warm puff of his breath against the skin of Neil's neck.
Half an hour at most, that's how long it would take to get to Jon's flat, if he left now. All he has to do is choose to do it, there's nothing standing in his way.
Neil stands there for what feels like hours, feeling paralyzed, until his phone buzzes in his hand, jolting him out of his stupor.
c u soon sweetie xx
It's Martha, texting him to remind him of their meeting. He shoves the phone back in his pocket and takes a long pull off of his half-burned cigarette, feeling morose and annoyed for even considering breaking the promise he'd made to himself. He's turning into a right weakling, and it's pathetic.
***
All eyes are following her when she walks into the restaurant, and it's easy to see why. She's gorgeous, with her flawless caramel skin and her loose Afro and her legs that go on forever. She looks like a bohemian, or musician, or a model -- she looks like a copper about as much as Neil does, which is to say, not at all. But that's not the only reason that Martha's his favourite teammate.
"Alright, you nitwit?" she greets him affectionately and kisses him on both cheeks, her giant earrings tinkling with the motion, and he immediately feels more relaxed, a bit of the day's tension melting away from his shoulders.
"I'm really glad to see you," he tells her, honestly. "It's been a fucking shit day." He sits back down and watches her pull out a notebook and a pen out of her beaded bag. He wonders how she is, wants to ask her about her husband and about her daughter, but personal lives are a taboo subject during meetings like these.
It's been a while since they've worked together. Neil idly wonders if he'd have managed to keep the thing with Jon a secret, if Martha had been his handler in that particular case. Surely not, he thinks wryly. She probably would've talked some sense into him, convinced him to break it off before it got too far. He's not sure whether or not he should feel grateful that she had been away on maternity leave at the time.
Their meeting goes pretty much as they always do -- she grills him with questions about the case, and he tells her about everything new he's found out since they've last been in touch while she takes notes. Then she updates him on all the new information that came in through surveillance, gives him some new instructions, and ends it all by making sure he doesn't need anything.
Neil is grateful for the distraction, and he's almost succeeded in driving Jon from his mind by the time Martha stands up after paying for their dinner. She gives him a long look as they make their way to the exit.
"You look tired."
"Thanks."
"No, I'm serious. Everything fine?"
"I told you about everything already. I wish it were progressing quicker, but--"
"What I meant is," she says with a trace of impatience as she pushes the door of the restaurant open, "Is everything fine with you?"
"Yeah," he lies automatically. "Just a bit bored, is all."
"You don't look bored, hon. You look tired."
"I'm fine."
She just gives him a measured look, then walks with him in silence for a couple of minutes, her strides matching his. Soon they're almost at his bus stop, and Neil's nearly convinced himself that she's going to let him get away with that answer when she grabs his arm and directs him to sit down next to her on a metal bench, away from prying ears.
"Just talk to me," she says, in a voice that doesn't allow for lies or excuses. It's pointless to keep pretending, might as well get it over with.
"Urgh. It's just... well. There's a been a... change. In my personal life." He winces in disgust at himself and looks down, slowly grinding his heel into the grass at his feet.
"You mean you have a boyfriend?" she says, sounding just like he knew she would: amused and a bit disbelieving, "A proper one?"
"Something like that," he says, miserably.
"Aw. And you miss him? Are you in love and all that rot?"
She's just making fun of him now, and Neil has to fight off a strong urge to just get up and walk away. "Don't. It's fucked everything up. I can't even sleep at night and I can't concentrate and it's making me shit at my job."
"Poor baby," she says, sounding entirely unsympathetic and smiling as though she finds the idea quite endearing. "Must be rough."
"Right, as if you'd know. You get to go home every night to your little family, not much of a sacrifice there." He regrets saying it almost as soon as it leaves his lips but it's too late to take it back. He just shoves his hands in his pockets and doesn't look up at her -- he doesn't need to see her face to know her smile has vanished.
"No one's forcing you to do this, you know."
"Nevermind," he says through gritted teeth, shaking his head.
"Seriously. Just go back home if that's what you need to do."
"What, and throw the past two months of work out the window?"
"Don't be so fucking dramatic. It might set us back a bit, but it wouldn't throw everything out the window."
"You know what I mean."
"Yeah, I do. But if this assignment is making you unhappy--"
Neil lets out a defeated groan, letting his head hang down and squeezing his eyes shut, "Oh god, just forget I said anything. Aren't I allowed to bitch and moan a little without getting a fucking lecture? You're just as bad as my mother."
She's smiling again, it's evident in her voice, "Sorry. I am a mum now. Lectures are second nature, I guess."
"Right. Anyway, I'll be fine. I have to be fine, cause there's no way I'm dropping this. 'Sides, for all I know he'll be sick of waiting for me by now, and he'll have fucked off by the time this job's done. Then everything'll be sorted." It rings false even to his own ears, and he can't quite bring himself to look her in the eye as he says it.
She hugs him tightly when they part ways, even though that's never been her style. Maybe being a mother really has softened her a bit.
"Tell Rosie her uncle Neil says hi," he murmurs in her ear, and she smiles at him when they break apart, patting his cheek.
"I will. See you next week."
***