Broken
Title: Broken
Pairing: Jeremy/Richard
Notes: Mentions of other halfs included.
2000
“It’s alright, Jeremy, really-“
“Just give it a minute!” Jeremy says in exasperation.
“We’ve already given it quite a few,” comes the long-suffering reply.
“I’m supposed to be the impatient one in this relationship,” Jeremy says, but a touch of resignation is creeping into his tone.
Francie sighs underneath him, but humours her husband and wraps her legs more firmly around him, and they try in vain for a few more minutes to elicit some kind of reaction before Jeremy lets out a strangled roar and rolls off her, landing inelegantly on his back and throwing an arm over his eyes.
There’s a moment of silence, and then Francie shifts and gently places her hand on Jeremy’s chest. “Are you all right?”
“Apart from the fact I can’t bloody get it up, I’m fantastic,” Jeremy growls.
Francie rubs her hand up and down his sternum. “Sweetheart, it happens to everyone now and then. Don’t worry about it. I’m sure you’ll be back to normal soon enough.”
Only slightly mollified, Jeremy moves his arm back to his forehead, and looks at his wife miserably. “I hope you’re right.”
“I usually am,” Francie says, and after a moment, Jeremy gives her a smile in return and moves towards her. They fall asleep in a lover’s embrace.
***
“You clearly aren’t right all the time!” Jeremy explodes, two nights later. He is sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling on a t-shirt. His face is red and Francie’s hand has been shrugged off his shoulder twice already.
“Come on, love. Calm down.”
“I’ll calm down when I feel like it, all right?”
“At least keep it down! You’re going to wake the kids,” Francie reasons with him from where she’s sitting up on her side of the bed.
For a few minutes, the only noise in the room is Jeremy’s harsh breathing as he struggles to control his anger. Then, managing to squash it down enough to be able to talk in a low whisper, he twists around to look at Francie. “Sorry. I just … I hate this. It’s embarrassing, and it’s letting you down, and-“
“Oh, love,” Francie interrupts, leaning forward and cupping her husband’s face. “Don’t ever feel like you’re letting me down, ok? I love you, whether we’re having sex or not.”
Jeremy is still flushed with shame, but Francie’s words help with that, and she looks so kind, and compassionate, that he leans in and kisses her gratefully.
“You always say the right thing,” he murmurs against her hair when they pull apart, and feels her smile against his neck.
“I’m here for you. Always. But,” she pulls back and looks him in the eye seriously. “I do think that if this doesn’t clear up in, say, the next week or so, you should go and see the doctor.”
“I’m not telling some doc-“ Jeremy begins, but Francie presses a finger firmly to his lips.
“For safety’s sake, Jeremy.” Francie raises her eyebrows in a way that tells Jeremy that her word is final, and he acquiesces reluctantly.
“All right.”
***
Two weeks later, Jeremy is sitting in a chair in Surgery Room One, waiting nervously while his doctor searches for his test results.
Dr Sheena Logan is a very, very pretty woman, with long blonde hair, lovely features, and an ample bosom. When Jeremy had arrived for his first appointment, a week ago, he had told her - with rather a lot of hesitating and awkward coughing - what his problem was, and she had immediately asked if he would prefer her to refer him to a male doctor. It had taken Jeremy literally just seconds to decide that he would much prefer the lovely Doctor Logan to examine his nether regions to some balding bloke. Unfortunately, only a few minutes later, he was flooded with disappointment when her thorough examination provoked absolutely no reaction whatsoever down below.
“All of your test results from the hospital came back clear, Mr Clarkson,” Dr Logan tells him from behind her desk, and she hands the letters over to him to look at.
He scans them briefly, not understanding any of the information on them. “What does that mean?” he asks, and notes that his voice sounds horribly uncertain. He clears his throat in what he hopes is a manly fashion.
“It means that physically, there’s nothing wrong with you.”
“Are you saying this is all in my head?” Jeremy asks incredulously.
“It could be psychosomatic, yes. Do you consider yourself to be under a lot of stress at the moment? Are things ok between you and your wife?” Dr Logan asks.
“The only thing wrong with my relationship with my wife is my inability to get it up!” Jeremy blurts. “As for stress, I’m a journalist and broadcaster. Journalism is the field with the highest suicide rate, did you know?”
“I did, yes. So your problems getting aroused could be a side effect of too much work. You have three children, too - life can be quite hectic when you’re in a high-stress job and a family to support at the same time.” She smiles at him encouragingly. “Try not to worry too much. There are no physical problems, or anything like that, which is great. Just take it easy; don’t push yourself too hard. It will fix itself in time.”
“How much time?” Jeremy asks cautiously.
“It could be as little as a couple of weeks,” Dr Logan tells him. He frowns at her, and she makes an apologetic face. “It could also be as long as a few years - it’s very difficult to tell, with these cases. Each person is an individual.”
Jeremy isn’t blushing any more - in fact, he’s turned rather pale. “A few years?” he echoes hollowly. “Oh, Christ.”
***
2002
“It’s not as big a deal as it used to be,” Jeremy slurs drunkenly.
Andy is actually still quite sober, and has listened to his friend’s confession with wide eyes. “Jesus, mate, I’d never have guessed. I mean, you and Francie get on so well. I never imagined that things weren’t going so well in the, er, bedroom department.”
“They aren’t going at all!” Jeremy corrects him, waving his drink in Andy’s face. “Haven’t been for two years now.”
“I suppose it explains why you’re so loud and vulgar,” Andy ruminates. “You’re making up for it.”
“I’m not making up for anything!” Jeremy objects loudly.
“Sorry, sorry,” Andy says quickly, but Jeremy has apparently forgotten his transgression already.
“It’s annoying, is what it is. I don’t understand why it’s happening to me. I mean, I was fine for ages, and I didn’t even think I was that stressed. But the doctor said that stress was a likely cause for it.”
“So there’s nothing … abnormal, downstairs?” Andy asks delicately.
“Absolutely not!”
“Well, your doctor was probably right, then,” Andy reasons, and then furrows his brow in thought. “So, you’re saying this started about a year or so after you left Top Gear?”
“Yeah, I guess,” Jeremy replies, looking a bit confused.
“Well, let’s face it, your career hasn’t exactly flourished since then, has it? A few books here and there, a bit of a rubbish chat show - it’s not going as well as you’d hoped, is it?”
Jeremy’s face contorts for a moment as his mind wars between feeling offended and agreeing with what Andy has just said. After a few moments, the latter wins out. “Oh, God. You’re right.” He drops his head into his hands. “It’s not going the way I planned it. I’m not even doing something I like anymore. I only test the occasional car, and have punch-ups with gits like Piers Moron.”
Andy places a comforting hand on Jeremy’s hunched shoulder. “Come on, mate, it’s not all that bad. Cheer up.” Jeremy’s only response is a slightly muffled groan of agony. “Ever the drama queen,” Andy comments.
Jeremy mutters something unintelligible.
“Listen, mate. You are obviously far too drunk right now to do anything but wallow in your own perceived misery, but tomorrow, when you’re sober, I’m going to tell you about an idea I’ve been working on. Believe me, mate, it could turn your fortunes around.” Jeremy drops his hands and looks up at his friend, interest glimmering in his glazed eyes. Andy grins at him. “It’s about Top Gear.”
***
A few months later, the project is off the ground, and Jeremy is sitting in a tiny office, waiting for the last interviewee of the day. The BBC approved the pitch Andy and he showed them for a new series of Top Gear, and Jeremy has been given the task of picking a second presenter with whom he will be able to work. The BBC have already assigned Jason Dawe, a used-car salesman, to handle part of the show: a kind of ‘bargain basement’ segment which Jeremy isn’t all too pleased about, because he thinks it’s the BBC’s attempt to fend off critics who said that the last show concentrated too much on loud, noisy, expensive cars. Dawe seems nice enough, but Jeremy can’t help but feel that he represents the part of the BBC he hates - the conformist, preventative-measures side.
It’s late afternoon now, and Jeremy flicks idly through the final contender’s file as he waits for him to arrive. Apparently he started out as a local radio DJ, then became a desk jockey for a car company for a while, and recently has been doing as many car shows as possible - most of them, he notes, on cable television. Essentially, he’s an unknown, and Jeremy sighs loudly. He’s made a shortlist of the candidates he’s most liked, although none of them have really made him feel really impressed. This guy better have something good to offer him.
His first impressions of Richard Hammond aren’t great. He is noticeably short, and looks worryingly close to throwing up. “Nervous?” Jeremy asks, trying to inject a note of sympathy into his voice.
“Just a bit,” Richard squeaks.
“Just relax - I’ll try and make this as painless as possible,” Jeremy tells him, and then checks the date of birth listed on Richard’s file. It puts him in his early thirties, although from the way he dresses, he would have guessed him to be in his mid-twenties at the oldest. Still, he has to give the guy a fair chance, he supposes, and so he starts the interview.
The first few minutes are a bit awkward; Richard is clearly petrified, and a little overwhelmed, but then he begins to open up slightly. They go through the usual stuff, talking about Richard’s experience on radio and television so far, and a few pleasantries about family and where he lives, which Jeremy talks about mainly to relax his latest applicant.
“Now, the important stuff,” he says after they’ve been chatting for a while and Richard is no longer green at the gills. “Cars.”
“Yes.”
“Obviously, you know quite a bit about them, but Top Gear isn’t just about knowledge, it’s about passion. So, what’s your dream car?”
“Erm, Dodge Charger,” Richard says.
“Are you a fan of the lesser-known American muscle car genre?” Jeremy asks with a raised eyebrow.
“It’s just such a cool car,” Richard says, sitting forward a bit in his chair. Jeremy notices that his eyes have lit up in an astonishing way. “And it wasn’t like the Mustang, y’know? It had a kind of menacing air to it. The bad guy in movies always had a Charger, and that made it so much cooler than the Mustang because that was a hero’s car, and essentially a bit rubbish. Not that I don’t like the Mustang - in fact, I’d have one of those too, if I could. I’d really love a Morgan Roadster, too - they’re such beautiful cars. Examples of how engineering can be an art form, not just a way of making something work. Take the Porsche 911, for instance. Near on forty years they’ve been honing that car to perfection and it’s just … glorious. I love those things. They’re gorgeous. Nothing in the world feels like a 911.”
Jeremy has listened to this enthusiastic speech with a grin forming on his face. This is more like it, he thinks. This is true passion for motoring, right here, and more of it from one man than he’s seen from thirty-odd other applicants all day. He doesn’t want Richard to know that he’s impressed so soon, however, so he says, with as much scorn dripping from his tone as he can muster, “The 911 is a poser’s car.”
“Rubbish!” Richard retorts immediately. “What would you have instead?”
Jeremy ponders for a few seconds. “Ferrari F355.”
Richard makes a scoffing noise, and throws himself backwards in his chair. “You are so wrong. Ferraris are for people who are over-compensating for something.”
Jeremy coughs at that - Richard, you have no idea - but despite the unintended poke at his malfunctioning manhood, he is really beginning to enjoy this interview. “All right, what car do you own at the moment?”
“Land Rover Series 1,” he informs Jeremy proudly.
“Junk,” Jeremy informs him.
“What?” Richard squeals, which makes Jeremy laugh. “Are you joking? It’s a classic. And Land Rovers are brilliant - they’re one of the most awesome types of car ever invented!”
They continue to debate over cars for the next half an hour, and Jeremy doesn’t notice the time passing, despite his earlier desire to leave as soon as possible. In that half an hour, however, he has more fun arguing with Richard than he has ever had arguing with anyone else in his entire life. Their opinions differ on a great range of subjects, and despite his own ability to come up with scathing putdowns on the spot, Richard gives back as good as he gets. And he really knows his stuff.
It isn’t until Andy enters the room that he realises what time it is, and has to end the interview. He stands up to shake Richard’s hand, and grins at the height difference. There is no way he could ever present alongside him without the inevitable jokes, but he knows that Richard would get his own back. Letting Richard know that he’ll be in touch, Andy shuts the door behind the diminutive man and turns to Jeremy with an expectant look on his face.
“Did you manage to make a shortlist?” he asks Jeremy.
“I did,” Jeremy tells him, and picks up his notepad, upon which five names are scribbled. He waves it in front of Andy, who reaches out to take it, and then jerks it away. “But I don’t need it.” He then proceeds to rip it in half.
“What?” Andy asks, bemused.
Jeremy points at the door through which Richard has just exited. “I want him.”
***
2006
The show was a giant success. Jeremy loved presenting it, loved arguing with Richard and getting paid for it, and after the first series things got even better when it was agreed that Jason Dawe was going to move onto other things and they would hire a new presenter. While Jason had been a lovely guy, his segment of the show hadn’t been popular, as Jeremy had predicted.
And so they had hired James May, and the three of them had clicked, fantastically. The ratings were astonishing, the job was a lot of fun, and they’d come out of the ninth series on an incredible high.
Only one issue continued to blight Jeremy’s happiness, and Francie had, it seemed, reached a decision, which she had decided to tell him about halfway through the series’ run, late in bed one night when Jeremy had returned home on a high from filming and thought perhaps that tonight might be the night when his problem fixed itself.
“Jeremy, this isn’t a good idea,” Francie said, pushing him off gently but firmly when he rolled on top of her.
“What? It’s a great idea, darling! I’ve had a great day. I couldn’t be in a better mood. Come on.” He tried again, and this time he was not so much pushed off as shoved aside roughly.
“It’s not just about you, Jeremy!” Francie exclaimed.
Surprised, Jeremy blinked, and then sat up. Francie did the same, leaning over to switch the lamp on as she did so. “What’s going on?” he asked warily.
“Oh, sweetheart. It’s not you. Well, it is you, but it’s not - this is a lot more difficult to say than I’d hoped.”
“You want me to stop trying to have sex with you?” Jeremy guessed.
“Sort of,” Francie said, biting her lip. “It’s not that I don’t love you anymore, Jeremy. It isn’t that - it could never be that. We have three fantastic kids, and you’re my best friend. But after six years, I’ve gotten used to having no sex. I quite like it, actually. I don’t feel like I’m missing out on anything. But you do.”
Jeremy was stumped. “I don’t understand. Are you … is this a break-up?”
“No!” Francie said fervently, breaching the distance between the two of them and wrapping him in a tight hug. “No, nothing like that. I meant it when I said I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. When I said yes when you asked me to marry you. I still love you so, so much. I just think that the sex part of our relationship is gone. I think that you can’t get that from me anymore. I think you need to find someone else who can.”
Jeremy pulled back so he could see his wife’s face. “Are you telling me that I should go and have sex with someone else?”
“I am, Jeremy, yes.”
“This is bizarre,” Jeremy said, but he was already beginning to relax.
“I’m right, though, aren’t I?” Francie asked.
“I think you may well be,” Jeremy replied, smiling despite the absurdity of their conversation. “After all, you usually are.”
***
By the time they’ve wrapped up the latest series, Jeremy has become quite accustomed to his new situation. He and Francie are getting on brilliantly - perhaps better than they ever have, now he isn’t trying it on without success every night. He has attempted to chat up a few people since their agreement, but so far has had no luck in actually following any flirtation through to the desired end. The very pretty, very busty girl on an apprenticeship at the BBC was definitely up for it, but it had taken just a couple of minutes with her in a broom cupboard for him to realise that while he may want to be interested, his instrument was not.
He can’t quite understand why. He’s been back to see Dr Logan, having kept going to her practice all these years - mainly because she really is very attractive - but she had merely repeated the same advice she’d given him so many years ago. Take it easy; try not to get too stressed about work; the usual.
The thing is, Jeremy has never been less stressed out about work in his life. He is, admittedly, busier than he’s ever been. He’s got a few columns on the go; regular guest appearances on certain shows; and Top Gear takes up vast quantities of his time. But he has never enjoyed his work more - he loves the cars, the people, and the fact that he can say whatever he likes. He loves the complaints, too.
Unfortunately, his contentment with his life in general just makes it even more frustrating when he can’t get it up.
He is currently sitting at a table in The Fox and Hound, the nearest pub to the Dunsfold airbase where they film. The entire crew has taken over the establishment for the night, in the absence of any official wrap party. The BBC had decided that, as it was so close to Christmas, they would just incorporate the wrap party into the festive do they were planning on Christmas Eve. Jeremy had turned his nose up at that idea, having sworn last year that he would not be attending any bash for Top Gear thrown by the BBC, as they were usually absolutely dismal affairs. So, after filming had finished, he had announced that they would all be heading down to the pub, where an open bar had been set up in Jeremy’s name.
“It’s your turn to fetch the drinks,” James is telling Richard.
“Same again?” Richard asks, and receives nods from both his co-presenters. He slides along the seat and then clambers over James, eliciting some groans as he does so.
“Are you all right?” James asks after he’s recovered somewhat. “You’re a bit quiet.”
“I’m fine,” Jeremy tells him, and that should be true. Would be, if it wasn’t for his problems downstairs.
“Are you sure? You’ve been acting a bit odd, recently. Odder than usual, anyway. Are things okay between you and Francie?”
Jeremy slumps his shoulders. He’s never been able to hide anything from James and Richard. They spend so much time together that they’re attuned to one another’s moods, and always know when something is wrong. Unfortunately they also know exactly how to wind one another up, and tend to make a hobby out of it. Now, though, in the comfort and familiarity of the pub, James is being serious. There’s only concern and curiosity in his eyes. “Well,” he says, and thinks that if he can’t tell his best mate about his problems, who else can he confide in? “I’ve been having a few problems …”
By the time Richard comes back, precariously balancing three glasses on his arm, Jeremy has given James the short, abridged version of events over the past few years. James has taken immediately to calling it his ‘waterworks’ problem, complete with a manly clearing of his throat every time he mentions it. “Six years?” he asks incredulously and with sympathy.
“Don’t move for me, will you?” Richard says sarcastically as he delivers their beverages and tries to get back to his seat. He decides to go past Jeremy this time, which is a much tighter squeeze and results in him practically sitting on Jeremy’s lap as he half-crawls, half leaps over him. Jeremy lets out a choked gasp as he does this, and not from pain.
“What were you talking about while I was gone, then?” he asks once he is settled, leaning forward to take a sip of his drink.
“Well,” James says slowly, looking at Jeremy, waiting for him to continue.
Jeremy coughs. If Richard hadn’t just rubbed up very close to him, he would have been able to answer the question with no problems whatsoever. He could have repeated what he had just told James without a single doubt. However, his ‘waterworks’ problem seems to have suddenly fixed itself, and Jeremy is feeling not only rather constricted in his jeans, but unusually hot under the collar too.
“You look like a fish, mate,” Richard informs him. “Forgotten what you were saying already? Sign of dementia, that.”
“I was just telling James,” Jeremy manages to say after a few moments of deep breathing and summoning off-putting images of a Rover 25 in his head, “that Francie and I are trying a sort of … separation.”
“Oh, mate. I’m sorry,” Richard says immediately, his tone switching from mocking to compassionate in the blink of an eye.
“No, not like that,” he says quickly. “I mean, we’re still going to stay married. But we’re not … in love, anymore.”
“Oh, I get you,” Richard says, comprehension dawning in his suddenly very noticeably deep, dark eyes. “That doesn’t sound like a bad arrangement, really. I think that if Mindy and I hadn’t still been quite young, we might have done the same, instead of the divorce.”
“It was the most amicable divorce in history,” James comments.
“I know - I’m spending Christmas with her and my replacement,” Richard tells him, and then he and James start talking about Richard’s kids. Jeremy sits in stunned silence, the enormity of what had just happened taking its time to sink in. James flashes him a quick look, and Jeremy knows that he’s probably a bit baffled as to why he didn’t reveal the entirety of his problem to Richard. He can hardly tell him that the bloody short-arse has cured him.
“I’m going to get some air,” he mumbles, needing to get out of the pub, out of close proximity to Richard.
Once outside, he leans against the wall. The night is cool, with a fresh breeze, and when he tries to light one of the emergency cigarettes he carries everywhere with him, the flame keeps getting blown out. He’s finally gotten it lit and is taking a puff when Richard’s voice makes him jump.
“Thought you’d given up.”
“I have,” Jeremy says. “This is a one-off.”
“They can cause infertility, you know,” Richard says, and Jeremy whips his head round to look at him. Richard’s expression is innocent, however - he’s just making a joke.
“They stunt your growth, too,” Jeremy replies, holding out another. Richard grins and takes it.
“Too late. Cheers.” It takes another few minutes to light Richard’s up, and Jeremy has to venture uncomfortably close to his co-presenter’s mouth during the process. They stand silently for a while, enjoying the guilty luxury of a sneaky smoke without Francie or Mindy to tell them off. The two women are both staying on the Isle of Man at the moment, taking advantage of the school holidays.
Jeremy looks down at Richard surreptitiously. He can’t quite believe what just occurred - in fact, he would refuse to, if it wasn’t for the fact that he can feel his groin stirring hotly just from looking at the smaller man. He really is very good-looking, he thinks to himself as he casts an appraising eye over Richard. He’d noticed that when they first met, of course: it had been one of the things he’d used in his justification for choosing Richard as his team mate and none of the other applicants. “Girls will go crazy for him! It’ll boost the ratings no end,” he had told Andy. Apparently, Richard could make Jeremy go crazy too, and not just because he was an aggravating, irritable little git when he wanted to be.
“What are you looking at?” Richard asks suspiciously, glancing up at him, his face deliciously shadowed in the dim streetlights.
“Nothing. It’s not often you get to watch Richard Hammond stand still. Usually you’re fidgeting all over the place,” Jeremy says, covering quickly. He earns himself a dig in the ribs for his troubles.
“Are you really all right? James is a bit worried about you. So am I. Is the thing with Mindy bothering you?” Richard asks, suddenly serious.
“Not really,” Jeremy mumbles, distracted by the feel of Richard’s hand on his arm and the way he stands very close - does he have any clue about personal space? “It’s just one of those things. We’re not really in love any more, but she’s still, you know, my wife. My friend.”
“So no sex, then?” Richard jokes, and Jeremy has to laugh at the accuracy of his statement. He looks at his friend, and finds himself swimming in amused, affectionate chocolate eyes. He leans towards them almost imperceptibly, his jean tightening once more.
He shakes his head and pulls back when he realises what he’s doing, and offers Richard a forced grin. “Not at the moment, no,” he replies, and then rubs his hands together. “Come on, let’s go in. It’s bloody freezing out here.”
He heads in without waiting to see if Richard has followed, and heads over to chat to the Stig, avoiding James’ questioning glance.
For the rest of the evening, he puts on an act of joviality, mingling with everyone and fleeing whenever Richard gets too close to him. He’s exhausted from the effort of it all by the end of the evening, and is attempting to make a quick escape when he discovers that his keys aren’t in his pocket. Patting himself down frustratedly, he lets out a groan of dismay.
“Looking for these?” James says from behind him, and he whirls around to find the long-haired man dangling his keys a few metres in front of his nose.
“You are a lifesaver,” Jeremy says gratefully, and moves to take them from James’ grip. James pulls them away.
“Oh no you don’t,” he says at Jeremy’s puzzled glare. “You’ve been drinking most of the night, and you’ve been acting weirdly all night to boot. Richard’s going to take you back to his tonight - you can pick your car up later.”
“What?” Jeremy sputters, and then he scowls when James grins in glee. “You bloody bastard, you know!” he exclaims, and lunges at him, only to halt when Richard appears, seemingly out of nowhere, smiling up at him benignly.
“You’re ready to go, then?” he asks, taking out his own keys.
James shoots him a demonic smile as he is forced to say yes, and Jeremy narrows his eyes at him as he follows Richard over to his Porsche. “You are far too bloody perceptive for your own good, May. You’re fired,” he growls as a parting shot, and then he has to get into the passenger seat of Richard’s car and listen to his rubbish, modern music on the way home.
By the time they pull up at the front of Richard’s house, he has reached the depths of despair. He had never thought it was possible to find watching a man drive sexy. He never had, before. But Richard has somehow made it possible, and Jeremy finds himself sitting in a rather uncomfortable fashion after watching the younger man’s tongue creep out every time he changes gear, and admiring the way his - for once, plain white - shirt clings to his torso as he rests his arm on the window ledge.
It’s dark on the driveway, which means that the tenting at the front of his jeans isn’t visible, but he knows that as soon as they step inside, he’s doomed. Unless there’s some kind of miracle, but he doubts he’s really been good enough to God recently for any prayers for divine intervention to be answered.
“You’re going to get jumped on,” Richard tells him as he unlocks the door, and Jeremy looks up hopefully, only to realise that Richard didn’t mean it quite that way. Richard’s dogs launch themselves at him in a boisterous, excited fashion, and he turns to avoid their paws and to protect his manhood, while Richard crouches down to greet them.
When he stands up and heads indoors, Jeremy holds his breath. If he keeps going and Jeremy can get to a chair quickly, he may be saved. But Top Gear Dog apparently has other ideas, having been left with the house sitter all day. Just as Richard vanishes into the house, she stands beside Jeremy and barks, twice. Loudly.
“What is it?” Richard coos, reappearing at the porch. “Come on, TG - oh!”
And Jeremy has been caught out in the light from the house. “Um,” he says awkwardly.
“Jez, that’s quite a hard-on you’re sporting. I mean, I know you like dogs, but … oh. It’s not the dogs, is it?” Richard says, understanding dawning.
Jeremy shakes his head, wishing the ground would just swallow him up right where he stood. He can’t face Richard’s shocked face and shuts his eyes. He scrunches them right up when he hears the crunch of gravel that tells him that Richard is walking towards him, and prepares himself for a punch.
What he doesn’t expect is for Richard to rest his hands on his shoulders, and then for him to press his lips to his with a noise of effort as he lifts himself up onto his tiptoes. At first, he freezes, far too shocked, and then he gives in and starts to kiss him back. He had, up until this moment, been convinced that this sudden desire for Richard was just a strange, passing fancy, brought on because Richard had just happened to be squeezed up against his cock when it had suddenly decided to come out of hibernation.
Now, as he opens his mouth and lets Richard’s hot tongue in to explore, everything starts to click into place - it feels strangely, absurdly, impossibly right. It feels even more right every time Richard makes a whimpering noise of pleasure, and he sets about trying to make him do that a lot.
When they finally pull back, Richard’s lips are red and swollen, and they are both panting. “That was really, really good,” Richard states, and Jeremy can see that his own jeans are showing signs of stretching at the front. “But can we continue this indoors?”
Jeremy doesn’t need to be asked twice, and they half-run to the bedroom, tearing off clothing in a hazy, desperate tangle of limbs as they do so. They shut the door on the dogs, and, collapsing on the bed, Richard climbs on top of Jeremy and starts to kiss him again. It feels like Jeremy would expect - hot, and fiery, and fervent, with Richard’s hands running all over his chest, through his hair, and down his sides. For all the jokes he makes about him never being able to stay still, Jeremy has never enjoyed the younger man’s energy more, as it was focused all on him - he was everywhere.
“Sorry, my arms aren’t long enough,” Richard says into his mouth after some time, and then he crawls down the bed and begins to release Jeremy from his jeans. Jeremy arches off the bed at the touch, and moans in pleasure, hands flailing out until they find Richard’s hair and card recklessly through it.
“Oh God, this is crazy,” he pants. “I shouldn’t even be able to do this!”
“What?” Richard asks, working on his boxers now and putting his mouth to good use, kissing a path down his lower abdomen.
“I haven’t been able to get it up for six years!” Jeremy says with a sobbing laugh, reaching down to dig his nails into Richard’s back. This just feels so, so good.
Richard pauses in his ministration and straightens up. “Really?”
Jeremy nods.
“Huh. So, if you’ve got impotence, buy a Hammond,” he concludes with a ridiculously gorgeous grin, and then all Jeremy can see is the top of his head as he get back to work.
“I can’t believe I was cured by a bloody hamster,” Jeremy says after another few moments of ecstatic touching and sucking. He finds himself treated to the exquisite feel of Richard giggling around his balls, and almost comes there and then.
“I can’t believe I’m sucking off a gorilla,” he replies, and Jeremy laughs, only for a question to pop up in his mind.
“But why me? I mean, you’re young, fit, good-looking. I’m old, and fat, and decidedly grumpy. It makes no sense.”
He feels bereft as Richard stops what he’s doing down below and then the younger man is back up by his face, looking at him with a scornful expression. “Jeremy, you have picked the worst possible time ever to have self-confidence issues. Just shut up and let me get on with it, will you?” Then he kisses him again, missing slightly and getting the side of his mouth, before sliding back down the bed.
After only a few seconds, he’s back up again, breathing heavily from the exertion. “Just so you know, I don’t do one-night stands, okay?”
Jeremy looks into Richard’s eyes with an affectionate, relieved expression. “I should bloody hope not,” he says, but his tone is gentle and his smile is wide, and this time Richard makes sure that he doesn’t miss, and kisses Jeremy deeply before bobbing back down.
Jeremy lies back, and definitely does not think of England. He thinks instead that he has finally found complete contentment with his life, and knows that although tonight is going to have consequences and possible awkwardness in the morning, he’s not going to let that put him off. Ever.
He also makes a mental note to buy James a huge pie to say thank you the next day.
Fin
Pairing: Jeremy/Richard
Notes: Mentions of other halfs included.
2000
“It’s alright, Jeremy, really-“
“Just give it a minute!” Jeremy says in exasperation.
“We’ve already given it quite a few,” comes the long-suffering reply.
“I’m supposed to be the impatient one in this relationship,” Jeremy says, but a touch of resignation is creeping into his tone.
Francie sighs underneath him, but humours her husband and wraps her legs more firmly around him, and they try in vain for a few more minutes to elicit some kind of reaction before Jeremy lets out a strangled roar and rolls off her, landing inelegantly on his back and throwing an arm over his eyes.
There’s a moment of silence, and then Francie shifts and gently places her hand on Jeremy’s chest. “Are you all right?”
“Apart from the fact I can’t bloody get it up, I’m fantastic,” Jeremy growls.
Francie rubs her hand up and down his sternum. “Sweetheart, it happens to everyone now and then. Don’t worry about it. I’m sure you’ll be back to normal soon enough.”
Only slightly mollified, Jeremy moves his arm back to his forehead, and looks at his wife miserably. “I hope you’re right.”
“I usually am,” Francie says, and after a moment, Jeremy gives her a smile in return and moves towards her. They fall asleep in a lover’s embrace.
***
“You clearly aren’t right all the time!” Jeremy explodes, two nights later. He is sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling on a t-shirt. His face is red and Francie’s hand has been shrugged off his shoulder twice already.
“Come on, love. Calm down.”
“I’ll calm down when I feel like it, all right?”
“At least keep it down! You’re going to wake the kids,” Francie reasons with him from where she’s sitting up on her side of the bed.
For a few minutes, the only noise in the room is Jeremy’s harsh breathing as he struggles to control his anger. Then, managing to squash it down enough to be able to talk in a low whisper, he twists around to look at Francie. “Sorry. I just … I hate this. It’s embarrassing, and it’s letting you down, and-“
“Oh, love,” Francie interrupts, leaning forward and cupping her husband’s face. “Don’t ever feel like you’re letting me down, ok? I love you, whether we’re having sex or not.”
Jeremy is still flushed with shame, but Francie’s words help with that, and she looks so kind, and compassionate, that he leans in and kisses her gratefully.
“You always say the right thing,” he murmurs against her hair when they pull apart, and feels her smile against his neck.
“I’m here for you. Always. But,” she pulls back and looks him in the eye seriously. “I do think that if this doesn’t clear up in, say, the next week or so, you should go and see the doctor.”
“I’m not telling some doc-“ Jeremy begins, but Francie presses a finger firmly to his lips.
“For safety’s sake, Jeremy.” Francie raises her eyebrows in a way that tells Jeremy that her word is final, and he acquiesces reluctantly.
“All right.”
***
Two weeks later, Jeremy is sitting in a chair in Surgery Room One, waiting nervously while his doctor searches for his test results.
Dr Sheena Logan is a very, very pretty woman, with long blonde hair, lovely features, and an ample bosom. When Jeremy had arrived for his first appointment, a week ago, he had told her - with rather a lot of hesitating and awkward coughing - what his problem was, and she had immediately asked if he would prefer her to refer him to a male doctor. It had taken Jeremy literally just seconds to decide that he would much prefer the lovely Doctor Logan to examine his nether regions to some balding bloke. Unfortunately, only a few minutes later, he was flooded with disappointment when her thorough examination provoked absolutely no reaction whatsoever down below.
“All of your test results from the hospital came back clear, Mr Clarkson,” Dr Logan tells him from behind her desk, and she hands the letters over to him to look at.
He scans them briefly, not understanding any of the information on them. “What does that mean?” he asks, and notes that his voice sounds horribly uncertain. He clears his throat in what he hopes is a manly fashion.
“It means that physically, there’s nothing wrong with you.”
“Are you saying this is all in my head?” Jeremy asks incredulously.
“It could be psychosomatic, yes. Do you consider yourself to be under a lot of stress at the moment? Are things ok between you and your wife?” Dr Logan asks.
“The only thing wrong with my relationship with my wife is my inability to get it up!” Jeremy blurts. “As for stress, I’m a journalist and broadcaster. Journalism is the field with the highest suicide rate, did you know?”
“I did, yes. So your problems getting aroused could be a side effect of too much work. You have three children, too - life can be quite hectic when you’re in a high-stress job and a family to support at the same time.” She smiles at him encouragingly. “Try not to worry too much. There are no physical problems, or anything like that, which is great. Just take it easy; don’t push yourself too hard. It will fix itself in time.”
“How much time?” Jeremy asks cautiously.
“It could be as little as a couple of weeks,” Dr Logan tells him. He frowns at her, and she makes an apologetic face. “It could also be as long as a few years - it’s very difficult to tell, with these cases. Each person is an individual.”
Jeremy isn’t blushing any more - in fact, he’s turned rather pale. “A few years?” he echoes hollowly. “Oh, Christ.”
***
2002
“It’s not as big a deal as it used to be,” Jeremy slurs drunkenly.
Andy is actually still quite sober, and has listened to his friend’s confession with wide eyes. “Jesus, mate, I’d never have guessed. I mean, you and Francie get on so well. I never imagined that things weren’t going so well in the, er, bedroom department.”
“They aren’t going at all!” Jeremy corrects him, waving his drink in Andy’s face. “Haven’t been for two years now.”
“I suppose it explains why you’re so loud and vulgar,” Andy ruminates. “You’re making up for it.”
“I’m not making up for anything!” Jeremy objects loudly.
“Sorry, sorry,” Andy says quickly, but Jeremy has apparently forgotten his transgression already.
“It’s annoying, is what it is. I don’t understand why it’s happening to me. I mean, I was fine for ages, and I didn’t even think I was that stressed. But the doctor said that stress was a likely cause for it.”
“So there’s nothing … abnormal, downstairs?” Andy asks delicately.
“Absolutely not!”
“Well, your doctor was probably right, then,” Andy reasons, and then furrows his brow in thought. “So, you’re saying this started about a year or so after you left Top Gear?”
“Yeah, I guess,” Jeremy replies, looking a bit confused.
“Well, let’s face it, your career hasn’t exactly flourished since then, has it? A few books here and there, a bit of a rubbish chat show - it’s not going as well as you’d hoped, is it?”
Jeremy’s face contorts for a moment as his mind wars between feeling offended and agreeing with what Andy has just said. After a few moments, the latter wins out. “Oh, God. You’re right.” He drops his head into his hands. “It’s not going the way I planned it. I’m not even doing something I like anymore. I only test the occasional car, and have punch-ups with gits like Piers Moron.”
Andy places a comforting hand on Jeremy’s hunched shoulder. “Come on, mate, it’s not all that bad. Cheer up.” Jeremy’s only response is a slightly muffled groan of agony. “Ever the drama queen,” Andy comments.
Jeremy mutters something unintelligible.
“Listen, mate. You are obviously far too drunk right now to do anything but wallow in your own perceived misery, but tomorrow, when you’re sober, I’m going to tell you about an idea I’ve been working on. Believe me, mate, it could turn your fortunes around.” Jeremy drops his hands and looks up at his friend, interest glimmering in his glazed eyes. Andy grins at him. “It’s about Top Gear.”
***
A few months later, the project is off the ground, and Jeremy is sitting in a tiny office, waiting for the last interviewee of the day. The BBC approved the pitch Andy and he showed them for a new series of Top Gear, and Jeremy has been given the task of picking a second presenter with whom he will be able to work. The BBC have already assigned Jason Dawe, a used-car salesman, to handle part of the show: a kind of ‘bargain basement’ segment which Jeremy isn’t all too pleased about, because he thinks it’s the BBC’s attempt to fend off critics who said that the last show concentrated too much on loud, noisy, expensive cars. Dawe seems nice enough, but Jeremy can’t help but feel that he represents the part of the BBC he hates - the conformist, preventative-measures side.
It’s late afternoon now, and Jeremy flicks idly through the final contender’s file as he waits for him to arrive. Apparently he started out as a local radio DJ, then became a desk jockey for a car company for a while, and recently has been doing as many car shows as possible - most of them, he notes, on cable television. Essentially, he’s an unknown, and Jeremy sighs loudly. He’s made a shortlist of the candidates he’s most liked, although none of them have really made him feel really impressed. This guy better have something good to offer him.
His first impressions of Richard Hammond aren’t great. He is noticeably short, and looks worryingly close to throwing up. “Nervous?” Jeremy asks, trying to inject a note of sympathy into his voice.
“Just a bit,” Richard squeaks.
“Just relax - I’ll try and make this as painless as possible,” Jeremy tells him, and then checks the date of birth listed on Richard’s file. It puts him in his early thirties, although from the way he dresses, he would have guessed him to be in his mid-twenties at the oldest. Still, he has to give the guy a fair chance, he supposes, and so he starts the interview.
The first few minutes are a bit awkward; Richard is clearly petrified, and a little overwhelmed, but then he begins to open up slightly. They go through the usual stuff, talking about Richard’s experience on radio and television so far, and a few pleasantries about family and where he lives, which Jeremy talks about mainly to relax his latest applicant.
“Now, the important stuff,” he says after they’ve been chatting for a while and Richard is no longer green at the gills. “Cars.”
“Yes.”
“Obviously, you know quite a bit about them, but Top Gear isn’t just about knowledge, it’s about passion. So, what’s your dream car?”
“Erm, Dodge Charger,” Richard says.
“Are you a fan of the lesser-known American muscle car genre?” Jeremy asks with a raised eyebrow.
“It’s just such a cool car,” Richard says, sitting forward a bit in his chair. Jeremy notices that his eyes have lit up in an astonishing way. “And it wasn’t like the Mustang, y’know? It had a kind of menacing air to it. The bad guy in movies always had a Charger, and that made it so much cooler than the Mustang because that was a hero’s car, and essentially a bit rubbish. Not that I don’t like the Mustang - in fact, I’d have one of those too, if I could. I’d really love a Morgan Roadster, too - they’re such beautiful cars. Examples of how engineering can be an art form, not just a way of making something work. Take the Porsche 911, for instance. Near on forty years they’ve been honing that car to perfection and it’s just … glorious. I love those things. They’re gorgeous. Nothing in the world feels like a 911.”
Jeremy has listened to this enthusiastic speech with a grin forming on his face. This is more like it, he thinks. This is true passion for motoring, right here, and more of it from one man than he’s seen from thirty-odd other applicants all day. He doesn’t want Richard to know that he’s impressed so soon, however, so he says, with as much scorn dripping from his tone as he can muster, “The 911 is a poser’s car.”
“Rubbish!” Richard retorts immediately. “What would you have instead?”
Jeremy ponders for a few seconds. “Ferrari F355.”
Richard makes a scoffing noise, and throws himself backwards in his chair. “You are so wrong. Ferraris are for people who are over-compensating for something.”
Jeremy coughs at that - Richard, you have no idea - but despite the unintended poke at his malfunctioning manhood, he is really beginning to enjoy this interview. “All right, what car do you own at the moment?”
“Land Rover Series 1,” he informs Jeremy proudly.
“Junk,” Jeremy informs him.
“What?” Richard squeals, which makes Jeremy laugh. “Are you joking? It’s a classic. And Land Rovers are brilliant - they’re one of the most awesome types of car ever invented!”
They continue to debate over cars for the next half an hour, and Jeremy doesn’t notice the time passing, despite his earlier desire to leave as soon as possible. In that half an hour, however, he has more fun arguing with Richard than he has ever had arguing with anyone else in his entire life. Their opinions differ on a great range of subjects, and despite his own ability to come up with scathing putdowns on the spot, Richard gives back as good as he gets. And he really knows his stuff.
It isn’t until Andy enters the room that he realises what time it is, and has to end the interview. He stands up to shake Richard’s hand, and grins at the height difference. There is no way he could ever present alongside him without the inevitable jokes, but he knows that Richard would get his own back. Letting Richard know that he’ll be in touch, Andy shuts the door behind the diminutive man and turns to Jeremy with an expectant look on his face.
“Did you manage to make a shortlist?” he asks Jeremy.
“I did,” Jeremy tells him, and picks up his notepad, upon which five names are scribbled. He waves it in front of Andy, who reaches out to take it, and then jerks it away. “But I don’t need it.” He then proceeds to rip it in half.
“What?” Andy asks, bemused.
Jeremy points at the door through which Richard has just exited. “I want him.”
***
2006
The show was a giant success. Jeremy loved presenting it, loved arguing with Richard and getting paid for it, and after the first series things got even better when it was agreed that Jason Dawe was going to move onto other things and they would hire a new presenter. While Jason had been a lovely guy, his segment of the show hadn’t been popular, as Jeremy had predicted.
And so they had hired James May, and the three of them had clicked, fantastically. The ratings were astonishing, the job was a lot of fun, and they’d come out of the ninth series on an incredible high.
Only one issue continued to blight Jeremy’s happiness, and Francie had, it seemed, reached a decision, which she had decided to tell him about halfway through the series’ run, late in bed one night when Jeremy had returned home on a high from filming and thought perhaps that tonight might be the night when his problem fixed itself.
“Jeremy, this isn’t a good idea,” Francie said, pushing him off gently but firmly when he rolled on top of her.
“What? It’s a great idea, darling! I’ve had a great day. I couldn’t be in a better mood. Come on.” He tried again, and this time he was not so much pushed off as shoved aside roughly.
“It’s not just about you, Jeremy!” Francie exclaimed.
Surprised, Jeremy blinked, and then sat up. Francie did the same, leaning over to switch the lamp on as she did so. “What’s going on?” he asked warily.
“Oh, sweetheart. It’s not you. Well, it is you, but it’s not - this is a lot more difficult to say than I’d hoped.”
“You want me to stop trying to have sex with you?” Jeremy guessed.
“Sort of,” Francie said, biting her lip. “It’s not that I don’t love you anymore, Jeremy. It isn’t that - it could never be that. We have three fantastic kids, and you’re my best friend. But after six years, I’ve gotten used to having no sex. I quite like it, actually. I don’t feel like I’m missing out on anything. But you do.”
Jeremy was stumped. “I don’t understand. Are you … is this a break-up?”
“No!” Francie said fervently, breaching the distance between the two of them and wrapping him in a tight hug. “No, nothing like that. I meant it when I said I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. When I said yes when you asked me to marry you. I still love you so, so much. I just think that the sex part of our relationship is gone. I think that you can’t get that from me anymore. I think you need to find someone else who can.”
Jeremy pulled back so he could see his wife’s face. “Are you telling me that I should go and have sex with someone else?”
“I am, Jeremy, yes.”
“This is bizarre,” Jeremy said, but he was already beginning to relax.
“I’m right, though, aren’t I?” Francie asked.
“I think you may well be,” Jeremy replied, smiling despite the absurdity of their conversation. “After all, you usually are.”
***
By the time they’ve wrapped up the latest series, Jeremy has become quite accustomed to his new situation. He and Francie are getting on brilliantly - perhaps better than they ever have, now he isn’t trying it on without success every night. He has attempted to chat up a few people since their agreement, but so far has had no luck in actually following any flirtation through to the desired end. The very pretty, very busty girl on an apprenticeship at the BBC was definitely up for it, but it had taken just a couple of minutes with her in a broom cupboard for him to realise that while he may want to be interested, his instrument was not.
He can’t quite understand why. He’s been back to see Dr Logan, having kept going to her practice all these years - mainly because she really is very attractive - but she had merely repeated the same advice she’d given him so many years ago. Take it easy; try not to get too stressed about work; the usual.
The thing is, Jeremy has never been less stressed out about work in his life. He is, admittedly, busier than he’s ever been. He’s got a few columns on the go; regular guest appearances on certain shows; and Top Gear takes up vast quantities of his time. But he has never enjoyed his work more - he loves the cars, the people, and the fact that he can say whatever he likes. He loves the complaints, too.
Unfortunately, his contentment with his life in general just makes it even more frustrating when he can’t get it up.
He is currently sitting at a table in The Fox and Hound, the nearest pub to the Dunsfold airbase where they film. The entire crew has taken over the establishment for the night, in the absence of any official wrap party. The BBC had decided that, as it was so close to Christmas, they would just incorporate the wrap party into the festive do they were planning on Christmas Eve. Jeremy had turned his nose up at that idea, having sworn last year that he would not be attending any bash for Top Gear thrown by the BBC, as they were usually absolutely dismal affairs. So, after filming had finished, he had announced that they would all be heading down to the pub, where an open bar had been set up in Jeremy’s name.
“It’s your turn to fetch the drinks,” James is telling Richard.
“Same again?” Richard asks, and receives nods from both his co-presenters. He slides along the seat and then clambers over James, eliciting some groans as he does so.
“Are you all right?” James asks after he’s recovered somewhat. “You’re a bit quiet.”
“I’m fine,” Jeremy tells him, and that should be true. Would be, if it wasn’t for his problems downstairs.
“Are you sure? You’ve been acting a bit odd, recently. Odder than usual, anyway. Are things okay between you and Francie?”
Jeremy slumps his shoulders. He’s never been able to hide anything from James and Richard. They spend so much time together that they’re attuned to one another’s moods, and always know when something is wrong. Unfortunately they also know exactly how to wind one another up, and tend to make a hobby out of it. Now, though, in the comfort and familiarity of the pub, James is being serious. There’s only concern and curiosity in his eyes. “Well,” he says, and thinks that if he can’t tell his best mate about his problems, who else can he confide in? “I’ve been having a few problems …”
By the time Richard comes back, precariously balancing three glasses on his arm, Jeremy has given James the short, abridged version of events over the past few years. James has taken immediately to calling it his ‘waterworks’ problem, complete with a manly clearing of his throat every time he mentions it. “Six years?” he asks incredulously and with sympathy.
“Don’t move for me, will you?” Richard says sarcastically as he delivers their beverages and tries to get back to his seat. He decides to go past Jeremy this time, which is a much tighter squeeze and results in him practically sitting on Jeremy’s lap as he half-crawls, half leaps over him. Jeremy lets out a choked gasp as he does this, and not from pain.
“What were you talking about while I was gone, then?” he asks once he is settled, leaning forward to take a sip of his drink.
“Well,” James says slowly, looking at Jeremy, waiting for him to continue.
Jeremy coughs. If Richard hadn’t just rubbed up very close to him, he would have been able to answer the question with no problems whatsoever. He could have repeated what he had just told James without a single doubt. However, his ‘waterworks’ problem seems to have suddenly fixed itself, and Jeremy is feeling not only rather constricted in his jeans, but unusually hot under the collar too.
“You look like a fish, mate,” Richard informs him. “Forgotten what you were saying already? Sign of dementia, that.”
“I was just telling James,” Jeremy manages to say after a few moments of deep breathing and summoning off-putting images of a Rover 25 in his head, “that Francie and I are trying a sort of … separation.”
“Oh, mate. I’m sorry,” Richard says immediately, his tone switching from mocking to compassionate in the blink of an eye.
“No, not like that,” he says quickly. “I mean, we’re still going to stay married. But we’re not … in love, anymore.”
“Oh, I get you,” Richard says, comprehension dawning in his suddenly very noticeably deep, dark eyes. “That doesn’t sound like a bad arrangement, really. I think that if Mindy and I hadn’t still been quite young, we might have done the same, instead of the divorce.”
“It was the most amicable divorce in history,” James comments.
“I know - I’m spending Christmas with her and my replacement,” Richard tells him, and then he and James start talking about Richard’s kids. Jeremy sits in stunned silence, the enormity of what had just happened taking its time to sink in. James flashes him a quick look, and Jeremy knows that he’s probably a bit baffled as to why he didn’t reveal the entirety of his problem to Richard. He can hardly tell him that the bloody short-arse has cured him.
“I’m going to get some air,” he mumbles, needing to get out of the pub, out of close proximity to Richard.
Once outside, he leans against the wall. The night is cool, with a fresh breeze, and when he tries to light one of the emergency cigarettes he carries everywhere with him, the flame keeps getting blown out. He’s finally gotten it lit and is taking a puff when Richard’s voice makes him jump.
“Thought you’d given up.”
“I have,” Jeremy says. “This is a one-off.”
“They can cause infertility, you know,” Richard says, and Jeremy whips his head round to look at him. Richard’s expression is innocent, however - he’s just making a joke.
“They stunt your growth, too,” Jeremy replies, holding out another. Richard grins and takes it.
“Too late. Cheers.” It takes another few minutes to light Richard’s up, and Jeremy has to venture uncomfortably close to his co-presenter’s mouth during the process. They stand silently for a while, enjoying the guilty luxury of a sneaky smoke without Francie or Mindy to tell them off. The two women are both staying on the Isle of Man at the moment, taking advantage of the school holidays.
Jeremy looks down at Richard surreptitiously. He can’t quite believe what just occurred - in fact, he would refuse to, if it wasn’t for the fact that he can feel his groin stirring hotly just from looking at the smaller man. He really is very good-looking, he thinks to himself as he casts an appraising eye over Richard. He’d noticed that when they first met, of course: it had been one of the things he’d used in his justification for choosing Richard as his team mate and none of the other applicants. “Girls will go crazy for him! It’ll boost the ratings no end,” he had told Andy. Apparently, Richard could make Jeremy go crazy too, and not just because he was an aggravating, irritable little git when he wanted to be.
“What are you looking at?” Richard asks suspiciously, glancing up at him, his face deliciously shadowed in the dim streetlights.
“Nothing. It’s not often you get to watch Richard Hammond stand still. Usually you’re fidgeting all over the place,” Jeremy says, covering quickly. He earns himself a dig in the ribs for his troubles.
“Are you really all right? James is a bit worried about you. So am I. Is the thing with Mindy bothering you?” Richard asks, suddenly serious.
“Not really,” Jeremy mumbles, distracted by the feel of Richard’s hand on his arm and the way he stands very close - does he have any clue about personal space? “It’s just one of those things. We’re not really in love any more, but she’s still, you know, my wife. My friend.”
“So no sex, then?” Richard jokes, and Jeremy has to laugh at the accuracy of his statement. He looks at his friend, and finds himself swimming in amused, affectionate chocolate eyes. He leans towards them almost imperceptibly, his jean tightening once more.
He shakes his head and pulls back when he realises what he’s doing, and offers Richard a forced grin. “Not at the moment, no,” he replies, and then rubs his hands together. “Come on, let’s go in. It’s bloody freezing out here.”
He heads in without waiting to see if Richard has followed, and heads over to chat to the Stig, avoiding James’ questioning glance.
For the rest of the evening, he puts on an act of joviality, mingling with everyone and fleeing whenever Richard gets too close to him. He’s exhausted from the effort of it all by the end of the evening, and is attempting to make a quick escape when he discovers that his keys aren’t in his pocket. Patting himself down frustratedly, he lets out a groan of dismay.
“Looking for these?” James says from behind him, and he whirls around to find the long-haired man dangling his keys a few metres in front of his nose.
“You are a lifesaver,” Jeremy says gratefully, and moves to take them from James’ grip. James pulls them away.
“Oh no you don’t,” he says at Jeremy’s puzzled glare. “You’ve been drinking most of the night, and you’ve been acting weirdly all night to boot. Richard’s going to take you back to his tonight - you can pick your car up later.”
“What?” Jeremy sputters, and then he scowls when James grins in glee. “You bloody bastard, you know!” he exclaims, and lunges at him, only to halt when Richard appears, seemingly out of nowhere, smiling up at him benignly.
“You’re ready to go, then?” he asks, taking out his own keys.
James shoots him a demonic smile as he is forced to say yes, and Jeremy narrows his eyes at him as he follows Richard over to his Porsche. “You are far too bloody perceptive for your own good, May. You’re fired,” he growls as a parting shot, and then he has to get into the passenger seat of Richard’s car and listen to his rubbish, modern music on the way home.
By the time they pull up at the front of Richard’s house, he has reached the depths of despair. He had never thought it was possible to find watching a man drive sexy. He never had, before. But Richard has somehow made it possible, and Jeremy finds himself sitting in a rather uncomfortable fashion after watching the younger man’s tongue creep out every time he changes gear, and admiring the way his - for once, plain white - shirt clings to his torso as he rests his arm on the window ledge.
It’s dark on the driveway, which means that the tenting at the front of his jeans isn’t visible, but he knows that as soon as they step inside, he’s doomed. Unless there’s some kind of miracle, but he doubts he’s really been good enough to God recently for any prayers for divine intervention to be answered.
“You’re going to get jumped on,” Richard tells him as he unlocks the door, and Jeremy looks up hopefully, only to realise that Richard didn’t mean it quite that way. Richard’s dogs launch themselves at him in a boisterous, excited fashion, and he turns to avoid their paws and to protect his manhood, while Richard crouches down to greet them.
When he stands up and heads indoors, Jeremy holds his breath. If he keeps going and Jeremy can get to a chair quickly, he may be saved. But Top Gear Dog apparently has other ideas, having been left with the house sitter all day. Just as Richard vanishes into the house, she stands beside Jeremy and barks, twice. Loudly.
“What is it?” Richard coos, reappearing at the porch. “Come on, TG - oh!”
And Jeremy has been caught out in the light from the house. “Um,” he says awkwardly.
“Jez, that’s quite a hard-on you’re sporting. I mean, I know you like dogs, but … oh. It’s not the dogs, is it?” Richard says, understanding dawning.
Jeremy shakes his head, wishing the ground would just swallow him up right where he stood. He can’t face Richard’s shocked face and shuts his eyes. He scrunches them right up when he hears the crunch of gravel that tells him that Richard is walking towards him, and prepares himself for a punch.
What he doesn’t expect is for Richard to rest his hands on his shoulders, and then for him to press his lips to his with a noise of effort as he lifts himself up onto his tiptoes. At first, he freezes, far too shocked, and then he gives in and starts to kiss him back. He had, up until this moment, been convinced that this sudden desire for Richard was just a strange, passing fancy, brought on because Richard had just happened to be squeezed up against his cock when it had suddenly decided to come out of hibernation.
Now, as he opens his mouth and lets Richard’s hot tongue in to explore, everything starts to click into place - it feels strangely, absurdly, impossibly right. It feels even more right every time Richard makes a whimpering noise of pleasure, and he sets about trying to make him do that a lot.
When they finally pull back, Richard’s lips are red and swollen, and they are both panting. “That was really, really good,” Richard states, and Jeremy can see that his own jeans are showing signs of stretching at the front. “But can we continue this indoors?”
Jeremy doesn’t need to be asked twice, and they half-run to the bedroom, tearing off clothing in a hazy, desperate tangle of limbs as they do so. They shut the door on the dogs, and, collapsing on the bed, Richard climbs on top of Jeremy and starts to kiss him again. It feels like Jeremy would expect - hot, and fiery, and fervent, with Richard’s hands running all over his chest, through his hair, and down his sides. For all the jokes he makes about him never being able to stay still, Jeremy has never enjoyed the younger man’s energy more, as it was focused all on him - he was everywhere.
“Sorry, my arms aren’t long enough,” Richard says into his mouth after some time, and then he crawls down the bed and begins to release Jeremy from his jeans. Jeremy arches off the bed at the touch, and moans in pleasure, hands flailing out until they find Richard’s hair and card recklessly through it.
“Oh God, this is crazy,” he pants. “I shouldn’t even be able to do this!”
“What?” Richard asks, working on his boxers now and putting his mouth to good use, kissing a path down his lower abdomen.
“I haven’t been able to get it up for six years!” Jeremy says with a sobbing laugh, reaching down to dig his nails into Richard’s back. This just feels so, so good.
Richard pauses in his ministration and straightens up. “Really?”
Jeremy nods.
“Huh. So, if you’ve got impotence, buy a Hammond,” he concludes with a ridiculously gorgeous grin, and then all Jeremy can see is the top of his head as he get back to work.
“I can’t believe I was cured by a bloody hamster,” Jeremy says after another few moments of ecstatic touching and sucking. He finds himself treated to the exquisite feel of Richard giggling around his balls, and almost comes there and then.
“I can’t believe I’m sucking off a gorilla,” he replies, and Jeremy laughs, only for a question to pop up in his mind.
“But why me? I mean, you’re young, fit, good-looking. I’m old, and fat, and decidedly grumpy. It makes no sense.”
He feels bereft as Richard stops what he’s doing down below and then the younger man is back up by his face, looking at him with a scornful expression. “Jeremy, you have picked the worst possible time ever to have self-confidence issues. Just shut up and let me get on with it, will you?” Then he kisses him again, missing slightly and getting the side of his mouth, before sliding back down the bed.
After only a few seconds, he’s back up again, breathing heavily from the exertion. “Just so you know, I don’t do one-night stands, okay?”
Jeremy looks into Richard’s eyes with an affectionate, relieved expression. “I should bloody hope not,” he says, but his tone is gentle and his smile is wide, and this time Richard makes sure that he doesn’t miss, and kisses Jeremy deeply before bobbing back down.
Jeremy lies back, and definitely does not think of England. He thinks instead that he has finally found complete contentment with his life, and knows that although tonight is going to have consequences and possible awkwardness in the morning, he’s not going to let that put him off. Ever.
He also makes a mental note to buy James a huge pie to say thank you the next day.
Fin