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When Jeremy tries to come up with words to describe his death road experience, he can't find any. Well, he can find some, namely "seriously thought I was going to die," but those don't really describe it, not in any way that matters; they're more a statement of simple fact.
The worst part of it isn't that he'd thought he was going to die, inching slowly past the other car on possibly the thinnest bit of roadway he's ever seen, with a couple thousand foot drop beside him and his wheels dislodging loose dirt and rock with every movement. The worst part of it isn't even that he'd left James and Richard behind, knowing that James was terrified of the heights and angry at both of them, and that Richard was worn down to a knife edge.
The worst part of it is that he'd left them behind because he'd thought it would be funny; the worst part is that now – safe in La Paz but still clinging to the radio, checking every five minutes to make sure it still works, waiting to hear whether they've made it through or whether one of them has fallen off the mountain in the dark – even now, he knows it was funny, that it will still be funny when it airs. Jeremy hates that part of himself right now.
Dave, the designated Jeremy-keeper for this leg of the trip since Andy had stayed behind with the others, forces him to eat something, and Jeremy chokes down his pepper steak without even tasting it, turns down the suggestion of a beer and a shower afterwards in favor of sitting in the hotel lobby and waiting. He knows he must seem ridiculous to the crew, who are used to the three of them doing ridiculous and dangerous things, and coming through all right. He seems a bit ridiculous even to himself, if he's honest, and he'd give up and go to bed, trusting that James and Richard were in safe hands, except…
Except he really had thought he was going to die. He really had thought that it might be RIP Jeremy Clarkson, killed to death by falling off a mountain in Bolivia, the only good thing about it being that he'd leave no grave for the ecomentalists to dance on.
And if he had died, well. Jeremy isn't the kind of man who has a lot of regrets; either he does what he wants, takes what he wants, or he stops wanting it, mostly. But the minute he'd finished passing that car and had been able to pull over, and have a slow, deep breath, his first thought had been, I never told James how I feel.
As soon as the thought registered, Jeremy shook his head. You are such a cliché, Clarkson, he told himself. Don't be stupid.
It's a stupid, selfish impulse, in many ways. James is hardly likely to be pleased by a profession of love from his fat, old, balding, male friend, and it's certain to make life difficult and awkward between them for ages. It might even mean the end of the show, if James can't get past it.
Jeremy knows all of that, which is why he'd packed the thought away again in the back of his brain, ignored the stirrings of something wistful in his chest, and got back in the car. He's had these thoughts before, of course – had silly daydreams of James' shy smile as Jeremy strokes his hair back from his face and says, "James, I—" But he knows better than to think the reality will be like the fantasy, and he'd tackled the winding road after that with renewed concentration and focus.
It hadn't been until he'd arrived in La Paz, the lights of the city bright against the dark night sky, that they'd told him about James' alternator, and that James was doing that last horrible, twisting stretch in the dark, making an accident ten times as likely.
It's probably good they waited to tell me, Jeremy thinks, hands fisted on his lap, his dinner sitting heavy and uneasy in his stomach. Don't know what I would have done, except worry and get distracted. It's a distant kind of approval, though, because most of his mind is caught up with picturing James' strained face in the dark, his knuckles white where they clench the wheel. James-- he thinks. God, if he makes it through this, I'll tell him.
All of the reasons that's a bad idea have gone right out of his head, and he suddenly can't imagine going the rest of his life carrying the weight of these emotions and not saying anything. Jeremy knows that every time James looks weary he will burn to hold him together; every time James looks lonely Jeremy will ache to kiss the sadness away. I will tell him. I have to.
It's very late when his radio crackles into life. "We've come off the main part of it," says Andy, sounding exhausted. "Should be at the hotel in about twenty minutes." Jeremy lets out a long, slow, shuddering breath, and scrubs his hands over his face, listening to someone else acknowledge the message.
The next twenty minutes are perhaps the longest of Jeremy's life, because even though he knows they're okay he still can't quite believe it, knows he won't be able to until he can see James with his own eyes.
But finally the front door of the hotel opens, and Richard and James come in, with Andy and the crew filing in a second later. One of the other crew members meets them with room keys, and as Jeremy crosses the lobby Andy hands them out to everyone, saying, "Sleep as long as you want in the morning. I'm not going to be fussy about the schedule, not after that." There are deep lines around the corners of Andy's eyes, and even inexhaustible Richard looks ready to drop. James' face is pale under the dirt and sweat, and he looks like a strong wind would probably blow him over, and he's still wearing that stupid headband, but there's something fierce and almost triumphant about his expression that strikes deep into Jeremy's heart.
Fucking beautiful, Jeremy thinks.
What he says, though, as he comes up beside them, is, "All right?" He puts his hand on James' elbow, feeling how cold his skin is. The other three nod, wearily.
"D'you two want dinner?" Andy asks, and both Richard and James shake their heads.
"Too tired," Richard says. "Gonna sleep."
"Yeah," says James.
"All right, then," Andy says, and turns to the crew, already saying something about the cameras and the sound equipment. Richard takes off towards the stairs, leaving James and Jeremy standing alone in the lobby. James makes as if to follow, but Jeremy's hand tightens on the end of his sleeve.
"Can I talk to you?" Jeremy says, stomach roiling with nervousness.
"Now?" asks James incredulously, but then he looks over, and whatever he sees on Jeremy's face must make an impression, because he blinks, and says, "Yes, okay, talk."
"I—" Jeremy says, and then, "In private?"
"Fine." James moves towards the stairs again, and this time Jeremy lets go and walks behind him. They climb up to the third floor in silence, both breathing heavily by the time they get there, and James fumbles the key for a moment before he can get it into the lock and pull the door open. His bag is already there, brought ahead by the crew, and James chucks the key down on the bedside table before turning to give Jeremy a pointed look as he unfastens the buckle of his stupid utility belt and pulls it off.
"So. What?" he says. Jeremy swallows. Now that he's alone with James, all the reasons that this is a terrible idea come rushing back. James is tired and probably more than a bit hacked off at Jeremy already, what with the earlier car bumping and the abandonment, however humorous it might have been. They've got days more of this trip left to do, and if things get awkward, then it's not going to work, and everything they've done will be wasted. Plus Jeremy doesn't actually enjoy getting hit in the face. Or any other part of his body, come to think of it. He opens his mouth, but no words come out.
"Jez—" says James, brow furrowing. He looks torn between exhaustion and anger and worry, and it's this last that finally spurs Jeremy into action. Abandoning the whole idea of words he closes the distance between them, brings up his hands to cup James' face and kisses him, quick and hard. Then he steps back, hands dropping to his sides, defiant.
"I—" says James, one hand coming up to touch his mouth like he can't quite believe the evidence of his own senses. "Jez. Did… did you hit your head at some point? Did I hit my head?"
Jeremy laughs, can't help himself, even though he feels raw and split open by James' curious gaze. "No," he says. "No head injuries, I promise. Although, if you did hit your head, you should have it looked at, because—" He's babbling and he knows it, and when James drops the hand from his mouth Jeremy flinches and cuts himself off.
"Then why?" James asks. His face is expressionless, giving Jeremy no real indication of what he's thinking.
"I told myself," Jeremy says slowly, "that if you survived that bloody road that I'd tell you how I felt. How I… feel."
"That's certainly telling!" James says with a shocked little laugh. But his eyes are slowly going bright with something that definitely isn't anger, and when Jeremy doesn't say anything else he takes a tentative step forward, bringing one hand up to rest on Jeremy's cheek. Hope blooms hot and sudden in Jeremy's chest, and he closes his eyes, tilts his face into the touch. "You're a bit bloody stealth, aren't you?" says James. "I had no idea, Jez. No idea that you wanted…"
"I do. I want whatever I can get from you," Jeremy admits in a low voice, because that brief, frightened kiss hadn't even come close to the things he's admitted to himself sometimes, late at night in the dark. He can say it now because his eyes are closed, but then he has to open them, has to see James' face so close and yet not close enough, and then James is kissing him, soft and slow and utterly perfect.
Jeremy melts into the kiss, letting his arms come up around James' waist. James' mouth is warm, lush and wet like the rainforest ought to have been. The kiss is tentative, like James still isn't sure of him even after a declaration like that, and Jeremy puts all the sweetness he can muster into it, determined to convince James that he means what he says. James sighs against his mouth and kisses him more deeply, his hand sliding around to cup the back of Jeremy's neck and draw him closer.
After long moments of kissing they pause, and Jeremy rests his face in the crook of James' neck, breathing in his scent. A fair amount of it is dirt, at the moment, but he's too stunned by his good luck to care.
"I'm still half-convinced I've fallen asleep and I'm dreaming this," James admits in a murmur, hand tangling in Jeremy's hair.
"Why?" Jeremy asks, just as quietly.
"When I was driving in the dark," James says, "I thought... if I could be brave enough for that, then I could be brave enough to tell you... something rather similar. But more sensibly than you, I thought I'd wait for the morning."
It takes a moment for the words to sink in, and then Jeremy pulls back to poke James in the shoulder. "Oh, no you don't!" he says. "I get the credit for this!"
"Oh, I see," says James, mouth quirking into a wry grin. "So you've no consideration at all for the fact that you ruined my brave moment. That's just bloody typical, Clarkson."
Jeremy gives him a truculent look, though inside his heart is singing. "Just because you weren't quick enough off the mark," he says.
One of James' fingers slides over the curve of Jeremy's ear. "I think you'll find that being quick off the mark is not necessarily a quality you'll want to admit to," he says, breathy and amused.
"Hmph," says Jeremy, and digs his fingers into James' ribs, tickling shamelessly.
"Ahahaha, Jeremy, stop-- ahahaha!" says James. He tries to back away, but only succeeds in falling backwards onto the bed, pulling Jeremy down on top of him. Jeremy takes advantage of this position and tickles him some more, until James is squirming and laughing beneath him, his hair spread out over the sheets.
Suddenly Jeremy just has to kiss him, so he drops his hands and leans down to press their mouths together. James' laugh turns into a moan, and his hands come up to rest low on Jeremy's back. At first their tongues wrestle as playfully as their hands had moments earlier, but soon they're kissing desperately, and James' hands are clenching on Jeremy's back, pulling him closer. Jeremy's cock decides it's definitely interested in the proceedings, and he can feel James' likewise rising, pressed against his thigh.
"You bastard," James murmurs against Jeremy's mouth, his hips rocking upwards in a slow rhythm. "First you ruin my moment, and then you have to go and get me all worked up when I'm filthy and half-ready to fall asleep."
"Sorry," Jeremy says, not particularly truthfully.
"I'll forgive you if you let me touch you," James says slyly, tugging the back of Jeremy's shirt from his trousers. "Properly, I mean – without'ny clothes on."
"Mmm," says Jeremy, nuzzling James' chin. "'S'a bit mercenary. But I suppose it's the price I'll have to pay." He hitches himself up enough for James to begin unfastening the buttons of his shirt, and as soon as they're undone he shucks it off over his shoulders. James is wearing a t-shirt so Jeremy can't really return the favor, and after tugging at it ineffectually for a moment Jeremy says, "Sodding sod!" and shifts around until he can climb off of James and pull him to his feet.
This time when he tugs at the shirt it comes free, and Jeremy thinks, God, yes, spreading his hands across the exposed skin of James' belly as James pulls the shirt off over his head.
James says something, muffled by the shirt, and Jeremy says, "What?" though he doesn't take his hands away. James' skin is warm and soft and amazing.
"I said don't you dare-- ah, Jez." James abandons the sentence halfway through as Jeremy traces the little dark trail of hair leading down into the front of his jeans. "Ummm. God." His hair is even more tousled now, sticking up from behind the headband, and Jeremy leans in to kiss him again, his hands roving over James' chest. Then James' hands are at his belt, pulling the buckle open and working open the zip of his jeans. James tugs downward, and Jeremy breaks away long enough to toe off his shoes, shove off his jeans and boxers before leaning back in again and reaching for James' zip in turn.
Now James' hands are on him, spreading flat over the planes of his back, stroking his collarbone, teasing at the curls of his chest hair. Jeremy finds it a bit difficult to operate heavy machinery when he's being touched like that - the heavy machinery being, in this case, a zipper. Finally he gets it open enough to slip his hand inside and curl it around James' cock, thick and hot.
Jeremy strokes him clumsily, and James says, "Oh, fuck," his hands tightening on Jeremy's shoulders, his head thrown back in a sudden spasm of ecstasy. "Fuck, Jeremy, come here."
For a second Jeremy doesn't understand, but then James is pulling back, shoving his trousers and pants and shoes off and drawing them both back down onto the bed. Being pressed belly to belly is even better naked, Jeremy thinks dazedly, basking in the feeling of so much amazing skin, of the way James is warm in some places and cool in others, so soft and yet so solid. They kiss again and again, slick mouths and soft lips and the hint of teeth. One of James' hands is on Jeremy's arse and the other cupped around the nape of his neck, and Jeremy rolls his hips down in a series of long, sweet grinds that leave them both gasping.
"James," he says, "James, god, please," and he doesn't even know what he's asking for.
But James just says, "Yes, oh, oh, yes, Jeremy, yes," and holds him closer, and that's all he needs. Jeremy's cock throbs as they rock together, finding a rhythm. He can feel the silk-smooth skin of James' cock against his own, the wiry hairs on James' thighs pricking against the skin of his hip.
"James," he says again, and then laughs, still breathless with amazed desire. "The thing is, I don't... usually get this lucky."
James' hand slides around from his arse and works its way between them. "Well, you're definitely getting lucky now," he says with a grin, curling the hand around both of their cocks together. Jeremy moans, the movement of his hips gone jagged as James strokes them both, as he teases over the head of Jeremy's cock with the pad of his thumb. Jeremy kisses him again, uncoordinated enough that it's mostly just smashing their mouths together, his lips ending up somewhere in the correct vicinity.
"Oh," he says, as James' hand moves faster. "Oh, god, James, I'm--"
Before he can finish the sentence James groans and shudders beneath him, coming hot and sticky over both their bellies and cocks and his own hand, still stroking. The feeling is amazingly good and Jeremy stiffens, grinding down one last time as orgasm rolls up and over and through him.
They lie panting together for a long time afterwards, not speaking but still holding each other with tender hands. Exhaustion catches up with Jeremy all at once, and his head droops down to rest on James' shoulder. James strokes the back of Jeremy's neck sleepily.
"Under... thing," Jeremy says finally, scraping up enough energy for a few words. "Blanket-y... thing."
"Mmm," says James. "Blankets, you mean?" He doesn't move. Eventually Jeremy realizes that this is because he's still lying on top of James, and he rolls over onto his back on the bed, then gropes somewhat stupidly at the covers.
He nudges James. "Help." James gives a little moaning laugh, but wriggles enough that Jeremy can pull the blankets free and yank them up over the two of them. Jeremy spares a fraction of a second to imagine what the cleaning staff will make of the come-smeared sheets, then decides firmly that he doesn't care. He puts his head on James' shoulder.
"'M'I forgiven for ruining your brave moment?" he murmurs.
"Yes," James mumbles. "Yes. Don't do it again." He yawns widely, then shuts his mouth with a click of teeth and turns his head sideways into the pillow.
"Don't... be brave with anyone else but me," Jeremy says, stroking one hand down over James' side.
"Deal," says James, wriggling closer. "Now shut up. I'm sleeping."