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The first time James notices something weird is right after his audition. To be honest the whole thing is a bit of a blur even right after he's left the building, though he remembers shaking Clarkson's hand when they were done, remembers Hammond giving him a discreet thumbs up as they'd parted ways.
He drives home still a bit buzzed with adrenalin, still breathing a bit harder than normal, though he knows it'll be a week or two before he knows whether he's got the spot. Ten minutes into the drive he realizes that his right hand is tingling and a little bit swollen. Odd. But it's not painful, just warm and a prickle of nerves across the skin of his palm, the edge of his pinky, the webbing between thumb and forefinger. Stress reaction, he diagnoses himself, and by the time he's pulling into his drive it's gone.
-----
The second time he notices it is after they film one of their challenges, all together on the track at Dunsfold. It's an unseasonably warm spring day and after a half hour or so James had shucked his jacket off. At one point as they're watching Richard rip around the track Jeremy slings an arm over James' shoulders companionably, grinning. James startles a little, not quite expecting it, then relaxes and grins back at him, for once not thinking about the camera.
Later, when they're back in the portakabin, James finds himself scratching the back of his neck, and when he puts the flat of his hand to it he can feel how warm it is. Must have got sunburnt, he thinks.
-----
The third time he notices it, they're in the pub, having an argument over models of Lamborghini or something equally pointless. In the middle of ranting Jeremy grabs his arm, shakes it a little to make his point, and then seems to forget to let go. James briefly registers the warmth of Jeremy's hand, the way it's a little bit damp from where it's been wrapped around his pint, but he's too busy pointing out how deeply, incredibly wrong Jeremy is to think twice about the touch, and then after a few minutes it's his round, and he pulls away as he gets up.
At the end of the night – when closing time is imminent and he's heading to the toilets for one last slash before the wobbly walk home – James realizes suddenly that he's been scratching his arm for a good two minutes. He looks down, and sucks in a breath as he sees a patch of skin on his forearm, raised a little and colored bright red, in the shape of a handprint.
What—? he thinks, and then, Jeremy touched me there. Just there. It's a ridiculous idea, and the moment he registers the thought he shakes his head. Mental. As irritating as Clarkson is, even he can't magically give me an itch. Not unless we'd been a hell of a lot closer than hand on arm. The thought makes him flush a little, and he shoves it away. Must have just brushed up against some sort of chemical residue.
Except the more he looks at the itchy splotch – in the toilet while zipping his trousers, standing on his doorstep and digging in his pocket for the keys – the more it looks unmistakably like a handprint, one solid, round section with five strips leading away from it. He even (after rolling his eyes at himself just to acknowledge how silly he's being) puts his own hand there, gauging it, and thinks, I'll be damned if it isn't basically the same. The fingers of the splotch are a little bit longer than his own, but then they would be, if they were Jeremy's.
He falls asleep thinking about it, turning it over in his head. In the morning the itch is gone, and the only sign of anything unusual is one red scratch mark where his fingernail had cut into the skin.
-----
After that he keeps noticing it, starts to notice a pattern. The longer the touch, the quicker and more severe the reaction. A brief scrape of elbows as they pass in a hallway might get no reaction at all, or just a faint, tingling break-out that lasts fifteen minutes or so. A handshake generally leaves his fingers tingling for half an hour, and a prolonged touch might give him a bright red inflammation that lasts all evening. The night after they film the fifth episode he has to down a Benadryl before going to bed, then lies there resolutely not scratching for an hour before the rash eases enough for him to sleep.
He finds himself planning ways to test it, ways to get Jeremy to touch him just so far and no further. Finds himself trying to estimate the length of each touch, cataloging it, tacking it down in his memory like a stamp in a collection book or an entry in an accounts ledger. Tuesday, slap on the back through shirt and jacket, one second, no reaction. Wednesday, handshake, two point five seconds, mild rash, delay approximately two minutes, duration approximately forty five minutes. It's a bit of a perverse obsession, but he can't seem to let it go, not until he understands it.
-----
"Can you be allergic to a person?" he asks his GP, trying to make it sound like an idle question.
"Well, sort of," the doctor says. "Though usually it's their soap or lotion or something, not the actual person. Why?"
"Oh, just curious," James says, mainly because he thinks if he says 'It's possible I'm allergic to Jeremy Clarkson' it'll be taken as a joke. And who'd be able to resist telling that story to a mate or two? Even if you were a doctor and supposed to keep things confidential.
It's not the Dunsfold soap, he knows that much, because he uses it himself and hasn't had a reaction. Nor is it aftershave, since Jeremy violently denies using the stuff, nor cologne – he'd asked the makeup girl, in a bit of a roundabout sort of way, what Jeremy used, and then he'd gone to a department store and tried a goodly bit of a tester on the inside of his left wrist. Which had then stubbornly failed to react in any way whatsoever.
Possibly it's whatever soap Jeremy uses at home, though James wouldn't have thought it would stay on a person's skin that long, not during the day. And he's had a reaction off a touch in the evening, like at the pub that one time, when Jeremy's been out and about and touching all manner of things, so soap seems unlikely.
Maybe he just is allergic to Jeremy. It's a thought both hilarious and horrifying.
-----
After a couple more months spent trying to figure it out, he gives up. To keep himself from scratching his arms raw he tells Jeremy he doesn't like to be touched, that it isn't personal. Which isn't entirely untrue – he's never been much of one for touching people unless it served a practical purpose – but he feels a bit weird about having said it, especially after he catches Jeremy taking Richard aside and telling him off, very quietly, when Richard slugs him in the arm a couple of days later. James sees them looking at him, makes himself turn away, hoping Richard won't do anything daft like apologize - because if he does, James knows he'll have to tell him the truth, and then things will get weird.
But Richard doesn't say anything in the end, just stops nudging James with his elbow so much, stops smacking the back of James' hand when he reaches for the last biscuit. And stops trying to piggyback on James on the way back from the pub when he's pissed, which he has done once or twice and which James had found extremely annoying. So that's something.
Neither Richard nor Jeremy can help touching James sometimes by accident, though, or when they get caught up in cocking about and forget, and then pull away hurriedly afterwards. But they try. In a way James finds it all very touching (no pun intended) that they're so solicitous, especially for a couple of middle-aged men who have cultivated a reputation for thoughtless cocking about. But then again they have their sensitive spots, too, he realizes, though neither Richard's nor Jeremy's has been stated as explicitly as his. He can twit Richard about being short or about his middle-aged fans, but not about his art school background. And he can take the piss about Jeremy's bald spot and his obsession with Kristen Scott Thomas until the cows come home, but no one ever comments on the fact that he sometimes gets a bit damp around the eyes when talking about old war films. So if he's got one thing they don't much take the piss about, maybe that's normal. God knows they're happy enough to call him out about every other bloody quirk he might or might not have.
-----
The trouble is, after all that time spent cataloging the moments, not touching becomes almost as much of a distraction as touching had been. Jeremy is a touch-y person, and often he reaches out with what seems like instinct, then catches himself before he actually makes contact – and every time James finds himself wondering about it. What would Jeremy's hand feel like? Would it be warm or cool? Dry, or a little bit sweaty? James catches himself looking at Jeremy's hands, trying to guess whether they'd be soft or rough. He thinks about putting his own hands on Jeremy. He thinks about the hair on Jeremy's forearms, how it might be wiry beneath his palm, how, if he took Jeremy by the wrist, he might feel a pulse against his thumb.
And then eventually, late at night, when he's stopped fooling himself, he thinks about Jeremy's mouth on his mouth, on his face and the skin of his throat, on his cock. He thinks about drawing Jeremy's thumb into his mouth, sucking on it. He wonders what Jeremy would taste like – smoky, perhaps, like cigarette ash, or just salt sweat and skin.
Would his lips burn at that touch? Would his tongue? His fantasies always end with anaphylaxis, which puts something of a damper on his libido.
-----
He tries to make himself stop thinking about it, for couple of months – distracts himself with Top Gear scripts and plans for theoretical side projects and a substantial amount of internet porn – but it doesn't take, not really.
It's a ridiculous idea; he and Jeremy would almost certainly end up murdering each other sooner rather than later. They nearly do now, without sex being involved. And they're on the telly, which James is slowly coming to understand means all sorts of mad things – that strangers will speak to him in public as if they're friends, for one, and will therefore presume to give him advice on what shirt he's wearing during a late-night run to the corner shop for crisps. He's already been abused drunkenly twice in the pub due to that first episode of Top Gear in which he'd discussed his Bentley; if it comes out he's shagged Jeremy he may never be able to show his face in public again without getting it stamped on.
Except that even though he quickly establishes how terrible an idea it is, that doesn't actually help. Instead it just makes him feel a bit stupid, even stupider than one-sided attractions usually make him feel. It's awkward to be so aware of his body and its relationship to other bodies, almost as if he's having to grow into himself all over again. Maybe if I just wait long enough, James thinks, it will go away. I mean, puberty did. Eventually.
-----
And then, one day, when he's watching Jeremy, he sees it. Jeremy reaches for him, then stills – but it isn't the stillness that James sees. It's the way he stops moving but keeps reaching, the way he touches James without touching.
Oh, James thinks. Oh. He meets Jeremy's eyes, makes a connection that needs no physical component.
Jeremy sucks in a sharp breath. They're in the office, not anything like alone, but for a moment they might as well be in the vacuum of space for all that James sees of anything else around him. He hadn't thought there was any chance of this, and the thought that Jeremy might want to touch him – might want to be with him – makes him go stock still, the moment drawn taut with possibility.
Then suddenly the rest of the world comes rushing back, and James twitches, looking around to make sure no one has seen.
When he looks back, Jeremy jerks his head to one side. Let's go somewhere else. He doesn't need to say it for James to understand.
Richard is arguing with someone on the phone, and Andy is staring at a computer and rubbing his eyes, so it's easy enough to step out without having to make an excuse. They slip into an office down the hall. James closes the door behind him and leans against it. Jeremy is suddenly very close.
"James—"
James flinches away from the touch before he can stop himself. Jeremy stops, takes a step back, looking hurt and then, abruptly, ashamed.
"Sorry, I thought—"
"No," James says, and then, "yes, absolutely." He can't bear the look on Jeremy's face, and so he reaches out, grips Jeremy's shoulder through the fabric of his jumper. A safe place. "God, Jezza. Yes," he says, trying to infuse it with all the feeling of which he is capable, and is rewarded when Jeremy's expression eases into mere wariness.
"But," Jeremy prompts.
"This is going to sound mad," James says. Slowly, deliberately, he slides his hand down Jeremy's arm, past where his sleeve ends to the first bit of warm skin at his wrist and down, until he can take Jeremy's hand with his own. He pulls it to his own bare arm, glad of the fact that he'd taken off his own jumper earlier, wraps Jeremy's hand there and holds it for a count of fifteen.
"What are you showing me? That you've still got both arms? Well done, then."
James laughs. "No, you arse," he says. He pulls Jeremy's hand away and lets it drop. "The thing is, I can't... I can't touch you." Jeremy's brow furrows and James hurries on. "I mean, I can, but I've got some sort of reaction - it makes me break out."
"Are you taking the piss?" Jeremy asks, drawing back a little.
"I'm not, really I'm not, Jez. That's why—" He gestures at his arm. "You'll see it for yourself in a minute or so."
"Just me, or...?"
"Just you."
Jeremy frowns. "Bloody weird." He doesn't say anything for a long moment, and James bites the inside of his cheek, almost certain that he's about to be told to fuck off. "Soap?" Jeremy asks, finally.
"Not as far as I can tell," James says, trying not to sigh with relief. "Not the Dunsfold soap, certainly. Nor," he gives an embarrassed little cough, "your cologne." Jeremy raises an eyebrow but, amazingly, doesn't comment on that.
"How the hell'd you discover it was me?"
"We shook hands after my audition," James says. "And then later—" He hesitates, not sure if he wants to draw Jeremy's attention to just how much the other man had touched him, in those early days, before they even really knew each other. "A couple of times, you touched my elbow. Things like that. I noticed after a while."
He holds his arm out. Already the skin is beginning to redden. Jeremy leans down to get a closer look but doesn't touch him – in fact, he clasps his hands behind his back with a pointed flourish, like a small child in an art museum. It's weirdly endearing, and James has to stifle a smile.
"See?"
"Hmm," says Jeremy, and then, straightening up, "Christ. James..." He swallows hard, and James watches the bob of his Adam's apple for a long moment before he realizes Jeremy isn't looking at him.
"Jez," he says. Please don't give up on me. "You alright?"
Jeremy makes a little harrumph noise, but does at least look up. "I should be asking you that," he says. James just raises an eyebrow at him, and after a moment Jeremy says, "Oh, James, it's only... I'm only wondering if it's a sign from Somewhere Out There that this isn't one of my usual brilliant ideas." He's clearly trying to sound flippant but hasn't quite managed it, and James feels a little pang in his chest at the reminder that Jeremy might be as uncertain as he.
Of course, he can't say any of that. Instead he says, "Never thought I'd see the day Jeremy Clarkson let the universe get the better of him."
"Yes, well," Jeremy says. "I can't exactly solve this with a hammer. Unless you have a tool kink." Almost before the words are out of his mouth his expression begins to brighten. "Actually, that's not entirely unlikely, given that it's you."
Before James can come up with a response to that which is appropriately repressive, someone thumps on the door, a series of heavy, irritated knocks that makes him startle so hard that, despite standing still, he nearly trips over his own feet.
"If you two are done plotting world domination in there," says Andy's voice, "we need to talk about the new Citroën supermini."
"In May's Britain no one will ever have to talk about superminis," says James, and then, "But we'll only be a moment."
"Fine," Andy says.
Faintly James can hear the sound of Andy's footsteps retreating, but he lowers his voice anyway. "Come back to mine," he says on a sudden impulse. "After this. We'll... I don't know what we'll do, but I— I want you, Jez, and now that I know I'm not alone in this, I don't want to wait any longer." He can feel his hands shaking a little at being so bold, but they're neither of them young enough to waste time.
Jeremy swallows hard. "And you won't let me accidentally murder you?" James is touched to see how concerned Jeremy is – he can't dare hope for anything more than friendship and sex (hadn't even dared hope for that much, until a few minutes ago), but he finds he's glad of the reminder that it is friendship and sex, and not just sex.
"I won't," James promises, and it seems to be enough.
-----
They work through the rest of the afternoon without mentioning it again, though James notices Jeremy taking extra care not to touch him, even accidentally. When Andy finally declares they can go it's well into evening and the autumn sunlight is just visible through the windows, fading into dusk. James finds Jeremy looking at him from across the room, silent and still amongst the bustle of everyone else getting ready to leave. The intensity is enough to make James' knees go wobbly and his pulse start hammering in his chest, but he meets Jeremy's gaze evenly, and after a moment Jeremy nods.
All right, James thinks. All right. He pulls his jumper on again, not particularly feeling the cold but having a vague sense that he'll want this layer between them, at least at first. Then he goes home.
Jeremy leaves after him but, typically, is already there when he pulls into the drive, lurking at the corner of the walk by the front door. The nearest street lamp lights the area generously, and when he gets out of the car James can see the edge of Jeremy's shadow outlined against the concrete, elongated but still intensely familiar.
As soon as they get the door shut behind them Jeremy steps in close, his hand coming up to rest on James' shoulder, but this time James doesn't flinch. Maybe it's because he can't quite see what's happening – the only light in the hallway is what filters in from the street through the mottled glass of the window above the door, white moonlight and yellow street light and shadows from multiple angles are layering over each other – or maybe it's because he's had enough time, now, to get used to the idea of touching, of being touched.
He puts his own hands on Jeremy's waist, thumbs brushing over the fabric of Jeremy's thin, super soft jumper. James can feel the warmth of him even through two layers of cloth, which probably means the thing is a bit useless, for a jumper's usual purposes. But it's ideal for this – for feeling the shape of Jeremy beneath his hands, for being able to touch him without fear. "I bet I could get you off like this," he says, greatly daring. "With all your clothes on. Make you come in your pants."
Jeremy groans, a low, enticing sound. "C'mon, then," he says. "I dare you."
James chuckles and slides his hands up and around Jeremy's front, scraping his fingertips over the fabric until he finds Jeremy's nipples. Jeremy moans again just at that touch; James wonders if he's really that sensitive, or if it's just the fact of being touched at last, no matter what sort of touch it is. He rubs one with his thumb, pinches it, and Jeremy makes a choked noise in the back of his throat. His fingers convulse around James' shoulder, bruising through the material of his clothing.
"James—"
Christ, I'm going to get hard every time he says my name for the rest of my life, James thinks. He's momentarily grateful for the darkness, since it means that Jeremy can't see how flushed he's getting.
He pinches Jeremy again, feels the nub of his nipple tightening, hardening beneath his touch. He can't help but imagine what that skin would feel like without the layers of fabric in the way – warm, a little rough, maybe a little bit hairy. He rubs his thumb over it again, relentless, coaxing it tighter, until Jeremy is gasping a little, choking out half-words that never quite finish forming.
"Ja— Fu— Ah—"
"C'mon," James murmurs. "C'mon, Jez, yeah, just—" He slides his other hand down to cup Jeremy's cock through his trousers. It's half-hard already, or at least what James estimates to be half-hard without being able to get an actual look at it. James wishes he could touch it, taste it, get the bitter salt of it against his tongue and swallow it down, but he settles for curling his hand around the bulge as best he can manage through the denim.
"Christ," Jeremy says explosively, and then, "James, you sodding bastard." The last word comes out as a moan, and then before James quite knows what's happening Jeremy pushes him back against the wall of the entryway, nudging James' legs apart so that he can step between them and press their bodies together.
"Jezza—" Now it's James' turn to moan. Jeremy's hand on his shoulder is strong enough to hold him in place, and with one rough shove of his thigh he makes James shudder and bite down on his lip. James feels his hands scrabble against the wall, searching for something to hang onto, and after a moment he grabs onto Jeremy's hips, palms curved over the rough denim of Jeremy's trousers and fingers just touching the cool, smooth leather of his belt. Disconnected like this the whole situation seems faintly unreal; even with plenty of things to touch and feel, even with the shape of Jeremy and his warmth and the smell of his cologne sharp in James' nose it doesn't quite seem like Jeremy who's there with him. He wishes he could touch Jeremy properly, tear off all the layers of protective fabric between them until he can skim his hands up over Jeremy's round belly and chest, get handfuls of warm skin and pull their bodies together.
Only the fear of doing himself a serious injury keeps him from giving in to that impulse.
Jeremy has him pressed up against the wall, rutting against him in slow, grinding thrusts. James' heart is pounding in his chest, his cock thick and heavy in his trousers. Jeremy's mouth is close enough that James can feel breath shudder across his skin, can smell the tang of sour cream and onion from the crisps they'd been eating that afternoon. "Fuck," James murmurs, and he can hear how broken his voice sounds. "Fuck, Jez, oh—"
Then suddenly Jeremy is gone, the vacant space he leaves behind shockingly cold against James' front. James sucks in a breath; Jeremy is standing a full three feet away, and even in the dappled light James can see that his eyes are squeezed tightly shut, hands fisted at his sides.
"Jez—"
"I'm not made of bloody ice," Jeremy snaps, without opening his eyes. "If I keep doing that I'm bloody well going to kiss you, and then you'll turn into a balloon and die, and I'll never get off."
James laughs before he can stop himself, but apparently it's the right thing, because something in Jeremy's shoulders eases then, and he opens his eyes.
"James..."
"I know," James says. "Fuck, I want to kiss you, too, Jez, like you've no idea. Once we figure this thing out..." Purely from the point of view of justice it ought to be Jeremy reassuring him, but it's obvious that it isn't going to work out that way. "Once we figure this out I'll let you put your mouth wherever you bloody like."
Jeremy swallows. "Christ," he says, sounding unsteady.
"If you want," James says unnecessarily, but his burst of uncertainty is derailed by the sudden appearance of an idea. He holds up a hand. "Wait a moment. I just thought of something."
The driving gloves are just where he'd left them, at the back of a shelf in the hall closet, neatly folded one on top of the other. He slips them on and backs out into the hallway. Jeremy hasn't moved, and even in the dim light James can see the hesitancy that's come into his expression. Without really stopping to consider what he's doing James lifts a hand to stroke across Jeremy's cheek, over the curve of his jaw and down his neck to the collar of the jumper. Jeremy jumps at the first contact, but after a moment he laughs, shoulders easing, and leans into it.
"What is that, one of those kinky driving gloves?"
"Should I be intrigued that you can recognize them, still?" James teases, but he's half distracted, caught up in the reactions he can just barely make out on Jeremy's face. The press of his thumb into the space just below Jeremy's jaw earns him a flutter of eyelashes; a scrape of leather-clad fingertips over stubble results in parted lips, a wisp of breath escaping them. The cotton lining of the gloves is smooth against his hands. "Jez..." He swallows down the words that want to come out, settling instead for, "Can you take your shirt off?"
Jeremy nods, and James steps back to let him pull off first the jumper and then the shirt beneath. Before they've even hit the ground James is stepping in close again, running his hands over Jeremy's chest and shoulders. His hands feel a bit stifled now, but the gloves are thin enough to give him better access than trying to touch through the knit of the jumper. And the leather is clearly doing something for Jeremy, who shudders at the first touch of gloved thumb over nipple and then keeps shuddering as James rubs slow circles there, teasing at first and then rougher.
"Oh, god," Jeremy says, and then, "I know what you're thinking, you dirty old man. I'm not a leatherist, really I'm not." It would be more convincing if he weren't quite so breathless.
"No?" James says, sliding one hand up to cup Jeremy's chin and run two fingers across his lips.
"Well," Jeremy says. "Maybe a little." He sucks the fingers into his mouth, and James groans at the feel of it – even through the glove he can feel the heat of Jeremy's mouth and the press of his tongue. He flexes his fingers against Jeremy's tongue and Jeremy's teeth close around them, not hard enough to hurt or to pierce the glove but hard enough to be felt.
James' cock is hard again and he lets himself grind against Jeremy's thigh, pressing him back against the wall as they reestablish their rhythm. Jeremy moans around his mouthful of leather and puts his hands on James' arse, pulling him closer.
"Yeah, Christ, like that," James says. "Just like that. Jez, Jezza..." Jeremy's face is so near, and James has to fight the temptation to lean their foreheads together. "I want you to fuck me, Jez," he whispers. Somehow it's easier to say it when he knows Jeremy can't say anything back. "Want your mouth on me and your hands and your cock, god, want to suck you for hours..." Jeremy makes a groaning noise that manages to convey his agreement very effectively. His hands are tucked into James' back pockets, fingertips digging in through the denim to hitch James closer and closer. The zip of James' jeans is hard between them, a thin line of solidity against his cock where it's pressed into the curve of Jeremy's thigh. James shudders and grinds himself down harder, riding the edge of that sensation, the smell of Jeremy and the feel of him, even as muffled as it is. "Jez," he says again, helplessly, "Jez, please— just—" and then he tips over the top of the wave and comes apart.
It takes him a long moment to stop shaking, and when he finally manages it he realizes that his forehead is resting against Jeremy's cheek. He straightens up all in a hurry. His hands are sweating inside the gloves, one spread flat across Jeremy's chest and trapped between them, the other still half-sucked into Jeremy's mouth. And the inside of his briefs feels distinctly damp, in a way that's probably going to become very unpleasant in about thirty seconds. But it seems more important that in the darkness of the hallway he can't quite make out Jeremy's expression, only that his eyes are closed and he's breathing heavily. "Jezza? Are you—"
Jeremy opens his eyes and parts his lips, letting James' fingers slip from his mouth. "I'm dead, is what I am," he slurs. "Dead from sex."
Something in James' chest eases at this declaration. "Sorry," he says, for lack of anything better to say, but doesn't bother trying to make it sound actually apologetic.
"I'll send you the undertaker's invoice," Jeremy says.
James takes a step back somewhat awkwardly, and then another, until they're standing on opposite sides of the hallway. "Worth it, though?"
"Of course," Jeremy says immediately. "You daft bugger, of course it was. And, you know, I want to, too."
"Pardon?" James decides it's probably highly unreasonable to expect himself to be able to follow a conversation with Jeremy when he's sex-dulled and sticky.
"I want to... do all those things you said." Jeremy takes a step forward and carefully puts one hand on James' shoulder. "The naked ones," he clarifies. "Once we figure out... you know."
"Oh," James says. "Good. That's... good." His forehead is beginning to itch a little. "Bugger," he says, lifting a hand to scratch at it.
"Shit," Jeremy says, "did I get you there? I can't see—" He reaches for James' wrist and luckily gets a handful of glove rather than skin, then recoils. "Shit, sorry—"
James can hear him fumbling against the wall for the light switch. "No, no," James says. "It's fine. I'm fine. It's—" He blinks at the sudden brightness as the hall light goes on. Jeremy is looking at him worriedly.
"I did get you," Jeremy says, the corners of his mouth turned downwards. "You've gone all red there."
"It's fine," James insists. "It was only for a few seconds. The swelling won't last long. You won't have to cough up the money to pay my undertaker's invoice any time soon." Gathering up his courage he reaches out very deliberately and strokes the side of Jeremy's face. The glove is still sweaty and sticking to his hand but all he can focus on is the way Jeremy is looking at him.
It's a long moment before Jeremy looks away, but he looks back again almost immediately. "I'm also going to send you the invoice for the laundering of my pants," he says.
James snorts. "Don't push your luck."