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"Right," says Richard. "New series, new game." He leans back against the sofa cushions and props his feet up on the coffee table, narrowly missing James' mug.
"Urgh, Hammond!" James says, but his disdain is perfunctory at best. He slides the mug down to the other end of the table. "All right, what've you got in mind? And don't say Telling The Fans Ridiculous Things, because you do that anyway, and it's driving me mad. One woman told me I was terribly brave for learning how to live with an allergy to chocolate."
"Sorry," Richard says, unrepentantly.
"She patted me on the head," James says, sounding a bit bewildered.
Richard bites the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. "You love it," he says. James reaches down and flicks his ankle.
"In any case," James says. "What's the new game?"
They'll be off traveling tomorrow, filming the first substantial bits of series twelve, and it's tradition by now for the two of them to decide now on what game they'll be playing throughout the series. Previously they've had Airport Shopping Dare (winner: Richard) and Finding The Dodgiest Foreign Food Ever That's Still Edible (winner: James, by a landslide, and in retrospect Richard knows he shouldn't have agreed to play).
"Well, you know how yesterday Jeremy was whingeing about not getting as much hate mail these days, and how he's losing his touch, blah blah blah?"
"So?"
"So, he's going to be even worse than usual this series, I'm sure. I'm proposing that we bet on how bad."
James picks up his mug, considering, and takes a drink. "Hmm. By what standard of measurement?"
"Same as he uses. Number of pieces of hate mail."
"Just about him, or in general?"
"Oh, erm." He pauses to consider. "In general, I guess. Because, well, no Morris Marina, but we have got a caravan bit, and since we can't actually prevent him from talking, more's the pity..." James snickers at that. "… I'm thinking it'll be hard to tell what they're actually angry about."
"Fair enough," James says. "Final bets to be made after the edit?"
"Yeah, that sounds good."
He takes his feet off the table and leans forward, offering his hand. James takes it, and they shake, sealing the rules of the game. Their hands touch for a split second longer than necessary, James' palm rough and warm, and Richard shifts nervously.
It freaks him out a little, the way he and James seem to be heading inexorably for… something. The kind of something that involves late-night phone calls and secret smiles and the touch of James' hand, heavy and proprietary at the base of Richard's spine. The kind of something that comes with knowing that James smells faintly of American Hard Gums. The kind of something that possibly at some point will include kissing, and then clothing removal, and then even more somethings of an intriguing nature that Richard has spent too many hours trying not to imagine.
They know each other too well for him to deny it, even if it makes him uneasy. It doesn't matter that they haven't spoken about where this is going, or that Richard can't pinpoint the moment that it began. It's inevitable, like two trains on the same track, and he can't figure out whether it will end up spectacular, or a disaster. All he knows is that he's glad James is Captain Slow, because it means he's got plenty of time to decide, before they crash into each other.
"So how'd you decorate your truck?" Richard says, letting his hand fall.
James smiles that slow smile of his, and says, "You'll have to wait and see."
-----
The next morning he drives out to Bedfordshire for the shoot. When he gets through security the crew is already there, bustling around, and though Richard knows he could retreat to one of the warm offices provided by the track to wait, instead he just gets himself a cup of coffee and stands shivering in the cool air of the morning, enjoying the contrast of the too-hot cardboard cup against his palms paired with the whipping chill of the wind, the way the sensations keep him from thinking too much. When Jeremy arrives a few minutes later he tells Richard he's an idiot and shoves at his shoulder until they're through the doors and inside.
James arrives twenty minutes after that, and rolls his eyes when he sees they're arguing.
"Gentlemen," he says, tipping his head in greeting and going directly for the kettle. Dimly Richard registers James performing his tea routine, but he's too caught up in making his point to pay much attention.
Then Jeremy says, "James," obviously seizing the opportunity to co-opt someone else for his argument, "tell him he's mad for standing out in the cold when there's a perfectly good sofa in a nicely heated room right here."
"James," Richard says, unwilling to be outdone, "tell him he's a uncultured boor who has no appreciation for the finer things in life."
James considers for a moment. "You are mad for standing out in the cold," he says, and Richard feels himself begin to pout a little. "But you," James says, turning to Jeremy who's looking smug, "are a soulless philistine and you haven't an ounce of poetry in your entire body. So honestly, I'd rather be mad." He tips his teabag into the bin.
"Ha!" Richard says, poking a triumphant finger in Jeremy's direction. "See?" He grabs James by the elbow, just giving him enough time to pick up his cup of tea before dragging him outside. James makes a huffing noise but allows himself to be manhandled out into the open air.
After a moment, Richard realizes that he's left his jacket inside, but he wraps his arms around himself gamely, unwilling to complain. James drinks his tea without saying anything, shooting the occasional sideways look at Richard as he begins to shiver. The scraggly grass on the other side of the closest loop of track flutters back and forth in the wind.
Richard thinks about shuffling closer to James, who he knows from years of friendship gives off heat like a furnace. Would that be weird? Probably. There's a line between acknowledging that things are weird between them and actually making things more weird, and he suspects that might cross it. Stop thinking about it.
"Okay, actually, I'm bloody freezing!" Richard says abruptly, and James starts to laugh his big donkey bray of a laugh, the sound echoing across the tarmac.
Luckily, before Richard has to admit defeat someone opens the door and hollers for them, and he gets to go back in for the run-through without sacrificing his pride.
-----
When they go out to actually start filming, James hands Richard his jacket with an upraised eyebrow, and Richard takes it, puts it on, and then thumps him. But he's too nervy about filming to be really irritated by James' silent sarcasm. They've been away from this too long, and he's stuck halfway between excitement and the fear that always comes right before a shoot – the fear that suddenly they'll look like what they are: three sad, middle-aged blokes reliving their childhoods. The fear that this won't be funny, that this won't be fun anymore.
So far those fears have yet to be realized, but Richard's always aware that any day could be the day, any film could be the film that makes him decide he'd rather chuck it in.
When the cameras come on, though he shakes off his misgivings. There's no time for thinking too much when they're making it up as they go along. Especially when Jeremy decides he has a point to make.
"What matters to lorry drivers?" Jeremy asks, rhetorically. "Murdering prostitutes?" Richard's fingertips dig into his thigh through his jeans, out of sight of the camera.
"Fuel economy," he offers weakly, in a futile attempt to sound reasonable.
"Erm," says James, and then he suggests brightly, "breakfast!"
-----
As soon as the director says, "Cut!" Richard nudges James with his elbow.
"Twenty five," he murmurs, knowing James will remember their game. James snickers.
"Come on. That's forty at least."
"If it airs," Richard says.
"What are you two blithering on about?" Jeremy says, rudely. Richard and James look at each other, and then away, grinning. Jeremy says, "What?"
-----
After lorry-driving-Stig appears, Richard ups his guess to thirty five, and James raises his to forty five. Before they can really get into the argument about whether they'll get complaint letters from Americans, though, they have to dive into the first challenge.
Powersliding a lorry is, it turns out, ridiculously entertaining and ridiculously difficult. Richard's hands are tight on the wheel, and though he's having tremendous fun he's not, actually, getting anywhere. At least he gets to honk the giant lorry horn, which makes his inner eight year-old do a little hop of glee.
After that, while Jeremy reluctantly gets checked out by the paramedics for the really quite unpleasant scrape across his back and his bent leg and the litany of objects that have been inserted into his person, James and Richard lean against the outside of the ambulance and take the piss a little, idly.
"We're waiting to find if the paramedics are going to have to amputate," Richard narrates to the camera. "Or perhaps just surgically remove all his new accessories."
James makes a pained face.
"Although," Richard says, "maybe he won't want that gear lever removed. I'm not sure I believe him when he says it was an accident."
"The lady doth protest too much," James says.
Richard nods. "Exactly. 'You hear about it on the internet, people with gear levers in them.'" His Jeremy impression isn't very good, but it doesn't seem to matter, given that Dave, holding the camera, has gone bright red from trying not to laugh. "Right."
"He googled for it deliberately, I suspect."
"And now he's going to go home and keep that gear lever in his sock drawer," Richard suggests.
"Eurgh," says James, but then, like he can't help himself, he says, "For those special evenings." Richard grins.
"Take it out at night sometimes and stroke it," he says, "whisper sweet nothings into the leather..."
"Oh, god, stop!" James says, putting his hands over his ears and turning away.
"...tell it not to worry, that he'll never leave it for a torrid affair, that he and the gear lever from the Ford GT are just good friends..." He stops after that, though, because it's no fun if James isn't listening enough to be traumatized. "Aw, come on," he says, putting a hand on James' elbow. James lowers his hands tentatively. "I've stopped being evil now, I promise." He gives James his best puppy dog eyes and James drops his hands the rest of the way, sighing.
"I'm scarred now," he says. "Mentally scarred. I'll never be the same again." But once the camera goes off he gives Richard a sly little look, the corners of his mouth turning up in smug amusement. Richard finds himself storing the moment away in his memory for some future time when he can appreciate it properly. Stop it, he tells himself. Don't do this to yourself. He knows he's going to do it anyway.
"Come on," he says. "Let's go and see if he's done being a kabob yet."
-----
Hitching up the trailers is much the same as the powersliding challenge, though it's frustrating that Jeremy gets a bit of his own back when Richard's trailer hitch bracket inexplicably fails to function... twice. He doesn't dare think about what that's doing to his cargo. But then they're on to the real fun of the afternoon – the race.
After a bit of a shaky start he figures out how to handle the gears, and suddenly he's flying through the course. Flying so much that he almost tips the bloody thing on one of the corners, but that's of no consequence. What really matters is that he passes Jeremy, clearly broken down by the side of the track, his lorry swarming with men in yellow vests doing things with bits of tubing, and that means Richard's not going to lose this race. He's not likely to win it, mind, but he isn't going to lose, and that makes all the difference. After that he takes the curves with even more daring, finally figures out how to change gear without causing his cargo to make alarming noises, and it's smooth sailing all the way to the finish line. Which he only destroys a little bit.
James is standing by the side of his own truck, looking not quite smug, as Richard hops out of the cab.
"Come on, then," Richard says, mindful that they're on camera but feeling elated enough that he's not quite able to resist a bit of innuendo. "Let's see yours." James gives him a look and walks Richard round to the end of his lorry, hand just barely resting in the small of Richard's back. Richard stifles a shiver. After a brief examination of the cake-smeared interior James touches his arm again and then lets go, taking the lead as they make for Richard's truck to see what remains of his cargo.
Richard keeps up a running monologue for the camera, trying to mix bravado with a bit of realism. If he's honest, he has an inkling that something has indeed gone wrong – perhaps a wheel has come off, and that's why it had stopped rolling about. It's bound to be less rubbish looking than James' cake, though, he thinks. I mean, it's a car! They can take quite a bit of abuse, we've proved that over the years… Right?
"Headlights are gonna be smashed to bits," he says, wincing a little. "I daren't look..."
For a moment, James doesn't say anything.
"Yes, I know," Richard says. "It's bad. I'm sorry." He doesn't quite know who he's apologizing to – perhaps to the car itself – but it just feels like he ought to somehow.
"Well, it's worse than that," James says, utterly deadpan, and it does nothing at all to prepare Richard for what he sees when he peers around the door.
The lorry is empty. Richard can't quite figure out what's happened at first, thinking, Have the crew pulled it out or something? and then as he leans in his eyes flick to the battered latch of the doors and he finally gets it. He'd lost it. He'd lost the whole car.
Oh, shit, he thinks. There's a strange emotion building helplessly in his chest, and he doesn't quite know what it is. Frustration, perhaps, because he hadn't expected to be good at this, not really, but he also hadn't really expected to be this bad.
James and the crew are all looking at him, waiting for his reaction, but all he can come up with it, "Is that bad for my points?" James looks at him like he's a complete idiot, and Richard would bristle at that except that right now 'complete idiot' might be a fair assessment.
"Yeah," James says, and then, "More to the point, where is it?"
"I don't know!"
Before James can ask him anything else Jeremy's lorry comes into view over the crest of the hill, and Richard's eyes go wide. Because he'd seen the straw, and the stove, and he'd known that Jeremy was set up for failure, but somehow it hadn't quite connected until this moment that Jeremy's lorry was actually going to be on fire.
Richard feels himself starting to grin, and suddenly he realizes what the emotion is. It's glee, pure and simple. No one else gets to do this. How did I luck into getting paid for being completely and utterly useless? I love my job, he thinks, and he knows he'll be coming back to do more of this, as long as they'll let him.
"Oh my god," he says. "Oh my god," and then he's laughing, half-doubled over with the force of it.
James pokes him in the side. "Stop laughing, Hammond, you idiot. We have to film this! We're not going to get a second take, you know."
"Sorry," Richard chokes out. "Sorry," and then he gulps in some air, and gets himself marginally under control, enough at least that he can get into position where the track ends and the dirt path begins, and pretend not to be giggling like a crazy person.
The lorry pulls around onto the last curve of the track, and the cameras are rolling, and James says, "Fire!" quite convincingly, like he'd only just noticed.
Richard says, "You're on fire!" but Jeremy doesn't seem to hear him. He pulls up, and brakes, and rests his elbow on the windowsill of the cab with an upraised eyebrow like his lorry is an Aston and he's James Bond, suave and sexy.
"Have we got the next challenge, lads?" he says. James points, and Jeremy turns to look at the flames. "Hmm."
Richard turns to James, who's watching the burning lorry with a somewhat stunned look on his face, as if it's only now hit him exactly what he's seeing. Richard says, rhetorically, "How can we be this rubbish?" and that's when James begins to shake with laughter.
-----
Richard floats all the way to the next challenge, high on adrenalin, throwing out brilliant lines with the kind of genius that comes with exhilaration, barely registering Jeremy's jibes about the trucks or the way James is watching him with a fond smile on his lips.
It doesn't help that the next challenge is about speed, which means he's definitely going to win it. Changing gear seems to come a lot easier when all he's trying to do is put his foot down, and he races ahead of the others, pushing his lorry as fast as it will go.
He doesn't snap out of his daze until after he's off the road, sitting beside Jeremy and waiting for James to finish his last lap of the two mile bowl. He's just reaching for a cup of tea from the tray one of the runners has brought out when he hears the screech of rubber, sees James' tires lock as he brakes too hard, too quickly.
Idiot! Richard thinks, all giddiness gone as he scrambles up off the concrete barrier only to have Jeremy grab him by the arm.
"Don't run out onto the fucking track, Hammond, you know better," he says, but his expression is worried. Richard snarls.
"If he's hurt—" he says, but the radio is already crackling.
"I'm fine," comes James' voice, and then he laughs a little, shaky. "But you sure as hell better have got that shot." Jeremy lets go of Richard's arm.
James is fine, of course – his truck hadn't actually jackknifed or fallen over or burst into unplanned flames – but Richard's body doesn't seem to get that. His heart is beating frantically, and he knows his hands are trembling a little bit so he stuffs them into his pockets.
What the hell? he thinks. This is ridiculous. James drives the lorry off the track, slowly this time, and pulls up beside the crew, then climbs out of the cab. Almost immediately he's swarmed by paramedics, who lead him over to a place where he can sit and turn his neck from side to side and do all the stupid things they make you do after an accident.
It's a strange feeling, to be between takes and not have James looking at him, not have James right at his side smelling of cigarettes and making Richard warmer with his quiet presence. It shouldn't matter so bloody much, he thinks, and he's not sure if he likes that it does matter.
James isn't looking at any of them, not really, just flicking little glances up from his feet and then back as the paramedics give him a quick once-over. Richard tries not to hover, because he knows James hates that, but it's hard because he suddenly really, really wants to touch James. If he can touch him, Richard thinks, even if it's just his elbow or his wrist or his shoulder, then he'll know James is really okay.
But when the paramedics pronounce themselves satisfied, James steps away before Richard can get close, before any of them can.
"Just—give me ten minutes, okay?" he says, swiping a hand through his hair.
"Sure, sure," says the director, and James takes off for the tiny concrete toilet built at the end of the track without looking back. Richard stuffs his hands back into his pockets and shifts his weight from one foot to the other, trying to decide whether or not to follow.
Before he can really make up his mind, however, Jeremy gestures at one of the camera crew to join him and makes for the toilet himself, grinning. Somehow seeing that James is fine has turned Jeremy's 'I am a cock' dial all the way up to eleven; Richard sighs and trails along behind.
By the time Richard arrives, James has apparently barricaded himself into one of the toilet stalls and is responding with grunts and injured silences to Jeremy's increasingly ludicrous provocations.
"I can't believe you couldn't even brake properly," Jeremy says. "I'd have thought of all the skills in the world, you'd have that one. Well, actually, of all the skills in the world, you've got 'being boring' and you've got 'dresses like a granny.' But of all the driving skills in the world, I'd have thought braking would be right up your alley."
James sighs. "Very funny, Clarkson." Jeremy looks disappointed at not getting more of a response, but rallies and tries again. Richard tunes him out, eyes idly tracing the lines of grout between the tiles as he turns everything over in his head. He's tried not thinking about it and not talking about it – in fact, that's all he's tried – and that doesn't seem to be working. Maybe it's time to try something else.
Because he wants James, wants to bury his hands in that hair and kiss that soft mouth. He wants to know the way James tastes, the way James would tremble under Richard's hands and lips and teeth.
But it's more than that, it must be. If it were only that, then he wouldn't feel the way he does right now.
Richard shifts his weight, wanting all of them gone, wanting to be alone with James so that he can grab him by the shirt front and ask, "What are we doing?" and "Why haven't you made a move yet?" and "Why am I so scared when you get hurt?"
Jeremy blithers on and Richard plays along without really listening, his mind on the way James watches him when he thinks Richard isn't looking, his eyes dark and hooded and intense.
"Was it really that frightening?" Jeremy asks impatiently.
"Yes," James says, the tiniest bit choked.
The tone of his voice makes Richard feel fierce and protective. It suddenly occurs to him that maybe James is scared, too. Not about skidding the lorry – although he can believe that James might honestly need a bit of time to recover – but about this, the thing that's not-quite-happening between them.
When Richard had been in the arctic, preparing for the race to the pole, there had been a part of him waiting for that sudden shock – waiting for the mechanics of dog sledding to click into place in his mind, waiting for that spell-binding moment when the majesty of his surroundings would overwhelm him and bring him to his knees with awe.
It hadn't come, because he'd been too busy cramming new things into his brain, and falling down in the snow and the dog shit, and worrying about freezing his knob off.
And then one day he'd simply stopped waiting and got on with it.
This is like that, Richard thinks. I've been thinking it would just happen, and it doesn't work like that. Because maybe James is just as lost as he is, maybe they've each been waiting for the other to take the lead. I can make it happen.
"Jeremy," he says. "Go away for a minute. You, too," he says to Dave, holding the camera. Jeremy gives him a raised eyebrow but goes, taking the crew with him. Richard counts to ten silently before he speaks. His heart is beating wildly still, but not with fear now.
"The sooner you come out," he says, making his voice low and sweet and convincing, "the sooner you can take me home with you."
There's a long pause, and just when Richard starts to think that he's fucked it up, that he's terribly, horribly wrong about everything ever, there's a click, and the door of the toilet stall swings open. James locks his gaze on Richard's, considering. Richard fights to keep himself still.
"Are you serious?" James asks quietly. Richard nods, rapidly. "Why now?" James asks. "We've been edging closer to—" He swallows, and Richard watches the bob of his Adam's apple. "Haven't we?"
Richard nods again, more slowly this time. "I thought so." It's killing him not to just jump into this, not to leap forward and shove James against the wall of the stall and get down to business, but he knows that he has to get James to where he is, mentally, before they can do the fun stuff.
"So why now?" James asks.
"I—" He considers a number of replies, then shrugs. "Got tired of waiting."
James boggles at him, then begins to laugh. Richard doesn't quite know how to respond to that, but after a moment he grins, because anything that makes James laugh must be a good idea. James looks at him, still laughing, and says, "Come here, you pikey."
Richard dives forward, lifting up his arms to wind around James' neck. James' hands spread flat across Richard's back, pulling him close, and then they're finally kissing, hot and urgent like something's been keeping them apart for far too long. Which, Richard supposes, something has, even if it was only their own stupid fear and hesitance. He opens his mouth beneath James' insistent tongue, tasting him, all milky tea and smoke. James groans and licks across Richard's lips and then deeper, along the ridge of his teeth and into the contours of his mouth. Richard goes up onto his tiptoes, pressing closer, kissing harder. James stumbles backwards a bit as Richard's weight falls on him, their mouths parting. Then James finds his balance and leans back against the wall of the toilet stall, pulling Richard with him. Richard buries his face in James' neck and kisses that, too, wet, open-mouthed kisses over the roughly stubbled skin and along the underside of his jaw.
"Richard," James groans, making the word sound like a prayer. "Jesus, Rich--" One of his hands slides down Richard's back to the curve of his arse, finds one buttock and squeezes, and Richard's cock jumps where it's pressing, already hard, against James' thigh.
Then James' hands are pushing him away, instead of pulling him closer, and Richard gives a little whine as he's forced to take a step back, his hands sliding from around James' neck to rest on his chest. James is looking at him with huge, dark eyes, and he's panting, and his mouth is red from their kissing.
"I'm not doing this in a toilet," he says breathily. Richard pouts, and gives James his best pleading look, but James shakes his head. "I want you spread out on a bed where I can ravish you properly."
Richard shivers, and licks his lips. "I'm, er. I'm in favor of that plan, actually." They grin at each other stupidly for a long moment, then Richard shakes himself, and steps back, willing his erection away with a series of really unpleasant thoughts about Anne Robinson over the bonnet of a Morris Marina. "Right. So, get back in there, and let me and Jez convince you for the camera, all right?"
James nods, and with one look back over his shoulder, Richard goes to tell Jeremy he can come back in.
-----
When Jeremy comes back in he's got the card for the next challenge in his hand, and he and Richard tempt James out with the prospect of careful driving and pornography, which Richard is sure will make it into the final cut.
They film some more, and the sun sets, and Richard begins calculating how many letters they're going to get from irate fangirls about destroying James' piano. Then finally they're done, walking with Jeremy back out to the lot where they've parked, having been given firm instructions to show up at the same time the following morning. Jeremy tears off like a bat out of hell, and for a long moment Richard and James stand facing each other in the cold evening air, not saying anything. Richard can see his breath puffing in the air in the light of the car park's overhead lamp.
"Second thoughts?" James says quietly.
He looks anxious, and Richard burns to wipe the expression from his face, to replace it with that stunned lust he'd seen earlier. He says, "No," firmly, and watches the shy smile come back onto James' face.
"Good," James says. He pulls out his keys. "Back to mine?"
"Yeah," Richard says, digging in his pocket for his own. "I'll go first, just in case you get lost."