Insecurity
Title: Insecurity
Pairing: OT3
Insecurity
It wouldn’t be such a big deal if it wasn’t for the fact that he’d only got back from France about a week ago, and since then he’s only seen Richard and Jeremy once. Once. And that was in the BBC London offices, in a room with about fifteen other people, where they had been attending a meeting about the new series of Top Gear, to go over ideas and to discuss whether they conformed to the channel’s rigid protocol and rules.
They had barely even had time to say hello properly: Jeremy had just asked him if the Jag was still in one piece and then they were ushered to their seats, and hurried through hours of endless boring discussions. They had to have one of these meetings at the start of filming for every single new series they did, and James, along with his co-presenters, absolutely despised them. They embodied the bureaucracy of the BBC - which they all hated, although perhaps none of them so much as Jeremy, who spent most of the meeting arguing with the new rules.
Top Gear Dog spent the meeting in her usual fashion, seated loyally at Richard’s feet, occasionally lifting her head lazily to gaze at him in adoration. The object of her affection twitched impatiently in his seat, clearly bored and desperately wanting to be elsewhere. James had smiled affectionately at the sight - Richard never could stay still for more than a few moments at a time.
James had stayed quiet through Jeremy’s ranting and raving, occasionally nodding his head in support but focusing more on surveying his two lovers closely. Having not seen them in the flesh for six weeks, he had been looking forward to getting to see if they’d changed at all. Of course, they hadn’t, not really - six weeks wasn’t really that long a time, he supposed. It had just felt longer.
They both looked good, though, with deepened tans and healthy complexions. Richard was moving without any of the lingering stiffness that had still been plaguing him from his whiplash when James had headed off on his trip, and Jeremy looked remarkably awake - no shadows under his eyes telling of too much work.
When they had finally been released from the building, they’d only managed to grab ten minutes together in the underground car park, which wasn’t private enough for James to be able to do what he wanted to do: hold them both, incredibly tight; to kiss them and reassure himself that they were still there, that even after the time apart Richard and Jeremy still wanted them to continue their relationship.
The insecurity he was feeling now, sitting in the dentist’s office a couple of days after their brief reunion, had been simmering away under the surface throughout his entire time in France. The three of them had been sleeping together for about three months, which wasn’t a very long time when taking into consideration the fact that they only ever got time to actually do anything together very occasionally. That made the relationship - or whatever it was they had between the three of them, James hadn’t quite decided what to define it as yet - fairly new and fragile, and James had been concerned that his absence would somehow shatter the bonds they had formed in that time.
He had been in contact with Richard and Jeremy while he had been away, of course: phone calls, e-mails - which Richard had shown him how to use just before he had gone away - and the occasional postcard in either direction. The one Jeremy and Richard had sent from the Isle of Man had been an aerial view of the familiar mountain road, with a simple message on the back: Wish you were here! The rest of their correspondence had been largely factual and polite, with enquiries into the health of the other party; the weather; and cars being the most common topics of conversation. Being men, they hadn’t really broached the question of missing one another, or discussing their feelings. It just wasn’t really done.
The postcard had alleviated James’ doubts and worries somewhat, although he couldn’t really help the sour bite of jealousy that curled in his throat at the thought of the two of them on holiday together for a week: spending every day together and possibly a few nights (Jeremy and Richard’s wives were very, very understanding, probably due to the years they had spent putting up with their raucous, impetuous husbands).
Still, he had attempted, with overall success, to convince himself that he wasn’t going to be pushed out of their threesome just because he had been filming in France for a few weeks. Jeremy and Richard were impatient, tempestuous gits, he had told himself, but they weren’t that fickle. No way.
The article he was reading now, in some gossip magazine he didn’t really recognise but was the only alternative to Country Life (he wondered with genuine bemusement just why a city dentist would have that in his waiting room), however, had undone all his self-convincing.
He had, unfortunately, opened the magazine up to find himself looking at a picture of himself, Jeremy and Richard, on set filming one of the episodes for the last series of the show. It wasn’t a particularly striking picture, at first glance. They had been doing the news segment, and Jeremy and Richard were leaning in towards one another, probably debating the quality of some car or another, while James’ attention had been captured elsewhere and he was looking off-screen.
The caption below the picture, however, had imbued it with a meaning that James would never have picked up on if it wasn’t written in black and white. “Richard Hammond and Jeremy Clarkson bicker good-humouredly on the set of Top Gear, while James May stares off in confusion into the distance. Perhaps he’s wondering, like us, what his function actually is on the show?”
Normally, he wouldn’t mind that sort of thing being put into print about him. He’s used to Jeremy and Richard getting lots of attention, and is quite content to let them get it. He has even called himself ‘that other one off Top Gear’ at times, and has laughed at the media’s habit of getting his name wrong. He knows he has his fans, but he is quite aware that Jeremy, with his habit of talking before thinking, and his extreme height, and Richard, with his good looks, cheeky comments and noticeably small stature, attract a good deal of the attention on the show.
At the moment, however, James isn’t feeling in the most robust of moods. He is still tired from the filming in France, he’s strained and tense because he hasn’t seen his lovers in far too long, and he really doesn’t need a magazine article echoing his own thoughts on paper. The article discusses, in as great a length possible for a tabloid magazine story, what exactly James’ purpose on the show is - or rather, his lack of purpose. James’ stomach clenches unpleasantly as the comments mirror his own worries about why he has actually been included in the presenting team. Jeremy and Richard, as a duo, go together well. They argue together amusingly, they enjoy doing the same things - namely driving fast and beating one another at competitions - and they interact with an ease that James envies. What does he do? Occasionally test some of the slower cars, join in on a few challenges - which he rarely ever wins anyway.
Stuck in a maudlin heap of despair, when the dentist calls James forward he goes mutely and obediently, whereas usually he frets and dithers and makes excuses, as he has ever since he was a child and had a tooth taken out in a rather painful fashion. He hates the dentist. On this occasion, however, he lies there in dull silence, letting the tall, scrupulously spotless man stick his fingers in his mouth and poke around without any complaining. His mind is whirling, spinning with hassled, stormy thoughts. What if Jeremy and Richard don’t actually need him at all? Perhaps he is just a hindrance, someone they sleep with and keep on out of pity more than genuine affection for him. He recalls the way Jeremy and Richard teased and joked about on their caravan holiday, and the way the two of them were off hiding vital parts of the car when they built the Caterham from scratch. The memories make him moan in lonely agony.
“Sorry, sorry,” the dentist mutters, before telling him that he’s going to have to get two new crowns. The day is just getting better and better, it seems, James thinks wryly, and miserably prepares himself for the treatment.
When he is finally released, his mouth tingly and numb, he returns to his car and drives home in a state of utter depression. There is a voice in his head telling him that he’s being melodramatic, and that it’s just his lack of self-confidence making him feel like this, but the image of the picture and its accompanying caption is stronger than that voice at the moment. On his way out, he even picked up the magazine casually and stuffed it into his back pocket while he paid the astronomical price for his two new caps. It’s sitting in his bag now, resting ominously between a Ginster’s pasty and a flying manual.
When he arrives back at his house, he curses. The Ford GT blocking up his drive looks very out of place next to his Bentley and in front of his rather quaintly nostalgic-looking house. It’s an old street, one of the oldest in London, and the GT is loud and garish in the face of his small garden and brick walls. The car isn’t what makes him curse, however, it’s the fact that the car means that Jeremy is here. James had completely forgotten what day it was, but it is in fact Friday, which means that tonight is the night that Richard and Jeremy are staying over. They’d planned it over the phone and internet while he was away, the two other men working to clear their schedules, and before they’d had to rush off the other day in the BBC car park, they’d told him they would be over at seven.
It’s actually only half six, which means Jeremy is early, and he is also nowhere to be seen, but that doesn’t really mean anything because he and Richard have spare keys to James’ house, as he does to theirs. The giving of keys to one another wasn’t symbolic, really: it happened back in the early days of their working together and was more a practicality than a statement of love - although James recalls feeling rather warm inside when Jeremy had suggested it, as though their team was meshing together.
As he lets himself in, he is greeted by the smell of something cooking - a kind of meat, although he can’t identify what just yet. From the front room there’s the sound of music, and after a minute he recognises Richard’s voice as he yells, “Ha! Beat you! You are totally rubbish at this.”
“You are a bloody cheat!” Jeremy’s indignant retort follows instantly, and James nods to himself. Of course, they came together. They would do, he supposes morosely.
“You can’t cheat on this, Jez; it’s a car racing game. I won, fair and square.”
“Pushing me off at that corner doesn’t count as fair play, mate.”
“You should have been more careful,” Richard replies, and James enters the room just in time to see him poke Jeremy in the side. The older man immediately attacks Richard, pushing him to the ground and play-wrestling with him.
“Hello,” James says, his voice sounding rather hollow in the sunlit living room.
“James!” Richard’s delighted voice only eases the sharp pang of miserable jealousy in James’ stomach slightly, which he feels a bit guilty for, especially when the younger man bounces to his feet and hops on his feet next to him excitedly. “How are your teeth? Did you have to get a needle? I hope your mouth isn’t too sore, because we got some proper food in for you, and we’re going to cook you a welcome home meal. None of your microwavable rubbish tonight, mate!”
“He says we’re cooking, but in reality, I’m doing the hard work while he gets in my way,” Jeremy adds, having struggled to his feet with less energy than his diminutive co-presenter.
“Sod off,” Richard tells him with a smile and a wave of two fingers, and then he’s telling James a story about how when he went to the Isle of Man, Jeremy managed to burn a huge pan of scrambled eggs that were supposed to feed nine people.
James finds himself whisked away for the rest of the evening into the kitchen, and sits down at the table while Richard and Jeremy move around him in seeming domestic bliss, cooking what looks like some kind of pasta and pork and an interesting-looking sauce, all the while regaling him with wild and wacky tales from their time on the Isle of Man, and a few other stories from the six weeks James was away for.
He knows, deep down, that they aren’t doing it deliberately. What on earth would be their motivation for coming over to his house, cooking him dinner and leaving their families at home, just to rub it in that they’ve had a fantastic time without him? But he can’t seem to shake the image of that article in his mind, and he finds that it takes all his effort just to smile and laugh in all the right places as they chatter away.
The dinner, when it is finally finished, is absolutely gorgeous. The pork is perfectly cooked; golden brown and tender, and it’s served on a bed of pasta with a sun-dried tomato sauce. It isn’t beautifully presented - Richard just serves it haphazardly and instructs James to dig in while he scatters parmesan not just over the pasta but over most of the table and floor as well - but it tastes delicious. Even Fusker, who has been making a point of not hanging around the house too often recently - possibly in protest at James’ abandonment of him to the next-door neighbours for over a month - appears at the table, sniffing curiously and weaselling a few scraps of meat from Richard’s plate.
“I called Gordon Ramsey and asked him to help me with the pork,” Jeremy tells him. “Then I added some of my own distinct brand of genius and made his version better.”
“Really?” James asks, eyebrow raised at Jeremy’s typical knowing arrogance.
“I did the pasta - it’s one of my mum’s old recipes,” Richard chips in, mouth full. “Bet you got some dead good grub in France.”
“It’s about the only thing the Frogs can do - cook,” Jeremy adds cynically.
Then the two of them are off again, talking about what they’ve been up to. James eats, enjoying the food and trying not to look too mournful as Jeremy and Richard tell him a story involving - as far as he can gather, anyway - a spanner and a seagull.
It isn’t until his plate is empty that he actually has to force himself to listen properly to what is being said, and that’s only because Richard leans over and taps his nose. “Oi. You with us?” he demands.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m listening.”
“No, you weren’t,” Richard tells him, smiling at him with amusement and slight curiosity in his eyes. “You were miles away.”
“Sorry,” James says, eyes flickering downwards. “I’m just … still tired. From France.”
“Well, you can’t be jet-lagged, there’s only an hour’s time difference,” Jeremy says matter-of-factly. “You haven’t talked about France much - did you have a good time, or not?”
“It was fine, really-“ James begins.
“What was that Oz bloke like?”
“Well, he was …” Oh, God. How to describe Oz? “Different. A bit strange at times, but we got on well enough.”
“Not as good as us, basically,” Richard pronounced. “Once you’ve worked with us two, you’ll never be able to go back to other presenters: they’re in a different class.” He’s grinning, but there’s still a touch of concern in his chocolate eyes that makes James look at Jeremy in order to avoid it.
The taller man is grinning at him with a decidedly wicked glint in his eyes. “Why don’t we take your mind off your tiredness?” he asks, a low, seductive growl colouring his tone.
Despite the insecurity and doubt James is feeling, he can’t deny his lust any more than he could deny his appreciation for the good food earlier. The reaction in his groin is visible in his jeans, and makes Jeremy’s grin widen. “Bed,” Jeremy says, and then James finds himself being hauled upstairs.
Working as a team, Jeremy and Richard make quick work of his jeans and shirt, removing them efficiently and flinging them to the floor without caring where they land. James finds himself lost in Richard’s kiss, which is hot, and urgent, and pleasantly wet.
Jeremy’s mouth is busy elsewhere, following a meandering path down his stomach to his penis, where he puts his tongue to good use, licking and sucking and kissing in all the right places, making James moan against Richard’s lips.
James’ lust, however, can only sustain him for so long, however, and even the pleasurable feelings his two co-presenters are creating for him can’t stop his mind’s eye flicking back to the article in that dratted magazine. He freezes against Richard for just a second before recovering, trying desperately to push the image out of his head, but it’s long enough for the younger man to pick up on his hesitation.
“James?” he asks, pulling back and holding himself up.
“It’s nothing,” James whispers back, but unfortunately Richard is always able to tell when he’s lying.
“James,” he says, more firmly this time, “Are you sure you’re up for this?”
“The answer to that seems clear from this end!” Jeremy informs him from his position further down the bed. A well-placed foot from Richard nudges him back from James’ groin with a grunt.
“I don’t want to have sex with you if your heart isn’t really in it,” Richard tells James gently, his eyes full of confusion and concern.
James lifts an arm up to cover his own eyes, so he doesn’t have to look at that expression on either Richard or Jeremy’s face. They’re going to hate him, he knows it. Call him weak, and clingy, and mock him for taking this far too seriously.
He lies there for a few long, tense moments, before Richard attempts to lift his arm up from over his face. He can’t bear the contact, because it’s gentle and Jeremy is asking what’s wrong and he is terrified because this moment suddenly feels like make or break time.
He rolls away from their touch, getting to his feet and grabbing his dressing gown from the chair, pulling it on and heading downstairs without giving them an explanation. He knows they’ll follow.
Sure enough, they appear in the living room a few minutes later, and even though James has his head in his hands he can feel their worried gazes upon him.
“James, what is it?” Jeremy asks, sounding awkward and unsure - totally unlike him.
He can’t answer - not yet, anyway. He curses himself mentally for feeling like this.
“Listen,” Richard’s voice cuts in, “Whatever it is, don’t worry. You can tell us. First, though, I’m going to make a pot of tea. You always want tea when you’re bothered about something.”
It’s a nice thought, and it almost takes James completely over the edge. But what actually does that is the feel of the sofa dipping as Jeremy cautiously sits down beside him, and then his arm slipping around his shoulders and squeezing timidly.
He lets out a kind of half-sob that makes Jeremy jump in fright beside him, and then ask almost frantically, “James, please, what is it?”
“It’s, oh Christ, Jez, it’s stupid,” is all that James can say, and considering his failure of speech he manages instead to fish around on the floor by the sofa and locate the bag he’d stuffed the magazine in earlier on. Tearing it out with shaking hands, he finds the page and shoves it at Jeremy as though it will explain everything.
Jeremy shoots him a concerned glance before turning his attention to the article and reading it, his face paling slightly as he does so.
He has just lifted his head to look at James with wide eyes when Richard re-enters the room with a tray of cups and a pot of tea. It’s an absurdly sweet gesture that makes James feel even more awful that he is about to bring up his doubts and suspicions that the two of them would be better off without them.
Jeremy holds out the magazine to Richard, who puts down his tray of drinks and takes it with the same confused look Jeremy had been wearing just a moment ago.
He takes slightly longer to read it than Jeremy, and when he looks up, he’s wearing a frown. “James, why are you so upset about this? It’s just some arsehole journalist who made a story up out of nothing. We get stuff written about us all the time - you know better than to take any notice of it. Especially when it’s in - what’s this thing called? Inside Stars? James …”
“I don’t think that’s the point,” Jeremy suggests quietly. “I have a feeling that James is feeling a bit … left out.”
“What? James, don’t be ridiculous, we’re a threesome, nothing’s going to change that! This stuff is trash,” Richard says, and tosses the magazine across the room to demonstrate his point. Jeremy winces as it just misses a vase.
“Is it?” James asks, alarmed at how tearful his voice sounds. “I just get these doubts, you know? I mean, what exactly do you keep me around for? The two of you are so vibrant, and charismatic, and then there’s dull, boring me, with my classical music and rubbish clothes and tepid conversation. The two of you don’t really need me - you had a great time while I was away, you’ve said so yourselves-”
“No we bloody haven’t!” Jeremy butts in. “When did we say that?”
“Well, all your stories about the Isle of Man and hammers and sparrows or whatever it was you were on about,” James says irritably.
“You utter dolt,” Jeremy says. “We had a good time, but didn’t you get our postcard?”
“Well, yes,” James says, looking up at Jeremy with a frown.
“Well, then,” Richard says, as thought everything should suddenly make perfect sense. “’Wish you were here’? We spent the entire holiday moaning about how much we wished you were with us. I think we drove Mindy and Francie insane.”
“We drove them insane? I nearly went insane all on my own. I’m going insane right now, James,” Jeremy tells him petulantly. “I haven’t had sex for nearly seven weeks and on the night I’m finally about to break my enforced celibacy, you start thinking you’re not wanted any more!”
“What do you mean, enforced celibacy?” James asks in confusion.
“Well, we weren’t about to have it off without you there,” Jeremy says in exasperation. “One: it wouldn’t be any fun, and two: we need you in order to broach the height difference problems!”
“James, we need you for lots of things,” Richard adds. “You’re off your rocker, thinking you’re dull. You’re our rock, you keep us grounded. We‘d be rubbish without you.”
James allows a small smile to reach his lips, and it’s enough to make Richard grin enthusiastically back at him and launch himself onto the sofa with Jeremy and himself in a flurry of elbows and knees.
It takes a moment for Jeremy and James to readjust themselves to his presence, as he perches on both their laps. “I like your classical music too, you nutter. It’s Jeremy’s music I hate. And you have better dress sense than him, too, although not quite as good as mine.”
“Your shirts should come with a bloody hazard warning device,” Jeremy interrupts good-naturedly, his arm sneaking back around James’ shoulders.
“Shut up,” Richard responds automatically, shifting a bit and making both men groan. He may be small, but he’s not that light, when he’s resting on your legs. “And your conversation isn’t at all tepid. It’s usually just a bit too clever for us thick-headed twats. So, James May,” he finished, leaning forward and draping his arms around the long-haired man’s neck, “Stop being an insecure prick and give me a kiss.”
James, feeling somewhat overwhelmed with a strange kind of warm, comfortable emotion, obeyed, and instantly found a tongue exploring his mouth - not quite lazily, because there was always a kind of energy to Richard’s movements, even in sleep - but almost languidly, and with a lot of attention.
When Richard finally pulled away, leaving James panting slightly, he smiled brilliantly at him. “I love you, mate. And you,” he said, pinching Jeremy’s arm.
“Oh, Christ,” Jeremy said in mock frustration, but with soft eyes and a gentle smile. “Alright then, you big girls. I love the pair of you too. And never,” he warned, shooting a pointed look at James, “Never, ever doubt it.”
“Thanks,” James managed to say after a moment collecting himself. “I love you two as well.”
“Well,” Jeremy said after a moment of comfortable, meaningful silence, “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, can we please have sex?”
“Ever the romantic,” Richard observed wryly.
“I’ll show you romance,” Jeremy promised, leaning forward dangerously, and then moved at a speed surely not advisable for a man with two slipped discs, grabbing Richard and throwing him over his shoulder while at the same time using his other hand to pull James to his feet. “Now, to the bedroom.”
James put up no arguments, his mind now completely at ease and that warm, bubbly feeling in his stomach erasing the horrid insecurity that had been there before. The teapot and cups remained on the table downstairs, completely forgotten about.
Just under an hour later, lying with Richard wrapped around him and Jeremy’s arm pulling them both close, he smiled with a contented sigh. In response, Richard’s grip tightened, even in sleep, and Jeremy stretched slightly.
“You ok?” he murmured, clearly half asleep himself.
“Perfect,” James mumbled back, giving into the pull of slumber. “No more doubts.”
Fin
Note: I know, I know, I used the old "oh, their wives don't care" thing again, but it's nice and easy that way and I can just concentrate on the boys. Who are lovely, let's be honest!
Pairing: OT3
Insecurity
It wouldn’t be such a big deal if it wasn’t for the fact that he’d only got back from France about a week ago, and since then he’s only seen Richard and Jeremy once. Once. And that was in the BBC London offices, in a room with about fifteen other people, where they had been attending a meeting about the new series of Top Gear, to go over ideas and to discuss whether they conformed to the channel’s rigid protocol and rules.
They had barely even had time to say hello properly: Jeremy had just asked him if the Jag was still in one piece and then they were ushered to their seats, and hurried through hours of endless boring discussions. They had to have one of these meetings at the start of filming for every single new series they did, and James, along with his co-presenters, absolutely despised them. They embodied the bureaucracy of the BBC - which they all hated, although perhaps none of them so much as Jeremy, who spent most of the meeting arguing with the new rules.
Top Gear Dog spent the meeting in her usual fashion, seated loyally at Richard’s feet, occasionally lifting her head lazily to gaze at him in adoration. The object of her affection twitched impatiently in his seat, clearly bored and desperately wanting to be elsewhere. James had smiled affectionately at the sight - Richard never could stay still for more than a few moments at a time.
James had stayed quiet through Jeremy’s ranting and raving, occasionally nodding his head in support but focusing more on surveying his two lovers closely. Having not seen them in the flesh for six weeks, he had been looking forward to getting to see if they’d changed at all. Of course, they hadn’t, not really - six weeks wasn’t really that long a time, he supposed. It had just felt longer.
They both looked good, though, with deepened tans and healthy complexions. Richard was moving without any of the lingering stiffness that had still been plaguing him from his whiplash when James had headed off on his trip, and Jeremy looked remarkably awake - no shadows under his eyes telling of too much work.
When they had finally been released from the building, they’d only managed to grab ten minutes together in the underground car park, which wasn’t private enough for James to be able to do what he wanted to do: hold them both, incredibly tight; to kiss them and reassure himself that they were still there, that even after the time apart Richard and Jeremy still wanted them to continue their relationship.
The insecurity he was feeling now, sitting in the dentist’s office a couple of days after their brief reunion, had been simmering away under the surface throughout his entire time in France. The three of them had been sleeping together for about three months, which wasn’t a very long time when taking into consideration the fact that they only ever got time to actually do anything together very occasionally. That made the relationship - or whatever it was they had between the three of them, James hadn’t quite decided what to define it as yet - fairly new and fragile, and James had been concerned that his absence would somehow shatter the bonds they had formed in that time.
He had been in contact with Richard and Jeremy while he had been away, of course: phone calls, e-mails - which Richard had shown him how to use just before he had gone away - and the occasional postcard in either direction. The one Jeremy and Richard had sent from the Isle of Man had been an aerial view of the familiar mountain road, with a simple message on the back: Wish you were here! The rest of their correspondence had been largely factual and polite, with enquiries into the health of the other party; the weather; and cars being the most common topics of conversation. Being men, they hadn’t really broached the question of missing one another, or discussing their feelings. It just wasn’t really done.
The postcard had alleviated James’ doubts and worries somewhat, although he couldn’t really help the sour bite of jealousy that curled in his throat at the thought of the two of them on holiday together for a week: spending every day together and possibly a few nights (Jeremy and Richard’s wives were very, very understanding, probably due to the years they had spent putting up with their raucous, impetuous husbands).
Still, he had attempted, with overall success, to convince himself that he wasn’t going to be pushed out of their threesome just because he had been filming in France for a few weeks. Jeremy and Richard were impatient, tempestuous gits, he had told himself, but they weren’t that fickle. No way.
The article he was reading now, in some gossip magazine he didn’t really recognise but was the only alternative to Country Life (he wondered with genuine bemusement just why a city dentist would have that in his waiting room), however, had undone all his self-convincing.
He had, unfortunately, opened the magazine up to find himself looking at a picture of himself, Jeremy and Richard, on set filming one of the episodes for the last series of the show. It wasn’t a particularly striking picture, at first glance. They had been doing the news segment, and Jeremy and Richard were leaning in towards one another, probably debating the quality of some car or another, while James’ attention had been captured elsewhere and he was looking off-screen.
The caption below the picture, however, had imbued it with a meaning that James would never have picked up on if it wasn’t written in black and white. “Richard Hammond and Jeremy Clarkson bicker good-humouredly on the set of Top Gear, while James May stares off in confusion into the distance. Perhaps he’s wondering, like us, what his function actually is on the show?”
Normally, he wouldn’t mind that sort of thing being put into print about him. He’s used to Jeremy and Richard getting lots of attention, and is quite content to let them get it. He has even called himself ‘that other one off Top Gear’ at times, and has laughed at the media’s habit of getting his name wrong. He knows he has his fans, but he is quite aware that Jeremy, with his habit of talking before thinking, and his extreme height, and Richard, with his good looks, cheeky comments and noticeably small stature, attract a good deal of the attention on the show.
At the moment, however, James isn’t feeling in the most robust of moods. He is still tired from the filming in France, he’s strained and tense because he hasn’t seen his lovers in far too long, and he really doesn’t need a magazine article echoing his own thoughts on paper. The article discusses, in as great a length possible for a tabloid magazine story, what exactly James’ purpose on the show is - or rather, his lack of purpose. James’ stomach clenches unpleasantly as the comments mirror his own worries about why he has actually been included in the presenting team. Jeremy and Richard, as a duo, go together well. They argue together amusingly, they enjoy doing the same things - namely driving fast and beating one another at competitions - and they interact with an ease that James envies. What does he do? Occasionally test some of the slower cars, join in on a few challenges - which he rarely ever wins anyway.
Stuck in a maudlin heap of despair, when the dentist calls James forward he goes mutely and obediently, whereas usually he frets and dithers and makes excuses, as he has ever since he was a child and had a tooth taken out in a rather painful fashion. He hates the dentist. On this occasion, however, he lies there in dull silence, letting the tall, scrupulously spotless man stick his fingers in his mouth and poke around without any complaining. His mind is whirling, spinning with hassled, stormy thoughts. What if Jeremy and Richard don’t actually need him at all? Perhaps he is just a hindrance, someone they sleep with and keep on out of pity more than genuine affection for him. He recalls the way Jeremy and Richard teased and joked about on their caravan holiday, and the way the two of them were off hiding vital parts of the car when they built the Caterham from scratch. The memories make him moan in lonely agony.
“Sorry, sorry,” the dentist mutters, before telling him that he’s going to have to get two new crowns. The day is just getting better and better, it seems, James thinks wryly, and miserably prepares himself for the treatment.
When he is finally released, his mouth tingly and numb, he returns to his car and drives home in a state of utter depression. There is a voice in his head telling him that he’s being melodramatic, and that it’s just his lack of self-confidence making him feel like this, but the image of the picture and its accompanying caption is stronger than that voice at the moment. On his way out, he even picked up the magazine casually and stuffed it into his back pocket while he paid the astronomical price for his two new caps. It’s sitting in his bag now, resting ominously between a Ginster’s pasty and a flying manual.
When he arrives back at his house, he curses. The Ford GT blocking up his drive looks very out of place next to his Bentley and in front of his rather quaintly nostalgic-looking house. It’s an old street, one of the oldest in London, and the GT is loud and garish in the face of his small garden and brick walls. The car isn’t what makes him curse, however, it’s the fact that the car means that Jeremy is here. James had completely forgotten what day it was, but it is in fact Friday, which means that tonight is the night that Richard and Jeremy are staying over. They’d planned it over the phone and internet while he was away, the two other men working to clear their schedules, and before they’d had to rush off the other day in the BBC car park, they’d told him they would be over at seven.
It’s actually only half six, which means Jeremy is early, and he is also nowhere to be seen, but that doesn’t really mean anything because he and Richard have spare keys to James’ house, as he does to theirs. The giving of keys to one another wasn’t symbolic, really: it happened back in the early days of their working together and was more a practicality than a statement of love - although James recalls feeling rather warm inside when Jeremy had suggested it, as though their team was meshing together.
As he lets himself in, he is greeted by the smell of something cooking - a kind of meat, although he can’t identify what just yet. From the front room there’s the sound of music, and after a minute he recognises Richard’s voice as he yells, “Ha! Beat you! You are totally rubbish at this.”
“You are a bloody cheat!” Jeremy’s indignant retort follows instantly, and James nods to himself. Of course, they came together. They would do, he supposes morosely.
“You can’t cheat on this, Jez; it’s a car racing game. I won, fair and square.”
“Pushing me off at that corner doesn’t count as fair play, mate.”
“You should have been more careful,” Richard replies, and James enters the room just in time to see him poke Jeremy in the side. The older man immediately attacks Richard, pushing him to the ground and play-wrestling with him.
“Hello,” James says, his voice sounding rather hollow in the sunlit living room.
“James!” Richard’s delighted voice only eases the sharp pang of miserable jealousy in James’ stomach slightly, which he feels a bit guilty for, especially when the younger man bounces to his feet and hops on his feet next to him excitedly. “How are your teeth? Did you have to get a needle? I hope your mouth isn’t too sore, because we got some proper food in for you, and we’re going to cook you a welcome home meal. None of your microwavable rubbish tonight, mate!”
“He says we’re cooking, but in reality, I’m doing the hard work while he gets in my way,” Jeremy adds, having struggled to his feet with less energy than his diminutive co-presenter.
“Sod off,” Richard tells him with a smile and a wave of two fingers, and then he’s telling James a story about how when he went to the Isle of Man, Jeremy managed to burn a huge pan of scrambled eggs that were supposed to feed nine people.
James finds himself whisked away for the rest of the evening into the kitchen, and sits down at the table while Richard and Jeremy move around him in seeming domestic bliss, cooking what looks like some kind of pasta and pork and an interesting-looking sauce, all the while regaling him with wild and wacky tales from their time on the Isle of Man, and a few other stories from the six weeks James was away for.
He knows, deep down, that they aren’t doing it deliberately. What on earth would be their motivation for coming over to his house, cooking him dinner and leaving their families at home, just to rub it in that they’ve had a fantastic time without him? But he can’t seem to shake the image of that article in his mind, and he finds that it takes all his effort just to smile and laugh in all the right places as they chatter away.
The dinner, when it is finally finished, is absolutely gorgeous. The pork is perfectly cooked; golden brown and tender, and it’s served on a bed of pasta with a sun-dried tomato sauce. It isn’t beautifully presented - Richard just serves it haphazardly and instructs James to dig in while he scatters parmesan not just over the pasta but over most of the table and floor as well - but it tastes delicious. Even Fusker, who has been making a point of not hanging around the house too often recently - possibly in protest at James’ abandonment of him to the next-door neighbours for over a month - appears at the table, sniffing curiously and weaselling a few scraps of meat from Richard’s plate.
“I called Gordon Ramsey and asked him to help me with the pork,” Jeremy tells him. “Then I added some of my own distinct brand of genius and made his version better.”
“Really?” James asks, eyebrow raised at Jeremy’s typical knowing arrogance.
“I did the pasta - it’s one of my mum’s old recipes,” Richard chips in, mouth full. “Bet you got some dead good grub in France.”
“It’s about the only thing the Frogs can do - cook,” Jeremy adds cynically.
Then the two of them are off again, talking about what they’ve been up to. James eats, enjoying the food and trying not to look too mournful as Jeremy and Richard tell him a story involving - as far as he can gather, anyway - a spanner and a seagull.
It isn’t until his plate is empty that he actually has to force himself to listen properly to what is being said, and that’s only because Richard leans over and taps his nose. “Oi. You with us?” he demands.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m listening.”
“No, you weren’t,” Richard tells him, smiling at him with amusement and slight curiosity in his eyes. “You were miles away.”
“Sorry,” James says, eyes flickering downwards. “I’m just … still tired. From France.”
“Well, you can’t be jet-lagged, there’s only an hour’s time difference,” Jeremy says matter-of-factly. “You haven’t talked about France much - did you have a good time, or not?”
“It was fine, really-“ James begins.
“What was that Oz bloke like?”
“Well, he was …” Oh, God. How to describe Oz? “Different. A bit strange at times, but we got on well enough.”
“Not as good as us, basically,” Richard pronounced. “Once you’ve worked with us two, you’ll never be able to go back to other presenters: they’re in a different class.” He’s grinning, but there’s still a touch of concern in his chocolate eyes that makes James look at Jeremy in order to avoid it.
The taller man is grinning at him with a decidedly wicked glint in his eyes. “Why don’t we take your mind off your tiredness?” he asks, a low, seductive growl colouring his tone.
Despite the insecurity and doubt James is feeling, he can’t deny his lust any more than he could deny his appreciation for the good food earlier. The reaction in his groin is visible in his jeans, and makes Jeremy’s grin widen. “Bed,” Jeremy says, and then James finds himself being hauled upstairs.
Working as a team, Jeremy and Richard make quick work of his jeans and shirt, removing them efficiently and flinging them to the floor without caring where they land. James finds himself lost in Richard’s kiss, which is hot, and urgent, and pleasantly wet.
Jeremy’s mouth is busy elsewhere, following a meandering path down his stomach to his penis, where he puts his tongue to good use, licking and sucking and kissing in all the right places, making James moan against Richard’s lips.
James’ lust, however, can only sustain him for so long, however, and even the pleasurable feelings his two co-presenters are creating for him can’t stop his mind’s eye flicking back to the article in that dratted magazine. He freezes against Richard for just a second before recovering, trying desperately to push the image out of his head, but it’s long enough for the younger man to pick up on his hesitation.
“James?” he asks, pulling back and holding himself up.
“It’s nothing,” James whispers back, but unfortunately Richard is always able to tell when he’s lying.
“James,” he says, more firmly this time, “Are you sure you’re up for this?”
“The answer to that seems clear from this end!” Jeremy informs him from his position further down the bed. A well-placed foot from Richard nudges him back from James’ groin with a grunt.
“I don’t want to have sex with you if your heart isn’t really in it,” Richard tells James gently, his eyes full of confusion and concern.
James lifts an arm up to cover his own eyes, so he doesn’t have to look at that expression on either Richard or Jeremy’s face. They’re going to hate him, he knows it. Call him weak, and clingy, and mock him for taking this far too seriously.
He lies there for a few long, tense moments, before Richard attempts to lift his arm up from over his face. He can’t bear the contact, because it’s gentle and Jeremy is asking what’s wrong and he is terrified because this moment suddenly feels like make or break time.
He rolls away from their touch, getting to his feet and grabbing his dressing gown from the chair, pulling it on and heading downstairs without giving them an explanation. He knows they’ll follow.
Sure enough, they appear in the living room a few minutes later, and even though James has his head in his hands he can feel their worried gazes upon him.
“James, what is it?” Jeremy asks, sounding awkward and unsure - totally unlike him.
He can’t answer - not yet, anyway. He curses himself mentally for feeling like this.
“Listen,” Richard’s voice cuts in, “Whatever it is, don’t worry. You can tell us. First, though, I’m going to make a pot of tea. You always want tea when you’re bothered about something.”
It’s a nice thought, and it almost takes James completely over the edge. But what actually does that is the feel of the sofa dipping as Jeremy cautiously sits down beside him, and then his arm slipping around his shoulders and squeezing timidly.
He lets out a kind of half-sob that makes Jeremy jump in fright beside him, and then ask almost frantically, “James, please, what is it?”
“It’s, oh Christ, Jez, it’s stupid,” is all that James can say, and considering his failure of speech he manages instead to fish around on the floor by the sofa and locate the bag he’d stuffed the magazine in earlier on. Tearing it out with shaking hands, he finds the page and shoves it at Jeremy as though it will explain everything.
Jeremy shoots him a concerned glance before turning his attention to the article and reading it, his face paling slightly as he does so.
He has just lifted his head to look at James with wide eyes when Richard re-enters the room with a tray of cups and a pot of tea. It’s an absurdly sweet gesture that makes James feel even more awful that he is about to bring up his doubts and suspicions that the two of them would be better off without them.
Jeremy holds out the magazine to Richard, who puts down his tray of drinks and takes it with the same confused look Jeremy had been wearing just a moment ago.
He takes slightly longer to read it than Jeremy, and when he looks up, he’s wearing a frown. “James, why are you so upset about this? It’s just some arsehole journalist who made a story up out of nothing. We get stuff written about us all the time - you know better than to take any notice of it. Especially when it’s in - what’s this thing called? Inside Stars? James …”
“I don’t think that’s the point,” Jeremy suggests quietly. “I have a feeling that James is feeling a bit … left out.”
“What? James, don’t be ridiculous, we’re a threesome, nothing’s going to change that! This stuff is trash,” Richard says, and tosses the magazine across the room to demonstrate his point. Jeremy winces as it just misses a vase.
“Is it?” James asks, alarmed at how tearful his voice sounds. “I just get these doubts, you know? I mean, what exactly do you keep me around for? The two of you are so vibrant, and charismatic, and then there’s dull, boring me, with my classical music and rubbish clothes and tepid conversation. The two of you don’t really need me - you had a great time while I was away, you’ve said so yourselves-”
“No we bloody haven’t!” Jeremy butts in. “When did we say that?”
“Well, all your stories about the Isle of Man and hammers and sparrows or whatever it was you were on about,” James says irritably.
“You utter dolt,” Jeremy says. “We had a good time, but didn’t you get our postcard?”
“Well, yes,” James says, looking up at Jeremy with a frown.
“Well, then,” Richard says, as thought everything should suddenly make perfect sense. “’Wish you were here’? We spent the entire holiday moaning about how much we wished you were with us. I think we drove Mindy and Francie insane.”
“We drove them insane? I nearly went insane all on my own. I’m going insane right now, James,” Jeremy tells him petulantly. “I haven’t had sex for nearly seven weeks and on the night I’m finally about to break my enforced celibacy, you start thinking you’re not wanted any more!”
“What do you mean, enforced celibacy?” James asks in confusion.
“Well, we weren’t about to have it off without you there,” Jeremy says in exasperation. “One: it wouldn’t be any fun, and two: we need you in order to broach the height difference problems!”
“James, we need you for lots of things,” Richard adds. “You’re off your rocker, thinking you’re dull. You’re our rock, you keep us grounded. We‘d be rubbish without you.”
James allows a small smile to reach his lips, and it’s enough to make Richard grin enthusiastically back at him and launch himself onto the sofa with Jeremy and himself in a flurry of elbows and knees.
It takes a moment for Jeremy and James to readjust themselves to his presence, as he perches on both their laps. “I like your classical music too, you nutter. It’s Jeremy’s music I hate. And you have better dress sense than him, too, although not quite as good as mine.”
“Your shirts should come with a bloody hazard warning device,” Jeremy interrupts good-naturedly, his arm sneaking back around James’ shoulders.
“Shut up,” Richard responds automatically, shifting a bit and making both men groan. He may be small, but he’s not that light, when he’s resting on your legs. “And your conversation isn’t at all tepid. It’s usually just a bit too clever for us thick-headed twats. So, James May,” he finished, leaning forward and draping his arms around the long-haired man’s neck, “Stop being an insecure prick and give me a kiss.”
James, feeling somewhat overwhelmed with a strange kind of warm, comfortable emotion, obeyed, and instantly found a tongue exploring his mouth - not quite lazily, because there was always a kind of energy to Richard’s movements, even in sleep - but almost languidly, and with a lot of attention.
When Richard finally pulled away, leaving James panting slightly, he smiled brilliantly at him. “I love you, mate. And you,” he said, pinching Jeremy’s arm.
“Oh, Christ,” Jeremy said in mock frustration, but with soft eyes and a gentle smile. “Alright then, you big girls. I love the pair of you too. And never,” he warned, shooting a pointed look at James, “Never, ever doubt it.”
“Thanks,” James managed to say after a moment collecting himself. “I love you two as well.”
“Well,” Jeremy said after a moment of comfortable, meaningful silence, “Now that we’ve got that out of the way, can we please have sex?”
“Ever the romantic,” Richard observed wryly.
“I’ll show you romance,” Jeremy promised, leaning forward dangerously, and then moved at a speed surely not advisable for a man with two slipped discs, grabbing Richard and throwing him over his shoulder while at the same time using his other hand to pull James to his feet. “Now, to the bedroom.”
James put up no arguments, his mind now completely at ease and that warm, bubbly feeling in his stomach erasing the horrid insecurity that had been there before. The teapot and cups remained on the table downstairs, completely forgotten about.
Just under an hour later, lying with Richard wrapped around him and Jeremy’s arm pulling them both close, he smiled with a contented sigh. In response, Richard’s grip tightened, even in sleep, and Jeremy stretched slightly.
“You ok?” he murmured, clearly half asleep himself.
“Perfect,” James mumbled back, giving into the pull of slumber. “No more doubts.”
Fin
Note: I know, I know, I used the old "oh, their wives don't care" thing again, but it's nice and easy that way and I can just concentrate on the boys. Who are lovely, let's be honest!