Chapter Text
That same term, Jim invented a nickname for Roach. He dropped Bill and called him Jumbo instead. He gave no reason for this and Roach, as is common in the case of christenings, was in no position to object. In return, Roach appointed himself Jim's guardian; a regent-guardian, was how he thought of the appointment; a stand-in replacing Jim's departed friend, whoever that friend might be.
John Le Carré - Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy
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The place didn't know what it wanted to be. Anyone would have hesitated to call it a restaurant, and it was neither a pub nor a bar. Red and white chequered cloths pretended to be French bistro and the wine glasses played along, but the tumblers wanted to slide down a dark, polished wood counter with brass details, American style. The food, if one wanted to be kind, was an eclectic mix of central European and all corners of the British Empire.
The vodka came with clinking ice and a completely unnecessary twist of lime, but the glass felt good in his hand, heavy and cold.
Out of old, old habit, Jim had placed himself in a corner near the door, from where he could view the entire room. It began to dawn on him why he'd chosen this place for a drink: it was similar to himself. Motley parentage, patchy history, many languages; everything at once until it equalled nothing at all. And it had been a while since he'd known what he wanted to be.
The only thing he'd ever done whole-heartedly and followed through to conclusion was too painful to dwell on. Both the thing, and that fact.
Jim drained his glass and thought, not for the first time, how very old he was. Much older than his years, carrying the history of Europe on his scarred back.
When he started on his second vodka on the rocks someone who wasn't the waiter approached the table. Always wary but never showing it, Jim looked up, carefully arranging his face into a non-committal, mildly questioning look.
"Sir…?" the young man said on an upward note.
He was tall and nervous and wore glasses, a well-cut suit and leather shoes that spoke quietly of money. His hair tumbled into his eyes.
"Mr Prideaux…?"
Jim made a sound at hearing his own name, a small grunt-like thing that could mean anything, while his mind processed the young man's features. Good, clear skin, long British nose, greenish brown eyes behind the glasses, dark hair flopping softly over his forehead. Jim's brain refused to supply a name.
The young man offered it. "Bill Roach, sir, from Thursgood."
"Ah, yes." Of course it was, although Jim tried and failed to reconcile this slim, sleek youth with the chubby boy from the bad old Thursgood days. "Jumbo. Should've known."
Just what he needed. Ghosts from the past.
"Yes, sir." The sensitive face softened in a smile, pleased that Jim remembered.
There was nothing for it but to be polite. "Sit, Jumbo." Jim gestured towards the vacant chair. "You were transferred from Thursgood. Best thing ever to happen to you?"
"I wouldn't say that, sir. The next place wasn't much better. I missed... things."
Jim noticed the pause and ignored it. "Not the food, I'm sure."
"Perhaps not the food," Roach agreed with a smile and asked the hovering waiter for whatever Jim was drinking.
"Old enough to drink vodka in bars, eh," said Jim gruffly. "Shows how old I must be."
"You look exactly the same, sir." The boy's voice was warm, as though he really meant what he said.
"Leave the "sir" out, would you, Jumbo? I'm not your teacher any more."
Roach blushed an unbecoming scarlet. "What… what should I call you?"
He swallowed the "sir" but it hung unspoken in the air. Jim's smile was reluctant.
"Jim'll do."
Roach tried but couldn't get it across his lips. The arrival of the vodka saved him. Jim raised his glass in a salute.
"To our escape from Thursgood."
Roach laughed and Jim wondered how long it had been since he'd heard a laugh like that. It was like having a window thrown open in a stuffy room.
***
When they stepped out of the bar it was raining, but people were huddled around the tables on the pavement under the jut of the roof, smoking, talking loudly. Voices mingled with traffic and distant sirens, lights were reflected in the wet street. Jim was wonderfully drunk, but sober enough to note that Roach had been careful with his liquor. Highly uncharacteristic for a youth just down from Oxford, he thought before recalling something about Roach's mother loving her gin.
"Where are you staying?" asked Roach.
The "sir" continued to hang in the air after each sentence. Jim mentioned his hotel that was just round the corner, lost balance and reached out for a lamp post, missing it narrowly. Roach caught him.
"I have you," he breathed, and held on to Jim all the way to the hotel.
It did occur to Jim to protest, but this was a night of weakness and it felt good to be in someone's hands.
When they'd reached the hotel room, the effect of that last vodka hit home. The floor was a heaving sea, the ceiling spun, Jim fell on the bed like timber.
"Sir," said Roach somewhere behind him. "I'll stay. You can sleep."
Jim vaguely recalled mentioning insomnia across the faux-French tablecloth. There was something about Roach, some deep, undefined honesty, that put Jim off his guard. God, look at me, he thought, lying here with my back to the boy. Inexplicable, inexcusable behaviour.
Roach's hand was on his arm. "You're safe. I'm here."
At the image of Bill Roach, Protector Against Evil, Jim let out a great bark of a laugh. There was a moment of surprised and possibly hurt silence before the boy kicked off his shoes and settled in the armchair.
Bloody dangerous, Jim thought in a blur before sleep took him.
***
When he woke up with fur on his tongue and a clanging smithy in his head, Roach had gone, but there was a scrap of paper on the table with an address, a telephone number and the words PLEASE CALL.