Working Title: Romeo and Juliet in 1980s Utah
Listen. I have a PROBLEM when it comes to Gil Birmingham. I have a PROBLEM with Andrew Garfield’s chemistry with his male co-stars. I am OBSESSED with stories that focus on a crisis of faith. Under the Banner of Heaven came at my kneecaps with a baseball bat. Please enjoy the result.
It’s easy to fall into a routine with Bill.
The church taught that routine improved your life, and it’s hard to break habits he learned with his feet swinging from the pews. Prayer, breakfast, school, church, success, church, wife, church, children, church, prayer, breakfast, send the kids off to school. Wash, rinse, repeat.
It helps that both Bill and Jeb are early risers. The time Jeb used to reserve for morning prayer is now set aside for lacing up his sneakers, the rhythmic pounding of his feet on pavement, the sound of his heartbeat, and the taste of the desert in his lungs.
Bill starts his mornings lifting weights in the garage. Sometimes when Jeb returns from his runs, he can hear the clink of mental and sharp exhalations coming through the door adjacent to the kitchen. He finds himself lingering next to the door, glass of water condensing in his hand (he still can’t quite bring himself to try coffee). Once the noises stop, Jeb shakes himself and pads to the guest bathroom—bare feet sinking into the soft carpet as he crosses the living room.
Jeb showers fast, hands cleaning himself perfunctory. Bill’s bathroom is next to his, and he can hear the water in Bill’s shower click on as he steps out of his own. If he presses his hand against the tile, he can feel the vibrations of the water in the pipes. Occasionally, Bill will hum.
By the time Bill’s dressed and made his way down into the kitchen, Jeb is already at the table with a bowl of cereal and the newspaper. Jeb hands over the sports sections as Bill sits down, coffee in hand. Bill makes a soft sound of thanks and eats his own breakfast. Halfway through, they trade sections—Bill taking the news and handing back the Sports to Jeb.
They wash their dishes together, standing shoulder-to-shoulder at the sink. Bill will rib Jeb about the lack of good sports teams in Utah, and Jeb will laugh, delight bubbling in his chest at the teasing. Jeb will tell Bill what the girls are up to that day, and Bill will listen attentively, eyes crinkling in a half-smile.
They don’t talk about their cases, but they can tell when they need to give each other space and silence over one.
Usually, they go to work together. If they’re working different cases, however, they’ll pass each other going in and out, exchanging nods or slaps on the shoulder. Bill’s back is always warm under Jeb’s hand. Warm and solid, muscle shifting under his fingers.
It’s so easy to fall into a routine that sometimes Jeb forgets himself. Finds his foot automatically stretching underneath the table to slide against Bill’s. Leaning in on his way to work for a hug or tilting towards Bill as they watch Jeopardy together on the couch—Bill smugly beating Jeb out for the majority of the answers.
Jeb always catches himself. Pulls himself back in time.
Then, one day, he doesn’t. Jeb worked a late shift that left his head muzzy. He woke up early, as usual, and is using his morning to head into the station to finish off some paperwork. Bill’s still at the kitchen table, reading the paper. They’re talking—or Bill’s talking and Jeb’s yawning along—as Jeb washes his dishes in the sink.
He’s turning towards the garage door when Bill reminds him, “Don’t forget to take the steak out of the freezer. You’re cooking for the girls tonight.”
Jeb doesn’t even think about it. His mind’s already at work—already mentally filling out his paperwork. He moves on instinct: pivoting on one foot, pulling the steak out of the freeze, and—without thinking— bending down and kissing Bill on the corner of his mouth with a “yes, dear” on his tongue.
They both freeze. Jeb bent over Bill, one hand on his firm shoulder, heart skipping in his chest. Bill sitting ramrod straight, eyes wide in shock. This close Jeb can practically count Bill’s lashes. Can smell the soap on his skin. The memory of faint stubble on his lips.
Bill looks up at Jeb out of the corner of his eye, studying him in that quiet, piercing way that makes Jeb feel stripped down and laid bare. Jeb flushes, and Bill’s eyes crinkle in wry amusement. He smiles crookedly.
“It’s going to take more than that if you’re hoping for help with the dishes,” Bill tells him. He shakes out the paper and turns away from Jeb. “I’ve seen the mess you make. Clean as you go, Jeb.”
Jeb laughs wobblily and pulls back, running a nervous hand over his hair. His cheeks are still hot and his skin suddenly feels too tight on his body.
“Sorry, I—”
“Don’t worry about it,” Bill says, glancing at Jeb—dark eyes alight with laughter. But there’s something else there. Something intense peeking out from behind his lashes. “Wouldn’t be the first time my irresistible charm’s made someone forget themselves.”
Wouldn’t be the first time.
Those words follow Jeb out to his car, ringing in his ears.
Wouldn’t be the first time.
TBC
