Pairing: John Barrowman/David Tennant
Rating: PG13-Really, it's pretty tame.
Disclaimer: This never happened and I'm not making any money for saying it did.
Notes: I honestly never intended to "cheat" on Hugh&Bobby, but I stumbled onto theroadtohell and felt compelled to give it a go.
Love beyond measure to the beautiful Beta Goddess Carol and special thanks to hllangel for some early feedback and lots of DT/JB info.
Warnings: It's not very explicit, but it's still RPS with real people and mentions of their significant others. If you hate the idea of RPS and think it's sick, dirty, nasty, sociopathic, immoral, illegal, fattening etc., you might not want to read this.
Summary: It had been brewing since their first read-through.
Comments and concrit welcome.
“Well, if it isn’t the pound-store Tom Cruise!”
David had thought it was a jaunty enough entrance line, but something in John’s expression made him wonder if it was more of a faux pas. John didn’t seem to mind having the piss taken by the Dead Ringers show; it was practically an accolade, a way of saying you were important enough to be mocked. He’d seen John’s barely suppressed giggle fits while watching Jon Culshaw swan around in a facsimile of Captain Jack’s iconic coat. On the other hand, Barrowman definitely had issues with certain Hollywood celebrities in their opulent closets and the stumpy Scientologist was one of them.
“At least I didn’t spend a fortune pretending to be something I’m not.”
There was an edge to John’s voice, but David didn’t know if it was being aimed at him or not and he was soon engulfed in a welcoming hug, as if to say there were no hard feelings. Not that there was any reason there should be, as far as he knew, except that he didn’t seem to know much of anything any more, at least when it came to John.
That was the thing, the reason he’d accepted an impromptu invite to pop by a suite at the Crowne Plaza for tea while John took a break from a day of phone interviews in preparation for the U.S. launch of Torchwood.
John was a perfect media whore in the best sense of the word. He could give twenty interviews in a row, delivering variations on the same quotes about his character, the show, his background or his relationship as if he’d never said any of it before. Even more amazing was his skill at gauging the exact amount of gayness that any individual publication could handle, without ever pandering. David did the rounds when he had to, but it tended to drive him mad by the third interview, simply out of boredom.
“How long till the next one?”
“’Bout an hour. Help yourself.”
He meant the tea, but it took a second for David to realise that, because John had been giving him one of those long-lashed looks that caused the confusion in the first place, starting with the concern that he was even noticing another man’s eyelashes.
The tea tray held the usual assortment of finger sandwiches and sweets. Only the scones were missing. John liked to joke that Russell had assigned a “scone guard” to keep him from indulging because he didn’t want his beefcake getting love handles. A quick glance at John’s jeans and baby-blue Izod showed no sign of the extra calories catching up just yet.
And again…why the hell was he even noticing?
David could camp it up with the best of them. He was an English actor after all. Half the fun of working with John was flirting a bit on the set, when they weren’t acting like rude lads, letting farts rip through the Tardis and making jokes about Freema’s boobies. It was all a lark, of course, except for those looks and the ones he’d found himself giving back, while trying not to get caught.
He poured himself some tea and sat down in the chair that would normally be inhabited by a “handler,” someone to keep an eye on the “talent” so that they didn’t say anything stupid or embarrassing or, you know, honest.
It was hard to imagine John letting himself be handled. David immediately wished he hadn’t thought of that particular phrase, because the word-picture it brought to mind had nothing to do with interviews. Fuck. Why did being around John do this to him?
Before Sophia, he’d cut a fairly wide romantic swath, but always with women. Not Casanova numbers or anything, but certainly enough to make the point, if the point needed to be made. The whole “David Ten-Inch” thing (flattering as it was) had started when he’d been filming a scene with Billie and things had gotten a bit…intense. Word had quickly spread from the Who set and now (thanks to John’s big mouth) the whole bloody country seemed to know, including the RSC’s costume mistress who’d insisted on verifying for herself, insisting she needed to allow proper room in his doublet. A likely story.
He tried to tell himself it was out of the blue, but it had been brewing since their first read-through. John had sat next to him, and David had felt this thing that he couldn’t ignore, but which couldn’t possibly mean anything, not while there was Sophia and of course Scott, who was just as handsome and youthful looking as his partner. They must both have portraits in a closet somewhere.
It was impossible to spend any amount of time with John and Scott together and not imagine that they spent every spare minute shagging each other senseless. And he shouldn’t be thinking so much about that either, not while John was giving him that look and there was a bedroom just a door away and the clock was ticking.
Maybe it would be easier to ignore it if John would stop giving interviews where he mentioned wanting to kiss David like he’d kissed Chris. Which raised the question, did that mean the way he’d kissed Chris on the show that actually aired, or the infamous “last take” when he’d downed Eccleston in a flying tackle and snogged him within an inch of his life, including quite a bit of tongue? How that piece of tape hadn’t gotten out of Russell’s safe and ended up on YouTube was a mystery worthy of Prime Suspect.
“How’re rehearsals going?”
David shrugged. He hadn’t come there to talk about the sodding rehearsals, although he had a thing or two to say about Patrick Stewart’s upstaging tactics and John would no doubt be a sympathetic shoulder if he wanted one.
“You doing the panto again this year?” he asked, offhandedly before thinking that it might be a mistake to point out the differences in their current theatrical pursuits.
If he couldn’t say anything right, maybe he should shut up. Or maybe he should leave, because there was no reason to be here.
John was standing, stretching, causing a few muscles to pop audibly and giving David a close-up of his arm muscles straining against the sleeves and just a bit of skin where the polo shirt rode up in front.
“You bloody tease,” he muttered, trying to cover the momentary silence that should have been his breathing.
“Who says I’m teasin’, laddie?” John had slipped back into his Scots accent in response to David’s, as if he had no idea how hot it was. Unlikely. John had to know exactly how hot everything about him was.
David stood up. He had a few inches height advantage and the need to feel like he had some control of the situation. He could still walk away, assuming he could remember how his legs functioned while John was coming closer and reaching up for his face and touching his cheek.
Once the hand had actually touched his skin, there was no walking away, no turning back. He held his breath and closed his eyes and waited until the lips were actually on his, strong and warm, making him forget that he was being kissed by a man or just making him like it too much to care.
At that point, the only bodily function he could perform was kissing back, and John seemed content to do most of the work, which was fine with David who was busy trying to catalogue a new universe of taste and sensation. John’s lips were soft, but there was a fierceness in the way he used them, pressing against David’s mouth until there was nothing to do but open up and let him have the run of the place while David found his hands grasping John’s shoulders, probably a little harder than he should have.
The guy who wrote that whole “A kiss is just a kiss” thing had no idea what he was talking about. Obviously he’d never been kissed by John Barrowman, or felt John gently nuzzling his neck, when they were forced to break for breathing.
David took a step back, shaking his head, trying to shake off the intensity of what had just happened. He wondered exactly how far John intended to go, and what his response would be, beyond the effect the kiss had already had on him.
John was looking at him, maybe trying to decide the same thing. It was hard to read that particular expression. David scanned the room for a mirror, to see if he looked as stunned as he felt. There it was. Yup, one tall, gob-smacked git with shaggy hair and a flannel shirt.
“Well?” John asked, in a tone somewhere between provocative and curious.
“I dunno,” David answered, quite honestly. He just didn’t know what to do, what was the right thing or even why the question was being asked at all.
“Fair enough,” John responded with what sounded like a hint of disappointment. “I’m gonna go lie down for awhile. If you’d like to join me…”
Disappointment was replaced by a cocky grin worthy of Captain Jack and a coyly blown kiss as he turned around giving David a view of his bum and a reminder that straight men’s jeans didn’t fit like that. His own sure as hell didn’t, although they were getting uncomfortably tight, so tight in fact that he felt a bit dizzy. Maybe a lie-down was just what he needed.
After all, why waste a perfectly good bed?