Fandom: RPS-Life On Mars
Pairing: John Simm/Philip Glenister
Notes/Warnings/Disclaimers-Posting at 11:00PM PST and possibly losing my mind. Thanks to hllangel for lookover and imput but fuck-ups are all mine. Concrit and free-lance typo checking are both appreciated. This is RPS. It uses real people and mentions co-stars, significant others etc. If that's a problem for you, leave it alone don't touch.
This is a work of fiction. It never happened. Not a bloody word. I promise.
Takes place during the filming of Last Of The Time Lords. Possible spoilers.
Summary: It's not Barrowman and Tennant who have the big secret.
“Do you think there’s something going between those two,” asked Alexandra one morning in make-up just after Barrowman and Tennant had gone swooping past. Tennant had his ever-present video-camera, Barrowman was singing some absolutely filthy lyrics to a song from The Sound of Music, and the two of them were giggling like a pair of deranged school-girls.
He turned toward his on-screen “wife” who was having the evidence of domestic violence artfully applied to her eye and looked at her pointedly. John was tempted to point out that she’d already appeared on stage with David in “Look Back in Anger,” and therefore had fallen into the “David fucks every woman he works with,” rumour mill. One had to assume there’d been at least the attempt, whether the deed was actually done or not.
Meanwhile, you could hardly turn on the telly without seeing Barrowman flouncing about somewhere, making no secret of either his sexuality or devotion to his partner. If something more than sheer laddishness and a mutual admiration society was going on you couldn’t tell it by him.
Of course the fact that Tennant was wearing his “old man” prosthetic and Barrowman was daubed in designer mud, didn’t make either of them look like candidates for a bit of dressing room grab-ass. John knew exactly what that looked like. He’d seen it in the mirror, although not here in Cardiff. This set was campy as hell, but in the end all very innocent, despite the torture, spousal abuse and mass murder being perpetrated by his character. Manchester, on the other hand, had been anything but innocent. How could it be, with all that testosterone in the air?
Not that the ‘Mars’ shoot had been a non-stop fuck-fest or anything. Sometimes they actually had to work.
It was a bloody miracle that nothing ever hit the tabs, because for two men with wives, children and no previous hints of any off-screen deviance, he and Philip had managed to spend an unseemly amount of time in each other’s trailers. If anyone had bothered peeking inside a window they would have gotten an eyeful, probably John on his knees in front of Philip, both of them still in the better part of their costumes, as if the obvious sexual tension between Sam and Gene had been taken to its natural conclusion, although Philip had never actually slammed him into a wall in real life. They usually managed to make it into a bed, or at least a shower.
John hadn’t thought of it for months and this really wasn’t the time, or the place. The Master’s bespoke suit was nearly as tightly fitting as Sam Tyler’s trousers. If he got hard now, someone would definitely notice. Probably Alexandra, since she seemed to have sex on the brain this morning. Unfortunately, Philip had just become the elephant in the room, or rather the large erection in his pants, because once he started remembering there was no turning back. He could practically feel Philip’s breath against his face, sounding just enough like Gene Hunt to make John wonder if this was the script, the actors or an unhealthy amalgam of both.
There was something about intense characters. Or maybe it was just Manchester. He’d practically fallen in love with Sean Harris when they were making 24 Hour Party People, but he had no idea if he’d fallen in love with Sean or Bernard had fallen in love with Ian or if he’d fallen in love with Sean as Ian.
None of it mattered because Sean was too wrapped up in being Ian Curtis to acknowledge anyone or anything around him, and John hadn’t gotten that particular feeling again until he showed up for the first read-through of Life On Mars. He’d worked with Philip before, but this was something different. Gene Hunt was different; Sam Tyler was different and it didn’t take more than a week for one thing to lead to several things.
John caught his leg shaking and sweat breaking out on his forehead. Cissy wasn’t going to like that and neither would the focus-puller. The Master was supposed to be imperturbable, not a sweaty wanker with a visible hard-on. That wouldn’t do at all.
He checked the call-sheet and his mobile for the time. Teague was a stickler for on-time appearances on the set, but this wouldn’t take long, not when he was already thinking of the first time, when Philip had surprised him by being the more experienced one and he’d surprised himself by being more skilled than he would have imagined, or maybe it was just inspiration.
“Oh, I know David falls in love all the time, but I think he really fancies John.”
“Be right back,” he said, holding up his phone as if a call had come in that he needed to attend to. “Tell Colin, the Master shall appear at the appointed hour.”
His agent had negotiated a trailer, but that was too far away. Doing it in the loo was a risk, but the word risk itself was erotic right now. Every time with Philip had been a risk, and all the hotter for it. There’d even been one time in an actual toilet. That made his mind up.
On the way, he ran into Barrowman, alone now, having a real conversation on his mobile phone. John caught a few endearments and the name Penny. He also received a dazzling smile, which made an odd contrast with the dirt that Jack had apparently acquired during his year as a prisoner, despite the odd lack of facial hair. It was science-fiction after all.
Barrowman was a good-looking fellow all right, just not John’s type. Because of course, his type was female. The fact that he was planning a quick wank while thinking of Philip Glenister fucking him up the arse had nothing to do with it.
At least BBC-Cardiff had well stocked soap dispenser and roomy stalls. Unlike Manchester with its studios that hadn’t been renovated since the 80’s and bathrooms that may not have been cleaned since the same period. It made for a delightfully sleazy, late-night encounter, but for what he needed to do right now, he preferred things a bit more sterile. The filth was all in his mind.
They’d barely heard the director yell cut after the last shot of the hospital scene before leaving the set. It was dark outside already, a sultry summer night, and he could only hope that no one noticed the urgency with which they were heading for Philip’s trailer or the proximity of Philip’s hand to John’s ass, but frankly none of it mattered.
He was as caught up in the raw need as he could remember. He had to get in the trailer; get Philip’s trousers and pants down around his ankles and suck cock for all he was worth. He loved Kate, but he’d never felt this desperate to be with her, and he could live with that, as long as he got to do this.
It was a tricky thing to keep his breathing under control while trying to get off. He wanted to let out the kind of obscenities he and Philip had whispered to each other in between rough kisses. The words that described the way they’d been with each other, raw and ugly and nearly vicious, and yet also sometimes caring and sensitive, because really, they were only two actors playing the roles.
Oh god, Johnny. That’s so good. So fucking good.
Philip’s voice. There was nothing like it. Caressing and rugged at the same time. Working its way into John’s brain and his crotch from miles away and over a year ago.
He wanted to call out to Philip, reach out and touch him, taste him, feel that cock opening him up and making him scream into the nearest pillow, but he was alone in a toilet and a single gasp might give the game away, so he bit down hard and squeezed, bringing on his orgasm on in a rush of dizziness.
“Fuck,” he rasped out, slowly, giving himself the length of a single syllable to bring his breathing under control.
John zipped up and stepped out to re-arrange himself in the mirror. There was a flush on his face, but nothing incriminating below the waist. Cissy might have to run the comb through his hair, but he’d let Colin make that decision on set.
Hopefully, Alexandra would be concentrating on her role and keep the gossip to herself at least until shooting was done for the day.
The Master had work to do.