karaokegal (karaokegal) wrote,
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"Talk Talk" Barrowman/Tennant RPS NC17 Wordcount-3460`

Title: Talk Talk
Genre: RPS
Pairing: John Barrowman/David Tennant (references to John/Scott, David/Georgia)
Rating: NC17
Wordcount: 3460
Notes/Warnings: THIS IS RPS! Real people, family members, significant others, managers, dogs, and dead people are all mentioned. You got a problem with that? Don't read it.
Dedicated to nightporters who requested some RPS as a tonic to the epidemic of fluffy TW mpreg. Brilliantly beta-ed by beta_goddess who took one look and told me I was skimping the emotional transition and had more writing to do.
Disclaimer: None of this happened and I'm not making any money for saying it did.

Previous John/David stories:
Interview Day
Every Little Thing
Backstage

Summary: It's John's turn to do the talking.



“Can’t we work something out? Pay for some extra security, so we can keep them out of the street?”

John was pacing the kitchen with his mobile in one hand and a scone in the other. The dogs, probably sensing his rising agitation, had started running around the table and CJ was barking up a storm, causing John to raise his voice even further. Meanwhile, Scott sat at the alcove eating his breakfast and sorting through the morning’s papers, the calm before, during and after the storm.

This particular tsunami had been triggered by the news that the Birmingham Hippodrome wouldn’t let John do any signings outside the stage-door following the Panto performances for Christmas, due to concerns about blocking traffic. He knew in his heart they were right. The previous year had verged on chaos with the crowds moving out into the street, but he didn’t want to acknowledge that he was becoming the kind of a celebrity who had to be shielded from his own fans.

He could tell that Gavin was trying not to call him out for being a diva. Ironic, considering that was exactly what he was trying to avoid. Just before he could resume the argument with another protest against the unfairness of the venue that had been nothing but gracious and was paying a pretty penny for his services, he happened to look over at Scott.

After all this time, a single glance between them could make things better. Scott’s expression told him it was time to take a deep breath and let it go because some fights are important, but not all of them. John would never understand people who suddenly lost interest in their partners, or ran out and started cheating under the guise of a mid-life crisis or some such rubbish. Finding Scott was the best thing that had ever happened to him, and it only kept getting better. Scott looked even handsomer today than he had on that crazy night when the tabs decided that John was Cher’s latest boy-toy and John decided that Scott was the one he’d been waiting for all his life.

“OK, Gavin. We’ll figure something out for Birmingham. Let them send in the programmes and I’ll sign those. What’s happening with San Francisco?” There’d been an offer to appear with the Gay Men’s Chorus during the San Francisco Pride celebration in June.

“They want you and they’ll pay your expenses, no problem there. It’s the CBC that’s holding it up. They can’t give us a final shooting schedule and they’ve got first dibs on you for June and July. We’re trying to work it out, I promise, but I just don’t know if it’s going to happen, especially with limited rehearsal time.”

The more things he did, the more he wanted to do, and the further his schedule got booked up, the less flexibility he had for last minute opportunities. It was a paradox worthy of a Time Lord, but frustrating to an actor worried that his window of opportunity for breaking into the US market might be closing. But as a practical matter, Canada before America, simply because his Britishness gave him more of an “in” there.

“Let me know what happens. I’ll be in touch later.”

He rang off and went to join Scott amid the papers. Taking business calls at breakfast was sort of against house rules. They had few enough days during the year when they could actually sit and share the morning meal. John realised that while he was stressed, he’d eaten the better part of two scones without even noticing. His personal trainer wouldn’t like that a bit, nor would his costume designer for the Panto, or Cameron if they actually decided to go ahead and do Barnum, another project that was awaiting the right alignment of planets to come to fruition.

“Sorry about that,” he said, settling down for a cup of coffee and a brief chat. It was a rare day where he actually had nothing to do, but Scott was heading out to work like the butch breadwinner he was, according to one of their running gags.

“I don’t mind, but did you have to get the kids in a tizzy?”

“They did freak out a bit, didn’t they? Is CJ all right?” He looked around the kitchen, finding Charlie lying comfortably at Scott’s feet, as who wouldn’t want to? CJ had gone missing and John assumed he’d be found upstairs in the vicinity of the bedroom. Since Lewis passed on, the newest addition had been even more emotionally volatile than your average Jack Russell, if such a thing was possible.

Scott was engrossed in the Telegraph, another thing that always made John smile, because he still thought of the Telegraph as an old man’s paper, specifically his father’s. Scott on the other hand liked to feign disgust at John’s attachment to the Sun for both esthetic and political reasons, but at least it made good training paper for the dogs after John had chortled his way through the day’s rubbish.

“Anything going on I should know about?”

“Looks like David’s at it again.”

John knew a lot of Davids, any number of whom might be up to any number of things, but something about the look on Scott’s face made John think he knew which one even before he was done asking.

“Any David in particular?”

“Tennant’s got himself a new girlfriend, and I do mean girl.”

“Well, what else would it be?” he asked, trying not to let anything show in his face that would suggest any of the private moments he’d had with David in the last year. Each one completely unforgettable and utterly wrong, even if he’d managed to justify each one as “not really cheating” at the time.

“She’s 23.”

John blinked and did some quick math. David was 37, which meant…14 years.

“They just keep getting younger. Who is it now?”

“Georgia Moffett.”

“Seriously?”

“Quite.”

Scott handed over the Telegraph and the Sun and even the Mirror, and there it was, complete with pictures. The Doctor and the actress who’d played The Doctor’s Daughter, who just happened to be another Doctor’s daughter as well. It really was the perfect gossip story and it made John giggle like some housewife reading OK! John’s giggling made Scott smile, which made John smile in return.

The smile stayed on his face until Scott was out the door and John had gone upstairs to look for CJ so he could take the dogs out for a walk. Something just didn’t sit right about this whole thing. Not so much that David wouldn’t get together with Georgia. David was David and Georgia was blonde. Maybe it was having to find out like any other fan. He’d thought they were closer than that. They were closer. Too close sometimes.

By the time he’d taken the dogs out and picked up a few things at the corner shop, he’d thought it through and come to some conclusions, none of which he liked. It was one of his rare days with nothing scheduled, which meant he had a bug up his bum and time on his hands. Never a good combination.

*****

David was talking to Richard Burton when the phone rang.

Of all the past Hamlets he’d consulted either in person or in the odder corners of his imagination, the wild-eyed Welshman was the one he felt the least amount of kinship with. He wasn’t particularly interested in Burton’s approach to the role as much as finding out how he’d managed to play it every night in the middle of a media storm.

Not that he thought there was any comparison between the insanity that surrounded Richard and Elizabeth at the height of their fame and his current level of notoriety. Except sometimes. Like today.

No matter how many times it happened, it was never pleasant to have your personal life dissected in the tabloids and even the classier papers, never mind what was probably being said on the internet. Mostly about the age thing, he imagined. It didn’t seem like anything when he was actually with her, but it might look a bit dodgy from the outside.

Whatever the press had to say about it, David was a romantic, always high on his current lady love, so he and Georgia had decided to go public with predictable if ridiculously overblown results. After all, it wasn’t as though he’d stolen another man’s wife while dumping his own and making the most expensive movie in history or anything. Fleet Street and the bloggers were welcome to like it or lump it. He just couldn’t answer his phone for a while or step outside until the car showed up to take him to rehearsal and that wouldn’t be for a while, which left time for a consultation with his imaginary Burton.

“So how’d you do it, Dick, if I may call you that? How did you go on every night for four hours with the press hounding your every step and Liz being….Liz?”

Burton had no wisdom to impart, being dead and all, beyond reminding David that he’d also been half-pissed most of the time he was onstage and still gotten notices comparing him to Barrymore.

Big help that was, David thought, absently hitting the connect button on his mobile without checking the caller.

“Yeah,” he said distractedly.

“You’re a dirty, dirty boy, you are, David John McDonald. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“…Dad?”

Of course, it wouldn’t be his father, but who else would be calling to chew him out in perfect Glaswegian?

“Messin’ about with that innocent girl, I should start calling you Humbert Humbert.”

“Barrowman, you bastard!”

With that he heard John break into his distinctive hiccupping laughter, barely able to get out a victorious “Gotcha!”

That he had. Raising a series of uncomfortable questions in David’s mind.

“And what’s it to ya, laddie?” he asked, keeping up the tone of friendly mockery, but not completely joking. David had compartmentalized those incidents with John as meaning nothing, given the sturdiness of John and Scott’s relationship and his own sturdy heterosexuality. But sometimes nothing starts to mean something and just hearing John’s voice was enough to bring it all back, especially the hot tub. The memory, as vivid as the night it happened, brought what felt like a flush to his face.

“You could ha’ told me,” John said in a slightly peeved tone, still using his Scottish accent.

“Yeah. Sorry about that. Things have just been…well, you know.”

His own schedule had been so hectic, he barely had time to see Georgia, much less spread the word beyond their immediate families, and finding John in one place for two seconds was like trying to catch the wind.

“Don’t worry. It’s silly. I mean, it’s not like you owe me anything.” John must have noticed his own tone. “Did that sound as bad as I think it did?”

It sounded like John was genuinely hurt, something David had never intended. Maybe that was why he’d never gotten around to making a phone call or even writing a chatty email. Because he knew that these moments did mean something. He didn’t know exactly what, perhaps something different to John on any given day, but something.

For him it was thoughts and memories that popped up at odd, sometimes inopportune moments, making him question himself in a way he never had before. Thinking of John that way could make him feel flattered and vulnerable and confused all at the same time, but mostly just randy.

He might as well at admit it to himself. John caring about him, thinking about him, even considering the possibility of doing those things, made him incredibly horny. And if Burton was the Captain Jack of his day, including rumours of a liaison with Olivier, who was David to turn away from the current model? Maybe that was the answer. Be the bastard half of Britain seemed to think he was anyway.

John was still waiting for an answer.

“Maybe a little. But actually…” David trailed off, feeling himself about to do something reckless. “If I recall correctly, boyo, it’s you who’s still owing me.”

“Oh?”

How John managed to imbue that word with as many syllables and as much meaning as he did was something of a mystery, but David could sense a certain rising interest, beyond the current state of his love life.

“You remember a certain chat we had a few months ago.”

David started making himself a bit more comfortable on his sofa, while imagining that something similar might be going on in John’s townhouse. It had been a bit of a lark to talk to John while he had a quick wank in his dressing room, but also, David had to admit, a powerful turn-on, and now it was his chance.

“You want to call in that marker now?”

“No time like the present. Just don’t ask what I’m wearing, ’cos if it were anything lacy, I wouldn’t be telling you.”

He had to hold the phone away from his ear as John yelped with laughter, only to stop abruptly.

“Scottish or American?”

David liked both. American was John’s singing voice, his acting voice, and he did amazing things with it, but English and American were the Doctor and Jack. This was about them; David and John.

“Scottish and give me a second.”

He put the mobile down long enough to lower his jeans and pants down to his knees. Getting off before the rehearsal might help him relax, and he was already raising a stiffie at the idea of John talking to him while he did it. Teenage boys they were, really. Very horny teenage boys.

“OK,” he said, wondering if John would just ramble a bit, letting David drink in his voice.

“Scott and I have tickets for opening night at Stratford,” John started, utterly matter-of-factly. No hint of “put-on” eroticism; just a cold fact. David already had an idea where this was going and it struck him that John had started talking too quickly for the idea to be a spur-of-the-moment improvisation. He must have been thinking about this for a while.

“Do you now? It’s going to be a bit of a madhouse.”

“I know. But I’m going to be there. Backstage. In your dressing room. Waiting. Waiting until everyone’s gone and it’s just you and me.”

John’s voice was musical and magical. David felt himself getting harder, imagining the scene. There was a bit of Burton in the image as he swaggered around in a dressing gown, glass in hand, girls at the stage door, Georgia somewhere nearby, but he was fixated on his own personal groupie, John Barrowman.

“Just you and me,” he repeated, starting to stroke lightly, mostly at the tip.

There was a soft sigh on the other end of the line.

“How are you going to feel?”

“Probably exhausted,” he answered honestly. “And I may not be a red, red rose either. I’m sweating up a storm doing this.”

“I like you that way,” John announced. “I want you in your dressing room, hot, sweaty and naked. You think you can do that for me?”

“Oh yes,” and now he was hard, foreskin drawn back, gently rubbing the tip, easing a few drops out to smooth things along.

“That’s good. It’s going to be so good, David. I’m gonna do everything I’ve wanted to do to you since the first table read.”

The first time he met John and looked into those eyes. Maybe he’d known right then, but it had taken a long time to admit.

“That’s what I want.” This was dangerous territory, and he told himself it was still just a game. Just talk. Nothing that had to be construed as cheating. John wouldn’t do it to Scott and David liked to think he wouldn’t do it to Georgia, not this early in the relationship, anyway.

“So… what’s it gonna be?” he demanded. His hand was moving faster now and he could hear John taking a second to catch his breath, giving David a pretty good idea what might be going on there.

“Got my mouth…” John sang briefly, turning on the American accent for a second, followed by a giggle. Strangely enough, it didn’t break the mood, because it was so very John. “I’m going to get on my knees and give you the best damn blowjob you’ve ever had.”

“That’s saying something.”

“I want to show you just what I can do with the ol’ Ten Incher. Like a sword swallower. I want to look up into your face while I’m sucking your cock.”

That was an image. His thighs were starting to tense up, and he could feel sweat breaking out on his upper lip. He licked, tasting salt, remembering his first (and to date only) attempt at fellatio. It had been a heady feeling then, and the idea of John returning the treat, with a lifetime of experience, was dizzying. Or maybe he just didn’t have enough blood left in his head for rational thought.

“What else?” he got out, before biting down hard on his lower lip.

“Then I want you to turn around, and I’m going to stick my tongue in your arse, and ream you till you think you’ve died and gone to motherfuckin’ heaven.”

No one could curse like a Scotsman.

“Oh Jesus.” No reason he shouldn’t throw a little blasphemy in on the day’s delights.

“I may have to gag you so security doesn’t show up.”

How the hell did John do this to him? He couldn’t think of any other man on the planet that he’d even want to be having this conversation with. He was squeezing hard, pumping fast, not wanting to rush, but unable to slow down.

“You know what else I want, don’t you?” he gasped.

“Not as much as I do.” John’s voice was going into an extremely high register and his breathing was fast and laboured.

“Say it,” he demanded.

“I want to fuck you. I want you bent over and braced against the wall so I can spread you wide and fuck you up the arse.”

John may have had something to say after that, but David’s mind had stopped registering it as anything but groans, gasps and maybe a few hearty Scottish obscenities. It wasn’t so much the image as the feeling. Based on what it had been like when John used only a finger, he could imagine the heat inside him and John behind him, stroking his back while pushing slowly inside.

David let that picture fill his head and his hand and cock did the rest. Full on, fisting himself hard and fast until he felt the release start somewhere deep in his balls, nearly jerking his body off the couch with the intensity of it, stickiness landing in spurts on his abdomen.

Somewhere along the line he dropped the phone, but didn’t give a damn. John was thrusting into him, he was coming like some mad grunting animal and the rest of the world could go to hell.

He picked up the phone.

”John?”

“Yeah. Whew! That’s….amazing.”

David had to agree, but couldn’t say anything because Call Waiting was coming through and he knew it was the driver coming round to fetch him. He gave a thoroughly convincing performance of a man who’d just been wakened from a nap and told them he’d be out in fifteen minutes.

Then he clicked back over to John, oddly unsure of what to say. Amazing was one word and dangerous was another.

“Thanks,” he said, softly.

“I’d say, ‘anytime’ but I know I shouldn’t.”

David couldn’t help noticing that John was speaking in his American accent now. The way he spoke to most of the world, especially Scott.

“Yeah. This could get to be a habit, and I’m not sure my little nymphet would approve.”

John started laughing again. That was good.

“I really have to go. Car’s waiting and everything.”

“I’m going to the gym.”

That wasn’t enough of a workout?

“Out with you then.”

“And I’m off to Canada in two weeks.”

David sensed that John had more in mind than just keeping him advised of his upcoming schedule.

“But I meant it about opening night. Well, some of it anyway.”

David didn’t want to dwell too long on which parts of it were real and which weren’t. He decided to leave things as ambiguous between them as they always were.

“It’s a date, then?”

The answer came in Scottish and David felt himself grinning at the sound.

“That it is, laddie, that it is.”

Tags: fanfic, john barrowman/david tennant, nc17, rps
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