Fandom: Torchwood RPS
Pairing: John Barrowman/Burn Gorman
Notes: Icon Prompt from joanne_c. Yes, I cheated like crazy. Beta by hllangel, which included dismantling commas of mass destruction and reporting me to the authorities for ellipses abuse.
Warning: RPS, including mentions of co-stars and significant others. If you have a squick, do not click.
Summary: Two weeks of shooting left and the fun starts getting serious.
“Best Bond ever?”
Another long day on location. Too many hours standing around, waiting for Chris to set up the shot, and the usual chatter to keep their minds occupied until the cameras rolled. This time it was Naoko who’d thrown out the question, as she rubbed her gloved hands together, trying to keep warm against a particularly cutting wind coming off the Bay.
Eve opted for Pierce Brosnan, while Gareth stated a preference for George Lazenby, either to take the mick or because he was enough of a twat to actually believe it. Naoko said she liked the two Timothy Dalton movies, provoking a round of eye-rolling from all concerned.
There was no doubt what John would say, and Burn suspected that might have been Naoko’s sole purpose in putting the topic out in the first place. Getting Barrowman in a state of high Scottish dudgeon was as much a sport around the Hub set as guessing whether Eve’s boobs or John’s balls would be the next to make an unscheduled appearance.
“Sean Fucking Connery,” John stated, in a basso profundo imitation of his fellow Scotsman. His tone of unassailable conviction meant it was pretty much Burn’s duty to say something in opposition.
“Roger Bloody Moore.”
“Are you nuts? How can you even say that? How can you compare Sir Sean to that pipsqueak,”
“Who also happens to have a knighthood. As a good and true Englishman, I’ll put Sir Roger’s performance up against that vulgar thug any day.”
“Them’s fighting words laddie.”
“Indeed they are…Captain.”
The others were gathered around like the crowd at an impromptu fist-fight, Gareth looking especially keen to egg them on toward fisticuffs or revolvers at dawn.
“My place tonight. Bring your best ammunition. You guys are all invited of course. I’ll make the popcorn.”
“Tonight” turned out to be much, much later, after a night shoot, than had gone an hour over-time due to some fuck-wittery with the special effects. Burn had been more than willing to call it off, but John, with that manic energy of his, wouldn’t hear of it.
“You know some of us need to get a bit of sleep, Barrowman.”
“You can sleep when you’re dead.”
Naoko insisted she was going back to her apartment for some rest, and Burn saw Eve and Gareth leave together, neither of them mentioning anything about John’s condo or James Bond. Thanks a lot guys, he thought. Now I’m gonna be up till all hours with the mad man.
Luckily, he was able to find a video store with a full selection of Bond films and he grabbed one after making sure it had Roger Moore on the cover, but didn’t bother checking which one it was. He wasn’t actually that much enamoured of any actor in the part; it had just been a way of riling up John.
In fact, watching Goldfinger while drinking a beer and eating some crisps along with the promised popcorn, it was hard to imagine a better Bond than Connery or a sexier woman than Honor Blackman’s Pussy Galore. Not that he’d admit that to John; national pride and all that.
“And what have you brought,” John demanded, in the nicest way possible after they’d each had a chance to visit the loo and cracked open a second round of beers.
He gave the DVD case a quick look-over before handing it to John. The woman on the front looked strangely familiar, and Burn was just on the verge of remembering why.
“Live and Let Die,” he announced. “You can keep your Shirley Bassey. Gimme a bit of McCartney & Wings anytime.”
“Infamy! Do NOT let Evie and Gaz hear you say that. They’ll have you deported., Hey, did I ever tell you what Shirley told me about caviar on a plane?”
“That she was sick of the motherfucking caviar on her motherfucking plane?” Burn replied in his best Samuel L. Jackson and managing to maintain a deadpan, which naturally caused John to collapse in one of his high-pitched giggle fits.
Once John had pulled himself together enough to put the DVD in the player, Burn was able to relax back into the sofa cushions. The movie started with a typically rousing action sequence, leading into the classic Wings song. He caught himself playing a bit of air guitar, because who could resist those chords, and then came the credits and…holy shit. It was her. He’d forgotten, but her first appearance on the screen brought it back.
“Wow!” John said, as soon as she appeared on screen, “That was a long time before Dr. Quinn. I mean, she was hot in that, but this….damn.”
“Yeah,” Burn agreed. Stunning. Exquisitely sexy. And the costume she wore as Solitare left very little to the imagination.”
“Didn’t you work with her once?”
“My mother. It was a Miss Marple mystery.”
“What was she like?”
“Sweet. Funny. She’s a great lady. Still got the looks too. It was a bit hard to play those scenes and not have it come across all naughty.”
“You said hard,” John snickered like the over-grown teenager he seemed to be sometimes. “I’ll bet you’re hard now,” he continued. Suddenly Burn didn’t find it funny at all, because without realising it, he was. Probably a result of seeing Jane and maybe just a bit of residual lust for Honor Blackman that had gone unrelieved after the first feature.
“Give it a rest Barrowman,” he said, trying not to sound testy. “We’re not all obsessed with pulling our willies out to show the world on a regular basis.”
“You don’t have to show it. I won’t even look.”
“For fuck’s sake!”
“OK, forget I said anything. We’ll just sit here and watch the movie.”
Burn tried. There were other things to see on the screen such as Yaphet Kotto, crocodiles, and seriously appalling 70’s hairdos, but every time the plot switched back to Mr. Big and Solitaire, Burn could feel his cock twitching with serious interest. After the scene where Bond had tricked Solitaire into giving up her virginity, there was no talking the old boy down. He eyed the hallway that led back to the bathroom, and then he noticed that John had already gone ahead and unzipped himself.
Well, that was John for you. Sometime he felt like he saw Barrowman’s bits more than his own, although never like this. Usually John’s exposures were breezy affairs with a quick glimpse of a flaccid cock. Just enough for shits and giggles, but nothing really lewd. This performance was definitely lewd. With a big helping of lascivious for good measure.
John had his cock fully exposed. His attention appeared to be riveted to the screen, but it was hard to tell if he was actually looking at the images, since the scene had now changed to a speed-boat chase, which was certainly exciting, but not particularly erotic.
This is a bad idea, Burn thought. They had at least two more weeks before filming on the series wrapped up, including some of Jack and Owen’s most emotional dialogue together. How the hell was he supposed to go back on set and do that after he’d…oh why the hell not? It’s Torchwood, right? Everyone shags everyone and he imagined this bit of shared wanking was close as Jack and Owen would ever get to that. Maybe a bit of forced method acting? Or just John being his own randy self, some of which had been incorporated in Captain Jack.
He unzipped, almost defiantly, and found himself momentarily at a loss for what to do about lubrication. There was some preliminary fluid coming, but Burn had always appreciated a wet toss himself.
“Ummm, you got any…?”
“Barrowman, you pervert!”
“Just a good Boy Scout. Scott stays here with me sometimes, you know. Things... happen.”
Great. Another image he’d never be able to shake. He and John, wanking on the same divan where John and Scott got down to business on occasion. Maybe it was just as well that his part in Torchwood was coming to an end.
He found the tube of lubricant, and soon enough he was enjoying the familiar sensations. His mind juxtaposed images of Jane as a hot Bond Girl with his personal memories of working with her, and the slightly too arousing sound of John’s quickening breath.
“Fuck,” he thought and said at the same time, thinking about doing exactly that to Jane or Eve or Sarah or yeah, fine, maybe…John. His legs started shaking, high pitched gasps coming out of his mouth in concert with John’s throatier moans, oh, god, he should absolutely, not be doing this!
Too late. He was and he had. The evidence was all over the place; James Bond long forgotten.
He watched through a post-orgasm haze, as John finished, letting out a soft hissing sound that ended in a luxurious sigh.
Burn suspected that most men would be at least a bit embarrassed by what had occurred, but John Barrowman was not most men. He offered a few Handiwipes from the well-supplied side table along with the usual grin.
“Cheeky bugger,” Burn muttered, which produced an even bigger smile.
“You know it.”
The movie was still playing, but Burn had completely lost the plot and honestly didn’t care anymore. Why was James Bond troubling himself with drug dealers anyway? What about saving the world from megalomaniacal lunatics like Blofield and Goldfinger?
“You may be right,” John said in a deeply satisfied voice, momentarily confusing Burn, who was getting lost in his own musings about how much of Jack was John and vice versa.
“Nah. No one beats Connery.”
They watched the rest of the movie, including poor Solitaire’s death, during which Burn drank the end of his beer as a toast to the lovely lady who’d made the best part of the evening possible.
As the credits rolled and Burn prepared to leave, he couldn’t stop himself from asking the question. It was probably a mélange of images, as varied as his own, but Burn was intrigued by the possibility that the oh-so-publically-gay Mr. Barrowman might get off on the sight of a pretty girl now and then, especially considering how often he seemed to have his hands in the vicinity of Eve’s arse.
“So who was it then? What was on your mind while you were beating the bishop?”
Only then did John get a slightly flustered look on his face, right down to a bit of a blush, and shook his head. Fair enough. You couldn’t blame a man for keeping that kind of thing to himself.
“I’m really glad you came over tonight. “
“I’ll be dead on my feet in the morning. Phil’ll be livid.”
“Yeah, well you’re supposed to be dead anyway. Tell him you’re in character.”
“Fat lot of help you are.”
He was almost out the door and on his way home when John came running after him.
“Hey, Burn, wait up.”
“What is it?”
John stood there for a second, looking both sad and tired, even showing his forty-odd years a bit more than usual.
“I’m really going to miss working with you.”
Burn was taken aback. He’d known things would be emotional toward the end, but he also meant to avoid as much of it as possible until after the last day of shooting.
“Still got a few weeks to go. Not completely dead yet.”
”Yeah, you’re right.”
John’s mood seemed to lighten again and Burn was able to leave without worrying that the leading man was overly upset about Owen Harper’s soon-to-be demise.
On the other hand it was nice to know that somebody cared.