Who: David Tennant/John Simm.
What: Even more RPS fic. The theme is domesticity (or lack thereof).
And you left your love and other threats in the steam fading on my bathroom mirror. –Elvis Costello
John takes his time getting up. He doesn’t have to be anywhere. And neither, he assumes, does David.
It’s always a sticky business, getting involved with coworkers. From the get-go, he told himself that he wasn’t going to get hung up about this. Wasn’t going to overthink it.
Then, with all the suddenness that three months can bring, David’s in his house using his fucking toothbrush and he can’t tell up from down anymore.
Since when did meeting up every so often for a shag—all right, a really good shag—get so nauseatingly domestic?
Not that he has any problem with domesticity; on the contrary, the comfortable routine of it makes a welcome change from the showbiz lifestyle. It all depends on who he’s doing domestic with. And this can’t happen. It can’t be with him. Not him. Not with David fucking Tennant.
And yet, somehow, John’s changing the sheets on the bed and wondering what other sorts of evidence they’ve left that he’ll need to take care of, and David’s off in the bathroom or something and how could he, how could he bring David to his fucking house?
It’s not like he’d planned this. It’s not like it was the most likely conclusion to yesterday’s events. Not in any universe did he ever expect to be waking up like this—but then, he’s proving exceptionally bad at predicting how anything is going to go when it comes to the two of them.
Just like he hadn’t expected David—normally the posterboy for how to behave in public and simultaneously charm the socks off anyone within a ten-mile radius as a happy side-effect—to drop his hand into John’s lap in the middle of a beer garden.
Okay, it’s a semi-private beer garden. Most of the clientele of the pub are inside, not out here, and the area is completely shielded from the road.
But that isn’t the point. The point is that David’s pressing the heel of his hand against him, though his jeans, and it’s so unexpected that John thinks he’s going to choke if he doesn’t put his glass down and wrap his fingers around the edge of the table instead.
“Oh,” he says, and “Jesus Christ, stop it,” because he’s already half-hard and it happened fast, too fast.
He doesn’t look at David. Not his face. Whether he’s got his poker face on, or whether there’s something more like mischief there, John doesn’t want to know. They can’t sit here this way, they can’t, he can’t. Not if he’s going to react like this to David’s touch—and sure, it’s been weeks, but that’s no excuse for acting like a bloody teenager. It’s not even slightly fair.
David withdraws his hand, and John clutches at his discarded leather jacket, shifting it a bit more into his lap, just trying to breathe. When he does look up, David’s laughing at him. Chin in his hand, eyes bright, laughing silently through a grin. All crow’s feet and canine teeth. There’s so much affection in it that John doesn’t even bother to tell him off.
They wait to stand up until he’s had a chance to calm down, and when they leave, he follows David out, the distant ache of arousal still thrumming through him. There’s a loo upstairs and for an instant John imagines what it’d be like to steal away, let David pin him against the inside of the door, hidden away from all the people drinking down below. But it’s nothing doing. He knows he’s not really going to go for that.
But they have to go somewhere, and in a fit of what must be madness, he takes David back to the house, because it’s empty and they have nowhere else to go.
There’s no time to regret the decision once John’s unlocked the door and they’re inside, because David goes to work on him straightaway, and it doesn’t take much to get him hard again, fully hard this time, and it feels like only seconds before David’s hand is smearing his own precome down him.
His back’s against the wall—not so different from what he’d envisioned them getting up to in the loo of the pub, then. David’s hand is still going, and it’s all long strokes, pulling it from him while John stares right into David’s face. Watching him through the harsh overhead light.
David flinches under his stare, but then John gives a little answering wince. His balls rub against the inside of his jeans and David doesn’t snatch his hand back quite fast enough as John’s cock pulses, and drops smear over the back of David’s hand and spatter over the floor.
He tries to file away, even as his heart is racing, a mental reminder to clean this room later. But the notion is gone as all his attention goes towards the effort of staying on his feet, as well as the effort of trying to knock David off his.
John yanks David’s jeans down by several more inches, strokes David’s hipbone, sharp and jutting, grazing the hair on his belly. Reaches lower, cups David’s balls, makes his way back to the base of David’s cock and then up along it.
David’s throat works. “John,” he intones, brokenly.
It’s like the first time David said his name, just his first name, stopped referring to him as “John Simm” to everyone on set who’d listen. Which was, and he wishes he could forget this, around the same time John had accidentally addressed David as “Doctor” in casual conversation. (That was towards the end of filming, but they hadn’t even been in costume and he’d been offering David a Styrofoam cup of coffee, and then, right out of his mouth, before he could think about it, “Doctor?”)
But there’s his name on David’s lips again, stretched out into a moan like it’s a filthy word. And John’s merciless, narrowing his eyes and pumping his fist until David’s knees start to buckle, John squinting down at him. John’s still the one with his back to the wall, and David’s got nothing to brace himself against. He leans against John, one hand on his shoulder, and buries his face in John’s neck as he comes, propped half against the wall and half against John, and David shakes.
They just breathe, David’s face hot against his skin. He feels David’s fingers curled against his neck, too, and he gets slammed with such a wave of affection that it would be practically nauseating if David wasn’t right here, pressed up against him like this and it’s good, too good to feel anything else.
They’re still wearing too many sodding things and he wishes they were tangled up in sheets rather than their own clothes, so greedy to have more of David even though he’s got him right now. Even though he’s right here. Even though David’s come is dripping from his hand, for god’s sake.
At David’s angle, still leaning heavily on him, they’re closer to the same height for once. John barely tips his head at all and they kiss—which is usually reserved for the breathless frenzy leading up to sex, but what the hell.
David straightens then, kissing over John’s face, over his temples, over the hints of grey in his hair.
They’ve been standing here for much too long, and John tries to pry David off him. He could count David’s freckles like this—not that they didn’t get this close while filming, too, back when John became intimately acquainted with the curve of David’s shoulder, and chin, and cheek, while the Doctor wept over him. But this is different. It always will be. It’s nothing like working together—except for the way they managed to make that moment intimate even while filming, keeping their faces out of view of the other actors. Surrounded by people but observed by almost no one. Until everyone watched the rushes, anyway.
John’s even closer to him right now, though. He could count the strands in David’s fringe like this—and, god, at forty David looks a decade younger than his age while John’s got silvering hair at forty-one, and that’s really fucking fair.
But David noses at his jaw and clings like John’s everything to him, and somehow, that’s enough.
Sometimes, it isn’t domestic at all.
And sometimes it is.
They make it into the tangle of sheets he’d been fantasizing about, but then there’s talking. More talking than anything else, in fact.
He traces the long curve of David’s body, half-hidden under blankets, with his eyes. It reminds him of the first time he noticed how tight the Doctor’s suit was, on telly, and how it’d made his cock stir.
And it’s beyond stupid, but the dip of David’s spine and the shadows along his back are so fucking beautiful that John wants to grab David and cover him with his mouth and scream and yell and twist and shout.
John clears his throat.
“How’s your back these days?”
“Better,” says David. “Since the operation.”
David lounges there on his side, with John propped against a pillow, half-sitting next to him. He eyes David eyeing the framed photographs on the dresser. It’s weird, being in a house and not a hotel room. It’s weird, being able to tell David exactly where to look for the soap, a bottle of wine, a light switch, rather than searching for all those things with him.
But it’s not a house, in itself, that makes it all smack of weirdness. Not a house that gives everything an air of domesticity. They’ve chosen those in favor of hotels before. Like two years ago. When David was about to move house, and most of the furniture was already gone and they fucked on the floor.
The heating had been turned off, and it was cold, and the light from outside, reflecting off the dingy brick of the neighboring building, was all white and grey in the almost-empty living space. And there wasn’t even a rug on the floor, so David ripped open a cardboard box and threw down an off-white blanket that was easily twenty years old, as if it was actually going to make the wooden floor any easier on his dodgy back. There was, incidentally, lube in the same cardboard box, which raised John’s suspicions about how long David had been planning this.
And John came within an inch of banging his head on the radiator, during it all. David banged the back of his head against the floor. He’d pushed John onto his back, riding his cock. Fingers scrabbling against the fabric and the floor. John nudging him until he was on top of David again. Rolling over and the thin blanket sticking to the sweat on his arm. Pulling out almost fully and slamming back in. David mewling and John mumbling incoherently, eyes shut, balls against David’s arse.
But, maybe, that didn’t count. No one was living there at the time. It didn’t feel like the sort of thing that was meant to happen somewhere else. Because what they do is always the sort of thing that isn’t supposed to touch their real lives—and it didn’t, that day, but sometimes, he lets it. They both let it.
He feels like he’s letting it when David’s in his house.
At some point they doze off, right there in the bed. John’s bed. The bed John sleeps in every night when he’s at home.
When he wakes up, it’s night.
David stirs. “What time is it?” His voice comes, muffled, from the pillow.
“A.M. or P.M.?”
“P.M.,” John tells him, smiling a bit. The pillow’s absolutely smashed the top of David’s moussed hair.
“Oh, god,” David groans. Stretches, grimaces, rubs his hands over his face. This is the prime time to be awake, for John—always been a night owl. But David acts like he’d rather it be nine in the morning, the lunatic.
John’s familiarity with his own bedroom ceases to be of any help to them when it takes them ten minutes to find David’s shirt. Turns out, it’s under the bed, partly covered by the edge of the duvet.
They go out and take in the city, stop at a flash celebrity restaurant and eventually ditch it in favor of something smaller—and it feels weird, all dressed up and just walking around and no one even knows what they’ve been doing.
They’ll be out walking, somewhere. And no one will know. Passersby will hardly even be able to tell that they’re together, what with David stopping to accommodate some fan’s request for a photo while John swaggers on ahead.
John’s still drowsy, though. It’s hard to focus and the neon lights glaring through the dark do nothing to help. He narrows his eyes, almost shutting them against the glare. Not enough to miss the little detail of David neglecting to do up the top few buttons of his shirt, however, and John’s cock seems more keen to wake back up than he is. It’s almost funny. It probably would be funny, to David, if John told him.
He begins to wish it was ten years ago, that he could drag David to some club and show him the ropes, test him, see how much he could make David relax and let go of everything. To see that manic energy but without those underlying concerns for politeness and propriety. Not caring about a thing. Rolling on E, pulling Gs on the dancefloor.
Maybe ten years ago John wouldn’t be worrying about so many things, second-guessing so much. Whatever happened to just making a decision, all energy and buzz and impulse, and bloody acting on it? Shit, whatever happened to going to three parties a night?
It’s become this, he realizes. Shagging David Tennant in his living room has become his new version of partying too hard.
So why does it seem to turn domestic at the drop of a hat, then? Why does he start to wonder and examine and second-guess? Answer him that.
Back to the house again, after a few hours of what David calls “partying”; John responds to that with a snort of laughter.
David just looks at him, bewildered. “Eh?”
“That was just wandering ‘round the city, man. Not quite a party. I hate to break it to you.”
It really is a shame that they can’t go to a club. He’d love to see what David would be like when he’s properly wrecked.
Back in the sitting room, for the first time all day, they go about their separate business. John’s sprawled on the sofa listening to one of his CDs while David sits at his kitchen table and eats a cold sandwich from John’s fridge—despite the fact that John had offered to actually cook him something, because he’s learned that David has an astonishing appetite for someone who’s not got a single ounce of body fat.
The separation doesn’t last. Afterwards, David pounces, rolling John across the sofa, the sandwich wrapper still on the table and the stereo still on, and they shag to “Elvis Presley’s 40 Greatest Hits.”
Tomorrow they’ll go stand in a queue at a café somewhere for breakfast and he’ll feel like all eyes are on them, when no one’ll really be the wiser. Tomorrow David will be in his bathroom using his toothbrush and John will be making the bed and reevaluating every decision he’s made since yesterday, and it’ll feel so bizarrely domestic compared to the indulgent blur of last night.
He’ll hate it. He’ll miss it, in a month’s time, when they’re in different countries. He’ll never tell David what this is doing to him. Never. He shouldn’t be going through some bizarre midlife crisis shit over David fucking Tennant. He’s sure David can’t be experiencing the same thing. It’ll only be John. It’ll be all David’s fault. It won’t be fair.
He’ll be making the bed and for the first time in ten years, he’ll stop and he’ll think about making the bed. Why he’s doing it and who’s just been in it and what this might mean.
And, then, hair damp from the shower, David will bounce out of the bathroom and wrap his arms around John from behind and nibble the outside of his ear, holding onto him as if for this moment, for just this moment, John’s the most important thing in the world.
And it’s so stupid, but somehow, just for that moment, that fixes everything.
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