it's like Spinal Tap. with a TARDIS.
Fic: Tennant/Simm: Soft Bomb

Who: David Tennant/John Simm.
What: RPS fic. A night in the lives of David and John.
Rating: R. (For language, shagging, and ~feelings.)
Why: Been kicking this little idea around for a while, so polishing and posting it seemed long overdue. Expanding on a bit from my last fic:

To 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. He’d love to see what David would be like when he’s properly wrecked.

Beer. Thai takeaway. More beer. Shots.

Apparently not enough takeaway to sufficiently line his stomach and keep the alcohol from hitting his system like a fucking atomic bomb.

Nice going. Really.

It doesn’t feel that bad, he’s pleased to note. It feels like it used to, more or less.

Until the next day. How did he used to do that, again? Hop up the next morning and start racing and bounding around again after only a few hours? Remember when he used to do that? He does.

He feels like complete shit.

There’s your standard-issue memory loss. Oh, yes. It’s a blur, yesterday evening. He remembers a lot of moving. Not much sitting still. Lots of lights and lots of moving and lots of booze. Flying through the whole evening without ever once touching the ground.

There’s your standard-issue pounding headache, your fatigue. This is worse than—he doesn’t know. It’s all familiar, but he has no frame of reference. To compare it to the old days seems silly.

This is worse than the Radio Times covers party. Yeah, that’s it. He’d like to be able to greet this hangover like an old friend, but he’d rather tell it to go fuck itself.

Getting David pissed was a bad idea.

He remembers David feeling up his leg in a taxi, remembers something involving lots of undignified giggling.

Then they’re stumbling ‘round someone’s flat and he’s talking bollocks about some indie band he heard on Radio 6 the other morning, and David’s staring at him like every word is a missive from God—so it’s no wonder he soon shuts up and lets David take over. Dave’s always been better at filling silences.

This is the clearest part of the evening. Where his memory really starts playing back, with fewer frames missing from the finished product. David talking, an (almost) steady stream about something utterly irrelevant, his dauntingly large vocabulary unaffected by drink aside from some stammering and false starts.

“Nonono. You don’t understand. You see, Ross and Rachel were on a break, and—”

“Sorry, who the hell are Ross and Rachel?”

Then David starts asking him about his life, questions he can answer with shocking ease because it’s David who’s asking, only occasionally deflecting and turning the questions back in the other direction.

What it’s like to have kids. What it’s like to have an older boy and younger girl. What it’s like to give up a successful franchise when the Beeb and the public are pressuring you to do another series. David ought to know the answers to all of these himself, by now, but John is feeling boneless and languid enough to oblige anyway. Even offers a few pieces of advice: Never go toy shopping while hungover. Never play favorites. Never let your so-called fanbase boss you around.

Although John’s the one talking again, it’s the responses that matter to him. And the responses he gets are incredible. David’s so interested, so attentive, caring so much. Little bursts of emotion going off in his face like firecrackers. So honest and open, making David’s normal sincerity and friendliness look like a façade—and John has always said that he wanted to make David relax and let go just to see what would happen, and oh, now he knows.

More babbling. David disagreeing about the fanbase advice. A terrible song playing on the radio and David’s mouth opening, moving, saying I love you, and John remembers the shape of the words and how they looked more than the sound of them.

David grinning. On top of him. Winding his arms up around David’s shoulders. Open-mouthed kisses.

The cross necklace turns completely backwards on his neck, the clasp ‘round the front and the crucifix digging into the back of his neck.

Fingers digging into David’s thighs. John looking up at him. Gripping his thighs, lifting him up, raising his own hips when David slides back down again.

He gasps and David yelps. Those are the sounds he remembers. Not words. Words mean fuck all when you’re pissed.

Isn’t that right?

But, all the same, it’s the words that really shake him.

David’s mouth, moving—

And that’s spoiled everything, hasn’t it?

John’s got things to take care of this morning and he can’t do this. Can’t replay the look and shape of syllables on David’s lips.

Last night he was liquid motion, on top of the world; he was rocking this fucking place.

Everything’s brittle now, cold. He doesn’t even recognize this as the same room. Can’t reconcile this as the same place where David straddled him, where he used his hands to guide every snap of David’s hips.

Five minutes after blinking at and recoiling from the bedroom walls, he’s out. He’s on the sidewalk out front before he knows how he got there, and he’s throwing his coat over a chair in his own kitchen in less time than he would have believed possible.

Coffee. That’s what he needs. He breathes in the steam and compulsively checks his watch again. It’s a dry winter day and everything’s steeped in hangover, and he tells himself that’s why his eyes sting and why he can feel everything too much.

He rubs a hand across his face.

They so seldom see each other that it’s rarely just about sex. There’s so much they can cram into a night, an afternoon, a conversation, a look. David plants kisses on the corners of his eyes with such care that it never stops being scary—it’s why he always wants to run from this and why he never does.

He pretends to, sometimes, when they’re apart and he doesn’t text or phone David. But that resistance is nothing more than an act.

That bastard and his fucking honesty. His drunken fucking. His drunken, fucking honesty.

Maybe if John didn’t feel the same things, the same threatening emotions, he wouldn’t be so rubbish at running away.

He can’t escape it; it’s like even his beloved morning music shows are against him today. Because on Radio 6, one of David’s idols is singing. The bloke that calls himself after one of John’s idols.

I love you more than everything in the world,” the song goes.“I don’t expect that will last.

If only it were that easy.

  1. revychumso said: OH, THE FEELS. David you call John right now and make him feel better! You write John and David so unbelievably well. Lovely fic, Gal! ♥
  2. consultingbradbury reblogged this from thisisgallifrey
  3. chthonic-canary reblogged this from tensimm
  4. aikainkauna reblogged this from thisisgallifrey and added:
    THIS WAS BEAUTIFUL OMG. Quality fic! Quality. I don’t know how you do this, Galli, but your characterisation is always...
  5. tensimm reblogged this from thisisgallifrey
  6. isaytoodlepip said: So beautiful and heartrending, Galli :)
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