Title: All Shook Up
Who: David Tennant/John Simm.
What: RPS fic about John’s—to use his own words—“weird little crush” on Elvis Presley.
Rating: PG-13, probably.
A/N: Many, many thanks to snowgrouse for betaing!
He thinks David’s worn it before, possibly to a premiere or talk show. Or all of the above. They’re both champions at wearing the same clothes, over and over, to professional events.
It’s this velvet-looking jacket, brownish gold—or goldish brown, depending on the light. Either way, it’s distinctly metallic. It’s a little bit awful, a little bit daring, and a lot David.
David wouldn’t think of it as daring, though, and that’s why it’s so wonderful. He just puts things on and hopes for the best, without too much fuss, and that’s what John does, too. Except in his case, that method results in jeans, t-shirts, and lots of leather; it results in mismatched patterns and checkerboard suits in David’s.
That jacket, though. There’s something about that jacket. It emphasizes David’s shoulders, and in a bizarre way, the colour actually complements his hair, which is—
Jesus, David’s hair is in a fucking quiff.
His hair changes frequently and regularly, in subtle ways, because with a bit of gel David can make it do anything—whether he’s actively trying to or not. What possessed David to go for this rather than his usual fringe-over-the-forehead type look is a mystery, though. John hasn’t seen it like this since he watched that Who episode with his son, what was it, something about a television presenter eating people in the ‘50s? The details of some of those early ones escape him.
“Y’like it?” David spreads his arms a little, teasingly showing off the jacket.
“It’s fucking horrible,” he says, even as he’s stroking his hand over David’s shoulder. He touches the jacket just so he can run his hand over the nap, because the brown-gold shimmer is somehow too tempting to resist.
“Thanks.” David’s tone is dry, but there’s still that tilt to his mouth, that hint of excitement and expectation, and John half-expects him to fling his arms out again and twirl on the spot.
Maybe that’s why John stops and mumbles something too quietly for David to hear.
“You look like Elvis,” he mutters, with an expression like saying it aloud, like having to repeat it, is akin to pulling teeth. “Sort of.”
“Oh. Well.” David begins to grin. “So that’s how to get your attention.”
John rolls his eyes, rummages through the post for the flyer advertising the event they’re headed to tonight. Maybe David won’t keep talking if John ignores him. What was the event, something about the theatre? Something about a magazine? A theatre magazine? Something else entirely?
“Makes sense, though; it’s always next to impossible to get your attention if Elvis is on telly, or on the car radio, or on a book in the shops—”
“What are you on about?” John grumpily shuffles the papers like playing cards, although he’s already found and pocketed the flyer. “That’s not true,” he says, but he knows it is. It’s usually a bragging point, too, but this discussion is putting him on the defensive.
“It is. And, usually, I can’t possibly compete with that. I think I’ve just found the way around it, though.” He sidles up to John, looking pleased with himself and his gold(ish) jacket and coiffed hair. “Have I found the way around it?”
John ignores the last comment. Refuses to make eye contact as he justifies his lifelong obsession. Is this how David feels when John takes the rip out of him for being such a Who fanboy? But they’re not the same thing, not the same at all. “What can I say, something magical happens when you take a hit of Elvis. You ought to try it sometime.”
A lopsided smile spreads on David’s face; he’s amused at the word choice. “Try what, getting high on Elvis?”
“Yeah. High on Elvis.” He grins. Okay, he likes that. “Blue Suede Ludes and All Shook Uppers?”
David laughs. It makes John feel witty. He never needed people in order to feel witty, before David. Or, maybe he did. But he never realized it as keenly as he does now.
Good. He made David laugh. Conversation over. “Anyway, we’ve got to go. It’s late.”
“Five more minutes?” David’s pleading, with big, big eyes. Eyes like saucers. He reaches for John and snogs him, exaggeratedly, endearingly manipulative. John feels a velvet sleeve against his neck and still shakes his head no.
“But I love this,” David drawls, against his mouth, in that same exaggerated begging voice. “Being here with you.”
No way, Dave. Not gonna work on him. “Yeah, and I love Elvis Presley. Now shift.” He smirks, nudging David, getting out of his arms and up.
David sighs. Then perks up, all excitement and delight. His mouth is at that tilt, and he’s clearly thought of something. “Would it help if I did something suggestive with my hips?”
He eyes David coolly. No, it certainly would not. This is not going to work on him. No way.
John loses all track of time.
It’s two hours later and they’ve missed most of the event. That’s all right, though—he’d take David’s hips over some flash celebrity gathering any day. David moving against him like he’s trying to imitate that infamous telly performance of “Hound Dog”. David grinding against him until he whimpers.
There was something a little lacking in the technique, John thinks, when it’s all over. He points out, however—as he catches his breath, kicks the brown-gold jacket off the arm of the sofa, double-checks that he’s not staring too intently at the line of David’s hipbone—that there’s a learning curve to this sort of thing. (And possibly a learning shake, and a learning shimmy.)
David gets full marks for effort, and John can tell him with confidence—and with a snog that goes on far too long and not long enough—that he’s passed the audition.
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