RPF: "Leftovers"
Dec. 4th, 2009 07:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cyusTitle: Leftovers
Characters: TW RPS, JB/GDL
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~ 1,000 words
Disclaimer: The events in this story are fiction, as much as the interpretation of the real people as shown in the story is a fictionalization of them and their lives. It should not be inferred that this is an attempt to represent reality.
Summary: It's always the one last time, and it's a little hard to let go.
Notes: Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
amand_r and 51stcenturyfox for the beta. Originally posted as dinoegg.
Scott goes away on vacation, so the tumble in the sheets that are not his own (lower thread count by the thousands) in that very dingy flat somewhere in Newport is directly down to him. It seems only fair to John as he rolls out of bed, greeted by grey skies and slobbering dogs that want out for a walk. Assigning the blame fairly for sex that could have been better. Not his job, he makes coffee, resists tuning in to Radio 2 for about ten seconds until he blasts it from the kitchen.
"Not a dream," comes from the kitchen doorway in hoarse tones and reeking of old alcohol.
John, in his pyjama trousers and the t-shirt, oh so well-prepared, stops with the coffee scoop in his hand, eyes Gareth and shrugs. "If this was a dream, you'd be living in a penthouse studio."
Gareth's fridge hesitates a bit on the opening, again on the closing, a bit cold, too, with just bare feet.
"We shagged."
John smiles, resists the titter. Gareth hadn't been up for more than a blowjob. Even so he only resisted a video diary for fear of someone finding and selling, Gareth namely. Scott would have liked to see it.
Maybe.
John tries to resist slapping him in the face with his infidelities these days, the small, the unnecessary, nothing like sex clubs in DC, something about respect came above sharing and always, and Gareth isn't Scott's type enough to interest him. It's John who always goes for the straight kids and burns his fingers with them over long or short and comes crawling back, always, for a slow fuck on IKEA sofas and communication without words. Sap.
"Gemma's going to be by," Gareth says, scratching at his stomach, eyes trying to focus, bleary head movements.
John refrains from commenting, only sets the coffee machine to gurgle, turns and leans against the counter, scratching at the edge of the drawer to look for something beautiful underneath.
"I don't like girls," John says sweetly, eventually.
"Not everyone wants to do you," Gareth gives back, and something stings in the overtones.
They're both sore. Not like that, that'd be nice. They both fucked for Ianto's death. It wasn't the same as the quickies in the trailers between scenes and maybe they'd both hoped it would be. It's been three months, everyone's moved on and they're not the characters they play on the telly.
Well, John is, just a little.
It closes the chapter, a last blowjob goodbye, taking one for the team and Gareth's off with the band and John's doing the telly show and snogging just for the laughter and the ease has been replaced by something a little more bitter. They aren't the kids that started on the adventure. If they had been, there would have been more than Gareth spreading his legs to let John kneel between and suckle on his almost limp dick before falling over to sleep, curling up on his side of the bed.
John regrets it a little now, in the morning, that they replaced the last good memory with one that tastes a little more like failure on his tongue, and age and the end.
Dramatics.
Gareth stretches for two cups from the shelf behind him and sets them on the table. There's toast and butter and jam; neither of them makes a motion to fry up bacon or pretend like this is a proper morning after.
John should say something about Gareth having grown up, but it makes him sound too much like the creepy old guy seducing twinks in dirty clubs, so he stuffs toast he doesn't much care for into his mouth.
"I'll miss it," Gareth says to the window and the house opposite, grey walls. He looks at John from the side.
The sex? John wants to ask, grinning, he is that good, but Gareth means Torchwood and they've had the conversation and it's getting old for both of them now. It's another goodbye and every time they promise themselves it's the final one, and they'll move on, and then there's a text and a phone call and Scott just nods and John doesn't ask about Gemma and Gareth doesn't offer.
It's a routine now, and just like that, John nods in agreement, and he misses playing, more than anything, and misses what this was before it became another relationship to work at.
Mostly that's why they are both pulling out. He doesn't have the patience for a straight kid, and Gareth, really, doesn't have the patience for a gay guy.
John reaches over, fingers on Gareth's thigh. "Another...?" he offers, breadcrumbs stuck around his mouth that Gareth thumbs away with a laugh and half a broken kiss to the corner of his lips.
A moment's hesitation, adding the e, f, or g as the subpoint to the final point on the list, drawing it out, then Gareth shakes his head and moves his thigh. It leaves John's hand in the air before he settles it on the table, shrugs.
"It's been good, yeah?" Gareth jokes, bleeding it into a parody.
John laughs through the coffee, snaps his fingers, and "Cue the song," he says with a waggle of his eyebrows. They both share a laugh, a jostle of the shoulders.
It's been good, yeah. The doorbell rings, Gemma probably, and Gareth gestures with his head to the bedroom, for John to get dressed, get out of here, no panic so she probably knows something. John wants to kiss him goodbye, a little, but they left that with Jack and Ianto and a time of their lives, eh. They're grown up now.
When he hugs Gemma as he pushes past her in the kitchen, jacket on and messenger bag around his shoulders, he gives a twirl and wave to Gareth. "Good luck with the cons." It'll be a nightmare for Gareth, and for the most part, it'll be Gareth's nightmare alone.
Walking the streets of Newport, calling a cab, his finger already hovers over the send button of another text, another invitation for another last time, something to make it good again, yeah?
John's always been shit at letting go. Ask Scott.
Characters: TW RPS, JB/GDL
Rating: PG-13
Length: ~ 1,000 words
Disclaimer: The events in this story are fiction, as much as the interpretation of the real people as shown in the story is a fictionalization of them and their lives. It should not be inferred that this is an attempt to represent reality.
Summary: It's always the one last time, and it's a little hard to let go.
Notes: Thanks to
amand_r and 51stcenturyfox for the beta. Originally posted as dinoegg.Scott goes away on vacation, so the tumble in the sheets that are not his own (lower thread count by the thousands) in that very dingy flat somewhere in Newport is directly down to him. It seems only fair to John as he rolls out of bed, greeted by grey skies and slobbering dogs that want out for a walk. Assigning the blame fairly for sex that could have been better. Not his job, he makes coffee, resists tuning in to Radio 2 for about ten seconds until he blasts it from the kitchen.
"Not a dream," comes from the kitchen doorway in hoarse tones and reeking of old alcohol.
John, in his pyjama trousers and the t-shirt, oh so well-prepared, stops with the coffee scoop in his hand, eyes Gareth and shrugs. "If this was a dream, you'd be living in a penthouse studio."
Gareth's fridge hesitates a bit on the opening, again on the closing, a bit cold, too, with just bare feet.
"We shagged."
John smiles, resists the titter. Gareth hadn't been up for more than a blowjob. Even so he only resisted a video diary for fear of someone finding and selling, Gareth namely. Scott would have liked to see it.
Maybe.
John tries to resist slapping him in the face with his infidelities these days, the small, the unnecessary, nothing like sex clubs in DC, something about respect came above sharing and always, and Gareth isn't Scott's type enough to interest him. It's John who always goes for the straight kids and burns his fingers with them over long or short and comes crawling back, always, for a slow fuck on IKEA sofas and communication without words. Sap.
"Gemma's going to be by," Gareth says, scratching at his stomach, eyes trying to focus, bleary head movements.
John refrains from commenting, only sets the coffee machine to gurgle, turns and leans against the counter, scratching at the edge of the drawer to look for something beautiful underneath.
"I don't like girls," John says sweetly, eventually.
"Not everyone wants to do you," Gareth gives back, and something stings in the overtones.
They're both sore. Not like that, that'd be nice. They both fucked for Ianto's death. It wasn't the same as the quickies in the trailers between scenes and maybe they'd both hoped it would be. It's been three months, everyone's moved on and they're not the characters they play on the telly.
Well, John is, just a little.
It closes the chapter, a last blowjob goodbye, taking one for the team and Gareth's off with the band and John's doing the telly show and snogging just for the laughter and the ease has been replaced by something a little more bitter. They aren't the kids that started on the adventure. If they had been, there would have been more than Gareth spreading his legs to let John kneel between and suckle on his almost limp dick before falling over to sleep, curling up on his side of the bed.
John regrets it a little now, in the morning, that they replaced the last good memory with one that tastes a little more like failure on his tongue, and age and the end.
Dramatics.
Gareth stretches for two cups from the shelf behind him and sets them on the table. There's toast and butter and jam; neither of them makes a motion to fry up bacon or pretend like this is a proper morning after.
John should say something about Gareth having grown up, but it makes him sound too much like the creepy old guy seducing twinks in dirty clubs, so he stuffs toast he doesn't much care for into his mouth.
"I'll miss it," Gareth says to the window and the house opposite, grey walls. He looks at John from the side.
The sex? John wants to ask, grinning, he is that good, but Gareth means Torchwood and they've had the conversation and it's getting old for both of them now. It's another goodbye and every time they promise themselves it's the final one, and they'll move on, and then there's a text and a phone call and Scott just nods and John doesn't ask about Gemma and Gareth doesn't offer.
It's a routine now, and just like that, John nods in agreement, and he misses playing, more than anything, and misses what this was before it became another relationship to work at.
Mostly that's why they are both pulling out. He doesn't have the patience for a straight kid, and Gareth, really, doesn't have the patience for a gay guy.
John reaches over, fingers on Gareth's thigh. "Another...?" he offers, breadcrumbs stuck around his mouth that Gareth thumbs away with a laugh and half a broken kiss to the corner of his lips.
A moment's hesitation, adding the e, f, or g as the subpoint to the final point on the list, drawing it out, then Gareth shakes his head and moves his thigh. It leaves John's hand in the air before he settles it on the table, shrugs.
"It's been good, yeah?" Gareth jokes, bleeding it into a parody.
John laughs through the coffee, snaps his fingers, and "Cue the song," he says with a waggle of his eyebrows. They both share a laugh, a jostle of the shoulders.
It's been good, yeah. The doorbell rings, Gemma probably, and Gareth gestures with his head to the bedroom, for John to get dressed, get out of here, no panic so she probably knows something. John wants to kiss him goodbye, a little, but they left that with Jack and Ianto and a time of their lives, eh. They're grown up now.
When he hugs Gemma as he pushes past her in the kitchen, jacket on and messenger bag around his shoulders, he gives a twirl and wave to Gareth. "Good luck with the cons." It'll be a nightmare for Gareth, and for the most part, it'll be Gareth's nightmare alone.
Walking the streets of Newport, calling a cab, his finger already hovers over the send button of another text, another invitation for another last time, something to make it good again, yeah?
John's always been shit at letting go. Ask Scott.
