RPF: "Colincolincolincolin"
Nov. 6th, 2010 10:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cyusTitle: Colincolincolincolin
Pairing/Characters: Merlin RPF, Bradley James, BJ/CM
Rating: G
Length: 2800 words
Summary: So he'd done the interview for Comic Con and that was all fun and well, but at the end of the day Bradley was sitting in London by himself and missing Colin became the throughline of the evening.
Notes: Written and posted originally in reply to this KMM #17 prompt quoting an exchange on an anon meme. Prompt: Bradley gets drunk one night while reading the Mean Meme and posts.
"I owe you for the last two," Bradley half shouted into the cab as he backed out of the car arse first, feet finding the kerb. Hands tousled his hair and punched at his shoulder, and he gave another drunken wave, pressed ten quid into a hand and threw the door shut. The cab pulled away from the kerb, hands waving through the back window, so Bradley waved back, windmilling arms until the cab turned the corner down the street.
The skies over London were pissing rain, wind pulling at his shirt and jeans, and Bradley contended with staring at the ground just in front of his shoes until he didn't feel like booting anymore, and only then dropped his hands by his sides. His head was hurting with thoughts, the don't try to think too hard, James kind with Colin's laughter dotting stupid memories.
"All good," he muttered to himself as he crossed the pavement to his front door, trying to banish the insistent nagging. The try not to think of the waltzing elephant with pink polka dots was biting him in the arse as he fitted key into lock and key into lock again two stairs up.
"Co-lin," he muttered as he closed the door to his flat behind himself and dropped his jacket on the chair in the hallway. Approximately the chair. "Coooo-liiin. Colincolincolincolin." The waltzing elephant paraded about with Colin's face and Colin's magic hands and Colin's faux-patient Yes, Bradley?s.
His answerphone blinked but he was too pissed. It was either his mum or his agent or someone, and he couldn't be bothered. Instead, he contemplated the beer in his fridge or the much too expensive bottle of wine his mum had told him he had to bring from France, and whether either would be good for his bursting head and rolling stomach and flat.
"I can do magic, Colin," Bradley said to his mirror that spun and bulged as his drunken eyes tried to make sense of it, then went for another beer and pushed up to sit on his kitchen table, legs dangling.
Colin had sent him an email from San Diego five days ago, a link to a youtube video with a drawn cat using a baseball bat on its owner, and cheer up. Mate. in Colin-tries-to-be-cool speak, and Bradley had thought about him half a world away and thought about replying with something stupid back, Hellblazer and chopped up bodies maybe, but these things took time and careful planning. And so he hadn't. And now it was five days on and he'd see him tomorrow at the station or on the train at the latest, and he'd be the idiot who'd never replied and Colin probably wouldn't even remember having sent the email. It would be entirely too late to reply now. And, yeah, so he hadn't. He'd thought about scanning a page from a script he'd been offered but that would be a) depressing in its pathetic unnamed character #5-ness and b) someone would bust his arse for spreading that shit about and c) it was probably best delivered in person.
Bradley sipped on his beer and knocked his heel against the table leg, thumpity-thump, waiting for more of the happy-making shit in alcohol to push out the darned elephant and replace it with something that wasn't the elephant - ah - Colin. That.
Colin's card from end of filming of the last series had been stuck to Bradley's fridge. Then that had seemed lovesick girl and he'd moved it between the Weetabix and the sugar pot. From there it had fallen into the sink as he was washing up and got a bit drenched and so had to stick it out on the radiator for a while and now it was sitting, a bit worse for wear, on the window ledge and had for months, catching dust.
Colin had desecrated a picture of the Eiffel Tower by having stick men in various shapes and ways fall off it, waving flags with J'aime Merlin (et je n'aime pas Arthur). There was stick figure blood, and it was altogether sick and inappropriate, and Bradley still stared at it every time he walked past.
He had a photo of it on his phone because it was all Colincolincolincolin in his head all the time when they weren't filming as if something had to replace the Colincolincolincolin breathing in Bradley's space for eight months a year minus a week that Colin was in San Diego and he was pretending to enjoy his time off.
(Bradley's postcard had been a penguin saying Happy Birthday and it had paled drastically in creativity, he had to admit, next to Colin's work of post-modern art)
The whole waltzing elephant gig in his head though, that was only half as fun as having someone to pal about with and, he had to face that, someone who couldn't tell him to piss off too much without making filming entirely too uncomfortable.
London was quiet without set shenanigans and stupidity. Bradley cocked his head. He thought he could hear a clock ticking somewhere in his flat, painting the passage of time with dark and foreboding steady clicks. Your time is running out, my friend.
Bradley closed his eyes, willed the picture of California sun on his skin, then he took another pull of the beer and slid off the kitchen table to walk into his bedroom. Steady there, hands on door frames and shelves keeping him from crashing into them unceremoniously. He crawled onto his bed, beer bottle still in hand.
Rain was drumming against his window and, waltzing elephant or not, it hurt a bit in his chest, this whole missing business, and the alcohol gave him none of the buzz and all of the stupid, morose bullshit.
He opened his laptop and pulled it closer to himself on the bed. OMG MY LIFE I DON'T EVEN! he typed into an email window and addressed it to Colin, then hit Discard and just stared at his emails, junk mail and a few lists he was subscribing to. He wandered over to his Facebook, and one of his idiot friends had sent him the link to a mate's wall, where he'd screencapped the hilarious facial expressions of Colin Morgan doing magic in Merlin and given it a this is my sexface thoughtbubble.
you're a dick Bradley typed in reply to his mate, and still couldn't help but stare at Colin staring right at him from the screen, hand outstretched and focused and all there.
It gave him a pang in the heart and Shakespearean tragedy dramatic moment where he collapsed back on his bed and stared at the twisting and turning ceiling, his eyes wet with tears from strain and cigarette smoke and too many hours awake. Tomorrow would kick his arse.
you're a dick. Mate. Bradley typed eventually in email to Colin one-handed and propped on his side because he could and it made him snort laughter through a mouthful of beer, and because Colin wouldn't see it until France and storm on set mock-outraged shoving his laptop in Bradley's face.
Waltzing elephants and all it was a guilty pleasure kind of night. Getting too drunk to be getting up at any sensible time, probably late for his agent for the pre-train meeting in a coffeeshop near King's Cross and looking rabbit eyes in the morning, but good, the buzz was settling at the base of his skull. A bit far from the burning of his heart to be more than soothingly blanketing in wooly goodness, but he'd settle for anything, and after he'd clicked on the link and while the page was loading he got himself a second beer before settling back on his bed, entangling his legs with the sheets and reading propped up on his elbow, ring finger scrolling on the keyboard while he was maneuvering bottle and mouth and hand in a way that would still allow him to drink and read and not think too much.
Vanity had him have a few fan forums bookmarked. Vanity and a healthy dose of masochism and stupidity after the order from higher up had always been not to mess about with stuff online. Hard to do when you had dick friends who for most of the first series had delighted in sending him links that got progressively more offensive. He scrolled past thoughts on the show and shit he didn't need to read and got stuck on interviews and listening to Colin talk and laugh and just look himself, and then I ran into Colin at ComicCon and the waltzing elephant knife in his gut twisted a bit more. Colin said my name in his Irish accent, told me it was pretty, and I was officially gone, and Bradley's laughter got stuck in the beer bottle, because then a clip of Colin going on about Arthur and Merlin and saying Bradley and I just made him want to not be in London but be in San Diego. Have been in San Diego then.
And then he came to the pictures and it was Colin signing and not Colin looking at him while they were being idiots on set, or Colin wanting to try out the sword, come on, Bradley, but just Colin. Bradley left the photo up on his screen and stared at it with the beer bottle in his lap, and that beat the lovesick girl impression with the postcard on the fridge and thinking about tracing fingertips over Colin's mouth or sucking on his dick or kissing, he'd settle for kissing (for a week or so) - that made it hard to deny that all it was was working together eight months a year and getting used to fart and gore jokes.
Bradley took a swig from his bottle, and another, and the alcohol buzz was becoming an ache in his temples, and he was tired but closing his eyes meant the world was spinning faster and faster, so he kept them open. "Colin," he muttered, and, "Colincolincolincolin."
Hey Col- you're on an airplane freezing your arse off over Iceland or
Then Bradley hit discard-message and flicked back to the postings online and scrolled through them, read about people meeting Colin, about Colin being so sweet and so nice and so hot. And it hurt, in the waltzing elephant settled on your chest and stole your breath way. He typed Someone help me into the subject line on the postings board, because he was being maudlin and alone and tomorrow it would be all pal-ing around and laughs about Colin being clueless about what any of the Americans had even been saying.
I think I'm in love with Colin Morgan, Bradley typed, then stared at the message, burped, fought down a craving for a giant Snickers. A man-size Snickers. Also, I'm drunk. he added as he glanced at the near empty bottle of beer. He hit Post Comment before he could get it into his head to post it on his Facebook wall. Just add his name to the list of people who'd choose Colin when asked Colin or Bradley?. He figured he was doing quite fine, being a fan.
He laid back on the bed, staring at his ceiling spinning in modern art, and tried to shove all his stupidity back into the box of things we don't think about and you're a dick and colin morgan likes strawberry jam until proven otherwise.
When he propped himself back up ten minutes later, head a lot dizzier, cock hard from all the thinking of cheekbones and mouth and body and everything that wouldn't go back into the box but insisted to be poster-sized on his mental walls, he felt all of fifteen year old fangirl with his shame plastered online for eternity as his search for a delete button proved fruitless. He clicked forward into other threads and backward again, only to stop at pictures of Colin again and again, and only then saw the reply to his posting.
Oh, Bradley. We know.
The waltzing elephant on his chest changed to a tapdance routine, and while his cock gave a twitch of fuck me now, the rest of his body was being dunked in ice. He stared at his comment, head a jumble of how could anyone possibly know to where are the cameras? to staring at the webcam in the frame of his laptop monitor and scrolling through settings to deactivate everything, browser, camera, internet, everything.
He even pulled the plug and the monitor dimmed on the energy-saving setting, Colin's picture darkening by a few more shades. Fingers clasped tight around the neck of the bottle, Bradley was waiting to sober up in the face of that, but his head kept spinning, muzziness setting in, and the feeling wouldn't go away that someone had taken an arrow and shot it at his big dark secret that even he managed not to be aware of most of the time (except for the nights in France, sometimes, and the nights in London, and when Colin was shooting a scene and Bradley was pointing and laughing and Colin pulled his constipated face).
It was- he hadn't put his name, had he, in a fit of alcohol-induced carelessness? No Bxx or THA MAN? Bradley tried to open the browser back up but all the tabs jumped to not connected, not giving him the cached version. He activated his internet connection again and clicked refresh, only to see if there was anything he had done that would have Colin greet him tomorrow with the curious cocked-head look of I don't quite understand what's going on but I think I like you so I'll go along for now and possibly some sense of deep betrayal of confidences.
The page refreshed, but no Bxx, no Bradley James, yes, I play Prince Arthur on BBC One's Merlin tagline on his post only the increasingly embarrassing I think I'm in love with Colin Morgan. Also, I'm drunk. Colin's picture peeked out with one eye behind the browser window, and it curled arousal back into Bradley's stomach and shoved any sense of embarrassment out. There was more below the Oh Bradley. We know. comment, and Bradley only hesitated for a split second before grasping for some of that King Arthur heroism and clicked on the links.
The row of A+s and LOLs was confusing, to say the least. Surprising maybe. And his waltzing buddy jumped off his chest and leaned cooly against the wall, giving him the eyebrow, even before Bradley quite processed that LOL meant funny and funny meant joke and that no one had been spying on him wanking in his bed for the last four years for kicks.
Bradley let out a laugh, half disbelieving, then another one, then drank down the rest of the beer until the bottle was empty, chuckling through the alcohol running down his throat and letting himself fall back on the mattress, staring at the intoxication patterns on the ceiling. When he glanced back at the computer Colin's picture was still looking at him, bent over autographs he was signing, a hint of stubble and just Colin.
"Colincolincolincolin," Bradley muttered, nodding at the photo, then slipped off to sleep.
His phone woke him, ringing too loud, too far away and not stopping when Bradley was thinking magic thoughts at it. "Not bloody Merlin, am I?" he muttered and crawled out of bed through the sunshine flooding his flat and finding his phone in his jacket unceremoniously dumped an armlength from the chair. He'd had too much to drink. Things were pounding in his skull. Hammers, a lot of them.
He answered the phone by finding the right button by sheer chance.
"Bradley?" Colin.
Colin. Bradley blinked down at his toes and up at the door and his discarded coat and the bottle of beer on the table. His flat reeked of stale alcohol sweat. He pulled a face and managed a sound into the phone.
"You're going to miss the train," Colin said over noises in the background, laughter, people. "You dick," he added, and, "mate," like he was running through the vocabulary of the cool mid-twenties blokes.
"Whu?"
"The train. We leave in an hour? Brad-ley."
Colin said my name in his Irish accent, told me it was pretty, and I was officially gone, Bradley thought, and, I think I'm in love with Colin Morgan.
"Okay," Bradley said over his thoughts repeating in a loop. "Okay, yeah. I'm there, nearly. Ah. Yeah. Yeah good."
"Oookay," Colin replied in his you're weird voice. "See you then, yeah?"
"Yeah."
The call disconnected and Bradley caught sight of the wavy postcard on his window ledge on the far side of the kitchen. "J'aime Merlin," he murmured and shrugged. Now that he'd started thinking it, it was hard to stop thinking it. It kept running through his hung over head as he rushed through brushing his teeth as he showered and called a cab, packing while he waited and then jumped in and was driven through a London morning that was prancing with sun. Colincolincolincolin.
Pairing/Characters: Merlin RPF, Bradley James, BJ/CM
Rating: G
Length: 2800 words
Summary: So he'd done the interview for Comic Con and that was all fun and well, but at the end of the day Bradley was sitting in London by himself and missing Colin became the throughline of the evening.
Notes: Written and posted originally in reply to this KMM #17 prompt quoting an exchange on an anon meme. Prompt: Bradley gets drunk one night while reading the Mean Meme and posts.
"I owe you for the last two," Bradley half shouted into the cab as he backed out of the car arse first, feet finding the kerb. Hands tousled his hair and punched at his shoulder, and he gave another drunken wave, pressed ten quid into a hand and threw the door shut. The cab pulled away from the kerb, hands waving through the back window, so Bradley waved back, windmilling arms until the cab turned the corner down the street.
The skies over London were pissing rain, wind pulling at his shirt and jeans, and Bradley contended with staring at the ground just in front of his shoes until he didn't feel like booting anymore, and only then dropped his hands by his sides. His head was hurting with thoughts, the don't try to think too hard, James kind with Colin's laughter dotting stupid memories.
"All good," he muttered to himself as he crossed the pavement to his front door, trying to banish the insistent nagging. The try not to think of the waltzing elephant with pink polka dots was biting him in the arse as he fitted key into lock and key into lock again two stairs up.
"Co-lin," he muttered as he closed the door to his flat behind himself and dropped his jacket on the chair in the hallway. Approximately the chair. "Coooo-liiin. Colincolincolincolin." The waltzing elephant paraded about with Colin's face and Colin's magic hands and Colin's faux-patient Yes, Bradley?s.
His answerphone blinked but he was too pissed. It was either his mum or his agent or someone, and he couldn't be bothered. Instead, he contemplated the beer in his fridge or the much too expensive bottle of wine his mum had told him he had to bring from France, and whether either would be good for his bursting head and rolling stomach and flat.
"I can do magic, Colin," Bradley said to his mirror that spun and bulged as his drunken eyes tried to make sense of it, then went for another beer and pushed up to sit on his kitchen table, legs dangling.
Colin had sent him an email from San Diego five days ago, a link to a youtube video with a drawn cat using a baseball bat on its owner, and cheer up. Mate. in Colin-tries-to-be-cool speak, and Bradley had thought about him half a world away and thought about replying with something stupid back, Hellblazer and chopped up bodies maybe, but these things took time and careful planning. And so he hadn't. And now it was five days on and he'd see him tomorrow at the station or on the train at the latest, and he'd be the idiot who'd never replied and Colin probably wouldn't even remember having sent the email. It would be entirely too late to reply now. And, yeah, so he hadn't. He'd thought about scanning a page from a script he'd been offered but that would be a) depressing in its pathetic unnamed character #5-ness and b) someone would bust his arse for spreading that shit about and c) it was probably best delivered in person.
Bradley sipped on his beer and knocked his heel against the table leg, thumpity-thump, waiting for more of the happy-making shit in alcohol to push out the darned elephant and replace it with something that wasn't the elephant - ah - Colin. That.
Colin's card from end of filming of the last series had been stuck to Bradley's fridge. Then that had seemed lovesick girl and he'd moved it between the Weetabix and the sugar pot. From there it had fallen into the sink as he was washing up and got a bit drenched and so had to stick it out on the radiator for a while and now it was sitting, a bit worse for wear, on the window ledge and had for months, catching dust.
Colin had desecrated a picture of the Eiffel Tower by having stick men in various shapes and ways fall off it, waving flags with J'aime Merlin (et je n'aime pas Arthur). There was stick figure blood, and it was altogether sick and inappropriate, and Bradley still stared at it every time he walked past.
He had a photo of it on his phone because it was all Colincolincolincolin in his head all the time when they weren't filming as if something had to replace the Colincolincolincolin breathing in Bradley's space for eight months a year minus a week that Colin was in San Diego and he was pretending to enjoy his time off.
(Bradley's postcard had been a penguin saying Happy Birthday and it had paled drastically in creativity, he had to admit, next to Colin's work of post-modern art)
The whole waltzing elephant gig in his head though, that was only half as fun as having someone to pal about with and, he had to face that, someone who couldn't tell him to piss off too much without making filming entirely too uncomfortable.
London was quiet without set shenanigans and stupidity. Bradley cocked his head. He thought he could hear a clock ticking somewhere in his flat, painting the passage of time with dark and foreboding steady clicks. Your time is running out, my friend.
Bradley closed his eyes, willed the picture of California sun on his skin, then he took another pull of the beer and slid off the kitchen table to walk into his bedroom. Steady there, hands on door frames and shelves keeping him from crashing into them unceremoniously. He crawled onto his bed, beer bottle still in hand.
Rain was drumming against his window and, waltzing elephant or not, it hurt a bit in his chest, this whole missing business, and the alcohol gave him none of the buzz and all of the stupid, morose bullshit.
He opened his laptop and pulled it closer to himself on the bed. OMG MY LIFE I DON'T EVEN! he typed into an email window and addressed it to Colin, then hit Discard and just stared at his emails, junk mail and a few lists he was subscribing to. He wandered over to his Facebook, and one of his idiot friends had sent him the link to a mate's wall, where he'd screencapped the hilarious facial expressions of Colin Morgan doing magic in Merlin and given it a this is my sexface thoughtbubble.
you're a dick Bradley typed in reply to his mate, and still couldn't help but stare at Colin staring right at him from the screen, hand outstretched and focused and all there.
It gave him a pang in the heart and Shakespearean tragedy dramatic moment where he collapsed back on his bed and stared at the twisting and turning ceiling, his eyes wet with tears from strain and cigarette smoke and too many hours awake. Tomorrow would kick his arse.
you're a dick. Mate. Bradley typed eventually in email to Colin one-handed and propped on his side because he could and it made him snort laughter through a mouthful of beer, and because Colin wouldn't see it until France and storm on set mock-outraged shoving his laptop in Bradley's face.
Waltzing elephants and all it was a guilty pleasure kind of night. Getting too drunk to be getting up at any sensible time, probably late for his agent for the pre-train meeting in a coffeeshop near King's Cross and looking rabbit eyes in the morning, but good, the buzz was settling at the base of his skull. A bit far from the burning of his heart to be more than soothingly blanketing in wooly goodness, but he'd settle for anything, and after he'd clicked on the link and while the page was loading he got himself a second beer before settling back on his bed, entangling his legs with the sheets and reading propped up on his elbow, ring finger scrolling on the keyboard while he was maneuvering bottle and mouth and hand in a way that would still allow him to drink and read and not think too much.
Vanity had him have a few fan forums bookmarked. Vanity and a healthy dose of masochism and stupidity after the order from higher up had always been not to mess about with stuff online. Hard to do when you had dick friends who for most of the first series had delighted in sending him links that got progressively more offensive. He scrolled past thoughts on the show and shit he didn't need to read and got stuck on interviews and listening to Colin talk and laugh and just look himself, and then I ran into Colin at ComicCon and the waltzing elephant knife in his gut twisted a bit more. Colin said my name in his Irish accent, told me it was pretty, and I was officially gone, and Bradley's laughter got stuck in the beer bottle, because then a clip of Colin going on about Arthur and Merlin and saying Bradley and I just made him want to not be in London but be in San Diego. Have been in San Diego then.
And then he came to the pictures and it was Colin signing and not Colin looking at him while they were being idiots on set, or Colin wanting to try out the sword, come on, Bradley, but just Colin. Bradley left the photo up on his screen and stared at it with the beer bottle in his lap, and that beat the lovesick girl impression with the postcard on the fridge and thinking about tracing fingertips over Colin's mouth or sucking on his dick or kissing, he'd settle for kissing (for a week or so) - that made it hard to deny that all it was was working together eight months a year and getting used to fart and gore jokes.
Bradley took a swig from his bottle, and another, and the alcohol buzz was becoming an ache in his temples, and he was tired but closing his eyes meant the world was spinning faster and faster, so he kept them open. "Colin," he muttered, and, "Colincolincolincolin."
Hey Col- you're on an airplane freezing your arse off over Iceland or
Then Bradley hit discard-message and flicked back to the postings online and scrolled through them, read about people meeting Colin, about Colin being so sweet and so nice and so hot. And it hurt, in the waltzing elephant settled on your chest and stole your breath way. He typed Someone help me into the subject line on the postings board, because he was being maudlin and alone and tomorrow it would be all pal-ing around and laughs about Colin being clueless about what any of the Americans had even been saying.
I think I'm in love with Colin Morgan, Bradley typed, then stared at the message, burped, fought down a craving for a giant Snickers. A man-size Snickers. Also, I'm drunk. he added as he glanced at the near empty bottle of beer. He hit Post Comment before he could get it into his head to post it on his Facebook wall. Just add his name to the list of people who'd choose Colin when asked Colin or Bradley?. He figured he was doing quite fine, being a fan.
He laid back on the bed, staring at his ceiling spinning in modern art, and tried to shove all his stupidity back into the box of things we don't think about and you're a dick and colin morgan likes strawberry jam until proven otherwise.
When he propped himself back up ten minutes later, head a lot dizzier, cock hard from all the thinking of cheekbones and mouth and body and everything that wouldn't go back into the box but insisted to be poster-sized on his mental walls, he felt all of fifteen year old fangirl with his shame plastered online for eternity as his search for a delete button proved fruitless. He clicked forward into other threads and backward again, only to stop at pictures of Colin again and again, and only then saw the reply to his posting.
Oh, Bradley. We know.
The waltzing elephant on his chest changed to a tapdance routine, and while his cock gave a twitch of fuck me now, the rest of his body was being dunked in ice. He stared at his comment, head a jumble of how could anyone possibly know to where are the cameras? to staring at the webcam in the frame of his laptop monitor and scrolling through settings to deactivate everything, browser, camera, internet, everything.
He even pulled the plug and the monitor dimmed on the energy-saving setting, Colin's picture darkening by a few more shades. Fingers clasped tight around the neck of the bottle, Bradley was waiting to sober up in the face of that, but his head kept spinning, muzziness setting in, and the feeling wouldn't go away that someone had taken an arrow and shot it at his big dark secret that even he managed not to be aware of most of the time (except for the nights in France, sometimes, and the nights in London, and when Colin was shooting a scene and Bradley was pointing and laughing and Colin pulled his constipated face).
It was- he hadn't put his name, had he, in a fit of alcohol-induced carelessness? No Bxx or THA MAN? Bradley tried to open the browser back up but all the tabs jumped to not connected, not giving him the cached version. He activated his internet connection again and clicked refresh, only to see if there was anything he had done that would have Colin greet him tomorrow with the curious cocked-head look of I don't quite understand what's going on but I think I like you so I'll go along for now and possibly some sense of deep betrayal of confidences.
The page refreshed, but no Bxx, no Bradley James, yes, I play Prince Arthur on BBC One's Merlin tagline on his post only the increasingly embarrassing I think I'm in love with Colin Morgan. Also, I'm drunk. Colin's picture peeked out with one eye behind the browser window, and it curled arousal back into Bradley's stomach and shoved any sense of embarrassment out. There was more below the Oh Bradley. We know. comment, and Bradley only hesitated for a split second before grasping for some of that King Arthur heroism and clicked on the links.
The row of A+s and LOLs was confusing, to say the least. Surprising maybe. And his waltzing buddy jumped off his chest and leaned cooly against the wall, giving him the eyebrow, even before Bradley quite processed that LOL meant funny and funny meant joke and that no one had been spying on him wanking in his bed for the last four years for kicks.
Bradley let out a laugh, half disbelieving, then another one, then drank down the rest of the beer until the bottle was empty, chuckling through the alcohol running down his throat and letting himself fall back on the mattress, staring at the intoxication patterns on the ceiling. When he glanced back at the computer Colin's picture was still looking at him, bent over autographs he was signing, a hint of stubble and just Colin.
"Colincolincolincolin," Bradley muttered, nodding at the photo, then slipped off to sleep.
His phone woke him, ringing too loud, too far away and not stopping when Bradley was thinking magic thoughts at it. "Not bloody Merlin, am I?" he muttered and crawled out of bed through the sunshine flooding his flat and finding his phone in his jacket unceremoniously dumped an armlength from the chair. He'd had too much to drink. Things were pounding in his skull. Hammers, a lot of them.
He answered the phone by finding the right button by sheer chance.
"Bradley?" Colin.
Colin. Bradley blinked down at his toes and up at the door and his discarded coat and the bottle of beer on the table. His flat reeked of stale alcohol sweat. He pulled a face and managed a sound into the phone.
"You're going to miss the train," Colin said over noises in the background, laughter, people. "You dick," he added, and, "mate," like he was running through the vocabulary of the cool mid-twenties blokes.
"Whu?"
"The train. We leave in an hour? Brad-ley."
Colin said my name in his Irish accent, told me it was pretty, and I was officially gone, Bradley thought, and, I think I'm in love with Colin Morgan.
"Okay," Bradley said over his thoughts repeating in a loop. "Okay, yeah. I'm there, nearly. Ah. Yeah. Yeah good."
"Oookay," Colin replied in his you're weird voice. "See you then, yeah?"
"Yeah."
The call disconnected and Bradley caught sight of the wavy postcard on his window ledge on the far side of the kitchen. "J'aime Merlin," he murmured and shrugged. Now that he'd started thinking it, it was hard to stop thinking it. It kept running through his hung over head as he rushed through brushing his teeth as he showered and called a cab, packing while he waited and then jumped in and was driven through a London morning that was prancing with sun. Colincolincolincolin.
