The first TW/DW RPF COMMENT-FIC CARNIVALE!
Oh hallo. Are you here for something?
Of course you are.
What's your name? You're Candy?
Of course you are.
On behalf of Myself, cruentum, and degenerates everywhere, welcome to:
( Read more... )
Of course you are.
What's your name? You're Candy?
Of course you are.
On behalf of Myself, cruentum, and degenerates everywhere, welcome to:
( Read more... )
"Oh, come on."
"Still not gay," Gareth says, and John looks mock-affronted.
"Chicken."
"Prat." And he shuts the door behind him, because Barrowman's already fucking singing. Gareth settles at the desk, rings down for Glenlivet because he and John agree on that and plugs his iPod in, because it's oddly fun to write music to other music -- and there's the "drowning out 'I'm just a little girl from Little Rock'" consideration, too, and if it keeps up after the bottle arrives he'll have to leave anyway, because Gentlemen Prefer Blondes? Just... no.
"Play something I like!" John hollers.
"No! Bugger off." Gareth yells back and turns up Massive Attack on the portable speakers. He sits back and starts to pen a line. He'd been thinking... apocalyptic blues... something about the earth vomiting emotion via lava. An angry surge? No. Streams of rage? Mayyybe. He jots that down and wonders how long it'll be before he gets his drink.
"Gaz!" he hears John call out faintly.
"What?"
"You used all the hotel shampoo?"
Gareth gets to his feet and leans against the bathroom door to repeat himself. "What? Yeah. I guess."
"Huh. Maybe you could get-"
"No. And shut up. I'm working on something."
"Oh, all right," he hears John laugh and shakes his head.
"I've got Gemma's shampoo if you want it -- I took her toiletries bag by accident," Gareth offers, through the door. "Banana... creme fraiche. Organic."
"Pass. Girly!"
"It's not... bad." Gareth waves a hand in the general direction of the loo and picks up his notepad, then drops it and strolls to the window to investigate the view. This really is a fantastic hotel, and London looks a little bit magical tonight.
He's about to pick up his pen again, but a soft rap at the door signals room service, so he drops the notepad on the bed and makes his way to the door. It's the front-desk staffer, with a napkin-wrapped bottle and a small ice bucket.
"Beverly", he reads on her name tag, and as he smiles and is about to offer an autograph because since when do check-in clerks bring guests a bottle of scotch --but just then the iPod changes songs to Teardrop and John opens the bathroom door, steam pouring out behind him and spa robe wide open, rubbing his eyes, and before he can say a word, John does:
"Okay, Gaz, you talked me into it. Gimme the banana." And with that John shuts the door again and presumably heads back to the tub.
And in the space between turning red and signing off on the bill with a generous tip, Gareth wonders if he can possibly explain unexpected naked Barrowman to Beverly, who's biting her lip and, he can tell, trying desperately not to giggle.
"Thank you very much, sir," she says, and backs out of the room, pointedly pulling the "do not disturb" door hanger with her.
And as she leaves, Gareth desperately hopes she doesn't have a twitter.
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I would hope to God that she DOES have a Twitter. "OMGZ JOHN BARROWMAN NAKED IN GARETH'S ROOM guys I think they're banging SOMETHING!"
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Where is MY tub, huh? WHERE? ;)
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Unexpected!Naked!Barrowman, and passing the banana, is a fucking force of nature.
Brill, bb, brill.
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