Fic: Jude Law/Ewan McGregor, PG
Title: I Didn't Know What Fucking Time It Was
Author: Joe, Girl Robot
Fandom: Um, is "attractive British actors" a fandom?
Pairing: Jude Law/Ewan McGregor
Rating: PG. Sorry.
Disclaimer: It's lies. All lies.
Feedback: Please, if you're inclined.
Summary: Jude wakes up.
Notes: Written in exactly 30 minutes for the early-morning contrelamontre challege, and I'm starting to think that this whole header here is longer than the actual story. This is the first fic I've posted here, and one of the first I've written, period. Um. Hi. *waves cautiously*
Oh, it was beautiful. The sun, and the flowers, and then Pele, who apparently was bored with retirement and had taken up a position in the Her Majesty's secret service, walked up to him and gave him a special assignment, and Jude could smell the jacaranda, and he was in love in the maybe-springtime-but-also-maybe-just-autumn-in-a-more-southern-climate, and then some of those giant trucks that Americans pay to see drive over smaller trucks in large arenas came. Zzzuh. Zuhoooo. Zzzuh.
He woke up with a mouth full of pillowcase.
He sat up, just a little, soft and careful. He looked to his right, giant red numbers burning just simply far too close to his face, 3:49. What?
He looked to his left and saw first the chest, doing that slow up-and-down, machine steady, and then the swirl of hair, and then it registered, the monster truck noises roaring out of Ewan’s nose.
Oh.
Oh, God. So, what? What was this? Well, yes, he knew what this was, but...okay, right, what about the last time, yeah? When it was definitely going to be the last time, because Jude, frankly, just had a few too many on his plate, and because Ewan had Eve and a relatively happy family, and WHAT ABOUT THE LAST TIME, BECAUSE THIS WAS BLOODY WELL ANOTHER TIME NOW, WASN’T IT?
Breathe. Breathe. Okay. And, and, well. It had been...nice was a terrible word. But yes, nice. Soft and hard and comfortable and nice, except for now, with the snoring. Getting all excited...all right, another terrible word, but never mind...now was pointless. Better to do it later, after some sleep.
Sleep.
Right.
Jude turned over, clock-side, and shoved his arm up under the pillow. Turned again, continually vowing to keep his eyes closed until he fell back asleep, but peeking out at Ewan’s slack lips every so often anyway. Back to the clock. Ewan. Clock. Ewan. Clock. Face down in the pilow again. Straight...and again, with the words...on his back, arms crossed on his chest burial-style, laid down by his sides, one thrown up over his eyes to keep them honest and closed.
Which it didn’t do, really. His eyelids were stronger that that, forcing themselves upward and leaving him to stare unhappily at his arm, "Sexy Sa" bending around the visible flesh in big black script. It was lucky, probably, that the Beatles never wrote any songs about Scottish boys.
La.
La, la.
La.
He looked, finally, ages and ages later, at the clock again.
3:57.
Well, fuck.
Author: Joe, Girl Robot
Fandom: Um, is "attractive British actors" a fandom?
Pairing: Jude Law/Ewan McGregor
Rating: PG. Sorry.
Disclaimer: It's lies. All lies.
Feedback: Please, if you're inclined.
Summary: Jude wakes up.
Notes: Written in exactly 30 minutes for the early-morning contrelamontre challege, and I'm starting to think that this whole header here is longer than the actual story. This is the first fic I've posted here, and one of the first I've written, period. Um. Hi. *waves cautiously*
Oh, it was beautiful. The sun, and the flowers, and then Pele, who apparently was bored with retirement and had taken up a position in the Her Majesty's secret service, walked up to him and gave him a special assignment, and Jude could smell the jacaranda, and he was in love in the maybe-springtime-but-also-maybe-just-autumn-in-a-more-southern-climate, and then some of those giant trucks that Americans pay to see drive over smaller trucks in large arenas came. Zzzuh. Zuhoooo. Zzzuh.
He woke up with a mouth full of pillowcase.
He sat up, just a little, soft and careful. He looked to his right, giant red numbers burning just simply far too close to his face, 3:49. What?
He looked to his left and saw first the chest, doing that slow up-and-down, machine steady, and then the swirl of hair, and then it registered, the monster truck noises roaring out of Ewan’s nose.
Oh.
Oh, God. So, what? What was this? Well, yes, he knew what this was, but...okay, right, what about the last time, yeah? When it was definitely going to be the last time, because Jude, frankly, just had a few too many on his plate, and because Ewan had Eve and a relatively happy family, and WHAT ABOUT THE LAST TIME, BECAUSE THIS WAS BLOODY WELL ANOTHER TIME NOW, WASN’T IT?
Breathe. Breathe. Okay. And, and, well. It had been...nice was a terrible word. But yes, nice. Soft and hard and comfortable and nice, except for now, with the snoring. Getting all excited...all right, another terrible word, but never mind...now was pointless. Better to do it later, after some sleep.
Sleep.
Right.
Jude turned over, clock-side, and shoved his arm up under the pillow. Turned again, continually vowing to keep his eyes closed until he fell back asleep, but peeking out at Ewan’s slack lips every so often anyway. Back to the clock. Ewan. Clock. Ewan. Clock. Face down in the pilow again. Straight...and again, with the words...on his back, arms crossed on his chest burial-style, laid down by his sides, one thrown up over his eyes to keep them honest and closed.
Which it didn’t do, really. His eyelids were stronger that that, forcing themselves upward and leaving him to stare unhappily at his arm, "Sexy Sa" bending around the visible flesh in big black script. It was lucky, probably, that the Beatles never wrote any songs about Scottish boys.
La.
La, la.
La.
He looked, finally, ages and ages later, at the clock again.
3:57.
Well, fuck.