'Something Blue' - Zodiac - Paul/Robert
Title: Something Blue
Fandom: Zodiac
Pairing: Paul/Robert, mentioned Robert/Melanie
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language, angst, liberal application of Aqua Velva.
Summary: To quote svilleficrecs: Robert's bachelor party, which is mostly him getting extremely drunk with Paul. Also, this fic is based entirely on the characters portrayed by Robert Downey, Jr. and Jake Gyllenhall in the film Zodiac, not on the real people.
'So,' Paul says, as he pours Robert his third whisky-on-the-rocks (except it's mostly just whisky now, but they're both beyond caring), 'congratulations.'
'You've said that already,' Robert points out, the words muffled by the fact that he's resting his face on the table-top.
'I have?'
'Yeah.. like.. a thousand times or something.'
Paul nudges Robert's whisky across the table with his fingertips.
'Oh. Well. Nevertheless.' He lifts his own drink in a wobbly one-man toast. 'Congratulations, Bobby, on your impending.. uh.. doom. Demise. Marriage. Whatever.'
Robert mutters something uninteligable. Paul considers the top of his head for a moment, then reaches over and plucks a paper cocktail umbrella from one of the many empty glasses that litter the table- Aqua Velva, for old time's sake- and slides it carefully into Robert's hair. The view thus improved, he returns his attention to the man himself.
'What was that?'
Robert pulls himself up from the table, and blinks muzzily at Paul. The umbrella on top of his head leans to one side, but remains in place.
'I said: 'aren't you married?''
Paul shrugs, stirs his whisky with a fingertip, then sucks it clean.
'I am. Was. Is. Perhaps. My wife is under the impression that I'm married to someone else.' He raises his glass, examines the way the lights of the barjoint catch in the amber liquid. 'One Mr. Daniels. Or possibly a Mr. Beam-comma-Jim, she's very indecisive.' He shrugs again. Then, as if to prove something, downs the whisky in a single swallow.
Robert frowns, trying to make some sense out of his thoughts, which seem to have dissolved into a thick gluey morass. He feels like he should say something, but can't quite work out what.
'But, Paul,' he decides, finally, leaning across the table to point accusingly at his friend, 'you can't be married to a man. That's not.. how it works.'
Paul smiles, and Robert sees something sad in that smile, but he's too drunk and too tired to do anything about it.
Paul reaches up and takes Robert's hand, and begins to rub the pad of his thumb up and down the curl of Robert's ring finger- unhindered, for now. He doesn't look over at Robert whilst he does it, but instead concentrates on following the movements of his thumb, like he's trying to take in every detail.
'Paul.'
'Mmm-hmm?'
'Paul, stop it.' Robert tries to tug his hand away, but Paul reaches up and wraps his other hand around his wrist. Now he's working his thumb up and down Robert's fingers, over the knuckles, like he's feeling for something. It's strange and a little ticklish, but that's not why Robert is uncomfortable. He doesn't quite know why he's uncomfortable, only that he is. He glances over his shoulder, but the few remaining patrons are either staring at the walls or their drinks and have no time for the two men in the booth. Robert looks back at Paul, a strange tense feeling in his chest, like he's about to do something stupid and can't do anything to stop it.
'Paul, stop.'
Paul ignores him.
'Paul. I can't-'
Paul looks at him over the curve of his wrist.
'I can't do this. Not any more.'
Throat sour with his words, Robert makes another attempt to pull his hand out of Paul's grip. This time, Paul lets him go, and his own hands fall together, closed, onto the table-top, and Robert suddenly hates how he's looking at him, patiently, like he knew this was going to happen.
'I can't do this any more,' Robert repeats, and turns his hand to show Paul the back of it, fingers spread, like he's displaying an invisible wedding band. The absence of Paul's touch is a phantom beneath his skin, a warm tingling of loss. 'I'm going to get married. You're married, you have a wife. We can't.. this. We can't do this any more.'
'Married? Really?' Paul leans back suddenly, reaching to his breast pocket for the pack of cigarettes he keeps next to his heart. He pulls one out and sticks it between his lips. Begins searching for a lighter in the debris of their table, pushing napkins onto the floor, knocking over a glass so it rolls in a sedate circle, spilling sticky blue liquid from its wide mouth. 'That's your reason, Bobby? Is it? Half the fucking country's married, you think we're the first two guys-'
'That's not,' Robert interrupts. Stops, frowning again. 'That's not the point-'
'Really, Bobby, then what is the fucking- aha,' he fishes his lighter out from under a receipt stub and waves it at Robert, 'then what is the fucking point?'
Robert meets Paul's gaze, imploring him to understand, to make whatever this has become somehow easier on them both.
'I love her,' he says, like it's proof of something.
'You love me,' Paul counters, studying Robert over the tip of his cigarette.
'I- that's different.'
'How?' Paul tilts his head back, the unlit cigarette jutting at an angle from his lips. 'How is what you and your lovely future wife have different from what we-' he gestures between them with the lighter, 'had? What we have?'
'It's just.. it's not-'
'Politically correct?'
'No, it's not-'
'Ethical? Moral? Pick a fucking excuse, Bobby, there's hundreds.'
Robert scowls at the table because it's easier than looking at Paul.
'I just- I can't-'
He starts up from the table. The room wheels slowly, sickeningly, under his feet and Paul catches his arm, holding him up or pulling him back, Robert's not sure, but then there's another hand on his waist and Paul's voice in his ear saying; 'easy, boy scout,' and then; 'come on, let's get you home before you puke all over my shoes.'
Robert nods, and lets Paul guide him to the door and out to his car, and when he wakes up the next morning in Paul's motel room, alone and aching with a cocktail umbrella poking him in the skull, he remembers nothing of the previous night, except perhaps the faint press of fingertips on the back of his hand, and a sense of something broken.
Fandom: Zodiac
Pairing: Paul/Robert, mentioned Robert/Melanie
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language, angst, liberal application of Aqua Velva.
Summary: To quote svilleficrecs: Robert's bachelor party, which is mostly him getting extremely drunk with Paul. Also, this fic is based entirely on the characters portrayed by Robert Downey, Jr. and Jake Gyllenhall in the film Zodiac, not on the real people.
'So,' Paul says, as he pours Robert his third whisky-on-the-rocks (except it's mostly just whisky now, but they're both beyond caring), 'congratulations.'
'You've said that already,' Robert points out, the words muffled by the fact that he's resting his face on the table-top.
'I have?'
'Yeah.. like.. a thousand times or something.'
Paul nudges Robert's whisky across the table with his fingertips.
'Oh. Well. Nevertheless.' He lifts his own drink in a wobbly one-man toast. 'Congratulations, Bobby, on your impending.. uh.. doom. Demise. Marriage. Whatever.'
Robert mutters something uninteligable. Paul considers the top of his head for a moment, then reaches over and plucks a paper cocktail umbrella from one of the many empty glasses that litter the table- Aqua Velva, for old time's sake- and slides it carefully into Robert's hair. The view thus improved, he returns his attention to the man himself.
'What was that?'
Robert pulls himself up from the table, and blinks muzzily at Paul. The umbrella on top of his head leans to one side, but remains in place.
'I said: 'aren't you married?''
Paul shrugs, stirs his whisky with a fingertip, then sucks it clean.
'I am. Was. Is. Perhaps. My wife is under the impression that I'm married to someone else.' He raises his glass, examines the way the lights of the barjoint catch in the amber liquid. 'One Mr. Daniels. Or possibly a Mr. Beam-comma-Jim, she's very indecisive.' He shrugs again. Then, as if to prove something, downs the whisky in a single swallow.
Robert frowns, trying to make some sense out of his thoughts, which seem to have dissolved into a thick gluey morass. He feels like he should say something, but can't quite work out what.
'But, Paul,' he decides, finally, leaning across the table to point accusingly at his friend, 'you can't be married to a man. That's not.. how it works.'
Paul smiles, and Robert sees something sad in that smile, but he's too drunk and too tired to do anything about it.
Paul reaches up and takes Robert's hand, and begins to rub the pad of his thumb up and down the curl of Robert's ring finger- unhindered, for now. He doesn't look over at Robert whilst he does it, but instead concentrates on following the movements of his thumb, like he's trying to take in every detail.
'Paul.'
'Mmm-hmm?'
'Paul, stop it.' Robert tries to tug his hand away, but Paul reaches up and wraps his other hand around his wrist. Now he's working his thumb up and down Robert's fingers, over the knuckles, like he's feeling for something. It's strange and a little ticklish, but that's not why Robert is uncomfortable. He doesn't quite know why he's uncomfortable, only that he is. He glances over his shoulder, but the few remaining patrons are either staring at the walls or their drinks and have no time for the two men in the booth. Robert looks back at Paul, a strange tense feeling in his chest, like he's about to do something stupid and can't do anything to stop it.
'Paul, stop.'
Paul ignores him.
'Paul. I can't-'
Paul looks at him over the curve of his wrist.
'I can't do this. Not any more.'
Throat sour with his words, Robert makes another attempt to pull his hand out of Paul's grip. This time, Paul lets him go, and his own hands fall together, closed, onto the table-top, and Robert suddenly hates how he's looking at him, patiently, like he knew this was going to happen.
'I can't do this any more,' Robert repeats, and turns his hand to show Paul the back of it, fingers spread, like he's displaying an invisible wedding band. The absence of Paul's touch is a phantom beneath his skin, a warm tingling of loss. 'I'm going to get married. You're married, you have a wife. We can't.. this. We can't do this any more.'
'Married? Really?' Paul leans back suddenly, reaching to his breast pocket for the pack of cigarettes he keeps next to his heart. He pulls one out and sticks it between his lips. Begins searching for a lighter in the debris of their table, pushing napkins onto the floor, knocking over a glass so it rolls in a sedate circle, spilling sticky blue liquid from its wide mouth. 'That's your reason, Bobby? Is it? Half the fucking country's married, you think we're the first two guys-'
'That's not,' Robert interrupts. Stops, frowning again. 'That's not the point-'
'Really, Bobby, then what is the fucking- aha,' he fishes his lighter out from under a receipt stub and waves it at Robert, 'then what is the fucking point?'
Robert meets Paul's gaze, imploring him to understand, to make whatever this has become somehow easier on them both.
'I love her,' he says, like it's proof of something.
'You love me,' Paul counters, studying Robert over the tip of his cigarette.
'I- that's different.'
'How?' Paul tilts his head back, the unlit cigarette jutting at an angle from his lips. 'How is what you and your lovely future wife have different from what we-' he gestures between them with the lighter, 'had? What we have?'
'It's just.. it's not-'
'Politically correct?'
'No, it's not-'
'Ethical? Moral? Pick a fucking excuse, Bobby, there's hundreds.'
Robert scowls at the table because it's easier than looking at Paul.
'I just- I can't-'
He starts up from the table. The room wheels slowly, sickeningly, under his feet and Paul catches his arm, holding him up or pulling him back, Robert's not sure, but then there's another hand on his waist and Paul's voice in his ear saying; 'easy, boy scout,' and then; 'come on, let's get you home before you puke all over my shoes.'
Robert nods, and lets Paul guide him to the door and out to his car, and when he wakes up the next morning in Paul's motel room, alone and aching with a cocktail umbrella poking him in the skull, he remembers nothing of the previous night, except perhaps the faint press of fingertips on the back of his hand, and a sense of something broken.