fic!
Fic: Three Down
Author: elapses
Rating: PG-13 to Rish. I fail at assessing things.
Summary: David & Gillian at the Season Three Wrap Party.
Author's Note: I don't know why I'm posting this, you guys, seeing as it's 2 am and I think it's bad, and if I think it's bad at this hour, god knows how bad it'll seem in the morning. It's very convoluted and part of that is because it's drunk!fic, but part of that must be because I'm crazy. I guess I'm posting because I feel like if I don't post this now, it will go through another month or two of me lol overanalyzing. I guess it helps that the music I'm listening to is worse than this fic could ever be.
"You're already drunk."
She doesn't know why he has to whisper this, but he's probably right. Probably, definitely. She stops nodding and looks at him, and it's funny to find him right, right there on the barstool next to her, even though she knew he was there, she could feel his wine-stained breath on her cheek.
David likes his wines, fine reds and floaty whites, it is his alcohol of choice and she doesn't know if this makes him pretentious, or wussy, or both. It doesn't matter, really, it's just that it seems so anticlimatic. David feels more dangerous than his wine, or maybe it's that she feels dangerous when she's with him like this? She can't think.
"You're not," she says after a moment, and he smiles and tilts his head. She wonders where their words have gone. But she doesn't dwell, she leans towards the bar and orders him another Merlot. She’ll have something too.
"Yellow Submarine? What’s that?" he asks, his voice colored as the bartender wanders off.
"I like to try everything once," she mumbles, mesmerized by the way he clutches his chin in his fingers.
"Just once?" he whispers, and he's caught her there.
--
Two more drinks (one for her), and it’s still a party, if only because she’s seeing it through her alcohol-induced haze. She laughs a little louder, smiles a little wider than she might usually. There’s a cameraman who keeps snapping pictures of her talking to her co-workers. Chris seems to have this funny idea that this is a Hollywood party, but this isn’t Hollywood, it’s Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada. It’s a sloppy house party on a soundstage. Her bra straps show through the shirt her cousin bought her for Christmas, which is funny, because she’s the most famous person here.
No, David. She wonders how many real Hollywood parties he’s been to?
She has already swept half the room for her before her brain catches up with her eyes and she realizes she’s looking for him again.
--
Midnight and Chris herds them together like cattle and says he’d like a picture of his stars. She whispers to David that she smiles differently when she’s drunk, her confession, and he tells her she smiles like she’s laughing.
It seems sweet for a second, but then he’s braying softly in her ear, making fun of her.
“What's that?” the cameraman asks, and David turns to tell him.
--
David is lanky, which for her translates to all fingers and arms and it feels stretchy, the way he touches her, maybe because she's never been able to reach that far on anyone.
She’s had two more drinks and he’s whispering things to her again (he’s always whispering things), but she can’t make them out anymore, they might be sweet nothings, he might like the way her hair smells. He might be making fun of her laugh again, but he’s not repetitive. She’s afraid she’s missing something important in his words, but her brain is busy. Busy with his fingers, the pressure of his arms around her neck, the temperature of his breath, he’s catching her up in him.
She tries to think of a future where she can work on movies or plays or something that she loves that doesn’t involve sixteen-hour days, and David’ll write himself into a blockbuster and laze around on her couch. They’ll go to London, maybe, he’s already used to the rain and she misses Britain anyway. But she can’t picture it, because there’s Piper and Clyde and Perrey and Blue, and everything’s too complicated. They’d be a cliché, too, co-workers with wandering eyes, and she’d hate that.
There’s nothing for them if she can’t imagine together forever even while she’s swept up in his arms.
--
She doesn't think anybody saw him pull her into the bathroom, but she can't remember when his tongue is right there. He's pulling at her shirt and this is too dangerous, letting him fuck her against the wall of a public bathroom, a room away from his friends and her friends and her husband's friends, what would she say, anyway, I was drunk?
She's drunk now, but she wasn't drunk the first time, or the second, or the third. She didn't regret it, either. Does she now?
David's fingers are curling around the small of her back and she shouldn't think about this now.
It's fast and they're sloppy and so it's not very good for either of them but they're drunk enough that this is comedy and not tragedy. In their love story she's slumped against the bathroom wall, laughing, his fingers muffling her, but his eyes -- he's laughing too.
His fingers are curled around hers when they exit the bathroom, but they only stay there for a second.
End.
Except not really because then after that Gillian went and fell asleep against the wall. Oh, Gilly, why you so loldorable, bb?
Author: elapses
Rating: PG-13 to Rish. I fail at assessing things.
Summary: David & Gillian at the Season Three Wrap Party.
Author's Note: I don't know why I'm posting this, you guys, seeing as it's 2 am and I think it's bad, and if I think it's bad at this hour, god knows how bad it'll seem in the morning. It's very convoluted and part of that is because it's drunk!fic, but part of that must be because I'm crazy. I guess I'm posting because I feel like if I don't post this now, it will go through another month or two of me lol overanalyzing. I guess it helps that the music I'm listening to is worse than this fic could ever be.
"You're already drunk."
She doesn't know why he has to whisper this, but he's probably right. Probably, definitely. She stops nodding and looks at him, and it's funny to find him right, right there on the barstool next to her, even though she knew he was there, she could feel his wine-stained breath on her cheek.
David likes his wines, fine reds and floaty whites, it is his alcohol of choice and she doesn't know if this makes him pretentious, or wussy, or both. It doesn't matter, really, it's just that it seems so anticlimatic. David feels more dangerous than his wine, or maybe it's that she feels dangerous when she's with him like this? She can't think.
"You're not," she says after a moment, and he smiles and tilts his head. She wonders where their words have gone. But she doesn't dwell, she leans towards the bar and orders him another Merlot. She’ll have something too.
"Yellow Submarine? What’s that?" he asks, his voice colored as the bartender wanders off.
"I like to try everything once," she mumbles, mesmerized by the way he clutches his chin in his fingers.
"Just once?" he whispers, and he's caught her there.
--
Two more drinks (one for her), and it’s still a party, if only because she’s seeing it through her alcohol-induced haze. She laughs a little louder, smiles a little wider than she might usually. There’s a cameraman who keeps snapping pictures of her talking to her co-workers. Chris seems to have this funny idea that this is a Hollywood party, but this isn’t Hollywood, it’s Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada. It’s a sloppy house party on a soundstage. Her bra straps show through the shirt her cousin bought her for Christmas, which is funny, because she’s the most famous person here.
No, David. She wonders how many real Hollywood parties he’s been to?
She has already swept half the room for her before her brain catches up with her eyes and she realizes she’s looking for him again.
--
Midnight and Chris herds them together like cattle and says he’d like a picture of his stars. She whispers to David that she smiles differently when she’s drunk, her confession, and he tells her she smiles like she’s laughing.
It seems sweet for a second, but then he’s braying softly in her ear, making fun of her.
“What's that?” the cameraman asks, and David turns to tell him.
--
David is lanky, which for her translates to all fingers and arms and it feels stretchy, the way he touches her, maybe because she's never been able to reach that far on anyone.
She’s had two more drinks and he’s whispering things to her again (he’s always whispering things), but she can’t make them out anymore, they might be sweet nothings, he might like the way her hair smells. He might be making fun of her laugh again, but he’s not repetitive. She’s afraid she’s missing something important in his words, but her brain is busy. Busy with his fingers, the pressure of his arms around her neck, the temperature of his breath, he’s catching her up in him.
She tries to think of a future where she can work on movies or plays or something that she loves that doesn’t involve sixteen-hour days, and David’ll write himself into a blockbuster and laze around on her couch. They’ll go to London, maybe, he’s already used to the rain and she misses Britain anyway. But she can’t picture it, because there’s Piper and Clyde and Perrey and Blue, and everything’s too complicated. They’d be a cliché, too, co-workers with wandering eyes, and she’d hate that.
There’s nothing for them if she can’t imagine together forever even while she’s swept up in his arms.
--
She doesn't think anybody saw him pull her into the bathroom, but she can't remember when his tongue is right there. He's pulling at her shirt and this is too dangerous, letting him fuck her against the wall of a public bathroom, a room away from his friends and her friends and her husband's friends, what would she say, anyway, I was drunk?
She's drunk now, but she wasn't drunk the first time, or the second, or the third. She didn't regret it, either. Does she now?
David's fingers are curling around the small of her back and she shouldn't think about this now.
It's fast and they're sloppy and so it's not very good for either of them but they're drunk enough that this is comedy and not tragedy. In their love story she's slumped against the bathroom wall, laughing, his fingers muffling her, but his eyes -- he's laughing too.
His fingers are curled around hers when they exit the bathroom, but they only stay there for a second.
End.
Except not really because then after that Gillian went and fell asleep against the wall. Oh, Gilly, why you so loldorable, bb?