Fic: Message in a Bottle (Jamie McAvoy / Michael Fassbender, RPS, PG-13)
title: Message in a Bottle
author: ilovetakahana
word count: approx. 1100
fandom: McFassy
rating: PG-13
notes: Fourth of a set of five ficlets written for good friends and amazing enablers, as gifts for February 14. This one is for clocks and keio - the next installment of the Jamie McAvoy tales, in which she can't spend the 14th with Michael Fassbender, so she sends him a special message instead.
Words cannot express how much I love you guys for loving this 'verse.
Also archived at http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org.
It’s good to be on break, sometimes, and to let the world flow by. He’s had a hell of a ride during the last eighteen months: a ton of challenging work, half a dozen good roles, positive reviews for his turn in the Scottish play, and another two or three good projects coming in.
There’s a reason why he’s not thinking about the new things right now, though, and as he falls into bed on a freezing-cold February night he’s forcibly reminded of presence - his joints are creaking, what the actual fuck, the weather’s having a go at him too since he can’t do a lot of running in this extreme cold - and of absence - he thinks of Jamie off in Glasgow, taking Three Days of Rain on the road, and it means good things for her but it also means she’s nowhere near easy reach.
If she were in London he knows he’d brave even this kind of weather and snow to go out to hers, or perhaps one of them might even have the good sense to suggest going on holiday someplace a little bit warmer than Europe in general.
Michael buries himself in the duvet and he’s about to reach for his iPad so he can get back to rereading Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, when the email chime goes off.
The screen blinks up at him. Another one, the subject line says.
The body of the email reads, Does this qualify as spam yet? Better tell me because I can’t stop. Sorry.
Download video Y/N?
He knows this email address all too well, and there is only one person in the world who sends him ridiculous photos, often in a series, and often in strange costumes. Michael taps Y. The download takes just a minute or so, and as soon as he saves the file he gets comfortable, and cues up the video.
Interior, a little dark and a little grainy.
With a start, Michael realizes he’s looking into a hotel room: nondescript sort-of luxury bed, anonymous maybe-stylish furniture. There’s a chair right in front of the camera and he thinks about the hotel rooms from the press junkets. Laptop, maybe, sitting on the writing desk?
The mic picks up a soft, indistinct muttering from off-camera. Shadows moving nearby. The room is suddenly lit up.
A hand on the chair, pushing it closer. Movement, and then there’s someone sitting in the chair.
“What the fuck,” Michael mutters, because the first thing he recognizes is the shirt - it’s his, he’s been looking for it since the weekend. His black Beatles shirt, the one with the Abbey Road cover, the cotton nearly worn through at the seams.
The second thing he recognizes is - Jamie’s handwriting. Jamie’s hands, too, beautifully shaped, holding up a sheet of paper. Slapdash cursive, long-tailed S shapes. Sorry about nicking your shirt.
“Jamie, would it kill you to show me your face,” Michael mutters.
As if in answer, the next item held up to the camera is - a publicity still of Jamie as Walker from the play. Dark double-breasted coat, the short wig wet and mussed beyond saving, and it probably isn’t helping that the photograph shows Jamie’s character with her hands in her dark hair.
Be right with you. But first, a message from our sponsors, the next sheet says.
Dear Michael, still pissed I’m here and not there.
Freezing my knickers off, and me working in that blasted theater.
Not sexy in the least. I don’t want to get a cold.
Michael winces in sympathy.
Could do with some Lemsips and a few stiff drinks. And maybe
a particular tall thin chap, you might know him,
who steals all the blankets when he’s over at mine
so I don’t actually know what I keep him ‘round for.
Michael laughs, and shakes his head, and looks longingly at his duvet and his bed because...yeah. It’s empty. He’s in it and he can’t get warm at all, no matter what he does, because it’s missing something. Because he’s missing someone.
When they toss my arse back home all I want to do is get fuckin’ warm,
do you think you could help me with that?
“Yes,” Michael mutters. “Anything you asked.”
Wish you were here.
And then Michael’s sitting up because Jamie’s leaning in, blue eyes looking right into the camera, and she looks sad and lonely and - yes, cold. Her dark hair long and loose around her shoulders. Red cheeks. Her mouth curved up very slighly, a strange little lonely smile.
She’s speaking. “Better pay attention to the last message. I’ll make you sit an exam on it.”
And then she holds up one more sheet of paper.
It says, very simply, Your Jamie.
He suddenly wants to tear right out of his room, get on his bike or on a bus or on a plane or whatever - he needs to be with Jamie, he needs to be anywhere but here, fuck the cold and fuck his sleep. It’s not like he’s been getting any proper rest since she’s been gone, anyway.
It’s not like she’s ever referred to herself as belonging to him.
Now suddenly Jamie is peering into the camera and wagging a finger, affectionate and admonishing, and Michael doesn’t believe in telepathy but right here, right now, he could almost believe that she knows exactly what he’s thinking.
How is it possible that she knows him so well - but that’s not really the question, is it, Michael thinks.
“Hey, you. If you’re planning to do something stupid please please at least let your mum know, all right? Don’t just bolt. Make plans. For me? Please?”
She smiles, and approaches the camera again, her face coming closer and closer and blurring, the camera catching a glimpse of her mouth and then there’s a brief moment of darkness, a soft smacking sound - and, thunderstruck, Michael realizes she’s just kissed the camera.
Jamie kissed the camera for Michael’s sake.
“Fuck,” he breathes at last, long after the video ends. “Fuck, Jamie...why the fuck aren’t you here.”
He knows when the play’s supposed to wrap up its run; he knows where that hotel room is.
He’s on vacation, after all, and he’s got an inkling of where he can go now if he wants to catch a good night’s sleep. He can make plans when he wakes up.
Now he’s just going to watch the video, loop it ’til he falls asleep, to the kiss and to the possessive pronoun and to Jamie.
author: ilovetakahana
word count: approx. 1100
fandom: McFassy
rating: PG-13
notes: Fourth of a set of five ficlets written for good friends and amazing enablers, as gifts for February 14. This one is for clocks and keio - the next installment of the Jamie McAvoy tales, in which she can't spend the 14th with Michael Fassbender, so she sends him a special message instead.
Words cannot express how much I love you guys for loving this 'verse.
Also archived at http://ninemoons42.dreamwidth.org.
It’s good to be on break, sometimes, and to let the world flow by. He’s had a hell of a ride during the last eighteen months: a ton of challenging work, half a dozen good roles, positive reviews for his turn in the Scottish play, and another two or three good projects coming in.
There’s a reason why he’s not thinking about the new things right now, though, and as he falls into bed on a freezing-cold February night he’s forcibly reminded of presence - his joints are creaking, what the actual fuck, the weather’s having a go at him too since he can’t do a lot of running in this extreme cold - and of absence - he thinks of Jamie off in Glasgow, taking Three Days of Rain on the road, and it means good things for her but it also means she’s nowhere near easy reach.
If she were in London he knows he’d brave even this kind of weather and snow to go out to hers, or perhaps one of them might even have the good sense to suggest going on holiday someplace a little bit warmer than Europe in general.
Michael buries himself in the duvet and he’s about to reach for his iPad so he can get back to rereading Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, when the email chime goes off.
The screen blinks up at him. Another one, the subject line says.
The body of the email reads, Does this qualify as spam yet? Better tell me because I can’t stop. Sorry.
Download video Y/N?
He knows this email address all too well, and there is only one person in the world who sends him ridiculous photos, often in a series, and often in strange costumes. Michael taps Y. The download takes just a minute or so, and as soon as he saves the file he gets comfortable, and cues up the video.
Interior, a little dark and a little grainy.
With a start, Michael realizes he’s looking into a hotel room: nondescript sort-of luxury bed, anonymous maybe-stylish furniture. There’s a chair right in front of the camera and he thinks about the hotel rooms from the press junkets. Laptop, maybe, sitting on the writing desk?
The mic picks up a soft, indistinct muttering from off-camera. Shadows moving nearby. The room is suddenly lit up.
A hand on the chair, pushing it closer. Movement, and then there’s someone sitting in the chair.
“What the fuck,” Michael mutters, because the first thing he recognizes is the shirt - it’s his, he’s been looking for it since the weekend. His black Beatles shirt, the one with the Abbey Road cover, the cotton nearly worn through at the seams.
The second thing he recognizes is - Jamie’s handwriting. Jamie’s hands, too, beautifully shaped, holding up a sheet of paper. Slapdash cursive, long-tailed S shapes. Sorry about nicking your shirt.
“Jamie, would it kill you to show me your face,” Michael mutters.
As if in answer, the next item held up to the camera is - a publicity still of Jamie as Walker from the play. Dark double-breasted coat, the short wig wet and mussed beyond saving, and it probably isn’t helping that the photograph shows Jamie’s character with her hands in her dark hair.
Be right with you. But first, a message from our sponsors, the next sheet says.
Dear Michael, still pissed I’m here and not there.
Freezing my knickers off, and me working in that blasted theater.
Not sexy in the least. I don’t want to get a cold.
Michael winces in sympathy.
Could do with some Lemsips and a few stiff drinks. And maybe
a particular tall thin chap, you might know him,
who steals all the blankets when he’s over at mine
so I don’t actually know what I keep him ‘round for.
Michael laughs, and shakes his head, and looks longingly at his duvet and his bed because...yeah. It’s empty. He’s in it and he can’t get warm at all, no matter what he does, because it’s missing something. Because he’s missing someone.
When they toss my arse back home all I want to do is get fuckin’ warm,
do you think you could help me with that?
“Yes,” Michael mutters. “Anything you asked.”
Wish you were here.
And then Michael’s sitting up because Jamie’s leaning in, blue eyes looking right into the camera, and she looks sad and lonely and - yes, cold. Her dark hair long and loose around her shoulders. Red cheeks. Her mouth curved up very slighly, a strange little lonely smile.
She’s speaking. “Better pay attention to the last message. I’ll make you sit an exam on it.”
And then she holds up one more sheet of paper.
It says, very simply, Your Jamie.
He suddenly wants to tear right out of his room, get on his bike or on a bus or on a plane or whatever - he needs to be with Jamie, he needs to be anywhere but here, fuck the cold and fuck his sleep. It’s not like he’s been getting any proper rest since she’s been gone, anyway.
It’s not like she’s ever referred to herself as belonging to him.
Now suddenly Jamie is peering into the camera and wagging a finger, affectionate and admonishing, and Michael doesn’t believe in telepathy but right here, right now, he could almost believe that she knows exactly what he’s thinking.
How is it possible that she knows him so well - but that’s not really the question, is it, Michael thinks.
“Hey, you. If you’re planning to do something stupid please please at least let your mum know, all right? Don’t just bolt. Make plans. For me? Please?”
She smiles, and approaches the camera again, her face coming closer and closer and blurring, the camera catching a glimpse of her mouth and then there’s a brief moment of darkness, a soft smacking sound - and, thunderstruck, Michael realizes she’s just kissed the camera.
Jamie kissed the camera for Michael’s sake.
“Fuck,” he breathes at last, long after the video ends. “Fuck, Jamie...why the fuck aren’t you here.”
He knows when the play’s supposed to wrap up its run; he knows where that hotel room is.
He’s on vacation, after all, and he’s got an inkling of where he can go now if he wants to catch a good night’s sleep. He can make plans when he wakes up.
Now he’s just going to watch the video, loop it ’til he falls asleep, to the kiss and to the possessive pronoun and to Jamie.