Drop the Dead Donkey: Moral Support
Damien/Dave for avariel_wings.
Note: Gus is the boss, Sir Roysten is his boss, Henry is an aging newsreader, Damien Day is a reporter, Dave is - I think - the general dogsbody, George is the editor. None of the women are mentioned in this. There should probably be some Helen/Joy to make up for that. ETA: And now, rather delightfully, there is. Sensible Silk Shirts, written by kannaophelia for me for Yuletide. *beams*
===
Dave and Henry were taking bets. Ever since Gus had stormed into the office and demanded, grim faced, to see "that tosser Day" the moment he got in, fierce negotiation had been taking place. Dave wanted a fiver on the meeting lasting less than thirty seconds and ending with a shouted derogatory reference to one of the men's sex lives. Henry, after the token innuendo about why Dave cared so much about Damien's sex life, had dismissed this offer as chicken shit and suggested twenty quid on someone getting a bloody nose. Dave had been going to accept on the proviso that George's stress-related nosebleeds wouldn't count when Damien swaggered in, the normal smug grin on his lips.
"Ah!" shouted Henry, radiating charm and ill-concealed glee. "Damien! Just the man I wanted to see. Remember, a solid aim and a firm fist are a reporter's best friends."
Dave scowled. Two could play at that game. "Of course, there's a lot to be said for pacifism. Turning the other cheek. Aiming for the chin rather than the nose."
Damien glared at them both. "Am I to take it from your moronic double act that Gus wants to see me?"
"Yep," said Dave. "Gus, the man who has only ever slept with a hooker, wants to see you, you virile hunk of manliness."
"Right." And with that, Damien disappeared into Gus's office.
Dave checked his watch. 12:57:34.
At 12:58:02, the silence began to unnerve him.
At 12:58:37, he was almost relieved when Henry turned to him and asked if it was just the one prostitute, and how in Hell did Dave know about it anyway?
At 12:59:25, Damien left Gus's office, quietly closing the door behind him. Ashen face, he turned to Dave. "Fancy a drink?"
The look on the reporter's face alone was enough to make Dave need a drink, but he protested anyway. "Damien, it's one o'clock."
"Yeah? Time for a lunch break." Damien's voice was dull and subdued. He hadn't looked this bad since the last time he was up against the Press Complaints Commission
"When I get back I'll have a job to do," Dave tried.
"Oh yeah?"
Ah. So that was it. Everyone knew Sir Roysten's new chain of bookshops, Read 'em and Weep, had been doing worse than predicted, but if there'd be rumours of another round of job cuts at Globelink, Dave hadn't heard them yet. Still, it would make sense to get rid of Damien, the poor sod. After that business with the MP's wife and the missing videotape, no one would take the reporter's calls. And a reporter without contacts is like an obese man choking on a stick of celery: a cheap joke in the form of dead weight.
Damien might be an annoying little tit, but he was a mate. Well, an acquaintance. Well, someone to perve when the South African in the short skirt wasn't around and no one else was looking. But he was an annoying little tit who deserved a decent send off. "Yeah, why not? But you're getting in the first round."
===
Damien really was an annoying little tit. Once he'd gathered that Dave was mildly sympathetic to his plight, he just went on, and on, and on about his value to Globelink News and how fucked everyone would be without him.
"And in '92, when everyone else was pouncing about in front of that Japanese man with a clipboard, tryni- trying to keep their jobsh, I was out there working. I had a job and I did it and I did it well and if it hadn't been for that fucking Human Rights lawyer I would've won an award for sure. I would've. I-" Damien paused to finish his pint. "Your round?"
Dave had lost track somewhere around three pm, but arguing would only earn him a reprieve of his companion's vitriolic rant on the evils of government censorship and why did school children suddenly have special so-called rights to privacy anyway? Back in their school days, privacy meant a toilet door that locked and no teachers round the back of the bike sheds. Well, apart from Mr Henderson and he was hardly going to be telling tales. Damien could probably continue along this vein for hours and Dave was in no hurry to test that theory.
"Yeah. Same again?"
Damien nodded, or at least tried to. While he hardly sounded drunk - only a little more petulant than normal - his fine motor control looked completely shot. "Yeah."
Dave looked at his watch as he stumbled to the bar. Four fifteen. He had a feeling he was supposed to be somewhere else, but he couldn't for the life of him remember where. Anyway, with each extra unit of alcohol he consumed, it got easier to filter out Damien's voice and focus on the moment of his lips. With that thought in mind, he ordered in the next round.
===
"Really only with a prostitute?" asked Damien for the fourteenth time.
"Yes."
"Really?" Fifteen.
"Yes." Dave's patience was fraying. The loss of Gus's virginity had seemed like a funny story the first time he'd told it, something to distract from the unending pathos of Damien's unravelling career, but Christ. Fifteen times?
"One prostitute?"
"Yes."
"Was it a woman?" asked Damien, with a waggle of his eyebrows Dave felt sure shouldn't be that possible for someone that drunk.
"Yes."
"Oh. 'Cos I alwaysh thought he was..."
"What?" Dave grinned. He waited until the other man had taken another gulp of his pint. "Sir Roysten's bitch?"
Beer shot out through Damien's nose and mouth, covering both him and Dave. "You bastard!" he said, or at least that was what it sounded like through the laughter. "I was going to say batting for the other team."
Dave would have raised an eyebrow were his face not feeling quite so numb. "Gus only bats for Sir Roysten." He decided not to wipe the beer from his jacket just yet, instead waiting for Damien to start drinking again before saying "And what do you mean, the other team?"
Disappointingly, the only response he got was a smile. At least, he should have been disappointed, but he was too busy trying not to watch the sensual way in which Damien was swallowing his drink.
Sensual? Fuck. The only time he thought words like that was when he was too drunk to say them.
Damien appeared to have noticed the gap in the conversation. "Bloody Press Complains Commission. Where ignorarara- ignorami go to fucking die. You wouldn't get me screwed-" Dave's eyebrows shot up. "-for a tiny, tiny, teeeeeeny indiscretion with a backbencher's wife. Wasn't as if he was even cabinet material, anyway. You would get me screwed, would you? You're my best mate, you are." There was a pause. Dave concentrated on ignoring all those bloody words and watching the speaker. It was a tactic that had worked for him countless times before, although he'd never tried it on this particular reporter. Nod when his voice goes up and look sympathetic whenever he stops speaking and try to catch his eye every once in a while.
And wait for it...
"My only mate." With that, Damien put his hand on Dave's knee.
There we go.
===
The first kiss was fumbled.
Damien had been leaning on Dave all the way to the latter's flat. The reason must have been more drink than desire, though, because Dave's wandering hands got no response.
"You might as well pretend to be paying attention," he had muttered under his breath, not loud enough to be heard above Damien's continuation of his "the PCC are bastards" monologue. For Christ's sake, it wasn't even eight pm yet. Still, with any luck that'd just mean more time for, well, screwing Damien into the mattress.
He'd rested Damien against a wall while he found his keys and had been putting the key in its lock when Damien practically fell towards him, lips puckered grotesquely. When they met his mouth, he stopped thinking of them as grotesque.
The first kiss tasted of cheap beer and salt and vinegar crisps and Dave hadn't realised quite how much he needed a fuck until that moment. There was a hand on his waist, a hand cupping his jaw and pulling him towards the other man, a hand poking his... No, that wasn't a hand.
The second kiss was better.
They were inside his flat now, and Damien's hands were pressed up against Dave's back, pulling the two men even closer together. Dave was doing his best to keep both of them upright, at least until they got into the bedroom, while Damien's hands reached the base of his spine. Their mouths didn't break contact as fumbling hands removed both sets of trousers.
The third kiss was afterwards.
Damien was already asleep - or passed out - when Dave kissed him. It was a gentle kiss, lips just brushing against lips, followed by a sound that was half laugh, half sigh.
"Silly bugger," muttered Dave fondly. "Of course I'm going to tell Henry you shouted his name."
===Done!===
Note: Gus is the boss, Sir Roysten is his boss, Henry is an aging newsreader, Damien Day is a reporter, Dave is - I think - the general dogsbody, George is the editor. None of the women are mentioned in this. There should probably be some Helen/Joy to make up for that. ETA: And now, rather delightfully, there is. Sensible Silk Shirts, written by kannaophelia for me for Yuletide. *beams*
===
Dave and Henry were taking bets. Ever since Gus had stormed into the office and demanded, grim faced, to see "that tosser Day" the moment he got in, fierce negotiation had been taking place. Dave wanted a fiver on the meeting lasting less than thirty seconds and ending with a shouted derogatory reference to one of the men's sex lives. Henry, after the token innuendo about why Dave cared so much about Damien's sex life, had dismissed this offer as chicken shit and suggested twenty quid on someone getting a bloody nose. Dave had been going to accept on the proviso that George's stress-related nosebleeds wouldn't count when Damien swaggered in, the normal smug grin on his lips.
"Ah!" shouted Henry, radiating charm and ill-concealed glee. "Damien! Just the man I wanted to see. Remember, a solid aim and a firm fist are a reporter's best friends."
Dave scowled. Two could play at that game. "Of course, there's a lot to be said for pacifism. Turning the other cheek. Aiming for the chin rather than the nose."
Damien glared at them both. "Am I to take it from your moronic double act that Gus wants to see me?"
"Yep," said Dave. "Gus, the man who has only ever slept with a hooker, wants to see you, you virile hunk of manliness."
"Right." And with that, Damien disappeared into Gus's office.
Dave checked his watch. 12:57:34.
At 12:58:02, the silence began to unnerve him.
At 12:58:37, he was almost relieved when Henry turned to him and asked if it was just the one prostitute, and how in Hell did Dave know about it anyway?
At 12:59:25, Damien left Gus's office, quietly closing the door behind him. Ashen face, he turned to Dave. "Fancy a drink?"
The look on the reporter's face alone was enough to make Dave need a drink, but he protested anyway. "Damien, it's one o'clock."
"Yeah? Time for a lunch break." Damien's voice was dull and subdued. He hadn't looked this bad since the last time he was up against the Press Complaints Commission
"When I get back I'll have a job to do," Dave tried.
"Oh yeah?"
Ah. So that was it. Everyone knew Sir Roysten's new chain of bookshops, Read 'em and Weep, had been doing worse than predicted, but if there'd be rumours of another round of job cuts at Globelink, Dave hadn't heard them yet. Still, it would make sense to get rid of Damien, the poor sod. After that business with the MP's wife and the missing videotape, no one would take the reporter's calls. And a reporter without contacts is like an obese man choking on a stick of celery: a cheap joke in the form of dead weight.
Damien might be an annoying little tit, but he was a mate. Well, an acquaintance. Well, someone to perve when the South African in the short skirt wasn't around and no one else was looking. But he was an annoying little tit who deserved a decent send off. "Yeah, why not? But you're getting in the first round."
===
Damien really was an annoying little tit. Once he'd gathered that Dave was mildly sympathetic to his plight, he just went on, and on, and on about his value to Globelink News and how fucked everyone would be without him.
"And in '92, when everyone else was pouncing about in front of that Japanese man with a clipboard, tryni- trying to keep their jobsh, I was out there working. I had a job and I did it and I did it well and if it hadn't been for that fucking Human Rights lawyer I would've won an award for sure. I would've. I-" Damien paused to finish his pint. "Your round?"
Dave had lost track somewhere around three pm, but arguing would only earn him a reprieve of his companion's vitriolic rant on the evils of government censorship and why did school children suddenly have special so-called rights to privacy anyway? Back in their school days, privacy meant a toilet door that locked and no teachers round the back of the bike sheds. Well, apart from Mr Henderson and he was hardly going to be telling tales. Damien could probably continue along this vein for hours and Dave was in no hurry to test that theory.
"Yeah. Same again?"
Damien nodded, or at least tried to. While he hardly sounded drunk - only a little more petulant than normal - his fine motor control looked completely shot. "Yeah."
Dave looked at his watch as he stumbled to the bar. Four fifteen. He had a feeling he was supposed to be somewhere else, but he couldn't for the life of him remember where. Anyway, with each extra unit of alcohol he consumed, it got easier to filter out Damien's voice and focus on the moment of his lips. With that thought in mind, he ordered in the next round.
===
"Really only with a prostitute?" asked Damien for the fourteenth time.
"Yes."
"Really?" Fifteen.
"Yes." Dave's patience was fraying. The loss of Gus's virginity had seemed like a funny story the first time he'd told it, something to distract from the unending pathos of Damien's unravelling career, but Christ. Fifteen times?
"One prostitute?"
"Yes."
"Was it a woman?" asked Damien, with a waggle of his eyebrows Dave felt sure shouldn't be that possible for someone that drunk.
"Yes."
"Oh. 'Cos I alwaysh thought he was..."
"What?" Dave grinned. He waited until the other man had taken another gulp of his pint. "Sir Roysten's bitch?"
Beer shot out through Damien's nose and mouth, covering both him and Dave. "You bastard!" he said, or at least that was what it sounded like through the laughter. "I was going to say batting for the other team."
Dave would have raised an eyebrow were his face not feeling quite so numb. "Gus only bats for Sir Roysten." He decided not to wipe the beer from his jacket just yet, instead waiting for Damien to start drinking again before saying "And what do you mean, the other team?"
Disappointingly, the only response he got was a smile. At least, he should have been disappointed, but he was too busy trying not to watch the sensual way in which Damien was swallowing his drink.
Sensual? Fuck. The only time he thought words like that was when he was too drunk to say them.
Damien appeared to have noticed the gap in the conversation. "Bloody Press Complains Commission. Where ignorarara- ignorami go to fucking die. You wouldn't get me screwed-" Dave's eyebrows shot up. "-for a tiny, tiny, teeeeeeny indiscretion with a backbencher's wife. Wasn't as if he was even cabinet material, anyway. You would get me screwed, would you? You're my best mate, you are." There was a pause. Dave concentrated on ignoring all those bloody words and watching the speaker. It was a tactic that had worked for him countless times before, although he'd never tried it on this particular reporter. Nod when his voice goes up and look sympathetic whenever he stops speaking and try to catch his eye every once in a while.
And wait for it...
"My only mate." With that, Damien put his hand on Dave's knee.
There we go.
===
The first kiss was fumbled.
Damien had been leaning on Dave all the way to the latter's flat. The reason must have been more drink than desire, though, because Dave's wandering hands got no response.
"You might as well pretend to be paying attention," he had muttered under his breath, not loud enough to be heard above Damien's continuation of his "the PCC are bastards" monologue. For Christ's sake, it wasn't even eight pm yet. Still, with any luck that'd just mean more time for, well, screwing Damien into the mattress.
He'd rested Damien against a wall while he found his keys and had been putting the key in its lock when Damien practically fell towards him, lips puckered grotesquely. When they met his mouth, he stopped thinking of them as grotesque.
The first kiss tasted of cheap beer and salt and vinegar crisps and Dave hadn't realised quite how much he needed a fuck until that moment. There was a hand on his waist, a hand cupping his jaw and pulling him towards the other man, a hand poking his... No, that wasn't a hand.
The second kiss was better.
They were inside his flat now, and Damien's hands were pressed up against Dave's back, pulling the two men even closer together. Dave was doing his best to keep both of them upright, at least until they got into the bedroom, while Damien's hands reached the base of his spine. Their mouths didn't break contact as fumbling hands removed both sets of trousers.
The third kiss was afterwards.
Damien was already asleep - or passed out - when Dave kissed him. It was a gentle kiss, lips just brushing against lips, followed by a sound that was half laugh, half sigh.
"Silly bugger," muttered Dave fondly. "Of course I'm going to tell Henry you shouted his name."
===Done!===