Fic: Here is Where I First Realised
Happy birthday thimpressionist! This is for you. ♥
Title: Here is Where I First Realised
Pairing: Gary Oldman/Tim Roth RPS
Rating: PG-13 for non-explicit sexy times.
Word Count: 2100
Disclaimer: Fiction, ie. not real. No slander intended. I love you, Gary and Tim. Marry me and be part of a polyamorous relationship with me and thimpressionist.
Author’s Notes: thimpressionist said "Tim just looks like he would have all kinds of dirty kinky sex in like, elevators and train stations and things." This is the result of that. I'm just sorry it didn't turn out dirtier or kinkier. Thank you to my gorgeous betas, rhosyndu and nixwilliams. Comments very much appreciated.
Summary: There was a knot of time in their past where that might have been. But now, it had to be an adventure, a scheme, an unknown city, a running blind jump.
Tim spoke with a journalist in a café. She offered to meet him in the hotel bar, but Tim said he wanted to see some of the city. “Take me to your favourite café,” he said. She collected him in a small blue bomb, then drove fifteen minutes to a leafy residential area with wide streets. They went to an informal little café nestled in between houses. She interviewed him over the best coffee he’d had in weeks.
She wanted to drive him back to his hotel, but he made her direct him to the nearest train station so that he could find his own way back. He set himself free onto the unfamiliar city, trying to catch a glimpse of it that he wouldn’t otherwise see. Something other than the press circuit for the latest film and the inside of shiny hotel bars. The train took him through the back end of the city, under freeways and through semi-industrial areas. The sunlight made the ordinary view look beautiful. He was amazed by the clarity of the air.
The train went into a tunnel that looped around the city. There was a map of it on the wall. At the first stop into the loop, a woman got on the train and sat opposite Tim. Tim was thinking about if he’d be able to find his way back to the café in order to have that coffee again. It took him a while to notice the woman was staring at his reflection in the dark glass of the window. He looked at her. She had auburn hair and was wearing a strangely formal, navy hat and an odd assortment of clothes, layers of feminine skirts and blouses and jackets and coats. Her blue-grey eyes sparkled.
Tim leant forward, lowered his gaze, then looked up at her through his lashes. “Sorry to impose,” he said. “But is your name, by chance, Tallulah Bankhead?”
She fluttered her lashes and laughed into her hand. “It is,” she said, astonished.
Tim smiled. “But surely it’s not?” he teased.
The woman raised an eyebrow. “No,” she said. “It is… It really is.”
“But a woman like yourself - riding a train?”
“Yes?” said the woman.
It went back and forth for the duration of two stops. Tim’s hands moved as he spoke, flickering towards the woman and away again. She spoke slowly and pulled on her earlobe as she looked at him.
There was someone sitting behind the woman, facing away from them. Tim had no idea how many people were behind him. He bent forward, his eyes on the woman’s face. He fiddled with the top button of her blouse, watching for her reaction. But it took too long to undo - he ripped the top two buttons off and pulled open her blouse. He pressed his face to her chest, kissing the warm flat skin. He felt her laugh, the vibrations through her chest and into his mouth. He felt her hands sliding into his hair. He touched his tongue to her skin, then his teeth too. His hands fighting with her layers of clothes to get to her body.
“Shush,” she said. The train was slowing and Tim’s body was pulled back with the movement, pulled away from her. She stood and moved towards the door. Tim watched, dumbstruck. The train was stopped and the doors open.
“Are you coming or not, sweetheart?” she said. His jacket nearly got caught in the automatic-closing door.
She grabbed his hand and they ran along the platform. The train pulled away next to them and they were almost racing it. She pulled him into an alcove at the end of the platform. They embraced and for a second, Tim wondered how many people could see them from the fast-departing train.
Tim’s hands were on the woman’s clothes again. He looked at her and, with one eyebrow raised, he asked her, “Madame?”
But she was stripping open her own clothes, discarding a coat behind her as she leant towards him, kissing him before he could catch a glimpse of her body. He touched her before he saw her, but it was familiar, the feel of the skin, the weight and substance of the body in his hands. He pulled away and looked at her face. Her thin lips were open, her eyes watching him.
“Here,” he said and pushed the hat backwards off her head. The auburn wig went with it. “There, that’s better.” Tim moved his hands through the scruffy dark hair that was revealed. He kissed her again and reached his hand down to touch her cock through her skirts.
“When did you get in?” he whispered into her mouth.
“Oh, yesterday,” replied Gary Oldman breathily, leaning into Tim’s hand. Again they kissed.
It was all part of the game. Separate hotels, pseudonyms. The occasional unconvincing disguise to match the increasingly ridiculous fake names. They’d get lost in new laneways, tangled in unfamiliar maps. It could never just be Gary and Tim, Tim and Gary. There was a knot of time in their past where that might have been. But now, it had to be an adventure, a scheme, an unknown city, a running blind jump. That was just the way it worked. The knot was never mentioned.
The next day they found each other in a station that looked similar to the one the day before. Gary was just Gary today, walking with his head up as though daring people to stop him and say, amazed, “You’re Gary Oldman!” to which he would reply in his best Gary Oldman voice, “No, I’m sorry - I think you’re mistaken.”
Tim was leaning halfway down some stairs wearing a grey hat and smoking a cigarette. Gary went past him on the escalator. “You can’t smoke here!” he called out. He pointed to a sign on the wall. “No smoking! See?” he called. He nearly fell off the escalator at the bottom.
Tim sauntered down the stairs, slowly drawing on the cigarette.
“Plus it gives you cancer,” Gary said. When Tim reached him, he put the cigarette to Gary’s lips and watched as Gary drew on it.
They walked onto the platform and then to the end of it, looking for another alcove, another nook, another space appropriately dingy. The end of this platform was different to the other. There was a passage with a few doors, all but one locked. The unlocked one led to a stairwell. Gary looked around and shrugged. “Well?” he said.
Tim pushed him against a wall, leaning in to roughly kiss him. He flattened his body against Gary’s, shoving his groin against Gary’s. When Gary’s hands came up to wrap around Tim’s body, Tim batted them away, moving his mouth away from Gary’s lips to bite down into the flesh of Gary’s neck. He felt Gary give a small laugh and say something that sounded like ‘Dracula?’ Tim broke away and took a step backwards.
“What?” said Gary.
Tim looked at him. “Let’s…” he began. He looked around. “Here,” he said. He reached for Gary and manoeuvred him to the far wall adjacent the dank space made by the overhanging stairs. He dropped to his knees in front of Gary. He undid Gary’s fly and touched Gary’s cock through his underpants. He looked up at Gary. Gary was looking away, into the dark corner under the stairs.
“Gary?” said Tim.
“Oh sorry,” said Gary, looking back at him. “I was just-”
“Yes?”
Gary touched his glasses. “There’s a bucket,” he said eventually.
“Oh, right,” said Tim. “Is there?”
“Mm-hmm,” said Gary.
“May I?” said Tim.
“Oh yes,” said Gary.
“Only if you want-”
Gary looked down at him and lightly touched his fingers to the side of Tim’s face. “Yes,” he said very softly.
“OK then,” said Tim, and let out a warm breath onto Gary.
Gary closed his eyes. Tim heard him exhale, his fingers lightly in Tim’s hair, on the side of his neck. Tim wanted to watch him. This was a problem. He hoped Gary wasn’t thinking about buckets. He’d know if he could only look at him. He drew away for a moment and looked at Gary’s face. Gary wasn’t thinking about buckets. Tim went back to it.
There was the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs above. They both tensed as they heard it. Tim’s hands were on Gary’s hips, but he didn’t stop. Gary’s breath was shaky. The footsteps were getting closer, making their way down the stairs above their heads. Tim heard Gary’s breath hitch. Gary dug his fingers into Tim’s shoulders and for a moment, he was quieter. Whoever it was walked down the stairs next to them and out the door into the corridor. Tim sped up and Gary groaned, coming into Tim’s mouth.
Gary laughed and slid down the wall until he was seated on the ground. Tim slumped next to him.
“I presume,” said Tim. “Whoever it was didn’t look around?”
“I don’t know,” laughed Gary. “I wasn’t looking. My eyes were shut.”
“Oh?” said Tim.
Gary touched Tim’s face, then leant across and slowly kissed him. He touched Tim’s cock through his trousers.
“Do you want me to…?” he asked Tim.
“Um,” said Tim. “Yes, but-” He snuggled into Gary’s side, wrapping his arms around Gary’s torso. “I lost my wallet yesterday. I want to retrace my steps.” He sighed into Gary’s body. “Oh,” he said, when he opened his eyes. “There really is a bucket.”
“I can help you, if you want,” Gary said slowly. “To look for your wallet.”
Tim looked at the bucket in the dark corner under the stairs. He felt something shifting inside him, something turning, something sliding free.
“I want to show you something,” said Tim. They were walking down the street. Tim’s hand brushed against Gary’s. There was the impulse to grab hold of it, to walk down the street, hand in hand. This was city with less rabid paparazzi and anyway, what did it matter? He was the man who’d written ‘GARY OLDMAN LETS DO IT’ on his own face. He had the photograph at home in a drawer. And Gary’s reply: TIM ROTH I THINK YOU ARE SEXY TOO. He told interviewers they were lovers. It wasn’t his fault if they didn’t believe him.
He led Gary down an underground walkway that went beneath a busy street to the major train station of the city. There were spaces in the walls of the walkway which displayed an exhibition of local art. Maps made of fabric and filled with stuffing, careful stitches showing a personal journey through the city, landmarks made of funny crocheted symbols, brief poetic annotations stitched into the streetscape. They examined them in easy silence. I was breaking my heart on this corner, one annotation read. At 1am one morning, I saw a fox here and left my childhood behind, said another. Here is where I first realised I loved you.
Tim took Gary into the main station and down the end of one of the platforms. Gary looked at him and smiled, his eyebrows raised. Tim smiled and shook his head.
“Look,” he said, pointing to a spot on the wall above their heads. On the wall, in thick black ink, neatly printed but leaning upwards, was written: Gary Oldman is God.
Gary laughed. “Did you write that?”
“No,” said Tim, “I swear, I didn’t!”
“Really?” said Gary.
Tim drew him into a hug and kissed his mouth. A train pulled in next to them and Tim didn’t care who saw. They were engulfed by a peak-hour crowd. They didn’t break apart.
They pushed open the café door and sat at a table by the window. “The usual?” said the girl behind the counter. Tim nodded. When she brought over their coffees, she joked, “You got your wallet this time?”
“Yes,” laughed Tim. “Thank you.”
He held Gary’s hand over the top of the table. His brain was filled with too many things he didn’t know where to start: that the coffee was better than ever; that Gary should stay in Tim’s hotel room that night (there was no question); that they should go to the airport together, catch the same flight; or better yet, stay on, keep this city as their own for a bit longer or as long as possible. He wanted to say them all at once, but it was difficult to speak.
“Gary?” he said.
Gary was already looking at him, his eyes clear and blue. Between them, there was a knot unravelling.
Title: Here is Where I First Realised
Pairing: Gary Oldman/Tim Roth RPS
Rating: PG-13 for non-explicit sexy times.
Word Count: 2100
Disclaimer: Fiction, ie. not real. No slander intended. I love you, Gary and Tim. Marry me and be part of a polyamorous relationship with me and thimpressionist.
Author’s Notes: thimpressionist said "Tim just looks like he would have all kinds of dirty kinky sex in like, elevators and train stations and things." This is the result of that. I'm just sorry it didn't turn out dirtier or kinkier. Thank you to my gorgeous betas, rhosyndu and nixwilliams. Comments very much appreciated.
Summary: There was a knot of time in their past where that might have been. But now, it had to be an adventure, a scheme, an unknown city, a running blind jump.
Tim spoke with a journalist in a café. She offered to meet him in the hotel bar, but Tim said he wanted to see some of the city. “Take me to your favourite café,” he said. She collected him in a small blue bomb, then drove fifteen minutes to a leafy residential area with wide streets. They went to an informal little café nestled in between houses. She interviewed him over the best coffee he’d had in weeks.
She wanted to drive him back to his hotel, but he made her direct him to the nearest train station so that he could find his own way back. He set himself free onto the unfamiliar city, trying to catch a glimpse of it that he wouldn’t otherwise see. Something other than the press circuit for the latest film and the inside of shiny hotel bars. The train took him through the back end of the city, under freeways and through semi-industrial areas. The sunlight made the ordinary view look beautiful. He was amazed by the clarity of the air.
The train went into a tunnel that looped around the city. There was a map of it on the wall. At the first stop into the loop, a woman got on the train and sat opposite Tim. Tim was thinking about if he’d be able to find his way back to the café in order to have that coffee again. It took him a while to notice the woman was staring at his reflection in the dark glass of the window. He looked at her. She had auburn hair and was wearing a strangely formal, navy hat and an odd assortment of clothes, layers of feminine skirts and blouses and jackets and coats. Her blue-grey eyes sparkled.
Tim leant forward, lowered his gaze, then looked up at her through his lashes. “Sorry to impose,” he said. “But is your name, by chance, Tallulah Bankhead?”
She fluttered her lashes and laughed into her hand. “It is,” she said, astonished.
Tim smiled. “But surely it’s not?” he teased.
The woman raised an eyebrow. “No,” she said. “It is… It really is.”
“But a woman like yourself - riding a train?”
“Yes?” said the woman.
It went back and forth for the duration of two stops. Tim’s hands moved as he spoke, flickering towards the woman and away again. She spoke slowly and pulled on her earlobe as she looked at him.
There was someone sitting behind the woman, facing away from them. Tim had no idea how many people were behind him. He bent forward, his eyes on the woman’s face. He fiddled with the top button of her blouse, watching for her reaction. But it took too long to undo - he ripped the top two buttons off and pulled open her blouse. He pressed his face to her chest, kissing the warm flat skin. He felt her laugh, the vibrations through her chest and into his mouth. He felt her hands sliding into his hair. He touched his tongue to her skin, then his teeth too. His hands fighting with her layers of clothes to get to her body.
“Shush,” she said. The train was slowing and Tim’s body was pulled back with the movement, pulled away from her. She stood and moved towards the door. Tim watched, dumbstruck. The train was stopped and the doors open.
“Are you coming or not, sweetheart?” she said. His jacket nearly got caught in the automatic-closing door.
She grabbed his hand and they ran along the platform. The train pulled away next to them and they were almost racing it. She pulled him into an alcove at the end of the platform. They embraced and for a second, Tim wondered how many people could see them from the fast-departing train.
Tim’s hands were on the woman’s clothes again. He looked at her and, with one eyebrow raised, he asked her, “Madame?”
But she was stripping open her own clothes, discarding a coat behind her as she leant towards him, kissing him before he could catch a glimpse of her body. He touched her before he saw her, but it was familiar, the feel of the skin, the weight and substance of the body in his hands. He pulled away and looked at her face. Her thin lips were open, her eyes watching him.
“Here,” he said and pushed the hat backwards off her head. The auburn wig went with it. “There, that’s better.” Tim moved his hands through the scruffy dark hair that was revealed. He kissed her again and reached his hand down to touch her cock through her skirts.
“When did you get in?” he whispered into her mouth.
“Oh, yesterday,” replied Gary Oldman breathily, leaning into Tim’s hand. Again they kissed.
It was all part of the game. Separate hotels, pseudonyms. The occasional unconvincing disguise to match the increasingly ridiculous fake names. They’d get lost in new laneways, tangled in unfamiliar maps. It could never just be Gary and Tim, Tim and Gary. There was a knot of time in their past where that might have been. But now, it had to be an adventure, a scheme, an unknown city, a running blind jump. That was just the way it worked. The knot was never mentioned.
The next day they found each other in a station that looked similar to the one the day before. Gary was just Gary today, walking with his head up as though daring people to stop him and say, amazed, “You’re Gary Oldman!” to which he would reply in his best Gary Oldman voice, “No, I’m sorry - I think you’re mistaken.”
Tim was leaning halfway down some stairs wearing a grey hat and smoking a cigarette. Gary went past him on the escalator. “You can’t smoke here!” he called out. He pointed to a sign on the wall. “No smoking! See?” he called. He nearly fell off the escalator at the bottom.
Tim sauntered down the stairs, slowly drawing on the cigarette.
“Plus it gives you cancer,” Gary said. When Tim reached him, he put the cigarette to Gary’s lips and watched as Gary drew on it.
They walked onto the platform and then to the end of it, looking for another alcove, another nook, another space appropriately dingy. The end of this platform was different to the other. There was a passage with a few doors, all but one locked. The unlocked one led to a stairwell. Gary looked around and shrugged. “Well?” he said.
Tim pushed him against a wall, leaning in to roughly kiss him. He flattened his body against Gary’s, shoving his groin against Gary’s. When Gary’s hands came up to wrap around Tim’s body, Tim batted them away, moving his mouth away from Gary’s lips to bite down into the flesh of Gary’s neck. He felt Gary give a small laugh and say something that sounded like ‘Dracula?’ Tim broke away and took a step backwards.
“What?” said Gary.
Tim looked at him. “Let’s…” he began. He looked around. “Here,” he said. He reached for Gary and manoeuvred him to the far wall adjacent the dank space made by the overhanging stairs. He dropped to his knees in front of Gary. He undid Gary’s fly and touched Gary’s cock through his underpants. He looked up at Gary. Gary was looking away, into the dark corner under the stairs.
“Gary?” said Tim.
“Oh sorry,” said Gary, looking back at him. “I was just-”
“Yes?”
Gary touched his glasses. “There’s a bucket,” he said eventually.
“Oh, right,” said Tim. “Is there?”
“Mm-hmm,” said Gary.
“May I?” said Tim.
“Oh yes,” said Gary.
“Only if you want-”
Gary looked down at him and lightly touched his fingers to the side of Tim’s face. “Yes,” he said very softly.
“OK then,” said Tim, and let out a warm breath onto Gary.
Gary closed his eyes. Tim heard him exhale, his fingers lightly in Tim’s hair, on the side of his neck. Tim wanted to watch him. This was a problem. He hoped Gary wasn’t thinking about buckets. He’d know if he could only look at him. He drew away for a moment and looked at Gary’s face. Gary wasn’t thinking about buckets. Tim went back to it.
There was the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs above. They both tensed as they heard it. Tim’s hands were on Gary’s hips, but he didn’t stop. Gary’s breath was shaky. The footsteps were getting closer, making their way down the stairs above their heads. Tim heard Gary’s breath hitch. Gary dug his fingers into Tim’s shoulders and for a moment, he was quieter. Whoever it was walked down the stairs next to them and out the door into the corridor. Tim sped up and Gary groaned, coming into Tim’s mouth.
Gary laughed and slid down the wall until he was seated on the ground. Tim slumped next to him.
“I presume,” said Tim. “Whoever it was didn’t look around?”
“I don’t know,” laughed Gary. “I wasn’t looking. My eyes were shut.”
“Oh?” said Tim.
Gary touched Tim’s face, then leant across and slowly kissed him. He touched Tim’s cock through his trousers.
“Do you want me to…?” he asked Tim.
“Um,” said Tim. “Yes, but-” He snuggled into Gary’s side, wrapping his arms around Gary’s torso. “I lost my wallet yesterday. I want to retrace my steps.” He sighed into Gary’s body. “Oh,” he said, when he opened his eyes. “There really is a bucket.”
“I can help you, if you want,” Gary said slowly. “To look for your wallet.”
Tim looked at the bucket in the dark corner under the stairs. He felt something shifting inside him, something turning, something sliding free.
“I want to show you something,” said Tim. They were walking down the street. Tim’s hand brushed against Gary’s. There was the impulse to grab hold of it, to walk down the street, hand in hand. This was city with less rabid paparazzi and anyway, what did it matter? He was the man who’d written ‘GARY OLDMAN LETS DO IT’ on his own face. He had the photograph at home in a drawer. And Gary’s reply: TIM ROTH I THINK YOU ARE SEXY TOO. He told interviewers they were lovers. It wasn’t his fault if they didn’t believe him.
He led Gary down an underground walkway that went beneath a busy street to the major train station of the city. There were spaces in the walls of the walkway which displayed an exhibition of local art. Maps made of fabric and filled with stuffing, careful stitches showing a personal journey through the city, landmarks made of funny crocheted symbols, brief poetic annotations stitched into the streetscape. They examined them in easy silence. I was breaking my heart on this corner, one annotation read. At 1am one morning, I saw a fox here and left my childhood behind, said another. Here is where I first realised I loved you.
Tim took Gary into the main station and down the end of one of the platforms. Gary looked at him and smiled, his eyebrows raised. Tim smiled and shook his head.
“Look,” he said, pointing to a spot on the wall above their heads. On the wall, in thick black ink, neatly printed but leaning upwards, was written: Gary Oldman is God.
Gary laughed. “Did you write that?”
“No,” said Tim, “I swear, I didn’t!”
“Really?” said Gary.
Tim drew him into a hug and kissed his mouth. A train pulled in next to them and Tim didn’t care who saw. They were engulfed by a peak-hour crowd. They didn’t break apart.
They pushed open the café door and sat at a table by the window. “The usual?” said the girl behind the counter. Tim nodded. When she brought over their coffees, she joked, “You got your wallet this time?”
“Yes,” laughed Tim. “Thank you.”
He held Gary’s hand over the top of the table. His brain was filled with too many things he didn’t know where to start: that the coffee was better than ever; that Gary should stay in Tim’s hotel room that night (there was no question); that they should go to the airport together, catch the same flight; or better yet, stay on, keep this city as their own for a bit longer or as long as possible. He wanted to say them all at once, but it was difficult to speak.
“Gary?” he said.
Gary was already looking at him, his eyes clear and blue. Between them, there was a knot unravelling.