Fic: Reasons, RPS: HL/RSL
Title: Reasons, part 1/?
Author: Nakanna Lee
Pairing: RPS: HL/RSL (with some H/W thrown in, too, because come on, how could you not?)
Rating: PG as of now
Summary: Season two vacation is over and it's back to work...or something resembling it.
A/N: I know there's been some slight upheaval (check the Richter Scale) pertaining to RPS. I'm only posting this to hugh_robert for the time being. Anyone who's friended me and would rather not read this, don't read. Please no flames. I understand not everyone's a fan of RPS. Any other feedback is greatly appreciated, though.
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The light was inordinately scathing at the moment, even in the starkly generic confines of the office room. Hugh half-wondered how they got there. He’d thought about this inevitable conversation over again and again, knowing that however he looked at it, however he approached it, it wasn’t about to change.
Hands on hips, Robert stood in front of him, his voice confounding in its steadiness. “You kissed me.”
“It won’t happen again.”
“No. I mean-” Robert grasped Hugh’s sleeve, eyes serious. “I mean, I didn’t mind.”
There was something uncharted in his gaze now. Hugh warily paused, feeling as if the wrapping to their relationship-all the nonsense banter, the flirting, the digs at a House/Wilson subtext-had been ripped off.
Surprise. The banter was inside, too. The flirting, the innuendo. They’d weaved it through their characters so well because they knew it on a personal level.
Like anything else in acting. Take what you know and twist it into the scene’s context.
Hugh figured a cautious step back would be appropriate now. But it was far easier to let Robert step forward. To feel him pressed warmly to his chest. To feel him strong and startlingly alive against him.
“I wasn’t ready last time,” Robert murmured. His gaze fell from Hugh’s eyes, to his Adam’s apple, to his mouth. He blinked once, then joined their line of vision again.
Hugh stared at him, unmoving. His eyelashes were impossibly long. He hadn’t noticed that before. He could almost count each individual one, flaring up above his rustic brown eyes.
Robert knew commitments stood staunchly between them. In theory. He moved closer, clearing his mind of everything but whatever that scent was on Hugh’s skin. Some musky cologne. Almost like sea salt.
“Once,” he asked quietly.
Hugh listened to the subtle, straining chord of the request. He wondered if it emanated from Robert or himself. He gave a slight nod.
“Once.”
Hugh pressed his lips chastely to Robert’s. It was like reading a script for the first time. Don’t over-commit. Just peruse it, pick out what you like about the character’s good points and flaws. Then go on that and establish some style to bring to the role.
He could feel the younger man’s frustration with the restraint. Robert wrapped an encouraging hand around his nape, trailing the other up his back and hooking on his shoulder. Pulling him close. Tentatively, Hugh opened his mouth, allowing the barest hint of tongue. A moan toppled into his lips.
He trembled despite himself. The kiss tried so desperately to be claiming.
Hugh let his fingers wander between them. He looped the green satin tie around his hand, clinging to the coarser fabric of his lab coat. It felt cool as shadows against his skin. He could feel Robert burning beneath in a fervent contrast.
He pushed gently but firmly away on Robert’s chest.
“That’s enough,” Hugh mumbled.
His voice was cracking before the word even left his lips. “No-”
“It will have to be.” He avoided Robert’s eyes, then wished he hadn’t chosen to look at his mouth. Ruddy and half-parted. He noted the birthmark just below the corner of his mouth, burying the urge to lean in and kiss that detail, too.
“And…cut! That’s it, we got it.”
There was a clinking of cameras as they switched off, followed by a mechanical whirling as they moved on wheels to the next spot on set. The shooting lights buzzed as they faded down; authenticity was stripped from Hugh and Robert’s-House and Wilson’s-stances. The characters could rest now.
In the latter half of season two, House had shot a body in a morgue, broken a girl’s finger, and caustically avoided a dying Foreman. So what if season three started with him kissing Wilson, his best friend? At least it was a more positive human emotion.
Hugh rubbed at his House beard. It only itched when he was idle or nervous. Robert watched, not sparing him a second to recollect himself by turning away.
“That’s not seriously going to make the cut, is it?” Robert asked.
Hugh shrugged, wondering if his face would ever emerge from its embarrassed shade of red. He figured he might as well feel some discomfort for the family back home, too. His kids had already avoided all the sentimental Stacy scenes. Jo mentioned that Sela seemed a bit over-sincere when she’d met her briefly, but voiced little concern over the new House/Cuddy pairing that was hinted at recently. Lisa was too quirky to dislike.
Stephen once joked about a House/Wilson match, which earned an eye roll and some stammering on Hugh’s part. He’d saved himself with a joke about Americans that he really couldn’t remember anymore. It probably was less funny than he remembered.
At any rate, it seemed safe to conclude that the writers of the show had lost their bloody minds.
The cameras, at the moment, were over in the lab set, filming a scene between Jen and Lisa. The day was pushing closer to late afternoon, and they’d be wrapping soon. The kiss was supposed to have been his last scene of the day, but Hugh still tried to keep in character. David might want to touch up a few things before packing up.
So his voice remained gruff and Americanized, but a subtle hint of British lilt peaked through at the edges.
“Well, if they do keep it in, at least we’ll have a new topic to discuss during interviews,” Hugh brought up.
True, it was better than the mundane questions he endured now. Some days, it seemed like journalists had never heard of research. Or maybe they just lacked the brain's creative lobe.
You’re British? Where does your family live? You don’t watch the show? Why? You mean you’re not cranky like House?
Robert smiled affably, having similar thoughts. He avoided interviews like the plague, though that was rather easy to do when your phone wasn’t ringing with invites constantly.
Hugh wondered how the theatre dabbling had worked out for him this past summer. He’d meant to go see a show or two, but his agent had compulsively scheduled more interviews and TV appearances.
“There’s no such thing as vacation in the States, is there?”
“Welcome to the American dream, Hugh.”
Britain was a divine summer respite, like Heaven had just landed across the Atlantic and was waiting for his return as the prodigal son. The cities were calmer, a relaxing gray in their genteel antiquity. Not like Hollywood, where smog ran rampant and traffic-choked freeways turned into rush hour parking lots. He could practically hear his Triumph motorcycle sputtering its protests, yearning for a clear road.
He had no idea how Robert tolerated New York. The younger man had invited him once during a holiday, but family commitments came first. He’d politely declined, promising that he would another time.
He wondered when another time could be crammed into his calendar.
Hugh had missed Robert’s languid demeanor, his boyish habits. There was a theatrical absent-minded about him, and yet Robert could be very observant about the little things. He could interpret a person’s mood by a mere glance across the room, but he’d have no memory of where he placed his car keys. Though he was nearly forty, a youthful energy took off nearly ten of those years. It was as if every character he’d ever played was still present below the surface somewhere, rippling and thinking itself over.
Hugh had been in America for going on three years. He’d figured out plenty of things: Starbucks is holy; free speech is lauded and often misguided; there’s a countdown to Election 2008; everyone’s rushing to get somewhere, so they can leave quickly and go somewhere else.
But he hadn’t quite figured out Robert.
The younger man was smiling now, which was good to see after such a nervous scene. His face crinkled like oft-read book pages did; his eyes were just slightly reddened and glazed, a result of the contacts he was normally averse to but had to wear for Wilson.
It was like House’s beard and limp, Hugh figured. Those tiny little reminders that you were still playing a character, that the set was fake. A camera was leering over your shoulder at all times. You were a puppet, only speaking the words dealt to you for your character.
You were only kissing because the script decreed it. Some deranged madman in a writing session had actually pursued that two-in-the-morning, alcohol-induced idea. And here he and Robert were, fulfilling that vision.
“So. If this airs, do you think ratings will drop or rise?” Robert paused. The other man appeared to be staring off into nothing. “Hugh?”
“Oh, yes? So sorry, what were you saying?”
Robert opened his mouth to repeat himself, but David was calling before words reached the air. The day’s shoot was over, he informed everyone. They could go home, relax. Keep the cells handy in case an emergency call has to be made for any touch-up scenes.
Hugh made a mental note not to plan anything for the next week. His phone was always ringing.
“Hugh?”
“What?” He blinked, realizing Robert had been talking to him again. “What, Bobby?”
“I asked if you wanted to go grab a coffee or something.”
Nothing fazes him, Hugh thought. We just kissed for worldwide TV to hopefully never see, and now he invites me out for some $5.95 lattes.
Hugh nodded. “All right. Sounds good. I’ll meet you by the trailers as soon as we get out of costume.”
Back in the dressing room, taking the black suit jacket off was easy. The vintage t-shirt was soon replaced by a light button-up he’d gotten somewhere in London. Father’s Day gift, he vaguely recalled. The Levis fell in a pool of blue and were returned to a rack complete with House’s series of pants. His own were a comfortable, less coarse pair. He’d never bothered to check the brand. They fit well, that’s all he cared.
His mouth still tingled with Robert’s foreign taste, though.
And that couldn’t be taken off, or changed out of. Coffee would be a welcome, overriding flavor.
tbc... (if people are interested) http://nakannalee.livejournal.com/4359.html