Fic: Rehearsal, RPS HL/RSL
Fic: Rehearsal
Author: Nakanna Lee
Pairings: RPS HL/RSL, H/W
Rating: PG-13ish, soft R for language
Summary: Hugh and Robert run through a “97 Seconds” scene. Guess which one.
Word Count: 2,000
A/N: This is not in the same universe as my RPS series.
Robert opened the front door of the trailer and found himself eye-to-eye with Hugh’s jean-covered kneecaps.
“I love you,” Hugh said.
Grinning, Robert tilted his head back to see his face, several feet higher when Hugh stood on the top step with Robert still at ground-level. His scrawny, stubbled chin creased in folds at the angle.
“What?” Robert asked, admitting a laugh. The sound of it felt good in his throat. The morning so far had shown every sign of being difficult, and shooting hadn’t even started yet. Wardrobe had been worse than traffic, which had been worse than no-breakfast, which had been worse than last night’s pathetic excuse for sleeping.
But Hugh was always refreshing, despite being more stressed. Mornings like this-shitty from the beginning, ready to topple into a new week of shooting-Robert searched him out early. They were both in better moods then. And seeing Hugh first always made the day go somewhat smoother.
“I. Love you.” Hugh paused, waving script papers down to Robert’s face. “Or I suppose it could be ‘I love you,’ or perhaps a quiet and self-revelatory understatement, ‘Christ, I do, fuck it, I love you.’”
“I don’t think House would understate this.”
“If he means it, he would.”
Robert pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows. “Is that what they said you should go for?”
Hugh shrugged. “They’re still governed by the radical misconception that I know what I’m doing.”
“So you’re free to decide.”
“It would appear that way, yes. Care to come up?”
“Only if you have coffee.”
“In that case you’d best go elsewhere, my friend.”
Robert took the stairs two at a time and Hugh returned to a comfortable recline, stretched out on the L-shaped sofa with his brown leather shoes crossed over each other on the kitchen countertop. Beside them set a half-empty packet of cigarettes. The rest of the area remained sparse, the kind of clean belonging to unused spaces.
“I think this is the year we officially move you in,” Robert said, taking a brief survey of the trailer. He glanced down at Hugh’s legs that blocked his path to the other half of the sofa and gave them a tap.
Hugh chewed at the corner of his lip, not budging.
“Scoot,” Robert said.
Instead, Hugh quickly ran a finger up and down his own Adam’s apple, encouraging it to bob as if he were about to burst into perfect yodel.
“I love you,” he said in flawless American accent. He frowned. “Too flat.”
“Somehow I don’t think this is the lynchpin line of the episode.” Robert lightly hit Hugh’s legs with the back of his hand. “Seriously, move your ass. Unless you want me to hurdle over, but let’s try to prolong that day as long as possible.”
“How about House’s obligatory eyebrow quirk?” Hugh continued. He turned towards Robert, drastically elevating one while cramming the other down to a tight line over his right eye.
Robert thought he looked like he was about to launch into one of last year’s WWE impressions. He chuckled and dropped his arms to the side, sitting down beside Hugh and scrunching himself in what little space was open near the end.
“We’ll do at least ten takes,” Robert said.
Hugh grimaced and buried his face under the thick wad that consisted of the script. His words came out muted. “It’s rather disturbing to have to lounge about in a paper gown.”
“How do you think we all feel looking at you?”
Breaking into a smile, Hugh dropped the papers from his face and shook his head.
“Although this is the first time I’ve had the whole tubes-up-nose get-up since…the first year, it seems.”
“Yeah.” Robert paused. Remembering season from season was like trying to recall what day it was right after taking an unscheduled afternoon nap. “The infarction scenes with Sela.”
“House doesn’t get very far, does he? Just goes about his life in circles. Every so often he almost dies and almost witnesses something.”
Robert figured the writers would never commit to either one of those experiences. House dying would be heartless, even for the end of the show’s run. Keeping descriptions of the afterlife nonspecific ensured no viewers would be isolated.
“And every time there’s a new person to wake up to,” Robert added.
Hugh rested his head back thoughtfully and Robert watched him swallow. “You’re not getting me water like Jen, did, right?”
“No. I just stand around and say my line. I think it’s, ‘Fuck, not again.’”
“Genius writing.”
“Oh definitely. Hugh, seriously, move over, I’m falling off here.”
“Persnickety little arsehole this morning, aren’t you?” Hugh inquired as he relented and shuffled further to his right. He dropped his feet from their spot on the countertop, and Robert relaxed comfortably, their legs almost touching.
“Couldn’t ask for a better host.” He checked his watch out of habit. They had time before the day officially started. Time to do absolutely nothing.
Hugh hadn’t even made it into costume yet. Robert sighed, silently lamenting that Wilson’s dress pants weren’t worn in and the contacts weren’t proving to be a swift idea, either. Tomorrow he’d go back to being blind and just bring his glasses for between shoots, although it was inconvenient not being able to see every tonal change in Hugh’s face during their scenes.
Then again, Hugh was so expressive it was easy to get caught up in whatever creative combination he threw together with his brows, eyes and mouth. Robert often wondered if he should revamp Wilson’s idiosyncratic collection for the sake of keeping up.
“How would Wilson say it?” Hugh asked. He tapped the script with rhythmic thwopping sounds against his knees, the muscle in his forearms tensing below the tanned skin.
“Say what?”
“‘I love you.’ How would he say it? To his wives, to whomever.”
“Depends on the situation.”
“No subjective shit, please. It’s terribly unhelpful.”
Robert shook his head as if a witty retort perched on his tongue, but a slow grin only came across his face.
“Fine. Uh, dutiful. Especially in public. In private, he’d adapt just the right tone to fit each lover. He’d mean it each time, or at least he’d be sure that he thought he meant it.”
“Fair enough.” Hugh nodded. “And how would he say it to House?”
“I…” Robert frowned. “I don’t think he would. House would never let him live it down. Besides, Wilson doesn’t have to say it. He shows it.”
“Hypothetically, theoretically. For the sake of all those -eticallys.”
Robert shrugged. “It really would depend on the situation, Hugh. You have it easy. The script is right there to set the stage.”
“You’ve clearly not read it then. We could do this thirty different times, Robert, and each instance the tone would be completely different.”
“Don’t give the producers any ideas. It’ll be the first thing on the DVD extras: House and Wilson’s Collage of Love.”
“Accompanied by swan-shaped boats going into the Tunnel? I hope to god they provide a catchier theme.”
“Yeah, and then we’ll really be screwed.” Robert paused, but saw that jokes had started bouncing off Hugh’s mulling face. “So what, we’ll try it those thirty ways, then. We’ll make it work. Whether it’s used against us or not.”
“How did House say it to Stacy?” Hugh asked after a moment. He stared at a spot in the air, furrowing his brows. “I wonder if season one is lying around, for reference’s sake?”
“Sincere. You want to play the scene straight?”
“I do not know of what you imply, sir,” Hugh replied with a lilt to his voice.
Robert laughed quietly, knowing that Hugh could still fall into deep thought at any moment. He seemed on the verge of it now, his eyes slightly evasive and a stillness preserving the air around his long form.
Instead, he came out of it. Turning to Robert, he tried without his usual accent,
“I love you.”
“Not infirm enough,” Robert replied. “You just shot billions of bolts of electricity-”
“Billions?”
“Yeah, who cares, technicality.” Robert waved him off with a smile.
Hugh shrugged and scooted himself lower, so his head rested at a more supine angle. Folding his hands neatly over his stomach, he shimmied his shoulders for show until announcing he was comfortable and perfectly ready to be ill.
“All right, let’s give it another go,” Hugh continued, adding, “Try making the beeping sounds of the machine, all right?”
“I’m busy looking distressed and disappointed.”
“Fine then. Leave me to imagine the entire scene by my lonesome.” He paused, closing his eyes; then, out of the corner of his mouth in a pitchy chirp: “Beep. Beep. Beep.”
“Skipping ahead,” Robert prompted. He’d found Wilson with surprising speed, hopefully a good omen for the remainder of the workday. “Just looking at you hurts. I’m going to order up some extra pain meds.”
His stomach twisted when Hugh finally looked back at him. He’d made himself heavy-lidded, short of breath, entirely vulnerable. In such a short time span, it was more than unnerving.
Hugh’s voice dropped to the tired, low gravel of House’s. The bottom lids of his eyes tightened subtly; his eyebrows arched together, open and free of sarcasm.
“I love you,” he managed. Robert stared, then averted his eyes down and did whatever Wilson would do, which was something he couldn’t remember.
“Wilson.”
Robert glanced up, wanting to tell Hugh that the script went no further.
Ad-libs never killed anyone.
Keeping his eyes on Hugh’s neck, Robert moved his arm across the back of the couch until his hand came to rest in what he reminded himself was House’s hair. He ran the thinning strands between his fingers, his thumb circling careful, then more certain, massages into his scalp.
Something of protest broke House’s face into Hugh’s but it disappeared as fast as it came.
“Then stop,” Wilson replied firmly.
House reached up and grasped his wrist, taking the hand away from his hair. The movement acted as a smokescreen; while House was distracted, Wilson bent over him and kissed his mouth, swallowing the surprised inhale.
Noisy rustling clustered in his ears. It took Wilson a moment to recognize it as his own breathing, in and out unsteadily through his nose. He waited, considering.
He found House’s lips unexpectedly moist, when they should have been dry and chapped. Licking them open slowly, his body inclined closer and the couch dipped, subtly acknowledging House was moving too.
A strong, wet tongue rose to meet his own. It slipped with every warm welcome between his lips, as if its flicking and stroking counted as words themselves, making a home alongside his teeth and gums. The sprung tremor that shot through Wilson’s gut now belonged to Robert only.
He pulled back, then found the action necessary to catch his breath but not to stay away. He touched his thumb to the corner of Hugh’s chin, beside the white patch of stubble, and kissed him again.
His neck bristled as Hugh dropped his fingers along the skin, around his collar, to the buttons of his shirt. Another hand brushed safely down his outer thigh, but between kisses Robert sucked Hugh’s lower lip hard into his mouth anyway, as if they had every intention of pursuing wherever this was going.
“Stop,” Hugh murmured.
Robert kept his eyes closed, giving a small groan in response. Hugh’s hands, once resting on his chest and knee, were gone. He ducked his head to Hugh again but met only Hugh’s cheek in response. Seconds later fingers pressed to Robert’s lips, steadily pushing him away.
“Wilson, stop.”
Hesitation surfaced before disappointment. Robert concentrated on Hugh’s mouth, picturing the shape and texture of British words and how different they would sound crammed frantic against his lips, and wherever else they might fall.
“House?” He wasn’t sure of the rehearsal anymore. His thoughts were his own but Wilson’s voice spoke them.
Hugh stared with glazed eyes at the trailer’s ceiling.
“I saw God.”
“When you kissed me?” Robert snorted. He laughed once, quick, trying to decide what had happened to his shitty morning.
“No. When I almost died.” Hugh turned his head to meet his eyes, and the character had been fully stripped by a grin. “I kissed you to piss Him off.”
end