Fic: Rarely Pure and Never Simple (aka WHATISTHISIDON'TEVEN)
Title: Rarely Pure and Never Simple
Author: pirateyes
Rating: PG
Pairing: Simon Pegg/Robert Pattinson (or Spattz if you like lolarious port-manteaus)
Words: 1100
Disclaimer: Not a word of truth to any of it. Well maybe a word, but I couldn't tell you which one.
Summary: Simon and Robert, a London cafe, and what can never be.
Notes: This was prompted by and therefore is completely the fault of paitac . It will likely only appeal to the two of us because really. On the other hand, it's only 1000 words, so can you really afford NOT to read it? I'm just saying. I guess it should be said that I know nothing of Robert Pattinson short of the handful of YouTube vids I watched for this purpose. He seems like a nice lad.
Unbeta'd. Sorry for whatever mistakes or nonsensical things I let past me in my last night stupor.
Inspired by these actual tweets by @simonpegg. You see, he brought this on himself.
Rarely Pure and Never Simple
"We have to stop meeting like this," Simon says, just as Robert's ripping open a packet of sugar, the raw kind in the brown wrapper, which explodes across his startled fingers in tiny specks of discoloured crystals.
"Uh," he says, looking at his hand in a hilariously dismayed way, like the sugar is a personal affront. He peers at Simon from squinted evening eyes all tangled up in too-long lashes. "Hey, Simon, right?"
It actually takes considerable effort for Simon to stop composing metaphors involving Fangorn Forest and Robert’s freakish eye hair and find a suitably casual response.
"You got it." He leans forward, hand accidentally landing in a puddle of creamer on the counter. "Don't worry, I fight zombies, not vampires."
Which succeeds in making Robert look at him as if he's never heard a joke in his entire, albeit short, life. So Simon laughs for both of them, grabbing a napkin to wipe his fingers clean.
Robert finally chuckles uneasily. "Wasn't too concerned, but thanks."
He seems mildly uncomfortable with being associated with his character and Simon’s reminded how new he is to all of this. The nature of his youthful angst tugs at Simon’s heart in a way he’s pretty sure it wouldn’t have before he had a kid.
That thought isn’t exactly comforting right now.
Robert’s still holding his crystallized hand in the air, which might as well be an invitation so Simon captures it with his milk-stained napkin.
He stops short, holds Robert’s hand up with his fingers pressed into the warm palm. "Hey, you're sparkling. Does that mean you like me?" His grin is uncontrollably wicked.
Robert is casually trying to pull his hand back, but Simon holds firm and pulls at each finger in swift strokes. Robert seems a bit dumbfounded. "You sure know a lot about Twilight for an old man.”
"Hey now! I have a kid,” Simon says, as if he’s dragged his infant to a midnight Eclipse screening. He gives Robert’s hand a last glance and lets it go, smiling up at him. “And a keen sense of observation."
Robert wipes his hand on his pants, absently. “Well then you may have observed that I am not Edward Cullen.”
“Suspicious that we keep running into each other then,” Simon says. “Big city, London.”
Except there's a good chance this is the only cafe open past 9pm for thirty blocks in any direction so it's not surprising two actors spoiled by American sensibilities would run into each other there. Not that Simon's usually so caffeine dependent, his general disposition is far too frenetic for regular coffee intake. Having a baby, like so many things, has changed his earlier predilections.
Robert is smiling a bit, more relaxed. “Are you suggesting that I’m stalking you?”
Simon has a stir-stick in his mouth as he navigates the counter looking for cinnamon and holds it in his teeth, talking around it. “I’m a pretty big star you know.”
“You’re not really my type,” Robert says, but his gaze is fixed down.
“Yeah?” Simon looks at him.
“Yeah.” He messily opens another sugar packet to dump into his black as soot coffee, undoing all of Simon’s work as he manages to get half of it all over his fingers.
He looks up, grins quick-fire. “I’m not really into gingers.”
Simon makes a noise of fake insult. “Racist.”
“Well, don’t let it get around. I have a reputation to uphold.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be the unattainable bad boy?”
“Strangely, not.” Robert rubs a careless hand over his forehead, pushing his hair aside unnecessarily and sprinkling his forehead with sugar granules. “I’m more likely to get pre-teen girls who want to cuddle me.”
“Maybe it’s the hair,” Simon says, a truth wrapped up in a joke, circling their messy flirtation that can’t be reasoned with.
The barista clears her throat loudly and Simon realizes that they’ve been standing there awhile and the place has cleared out.
“I guess we should be going.” Robert says, mouth muffled on the rim of his cup.
They walk out into the humid London summer air, dusk settling in stripes of blue, orange, yellow, always surprisingly late to arrive this time of year.
“Closing out the place. I almost feel young again.”
“Heh.” Robert’s rubbing his right hand against itself like there’s something stuck there, more than sugar, less than skin.
Simon lets himself dwell on those fingers. On how it would feel to pull them into the adjacent alleyway, under cover of fading light and their combined schematic reality. See those eyelashes flutter close, trap him beneath their heavy branches, webs of leaves. Stubble bark and maple syrupy coffee breath.
It’s not the kind of thought he allows himself often but he makes space for it now because Simon may be many good, decent things, but a strict adherer to the rules he is not.
Thoughts are the devils the world allows. The sparkly vampires of the subconscious.
“Nice to see you again,” Robert is saying now, at his coffee cup. His hand runs through his hair again and the way his eyes fall down, away, back, make it look like he maybe wouldn’t mind an alley affair but isn’t about to admit as much.
Simon takes a step forward, raising a hand and ducking the relentless call of self-respect, as he brushes the last bit of sugar from Robert’s forehead. It’s a theatrical, impulsive moment for a London street corner with an infantile sex symbol staring out at him through his ridiculous metaphors for eyelashes. The skin is cool against his latte-warmed fingers and the realization almost makes Simon laugh with all the Buffy quotation geekery that fills his mind.
He lets his hand drop, clears the choking from his throat, smiles the smile of late-night nursery hours, chasing away bad dreams.
“Stay out of the sun, okay?” Simon says and salutes in the most dignified way he can muster as he backs away.
Robert tips his fingers from his cup in a wave. They simultaneously turn away from the moment, running from its inappropriate happenstance, its indulgent semicolon where a period would have sufficed.
As Simon walks the streets become Sherlockian in their flagrancy, then when he turns, Watsian in their simplicity.
He whistles the theme from the Pink Panther and pulls out his phone. Shortcuts to Twitter and one-hands a short message as he sips the too-sweet vanilla latte in the other.
He thinks of his family and smiles, helplessly.
simonpegg - Today I saw Fangorn Forest firsthand. It's true what they say - easy to get lost. I barely made it out alive.
simonpegg - Anyone think I’d make a foxy brunette?
Author: pirateyes
Rating: PG
Pairing: Simon Pegg/Robert Pattinson (or Spattz if you like lolarious port-manteaus)
Words: 1100
Disclaimer: Not a word of truth to any of it. Well maybe a word, but I couldn't tell you which one.
Summary: Simon and Robert, a London cafe, and what can never be.
Notes: This was prompted by and therefore is completely the fault of paitac . It will likely only appeal to the two of us because really. On the other hand, it's only 1000 words, so can you really afford NOT to read it? I'm just saying. I guess it should be said that I know nothing of Robert Pattinson short of the handful of YouTube vids I watched for this purpose. He seems like a nice lad.
Unbeta'd. Sorry for whatever mistakes or nonsensical things I let past me in my last night stupor.
Inspired by these actual tweets by @simonpegg. You see, he brought this on himself.
Rarely Pure and Never Simple
"We have to stop meeting like this," Simon says, just as Robert's ripping open a packet of sugar, the raw kind in the brown wrapper, which explodes across his startled fingers in tiny specks of discoloured crystals.
"Uh," he says, looking at his hand in a hilariously dismayed way, like the sugar is a personal affront. He peers at Simon from squinted evening eyes all tangled up in too-long lashes. "Hey, Simon, right?"
It actually takes considerable effort for Simon to stop composing metaphors involving Fangorn Forest and Robert’s freakish eye hair and find a suitably casual response.
"You got it." He leans forward, hand accidentally landing in a puddle of creamer on the counter. "Don't worry, I fight zombies, not vampires."
Which succeeds in making Robert look at him as if he's never heard a joke in his entire, albeit short, life. So Simon laughs for both of them, grabbing a napkin to wipe his fingers clean.
Robert finally chuckles uneasily. "Wasn't too concerned, but thanks."
He seems mildly uncomfortable with being associated with his character and Simon’s reminded how new he is to all of this. The nature of his youthful angst tugs at Simon’s heart in a way he’s pretty sure it wouldn’t have before he had a kid.
That thought isn’t exactly comforting right now.
Robert’s still holding his crystallized hand in the air, which might as well be an invitation so Simon captures it with his milk-stained napkin.
He stops short, holds Robert’s hand up with his fingers pressed into the warm palm. "Hey, you're sparkling. Does that mean you like me?" His grin is uncontrollably wicked.
Robert is casually trying to pull his hand back, but Simon holds firm and pulls at each finger in swift strokes. Robert seems a bit dumbfounded. "You sure know a lot about Twilight for an old man.”
"Hey now! I have a kid,” Simon says, as if he’s dragged his infant to a midnight Eclipse screening. He gives Robert’s hand a last glance and lets it go, smiling up at him. “And a keen sense of observation."
Robert wipes his hand on his pants, absently. “Well then you may have observed that I am not Edward Cullen.”
“Suspicious that we keep running into each other then,” Simon says. “Big city, London.”
Except there's a good chance this is the only cafe open past 9pm for thirty blocks in any direction so it's not surprising two actors spoiled by American sensibilities would run into each other there. Not that Simon's usually so caffeine dependent, his general disposition is far too frenetic for regular coffee intake. Having a baby, like so many things, has changed his earlier predilections.
Robert is smiling a bit, more relaxed. “Are you suggesting that I’m stalking you?”
Simon has a stir-stick in his mouth as he navigates the counter looking for cinnamon and holds it in his teeth, talking around it. “I’m a pretty big star you know.”
“You’re not really my type,” Robert says, but his gaze is fixed down.
“Yeah?” Simon looks at him.
“Yeah.” He messily opens another sugar packet to dump into his black as soot coffee, undoing all of Simon’s work as he manages to get half of it all over his fingers.
He looks up, grins quick-fire. “I’m not really into gingers.”
Simon makes a noise of fake insult. “Racist.”
“Well, don’t let it get around. I have a reputation to uphold.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be the unattainable bad boy?”
“Strangely, not.” Robert rubs a careless hand over his forehead, pushing his hair aside unnecessarily and sprinkling his forehead with sugar granules. “I’m more likely to get pre-teen girls who want to cuddle me.”
“Maybe it’s the hair,” Simon says, a truth wrapped up in a joke, circling their messy flirtation that can’t be reasoned with.
The barista clears her throat loudly and Simon realizes that they’ve been standing there awhile and the place has cleared out.
“I guess we should be going.” Robert says, mouth muffled on the rim of his cup.
They walk out into the humid London summer air, dusk settling in stripes of blue, orange, yellow, always surprisingly late to arrive this time of year.
“Closing out the place. I almost feel young again.”
“Heh.” Robert’s rubbing his right hand against itself like there’s something stuck there, more than sugar, less than skin.
Simon lets himself dwell on those fingers. On how it would feel to pull them into the adjacent alleyway, under cover of fading light and their combined schematic reality. See those eyelashes flutter close, trap him beneath their heavy branches, webs of leaves. Stubble bark and maple syrupy coffee breath.
It’s not the kind of thought he allows himself often but he makes space for it now because Simon may be many good, decent things, but a strict adherer to the rules he is not.
Thoughts are the devils the world allows. The sparkly vampires of the subconscious.
“Nice to see you again,” Robert is saying now, at his coffee cup. His hand runs through his hair again and the way his eyes fall down, away, back, make it look like he maybe wouldn’t mind an alley affair but isn’t about to admit as much.
Simon takes a step forward, raising a hand and ducking the relentless call of self-respect, as he brushes the last bit of sugar from Robert’s forehead. It’s a theatrical, impulsive moment for a London street corner with an infantile sex symbol staring out at him through his ridiculous metaphors for eyelashes. The skin is cool against his latte-warmed fingers and the realization almost makes Simon laugh with all the Buffy quotation geekery that fills his mind.
He lets his hand drop, clears the choking from his throat, smiles the smile of late-night nursery hours, chasing away bad dreams.
“Stay out of the sun, okay?” Simon says and salutes in the most dignified way he can muster as he backs away.
Robert tips his fingers from his cup in a wave. They simultaneously turn away from the moment, running from its inappropriate happenstance, its indulgent semicolon where a period would have sufficed.
As Simon walks the streets become Sherlockian in their flagrancy, then when he turns, Watsian in their simplicity.
He whistles the theme from the Pink Panther and pulls out his phone. Shortcuts to Twitter and one-hands a short message as he sips the too-sweet vanilla latte in the other.
He thinks of his family and smiles, helplessly.
simonpegg - Today I saw Fangorn Forest firsthand. It's true what they say - easy to get lost. I barely made it out alive.
simonpegg - Anyone think I’d make a foxy brunette?