Casting Couch, RTD/GDL (PG-13)
Title: Casting Couch
Author: valderys
Pairing: Russell T. Davies/Gareth David-Lloyd
Rating: PG-13, mostly for swears
Word Count: 3,623
Disclaimer: Obviously, this is all complete fiction.
Notes: Umm. Sorry? Inspired by RTD’s book, The Writer’s Tale. If you look up GDL in Rusty’s book, all the references talk about how hot Gareth is. All of them. I’m going to Hell, it’s as simple as that :)
Summary: Gareth had done lots of auditions, but this was the most important one of his life. He’d do anything for this job. Anything at all.
It was another audition, nothing more, nothing wrong with that. Gareth tried to grin at himself in the mirror, a shark’s grin, a shit-eating grin, the one he used out on the pull, the one that had all the birds drooling at his feet (well, not all, no way, but that wasn’t the pep-talk kind of a thought he was meant to be having, so he tried to ignore that). He stared into the mirror and groaned when it came out more Little Boy Blue, than Sexy Beast. It wasn’t as though he was lacking in confidence in normal circumstances, because it was an attractive quality, confidence. He had it in spades, he was the Man, he was…
He was fucked, was what he was.
It mattered, that was the trouble. Not that all auditions weren’t important, of course they were, but some were more important than others. And this one… It was because he had such a good chance. He was so close he could almost fucking taste the thing. Dammit.
The sink under his hands, which was cracked and chipped, in fact almost coming away from the wall, shifted a bit, ominously, and Gareth let go of it, before he ended up spraying water over everything just to add insult to injury. He stared blindly at the crazy cracks in the glaze, the thought crossing his mind, not for the first time, that his bathroom was a health hazard. It was funny how things like that turned up in his brain, like the actual important thing, like the potentially changing the rest of his life thing, was too big to encompass. Too huge, enormous and unwieldy to really think about. The Elephant in the Room. Godamn poetic, that was him, in a crisis. He should probably write it down.
The facts remained though, that he had an audition. The most important one in his life, and all he could think about was the fucking decor.
And eating, to be fair. He was a bit fed up of spaghetti hoops on toast, to tell the truth. A real job with real money would let him buy a kebab or two to add protein and vitamins, although at London prices he might need more than one audition before he could mortgage his own poor overdraft that far.
Audition. Still. In - he checked his watch - five hours. He had to leave. It wasn’t as though he didn’t know the way though, train from London to Cardiff, two hours, tops. The expense of it to be paid by the BBC, thank god, do the audition, then ring the rellies, get them to pick him up. How hard could it be? There’d be a home-cooked meal at the end of it. And his Auntie telling him it wasn’t the end of the world.
Right then. Audition. Gareth didn’t move.
***
Made it. Barely even breathing hard, although that might be Auntie Olwyn meeting him unexpectedly at the station, driving him to the studio in her little red Peugeot that was far too old and knackered. It worked today though, no bits falling off. Gareth was grateful for the distraction as Olwyn wittered on about the gardening, or some such, about work, about Personnel messing up the payroll slips again.
It meant he wasn’t sweating through his favourite blue shirt - matches your eyes, lovely, said his Autnie - and he could sit on this plastic chair that creaked if you leaned back and think a bit. That was probably bad, but there was nothing else to do. The little room he’d been left in was bare and empty, so it wasn’t even as though he could size up the competition. Maybe there wasn’t any competition, murmured a little voice deep inside, that would be a piece of alright, wouldn’t it? And he grinned to no-one and unclenched his hands. Fuck, but he hated waiting.
Eventually, he was called through by a cheerful girl, friendly, local accent. It was weird; here he was, home again, to audition for a show set not twenty miles from his home town. The accent thing was weird, after London, Gareth thought his own had gotten thicker, just in response. Not that he really wanted to hear it recorded, to make sure. But it would be. Probably. Right now.
Scruffy corridor, posters on the walls, lists of things, typed, possibly call sheets, or old production designs, who knew. He expected a rehearsal room of some kind, more battered plastic chairs, a formica table, echoing ceiling. What he got, though, was an office. Quite a sizeable office, but still. Full of books and papers and filing cabinets, and a big wooden desk all piled high with… stuff. There were framed - certificates? No, awards - on the walls, and pictures of daleks, of cybermen. Models piled on chairs, concept artwork from the costume department just left lying, he was getting it all in fits and snatches, as he tried to take it in. He wanted to smile. It was like his childhood spread out, the vague memory of watching Doctor Who on Saturday afternoons coming to him, then later it was Sunday morning repeats, stupid advert jingles ringing in his ears, the excitement of new Who starting back up, on BBC1 where it was meant to be, the pride of a local achievement all layered on top. It was fucking confusing. And in all of it, a tall man, large in all senses of the word, larger than Gareth certainly, standing up, offering his hand. The nice secretary type introducing him, as though he needed it, Gareth stammering out some kind of ‘how do you do’, before sitting on a miraculously empty chair.
It was all a bit much really. Gareth took a breath and looked properly at Russell T-for-nothing Davies. Who was familiar, of course he was, Gareth’d even met him before, for a fleeting kind of a second, he thought, on the set of ‘Mine All Mine’. He tried smiling, again, tried to make it confident, a bit cheeky, but not too much, shit, what was he supposed to do? A private meeting? This wasn’t what he’d expected, no, not at all. Still, every audition was different. He’d be handed the pages he needed to read in a minute, right?
“You’re Gareth, yes?” said Russell, unnecessarily, and Gareth nodded back, like a metronome, all hypnotised by the man who was going to make his career. Or not.
“David-Lloyd - hyphenated, I noticed. I assume somebody else registered with plain Gareth Lloyd then, or do you prefer the extra long syllables?” Russell said, with a twinkle, and Gareth grinned again, nodded, agreed someone else had his proper name, so that he’d been forced to use his middle name. It occurred to him suddenly that it was something they both had in common. Russell was laughing at him anyway, he knew, but what the hell, that was normal. You laugh with the money men, you laugh with the directors, you laugh with them all, and you fucking like it.
“Look, I haven’t got long,” Russell was staring at him earnestly now, over his glasses, and handing over the audition pages. Gareth took them, and Russell’s thumb slid lightly along the side of his little finger as he withdrew. It tingled. A warm, dry slide of contact that Gareth knew was nothing, an accidental meeting. Except that Gareth knew Russell would have had to move his hand to do that. It wasn’t accidental. It was deliberate, it was a deliberate action posing in make-up and an accidental mask. Weird.
“Do you want to read for me then?” asked Russell, “I’ll fill in the other parts.”
The paper crackled and Gareth looked down. ‘Idris Hopper’ only had a few lines, but that didn’t matter. He’d seen the casting request, this character was the only one he fitted. He might manage the Doctor character, Owen, but he didn’t think he looked old enough for that. Fuck. But if he did look older all the parts would be for wet-behind-the-ears youngsters, just out of drama school, it was always that way. Typical. Shit. Read, dammit. Don’t just stare.
He began to read at the cue, and Russell joined him. Gareth tried not to smile at the man’s attempts at a falsetto ‘Gwen’. He frowned instead, to compensate, and Russell stuttered to a halt. Gareth looked up, surprised, a bit scared he’d fucked it up.
Russell was sitting there with an arrested expression, but he didn’t look annoyed or disappointed.
“I like that,” he said, “Great frowny face, fantastic, got to write that in, for someone, what do you think? You won’t mind, will you? You’re all sort of…” He trailed off.
“Of course not,” said Gareth, feeling like his face was stuck between the smile he wanted to plaster on, and the frown Russell apparently liked. He felt all confused, all melted, like his face was twisting and belonged to someone else anyway. It was unnerving. Russell was blinking at him.
“Look, maybe I’m doing this wrong. I don’t do these kinds of auditions, really,” Russell said, taking his eyes off Gareth’s face, and rubbing a hand through his hair. “I’m indulging really, but casting’s important for a new show like Torchwood. Obviously.”
As Russell dropped his eyes Gareth felt like a spotlight had been turned away. A great hot light that was finally casting its too bright radiance somewhere else for a few seconds, and he sat back in his chair, finding he was breathing much harder than he expected. Fucking auditions.
Russell got up then, and Gareth nearly panicked, wondering if that was it. If it was over, and he’d lost. He’d done something, or not done something, or… Russell came around the desk, and dumped a whole load of stuff from the other chair in the corner, another cheap plastic one, and dragged it over, close, closer, to Gareth. Their knees were nearly brushing. Gareth swallowed with a suddenly dry throat.
“Let’s try that again,” said Russell, and patted his knee.
Patted his knee!
Gareth almost cleared his throat, it was that bad. He realised, at the last second, how nervous that would sound, and he stopped himself, feeling like he was strangling. What the hell was up with him, he wasn’t a fucking amateur, he’d done loads of these, what was the difference now?
Russell looked over his script at Gareth, just a foot or two way, and it felt like he was looming. It was just because he was a big man though, surely, large, broad in the shoulder, with a round and open face. He smiled with too many teeth, Gareth thought, feeling stupid.
Feeling stupid. What the fuck was he playing at? Of course, it was obvious. Jesus. What was he thinking? It wasn’t as though he couldn’t have worked it out earlier, either, it wasn’t as though all of showbusiness and half the country didn’t know, and if he’d thought about it, even a little bit, he’d have figured it out. Russell fancied him. Russell T. Davies, creator of Bob and Rose, Queer As Folk, and New bloody Doctor Who, fancied him, Gareth-Nobody-Lloyd.
Fuck. It wasn’t an ego thing, was it? He wasn’t wrong, was he? Gareth didn’t think so. He had his mouth open, and he realised he’d been unconsciously trying to moisten his dry lips. He also realised Russell was trying not to stare. Nope, not imagining it. Not at all.
“Shall we read from the top of page two, then?” said Russell brightly, and Gareth closed his mouth and nodded. He shuffled his pages, losing his place despite only having three of them. He was thinking furiously.
Did he have any pride? The sink in his bedsit that was coming off the wall argued not. Did he have anyone to hurt? His last girlfriend had left him a couple of months ago, which was a fly-by-night relationship anyway, and she’d got a job up North, working for a rep company. He’d been jealous, but only of the job. More to the point though, did he have anything to lose?
Well, arguably his sexual preference. His arse’s virginity. His self-respect. Hell, what was he thinking? And yet… He’d half-starved himself for his career, done any number of shoddy bit parts that had come his way. What would he do for a series, a proper place to shine? What was one more rung down that slippery, slippery ladder?
Actually, quite a fucking lot, but it didn’t matter in the end, now did it?
Gareth let his knees fall open a little wider, as he leaned back a touch, his leg just brushing Russell’s. And it wasn’t Gareth who cleared his throat this time, and he allowed himself a little internal cheer. Fuck. Maybe this would be easier than he’d thought. He stared down at the script and allowed his head to tip a little to the side. It wasn’t as though any actor hadn’t practiced this kind of thing in the mirror, cracked or fly-blown as it might be. He knew precisely how to angle himself to let the line of his throat to show just so, to look down and know that the fan of his lashes on his cheek would look good, would look better than good, would look edible with any luck. He didn’t really know what it might lead to, but he was… game. That was it. Game. He was ready for anything. Maybe.
Russell began to read the lines again, and his voice might have been a little hoarse. Gareth thought so. He tried a different interpretation of the part, letting his voice drop down deeper, trying for a more insolent cheeky note, “Careful, that’s harassment, sir.”
He hoped so.
From under his lashes he studied Russell, and tried to imagine it, tried to imagine going to his knees for this man, considering him as though he was part of a play, just another role. Russell was older, late thirties, maybe early forties, that fitted with what Gareth knew. He was just beginning to lose his hair which was wavy and wild. He had an odd complexion, uneven, pocked, but he shaved close, and smelled good. That was something. He had huge hands, wrapped tightly around the pages, creasing them.
Gareth found his heart was speeding up, his palms getting clammy. First night nerves, he tried to tell himself. Happened to everyone. He could do this. He could do this.
He couldn’t do this.
Russell’s breathing was uneven, but he was still reading, and Gareth was still answering the lines. Russell had leant forward now, using one large hand to balance on Gareth’s leg, and as he wrapped it around his thigh, Russell distinctly squeezed, almost kneading. Gareth couldn’t help it, his voice slipped, choked, and cut off. Oh god. Oh fuck. He looked up into a set of wide brown eyes, blown almost black, all pupil, and here it was, here it came. He’d been to gay bars before, with gay friends, he knew what he was doing, and he was an actor, dammit. He was a fucking good one.
He was proud of his natural movement when he thought it through, piecing it together later. Russell leant forward, leaning even more heavily on his thigh, shifting higher up the leg, pulling the denim tight, fingering at his in-seam. It was easy to fall forward, to slip towards him, Gareth had done it dozens of time before, in nightclubs, with birds. It wasn’t any different really. And the kiss wasn’t bad, was practiced, was even kind of hot, if he could forget for just one second that this was a bloke, and not a bird, which he couldn’t, not quite, but he could fake it, he could fantasise. He could… produce the goods, as it were. He thought he could. He thought…
Russell kind of groaned and dragged him closer, script fluttering to the floor and his other hand grabbing at Gareth’s neck, rubbing an insistent palm up into his hair. And the kiss went from almost hot, to dirty, with more tongue that most girls offered up, and Gareth sort of gasped into his mouth, reeling at the unexpectedness of it all. It was then, in a sort of blinding, unhelpful flash of inspiration and terror, that he realised he was actually fucked, literally, that he was going to lose it in just about another second, that he couldn’t fake a bloody thing.
He was saved in the nick of time by the door opening. By a startled female voice saying, “Oh! Sorry - I didn’t realise… I…” And the door shutting firmly behind her. It wasn’t much, but it broke the moment, just before Gareth’s resolve shattered into a million not-gay pieces. Just before it was too late.
Russell pushed himself back, took his hands away, ran them both through his hair, obviously a familiar comfort, explaining its wild appearance. He was flushed, and breathing hard, and Gareth was pretty sure he himself wasn’t much better. Not quite for the same reasons though, probably.
“Sorry,” said Russell, and failed to meet his eye, “That was… That was extraordinarily unprofessional of me. I forgot myself. I’m dreadfully, awfully sorry.”
“S’ok,” said Gareth, and examined his hands. He took a deep breath and a decision. He looked up, before sliding down in his chair a little, lounging, and pictured Angelina Jolie, trying to imagine what he’d look like if she’d just kissed him like that, messy and glorious, and jesus, fucking hot. “We both got carried away. Could have happened to anyone, anywhere. It’s the business, isn’t it? Insane. So no worries. We’re safe. Safe as fuck. Umm.”
He shut his mouth, realising he was babbling. It didn’t matter, Gareth thought, it didn’t matter what he said. Russell was hooked. There was that stare, that look between them now. It seemed like Russell had forgotten to be embarrassed, looked like he was hungry, and yet wistful, all at the same time. Bloody odd. But it didn’t matter, did it? All Gareth had to do was keep on leaning here looking… shameless. That was it. Wanton, with a hint of promise. Dear fucking god.
“We’ll let you know,” said Russell, intently, and Gareth nodded. He could feel the faintest bubblings of triumph under his assumption of cool. He reckoned Russell would let him know. He thought he would at that. Nice. His first proper telly job, his first on-going role. Respect and vindication and professional pride. And the money wouldn’t be bad either. Finally.
If he could forget how it was acquired. Basically whoring himself out to the showrunner. Using him, abusing his trust, taking advantage of his assumptions. But forgetting something like that wouldn’t be hard, would it? It was the kind of thing Gareth wanted to put right out of his mind, and damn quickly too. It wasn’t like he was proud of himself, was it?
The goodbye handshake went on a little too long. Later Gareth remembered that, all too clearly. It was funny what came back to him in flashes. It should have been funny. He should have laughed. Really.
***
On the first official filming day for Torchwood they didn’t film at all. There was a script reading, just to settle them all down, get them used to each other. Gareth was scruffier than he had been at the audition, jeans and t-shirt, but he thought that would be all right, to be a bit more himself. That would be ok. At least none of the chosen gear had holes in it.
Russell was there, of course, and that made Gareth nervous. No real reason, of course. Not really. No real occasion for the… guilt he suspected was lurking, if he thought about it. Russell was in expansive mood, encouraging John, laughing like a hyena, being larger than life, really. A more cartoon version of himself, Gareth thought, and was embarrassed. For him, for them. He’d seen a realer version of Russell, hadn’t he? More genuine.
They didn’t manage to have a proper conversation, but Russell did bump into him at the coffee table. Gareth with his hands full of a paper cup and stirrer, and the sugar packets that he knew he shouldn’t be having. He almost jumped, and the tea nearly spilled everywhere, out onto his hand, onto the floor. He saved it all by merest luck. Russell grabbed his arm and steadied him, and Gareth muttered, “Thanks.” Feeling stupid again. Feeling awkward, and churlish, and somehow, bloody young. Russell took a long time to let go. He patted his arm.
“No, thank you,” said Russell, smiling, “I wanted to say. You gave me some marvellous ideas, you know. Truly evil. I wanted to thank you.”
Gareth stared at him suspiciously, but Russell didn’t appear to be angry or betrayed. He seemed to be laughing, well, his eyes were anyway, and Gareth wondered, with a somewhat sinking heart, how bad could it be? Russell always showed far too many teeth. Like a shark. A fucking shark with a wicked sense of humour. He was toast, wasn’t he? Gareth knew it then. Eaten and spat back up again. So he waited - for the other shoe to drop. For him to get fired. Or anything, really. He watched and waited, as Russell gave him back his name, and Ianto flirted with John’s Captain Jack, and he wondered.
But it was weeks later, when he finally got the script for what became Torchwood 1.4, that he just laughed and laughed, mostly at himself.
It was his first in-joke, plus side order of irony, with others to follow. What else could he do? He sucked it up.
Author: valderys
Pairing: Russell T. Davies/Gareth David-Lloyd
Rating: PG-13, mostly for swears
Word Count: 3,623
Disclaimer: Obviously, this is all complete fiction.
Notes: Umm. Sorry? Inspired by RTD’s book, The Writer’s Tale. If you look up GDL in Rusty’s book, all the references talk about how hot Gareth is. All of them. I’m going to Hell, it’s as simple as that :)
Summary: Gareth had done lots of auditions, but this was the most important one of his life. He’d do anything for this job. Anything at all.
It was another audition, nothing more, nothing wrong with that. Gareth tried to grin at himself in the mirror, a shark’s grin, a shit-eating grin, the one he used out on the pull, the one that had all the birds drooling at his feet (well, not all, no way, but that wasn’t the pep-talk kind of a thought he was meant to be having, so he tried to ignore that). He stared into the mirror and groaned when it came out more Little Boy Blue, than Sexy Beast. It wasn’t as though he was lacking in confidence in normal circumstances, because it was an attractive quality, confidence. He had it in spades, he was the Man, he was…
He was fucked, was what he was.
It mattered, that was the trouble. Not that all auditions weren’t important, of course they were, but some were more important than others. And this one… It was because he had such a good chance. He was so close he could almost fucking taste the thing. Dammit.
The sink under his hands, which was cracked and chipped, in fact almost coming away from the wall, shifted a bit, ominously, and Gareth let go of it, before he ended up spraying water over everything just to add insult to injury. He stared blindly at the crazy cracks in the glaze, the thought crossing his mind, not for the first time, that his bathroom was a health hazard. It was funny how things like that turned up in his brain, like the actual important thing, like the potentially changing the rest of his life thing, was too big to encompass. Too huge, enormous and unwieldy to really think about. The Elephant in the Room. Godamn poetic, that was him, in a crisis. He should probably write it down.
The facts remained though, that he had an audition. The most important one in his life, and all he could think about was the fucking decor.
And eating, to be fair. He was a bit fed up of spaghetti hoops on toast, to tell the truth. A real job with real money would let him buy a kebab or two to add protein and vitamins, although at London prices he might need more than one audition before he could mortgage his own poor overdraft that far.
Audition. Still. In - he checked his watch - five hours. He had to leave. It wasn’t as though he didn’t know the way though, train from London to Cardiff, two hours, tops. The expense of it to be paid by the BBC, thank god, do the audition, then ring the rellies, get them to pick him up. How hard could it be? There’d be a home-cooked meal at the end of it. And his Auntie telling him it wasn’t the end of the world.
Right then. Audition. Gareth didn’t move.
***
Made it. Barely even breathing hard, although that might be Auntie Olwyn meeting him unexpectedly at the station, driving him to the studio in her little red Peugeot that was far too old and knackered. It worked today though, no bits falling off. Gareth was grateful for the distraction as Olwyn wittered on about the gardening, or some such, about work, about Personnel messing up the payroll slips again.
It meant he wasn’t sweating through his favourite blue shirt - matches your eyes, lovely, said his Autnie - and he could sit on this plastic chair that creaked if you leaned back and think a bit. That was probably bad, but there was nothing else to do. The little room he’d been left in was bare and empty, so it wasn’t even as though he could size up the competition. Maybe there wasn’t any competition, murmured a little voice deep inside, that would be a piece of alright, wouldn’t it? And he grinned to no-one and unclenched his hands. Fuck, but he hated waiting.
Eventually, he was called through by a cheerful girl, friendly, local accent. It was weird; here he was, home again, to audition for a show set not twenty miles from his home town. The accent thing was weird, after London, Gareth thought his own had gotten thicker, just in response. Not that he really wanted to hear it recorded, to make sure. But it would be. Probably. Right now.
Scruffy corridor, posters on the walls, lists of things, typed, possibly call sheets, or old production designs, who knew. He expected a rehearsal room of some kind, more battered plastic chairs, a formica table, echoing ceiling. What he got, though, was an office. Quite a sizeable office, but still. Full of books and papers and filing cabinets, and a big wooden desk all piled high with… stuff. There were framed - certificates? No, awards - on the walls, and pictures of daleks, of cybermen. Models piled on chairs, concept artwork from the costume department just left lying, he was getting it all in fits and snatches, as he tried to take it in. He wanted to smile. It was like his childhood spread out, the vague memory of watching Doctor Who on Saturday afternoons coming to him, then later it was Sunday morning repeats, stupid advert jingles ringing in his ears, the excitement of new Who starting back up, on BBC1 where it was meant to be, the pride of a local achievement all layered on top. It was fucking confusing. And in all of it, a tall man, large in all senses of the word, larger than Gareth certainly, standing up, offering his hand. The nice secretary type introducing him, as though he needed it, Gareth stammering out some kind of ‘how do you do’, before sitting on a miraculously empty chair.
It was all a bit much really. Gareth took a breath and looked properly at Russell T-for-nothing Davies. Who was familiar, of course he was, Gareth’d even met him before, for a fleeting kind of a second, he thought, on the set of ‘Mine All Mine’. He tried smiling, again, tried to make it confident, a bit cheeky, but not too much, shit, what was he supposed to do? A private meeting? This wasn’t what he’d expected, no, not at all. Still, every audition was different. He’d be handed the pages he needed to read in a minute, right?
“You’re Gareth, yes?” said Russell, unnecessarily, and Gareth nodded back, like a metronome, all hypnotised by the man who was going to make his career. Or not.
“David-Lloyd - hyphenated, I noticed. I assume somebody else registered with plain Gareth Lloyd then, or do you prefer the extra long syllables?” Russell said, with a twinkle, and Gareth grinned again, nodded, agreed someone else had his proper name, so that he’d been forced to use his middle name. It occurred to him suddenly that it was something they both had in common. Russell was laughing at him anyway, he knew, but what the hell, that was normal. You laugh with the money men, you laugh with the directors, you laugh with them all, and you fucking like it.
“Look, I haven’t got long,” Russell was staring at him earnestly now, over his glasses, and handing over the audition pages. Gareth took them, and Russell’s thumb slid lightly along the side of his little finger as he withdrew. It tingled. A warm, dry slide of contact that Gareth knew was nothing, an accidental meeting. Except that Gareth knew Russell would have had to move his hand to do that. It wasn’t accidental. It was deliberate, it was a deliberate action posing in make-up and an accidental mask. Weird.
“Do you want to read for me then?” asked Russell, “I’ll fill in the other parts.”
The paper crackled and Gareth looked down. ‘Idris Hopper’ only had a few lines, but that didn’t matter. He’d seen the casting request, this character was the only one he fitted. He might manage the Doctor character, Owen, but he didn’t think he looked old enough for that. Fuck. But if he did look older all the parts would be for wet-behind-the-ears youngsters, just out of drama school, it was always that way. Typical. Shit. Read, dammit. Don’t just stare.
He began to read at the cue, and Russell joined him. Gareth tried not to smile at the man’s attempts at a falsetto ‘Gwen’. He frowned instead, to compensate, and Russell stuttered to a halt. Gareth looked up, surprised, a bit scared he’d fucked it up.
Russell was sitting there with an arrested expression, but he didn’t look annoyed or disappointed.
“I like that,” he said, “Great frowny face, fantastic, got to write that in, for someone, what do you think? You won’t mind, will you? You’re all sort of…” He trailed off.
“Of course not,” said Gareth, feeling like his face was stuck between the smile he wanted to plaster on, and the frown Russell apparently liked. He felt all confused, all melted, like his face was twisting and belonged to someone else anyway. It was unnerving. Russell was blinking at him.
“Look, maybe I’m doing this wrong. I don’t do these kinds of auditions, really,” Russell said, taking his eyes off Gareth’s face, and rubbing a hand through his hair. “I’m indulging really, but casting’s important for a new show like Torchwood. Obviously.”
As Russell dropped his eyes Gareth felt like a spotlight had been turned away. A great hot light that was finally casting its too bright radiance somewhere else for a few seconds, and he sat back in his chair, finding he was breathing much harder than he expected. Fucking auditions.
Russell got up then, and Gareth nearly panicked, wondering if that was it. If it was over, and he’d lost. He’d done something, or not done something, or… Russell came around the desk, and dumped a whole load of stuff from the other chair in the corner, another cheap plastic one, and dragged it over, close, closer, to Gareth. Their knees were nearly brushing. Gareth swallowed with a suddenly dry throat.
“Let’s try that again,” said Russell, and patted his knee.
Patted his knee!
Gareth almost cleared his throat, it was that bad. He realised, at the last second, how nervous that would sound, and he stopped himself, feeling like he was strangling. What the hell was up with him, he wasn’t a fucking amateur, he’d done loads of these, what was the difference now?
Russell looked over his script at Gareth, just a foot or two way, and it felt like he was looming. It was just because he was a big man though, surely, large, broad in the shoulder, with a round and open face. He smiled with too many teeth, Gareth thought, feeling stupid.
Feeling stupid. What the fuck was he playing at? Of course, it was obvious. Jesus. What was he thinking? It wasn’t as though he couldn’t have worked it out earlier, either, it wasn’t as though all of showbusiness and half the country didn’t know, and if he’d thought about it, even a little bit, he’d have figured it out. Russell fancied him. Russell T. Davies, creator of Bob and Rose, Queer As Folk, and New bloody Doctor Who, fancied him, Gareth-Nobody-Lloyd.
Fuck. It wasn’t an ego thing, was it? He wasn’t wrong, was he? Gareth didn’t think so. He had his mouth open, and he realised he’d been unconsciously trying to moisten his dry lips. He also realised Russell was trying not to stare. Nope, not imagining it. Not at all.
“Shall we read from the top of page two, then?” said Russell brightly, and Gareth closed his mouth and nodded. He shuffled his pages, losing his place despite only having three of them. He was thinking furiously.
Did he have any pride? The sink in his bedsit that was coming off the wall argued not. Did he have anyone to hurt? His last girlfriend had left him a couple of months ago, which was a fly-by-night relationship anyway, and she’d got a job up North, working for a rep company. He’d been jealous, but only of the job. More to the point though, did he have anything to lose?
Well, arguably his sexual preference. His arse’s virginity. His self-respect. Hell, what was he thinking? And yet… He’d half-starved himself for his career, done any number of shoddy bit parts that had come his way. What would he do for a series, a proper place to shine? What was one more rung down that slippery, slippery ladder?
Actually, quite a fucking lot, but it didn’t matter in the end, now did it?
Gareth let his knees fall open a little wider, as he leaned back a touch, his leg just brushing Russell’s. And it wasn’t Gareth who cleared his throat this time, and he allowed himself a little internal cheer. Fuck. Maybe this would be easier than he’d thought. He stared down at the script and allowed his head to tip a little to the side. It wasn’t as though any actor hadn’t practiced this kind of thing in the mirror, cracked or fly-blown as it might be. He knew precisely how to angle himself to let the line of his throat to show just so, to look down and know that the fan of his lashes on his cheek would look good, would look better than good, would look edible with any luck. He didn’t really know what it might lead to, but he was… game. That was it. Game. He was ready for anything. Maybe.
Russell began to read the lines again, and his voice might have been a little hoarse. Gareth thought so. He tried a different interpretation of the part, letting his voice drop down deeper, trying for a more insolent cheeky note, “Careful, that’s harassment, sir.”
He hoped so.
From under his lashes he studied Russell, and tried to imagine it, tried to imagine going to his knees for this man, considering him as though he was part of a play, just another role. Russell was older, late thirties, maybe early forties, that fitted with what Gareth knew. He was just beginning to lose his hair which was wavy and wild. He had an odd complexion, uneven, pocked, but he shaved close, and smelled good. That was something. He had huge hands, wrapped tightly around the pages, creasing them.
Gareth found his heart was speeding up, his palms getting clammy. First night nerves, he tried to tell himself. Happened to everyone. He could do this. He could do this.
He couldn’t do this.
Russell’s breathing was uneven, but he was still reading, and Gareth was still answering the lines. Russell had leant forward now, using one large hand to balance on Gareth’s leg, and as he wrapped it around his thigh, Russell distinctly squeezed, almost kneading. Gareth couldn’t help it, his voice slipped, choked, and cut off. Oh god. Oh fuck. He looked up into a set of wide brown eyes, blown almost black, all pupil, and here it was, here it came. He’d been to gay bars before, with gay friends, he knew what he was doing, and he was an actor, dammit. He was a fucking good one.
He was proud of his natural movement when he thought it through, piecing it together later. Russell leant forward, leaning even more heavily on his thigh, shifting higher up the leg, pulling the denim tight, fingering at his in-seam. It was easy to fall forward, to slip towards him, Gareth had done it dozens of time before, in nightclubs, with birds. It wasn’t any different really. And the kiss wasn’t bad, was practiced, was even kind of hot, if he could forget for just one second that this was a bloke, and not a bird, which he couldn’t, not quite, but he could fake it, he could fantasise. He could… produce the goods, as it were. He thought he could. He thought…
Russell kind of groaned and dragged him closer, script fluttering to the floor and his other hand grabbing at Gareth’s neck, rubbing an insistent palm up into his hair. And the kiss went from almost hot, to dirty, with more tongue that most girls offered up, and Gareth sort of gasped into his mouth, reeling at the unexpectedness of it all. It was then, in a sort of blinding, unhelpful flash of inspiration and terror, that he realised he was actually fucked, literally, that he was going to lose it in just about another second, that he couldn’t fake a bloody thing.
He was saved in the nick of time by the door opening. By a startled female voice saying, “Oh! Sorry - I didn’t realise… I…” And the door shutting firmly behind her. It wasn’t much, but it broke the moment, just before Gareth’s resolve shattered into a million not-gay pieces. Just before it was too late.
Russell pushed himself back, took his hands away, ran them both through his hair, obviously a familiar comfort, explaining its wild appearance. He was flushed, and breathing hard, and Gareth was pretty sure he himself wasn’t much better. Not quite for the same reasons though, probably.
“Sorry,” said Russell, and failed to meet his eye, “That was… That was extraordinarily unprofessional of me. I forgot myself. I’m dreadfully, awfully sorry.”
“S’ok,” said Gareth, and examined his hands. He took a deep breath and a decision. He looked up, before sliding down in his chair a little, lounging, and pictured Angelina Jolie, trying to imagine what he’d look like if she’d just kissed him like that, messy and glorious, and jesus, fucking hot. “We both got carried away. Could have happened to anyone, anywhere. It’s the business, isn’t it? Insane. So no worries. We’re safe. Safe as fuck. Umm.”
He shut his mouth, realising he was babbling. It didn’t matter, Gareth thought, it didn’t matter what he said. Russell was hooked. There was that stare, that look between them now. It seemed like Russell had forgotten to be embarrassed, looked like he was hungry, and yet wistful, all at the same time. Bloody odd. But it didn’t matter, did it? All Gareth had to do was keep on leaning here looking… shameless. That was it. Wanton, with a hint of promise. Dear fucking god.
“We’ll let you know,” said Russell, intently, and Gareth nodded. He could feel the faintest bubblings of triumph under his assumption of cool. He reckoned Russell would let him know. He thought he would at that. Nice. His first proper telly job, his first on-going role. Respect and vindication and professional pride. And the money wouldn’t be bad either. Finally.
If he could forget how it was acquired. Basically whoring himself out to the showrunner. Using him, abusing his trust, taking advantage of his assumptions. But forgetting something like that wouldn’t be hard, would it? It was the kind of thing Gareth wanted to put right out of his mind, and damn quickly too. It wasn’t like he was proud of himself, was it?
The goodbye handshake went on a little too long. Later Gareth remembered that, all too clearly. It was funny what came back to him in flashes. It should have been funny. He should have laughed. Really.
***
On the first official filming day for Torchwood they didn’t film at all. There was a script reading, just to settle them all down, get them used to each other. Gareth was scruffier than he had been at the audition, jeans and t-shirt, but he thought that would be all right, to be a bit more himself. That would be ok. At least none of the chosen gear had holes in it.
Russell was there, of course, and that made Gareth nervous. No real reason, of course. Not really. No real occasion for the… guilt he suspected was lurking, if he thought about it. Russell was in expansive mood, encouraging John, laughing like a hyena, being larger than life, really. A more cartoon version of himself, Gareth thought, and was embarrassed. For him, for them. He’d seen a realer version of Russell, hadn’t he? More genuine.
They didn’t manage to have a proper conversation, but Russell did bump into him at the coffee table. Gareth with his hands full of a paper cup and stirrer, and the sugar packets that he knew he shouldn’t be having. He almost jumped, and the tea nearly spilled everywhere, out onto his hand, onto the floor. He saved it all by merest luck. Russell grabbed his arm and steadied him, and Gareth muttered, “Thanks.” Feeling stupid again. Feeling awkward, and churlish, and somehow, bloody young. Russell took a long time to let go. He patted his arm.
“No, thank you,” said Russell, smiling, “I wanted to say. You gave me some marvellous ideas, you know. Truly evil. I wanted to thank you.”
Gareth stared at him suspiciously, but Russell didn’t appear to be angry or betrayed. He seemed to be laughing, well, his eyes were anyway, and Gareth wondered, with a somewhat sinking heart, how bad could it be? Russell always showed far too many teeth. Like a shark. A fucking shark with a wicked sense of humour. He was toast, wasn’t he? Gareth knew it then. Eaten and spat back up again. So he waited - for the other shoe to drop. For him to get fired. Or anything, really. He watched and waited, as Russell gave him back his name, and Ianto flirted with John’s Captain Jack, and he wondered.
But it was weeks later, when he finally got the script for what became Torchwood 1.4, that he just laughed and laughed, mostly at himself.
It was his first in-joke, plus side order of irony, with others to follow. What else could he do? He sucked it up.