XMFC RPF; While This City Weeps 1/2 (James/Michael, NC-17)
Author: significantowl
Pairing: James/Michael
Rating: NC-17 eventually (PG this part)
Word Count: ~2000 this part
Disclaimer: Not true. Fictional characterizations and situations. No invasion of privacy intended.
Summary: For Shiromori's prompt: James and Michael get caught in the rain, but luckily Michael's place is close by. He invites James to dry off and warm up.
Author's Notes: Written for shiromori in the mcfassy Autumn Extravaganza. I hope you enjoy, Shiromori! I was inspired by your prompt, and by this article, which begins with James talking about the food of my people ;) I really wanted to post as a complete fic, but I'm not quite there yet! (The rating will go up when I do get there. :D)
While This City Weeps (1/2)
by significantowl
i. outside
Water down the back of his neck, water in his socks, water in his eyes. James pounded through the streets as if running might make a difference, as if there were still a chance of some small part of him remaining dry. He had no-one to blame but himself. The November skies had made their intentions clear all day, hanging grey and dangerously low over Savannah's live oaks and church spires, but James was from Scotland. If he made a habit of giving in to threats like that, he'd never leave the house again.
And now the rain had come. It might have made for a pretty picture, if only he were viewing it from somewhere dry: Savannah weeping, her sky the colour of the Spanish moss streaming from the trees, of stone angels and granite obelisks, of the past that waited around every corner, unquiet and unforgotten.
One more street to go. James cut through Chippewa Square, weaving through park benches and around the statue of General Oglethorpe, founder of Georgia, whose period military uniform had probably been as miserably itchy as the one James was spending his days in on set. Low-hanging branches in the square were kind enough to keep the worst of the rain at bay, but the bricks were still perilously wet, and James went down hard, soaking the leg of his jeans and knocking the hell out of his right knee.
"Dear Christ," came a voice from behind him, Irish accent thick with shock, "what were you thinking?"
James knew that voice. One of the most important things a film crew did upon rolling into town was choosing a favourite watering hole, and his had settled on a pub down on the riverfront that had, to James' pleased surprise, turned out to be a startlingly authentic slice of the British Isles for a city so staunchly Southern. That voice was the reason James could never leave with just one pint under his belt; that voice, and those fingers expertly pulling the gleaming taps, and the muscles in those arms when each brimming glass was pushed across the bar.
Savannah was a city of breathtaking loveliness, one picture-postcard moment after another, but it was the sight of that man behind his bar that never failed to leave James winded. Those fingers were wrapped firmly around his elbow as James clambered to his feet, and with no bar unkindly blocking his view, James had his first good look at the rest of him - and thank fuck, James thought wildly, for the handy excuses of running and falling, because now his breath was well and truly gone.
If the Savannah tourism board didn’t get the man on some promotional material at once, it was making a huge mistake.
“You’re all right?” It wasn't just shock in the bartender’s voice, James realised; with it came a fierce worry, ringing sharply over the harsh patter of rain.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine," James managed. "Thanks for the hand." The autumn rain had chilled him straight through, but heat rose determinedly in his face nonetheless as he stood beneath the bartender's umbrella - because of course he was prepared enough to have an umbrella - and grey eyes raked over him, close and horribly concerned.
The grip on his elbow tightened. "You're sure, now?"
"My knee's been better -" it had - "but it's also been worse, so.” James shrugged, awkward. A chance meeting like this should've been a golden opportunity, a shot at real conversation away from the demands of other customers, and from the eyes of James' co-workers, always so curious about things that deserved to be private. The potential that had been shimmering between them was a delicate thing, a soap bubble suspended in air; James didn't know how long it might last, or what path it might ultimately take, but too much attention and it would surely shatter and be gone, gone for good.
But James was the one in danger of bursting it now, because he couldn't handle the concern, couldn't handle this moment, not when his stupidity had been witnessed, and he was so completely bedraggled, hair plastered cold to his forehead, mud coating his jeans. “I’ll let you be on your way. Thanks again,” he said, pulling away. He kept the wince off his face as he took the first step - he was an actor, it was one of his skills, damn it.
Or maybe it wasn’t. He found himself supported again immediately, this time with a strong arm around his waist. "Come with me," the bartender said, and it wasn't a question. "My place isn't far."
A relief, to suddenly feel as if there were no option but to give in. Had he somehow known James needed that, when James didn't even know his name?
Of course, that was James’ fault, the fact that they’d spectacularly failed to exchange them. It had happened - or not happened - on James’ third or fourth night at the pub; by then, the closer James got to the bottom of a glass, the more his stomach tumbled in a way that had nothing to do with alcohol. A final swallow, and he sat the glass down on the dark, scarred wood of the table, then picked it up again almost immediately, before any of his mates could be kind enough to offer to grab the next round.
He made it a point to sit on the outside of the booth, most nights. Fuck knew what his co-workers thought of that; probably the best he could hope for was that they'd decided he was claustrophobic. But it made it easy for James to slide to his feet, then weave through the crowd to stand at the bar.
The bartender had noticed him immediately. He'd come straight over, and James hadn't imagined the light in his eyes, the warmth in the sudden curve of his lips. He refilled James’ whisky and soda with exactly the right amount of each, and leaned in close when he passed it over, doing complicated things to James’ heartbeat. “You have some very famous friends,” he murmured, nodding towards James’ director, an acting legend and a very famous man indeed. “Should I know your name, then?”
And James had known, he’d known, that it was a flirtation and a bid for information, it was clear in the bartender’s eyes and the hopeful slant of his mouth, but self-consciousness had dried his throat and he’d only managed, “No,” because that was the answer to the question as asked. No, he wasn’t that famous. He’d only been in a couple of small films. There was no reason for anyone to recognise his name.
He’d gone back to his seat feeling ill, unable to look in the bartender’s direction for the rest of the night. But in some small part, he'd been quietly relieved: for better or worse, whatever the bartender knew about him, he’d know from James himself. Not from the Internet, at least not without some thorough digging. Not from the things James had been unguarded enough to tell a reporter - or worse, that one had decided to extrapolate - once upon a time.
James had learned to be careful. He'd learned the hard way.
The bartender must have learned a few things about James by now, too. Like that James was clumsy as fuck when it came to matters like these, and to get too close was to risk becoming collateral damage.
But he was still here.
And an easy man to lean on, his body made of long, strong lines, attuned and ready to bear James' weight and respond to his needs, be it a slightly slower stride or a brief moment's pause after a step down from the kerb jolted a little harder than expected. The wind had risen, while they had enjoyed the trees' protection; now it dashed at their faces and tore at the umbrella until the bartender lowered it to James' height, and left himself exposed.
"Fuckin' no," James tried to say, but his protest was cut off by a pointed and surprisingly melodic outbreak of humming as they turned onto Liberty Street, where they came to a sudden halt.
For a brief, startled moment, James had to wonder just how attuned to him the bartender actually was, because he'd brought James precisely where James’d been headed all along, the warm, welcoming entrance to his favourite café. The carved honey oak door promised old-fashioned Southern charm, but it was the incongruous neon purple sticker instructing passers-by to "EAT HERE" that had caught James' eye in the first place - he liked its brash, succinct confidence - and he'd been doing so as often as possible ever since that very first bite.
No-one made grits like that in Scotland. No-one was entirely certain quite what grits were in Scotland. And while his people were skilled at frying a great many things, he'd never seen anyone fry a green tomato. They didn't know what they were missing.
Together they hurried through the door, the bartender slamming it behind them to keep the worst of the storm outside. A few wayward leaves slipped in, crimson and brown, one sticking to James' heel, the others falling soggy and forlorn to the floor. It was quiet inside the snug little café, the drumming of the rain pleasant now that it had been relegated to the background. It set a low counterpoint to the music drifting out from the kitchen, an acoustic version of something lesser-known by the Cure.
"What, did you forget to pack your raincoat when you came to America?" The cafe's usual hostess-slash-waitress abandoned the salt cellar she'd been re-filling and met them at the door, head tilted in disbelief. Her name was Nicole, James knew that, because unlike other people he could mention, she was kind enough to wear a nametag on the job. She was beautiful, he didn't have to be overly interested in sex with women to know that as well, with lovely dark skin, bright, welcoming eyes, and an expressive face that clearly wanted to know what the hell he'd been thinking.
She had a few things in common with the bartender, apparently.
The apologies James had been about to make for tracking mud on her charming hardwood floors died on his lips, and he ended up sputtering something about his jacket claiming to be water-resistant instead. Not that his words were deemed good enough by anyone; he got a scoff from the bartender, whose arm was still firmly settled around James' waist, and an unimpressed headshake from Nicole.
"Before you ask," the bartender said, and James glanced up before realising the bartender wasn't speaking to him, "no, I didn't make it to the shop. I'll go back out for the eggs later."
The implications slotted into place, and James' mouth fell open without his consent. "You don't work here."
"I don't?"
James flushed. "Of course you can work two places. Sorry. Never seen you here, is what I meant."
"I'm usually in the kitchen," the bartender said, grey eyes wide, forehead etched with surprise. "You eat here?"
"He likes the corner table by the window, and the fried green tomato sandwich," Nicole put in. "I had no idea you knew each other, I would've let you know whenever he came in."
Her eyes were sparking with interest and amusement, and James' shoulders tightened. Ridiculously, he missed being out in the downpour, where at least they'd been alone. Here they'd gone from James' co-workers to the bartender's, but the attention was no less sharp, felt no easier, no safer. "No thanks. I'll just use your washroom now, if I may. Dry off a bit."
Nicole probably thought that James was lying, that he'd come in for lonely lunch after lonely lunch in hopes of being spotted by the man in the kitchen. It wasn't true, but there was nothing he could do to stop her from thinking it, or saying so to the bartender later, in all sorts of imagined detail....
"I'd like to offer you better than that," the bartender said quietly. "Is your knee up to the stairs?"
Nicole was still watching. The bartender was waiting. A lone customer sat near the back of the restaurant, a balding older gentleman with one hand wrapped possessively around a sandwich oozing with melted cheese. He was tapping away at his phone with the other hand, but still, James could only imagine he, too, was listening. It was human drama. Anyone would.
But only a tiny one, James told himself. Only a passing curiosity to everyone other than the bartender and himself. The bartender's fingers were tight against his hip, and he liked the feeling; he breathed and said, "Yeah."
"You're certain?"
"Yeah. I can tell. I'll have a right bruise, but I haven't re-aggravated anything."
The bartender's lips tightened at the word "re-aggravated," but he nodded sharply, accepting James' assessment, and said, "Nicole? All right if I-"
She rolled her eyes, spreading her hands to encompass the nearly-empty cafe. "Michael. I think I got this."
The old man chuckled at something on his phone; Nicole swept her salt cellar off a table, and started again. There were two
swinging doors at the back of the restaurant, and the bartender led James through them, never letting go. Led him to something better.
Pairing: James/Michael
Rating: NC-17 eventually (PG this part)
Word Count: ~2000 this part
Disclaimer: Not true. Fictional characterizations and situations. No invasion of privacy intended.
Summary: For Shiromori's prompt: James and Michael get caught in the rain, but luckily Michael's place is close by. He invites James to dry off and warm up.
Author's Notes: Written for shiromori in the mcfassy Autumn Extravaganza. I hope you enjoy, Shiromori! I was inspired by your prompt, and by this article, which begins with James talking about the food of my people ;) I really wanted to post as a complete fic, but I'm not quite there yet! (The rating will go up when I do get there. :D)
While This City Weeps (1/2)
by significantowl
i. outside
Water down the back of his neck, water in his socks, water in his eyes. James pounded through the streets as if running might make a difference, as if there were still a chance of some small part of him remaining dry. He had no-one to blame but himself. The November skies had made their intentions clear all day, hanging grey and dangerously low over Savannah's live oaks and church spires, but James was from Scotland. If he made a habit of giving in to threats like that, he'd never leave the house again.
And now the rain had come. It might have made for a pretty picture, if only he were viewing it from somewhere dry: Savannah weeping, her sky the colour of the Spanish moss streaming from the trees, of stone angels and granite obelisks, of the past that waited around every corner, unquiet and unforgotten.
One more street to go. James cut through Chippewa Square, weaving through park benches and around the statue of General Oglethorpe, founder of Georgia, whose period military uniform had probably been as miserably itchy as the one James was spending his days in on set. Low-hanging branches in the square were kind enough to keep the worst of the rain at bay, but the bricks were still perilously wet, and James went down hard, soaking the leg of his jeans and knocking the hell out of his right knee.
"Dear Christ," came a voice from behind him, Irish accent thick with shock, "what were you thinking?"
James knew that voice. One of the most important things a film crew did upon rolling into town was choosing a favourite watering hole, and his had settled on a pub down on the riverfront that had, to James' pleased surprise, turned out to be a startlingly authentic slice of the British Isles for a city so staunchly Southern. That voice was the reason James could never leave with just one pint under his belt; that voice, and those fingers expertly pulling the gleaming taps, and the muscles in those arms when each brimming glass was pushed across the bar.
Savannah was a city of breathtaking loveliness, one picture-postcard moment after another, but it was the sight of that man behind his bar that never failed to leave James winded. Those fingers were wrapped firmly around his elbow as James clambered to his feet, and with no bar unkindly blocking his view, James had his first good look at the rest of him - and thank fuck, James thought wildly, for the handy excuses of running and falling, because now his breath was well and truly gone.
If the Savannah tourism board didn’t get the man on some promotional material at once, it was making a huge mistake.
“You’re all right?” It wasn't just shock in the bartender’s voice, James realised; with it came a fierce worry, ringing sharply over the harsh patter of rain.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine," James managed. "Thanks for the hand." The autumn rain had chilled him straight through, but heat rose determinedly in his face nonetheless as he stood beneath the bartender's umbrella - because of course he was prepared enough to have an umbrella - and grey eyes raked over him, close and horribly concerned.
The grip on his elbow tightened. "You're sure, now?"
"My knee's been better -" it had - "but it's also been worse, so.” James shrugged, awkward. A chance meeting like this should've been a golden opportunity, a shot at real conversation away from the demands of other customers, and from the eyes of James' co-workers, always so curious about things that deserved to be private. The potential that had been shimmering between them was a delicate thing, a soap bubble suspended in air; James didn't know how long it might last, or what path it might ultimately take, but too much attention and it would surely shatter and be gone, gone for good.
But James was the one in danger of bursting it now, because he couldn't handle the concern, couldn't handle this moment, not when his stupidity had been witnessed, and he was so completely bedraggled, hair plastered cold to his forehead, mud coating his jeans. “I’ll let you be on your way. Thanks again,” he said, pulling away. He kept the wince off his face as he took the first step - he was an actor, it was one of his skills, damn it.
Or maybe it wasn’t. He found himself supported again immediately, this time with a strong arm around his waist. "Come with me," the bartender said, and it wasn't a question. "My place isn't far."
A relief, to suddenly feel as if there were no option but to give in. Had he somehow known James needed that, when James didn't even know his name?
Of course, that was James’ fault, the fact that they’d spectacularly failed to exchange them. It had happened - or not happened - on James’ third or fourth night at the pub; by then, the closer James got to the bottom of a glass, the more his stomach tumbled in a way that had nothing to do with alcohol. A final swallow, and he sat the glass down on the dark, scarred wood of the table, then picked it up again almost immediately, before any of his mates could be kind enough to offer to grab the next round.
He made it a point to sit on the outside of the booth, most nights. Fuck knew what his co-workers thought of that; probably the best he could hope for was that they'd decided he was claustrophobic. But it made it easy for James to slide to his feet, then weave through the crowd to stand at the bar.
The bartender had noticed him immediately. He'd come straight over, and James hadn't imagined the light in his eyes, the warmth in the sudden curve of his lips. He refilled James’ whisky and soda with exactly the right amount of each, and leaned in close when he passed it over, doing complicated things to James’ heartbeat. “You have some very famous friends,” he murmured, nodding towards James’ director, an acting legend and a very famous man indeed. “Should I know your name, then?”
And James had known, he’d known, that it was a flirtation and a bid for information, it was clear in the bartender’s eyes and the hopeful slant of his mouth, but self-consciousness had dried his throat and he’d only managed, “No,” because that was the answer to the question as asked. No, he wasn’t that famous. He’d only been in a couple of small films. There was no reason for anyone to recognise his name.
He’d gone back to his seat feeling ill, unable to look in the bartender’s direction for the rest of the night. But in some small part, he'd been quietly relieved: for better or worse, whatever the bartender knew about him, he’d know from James himself. Not from the Internet, at least not without some thorough digging. Not from the things James had been unguarded enough to tell a reporter - or worse, that one had decided to extrapolate - once upon a time.
James had learned to be careful. He'd learned the hard way.
The bartender must have learned a few things about James by now, too. Like that James was clumsy as fuck when it came to matters like these, and to get too close was to risk becoming collateral damage.
But he was still here.
And an easy man to lean on, his body made of long, strong lines, attuned and ready to bear James' weight and respond to his needs, be it a slightly slower stride or a brief moment's pause after a step down from the kerb jolted a little harder than expected. The wind had risen, while they had enjoyed the trees' protection; now it dashed at their faces and tore at the umbrella until the bartender lowered it to James' height, and left himself exposed.
"Fuckin' no," James tried to say, but his protest was cut off by a pointed and surprisingly melodic outbreak of humming as they turned onto Liberty Street, where they came to a sudden halt.
For a brief, startled moment, James had to wonder just how attuned to him the bartender actually was, because he'd brought James precisely where James’d been headed all along, the warm, welcoming entrance to his favourite café. The carved honey oak door promised old-fashioned Southern charm, but it was the incongruous neon purple sticker instructing passers-by to "EAT HERE" that had caught James' eye in the first place - he liked its brash, succinct confidence - and he'd been doing so as often as possible ever since that very first bite.
No-one made grits like that in Scotland. No-one was entirely certain quite what grits were in Scotland. And while his people were skilled at frying a great many things, he'd never seen anyone fry a green tomato. They didn't know what they were missing.
Together they hurried through the door, the bartender slamming it behind them to keep the worst of the storm outside. A few wayward leaves slipped in, crimson and brown, one sticking to James' heel, the others falling soggy and forlorn to the floor. It was quiet inside the snug little café, the drumming of the rain pleasant now that it had been relegated to the background. It set a low counterpoint to the music drifting out from the kitchen, an acoustic version of something lesser-known by the Cure.
"What, did you forget to pack your raincoat when you came to America?" The cafe's usual hostess-slash-waitress abandoned the salt cellar she'd been re-filling and met them at the door, head tilted in disbelief. Her name was Nicole, James knew that, because unlike other people he could mention, she was kind enough to wear a nametag on the job. She was beautiful, he didn't have to be overly interested in sex with women to know that as well, with lovely dark skin, bright, welcoming eyes, and an expressive face that clearly wanted to know what the hell he'd been thinking.
She had a few things in common with the bartender, apparently.
The apologies James had been about to make for tracking mud on her charming hardwood floors died on his lips, and he ended up sputtering something about his jacket claiming to be water-resistant instead. Not that his words were deemed good enough by anyone; he got a scoff from the bartender, whose arm was still firmly settled around James' waist, and an unimpressed headshake from Nicole.
"Before you ask," the bartender said, and James glanced up before realising the bartender wasn't speaking to him, "no, I didn't make it to the shop. I'll go back out for the eggs later."
The implications slotted into place, and James' mouth fell open without his consent. "You don't work here."
"I don't?"
James flushed. "Of course you can work two places. Sorry. Never seen you here, is what I meant."
"I'm usually in the kitchen," the bartender said, grey eyes wide, forehead etched with surprise. "You eat here?"
"He likes the corner table by the window, and the fried green tomato sandwich," Nicole put in. "I had no idea you knew each other, I would've let you know whenever he came in."
Her eyes were sparking with interest and amusement, and James' shoulders tightened. Ridiculously, he missed being out in the downpour, where at least they'd been alone. Here they'd gone from James' co-workers to the bartender's, but the attention was no less sharp, felt no easier, no safer. "No thanks. I'll just use your washroom now, if I may. Dry off a bit."
Nicole probably thought that James was lying, that he'd come in for lonely lunch after lonely lunch in hopes of being spotted by the man in the kitchen. It wasn't true, but there was nothing he could do to stop her from thinking it, or saying so to the bartender later, in all sorts of imagined detail....
"I'd like to offer you better than that," the bartender said quietly. "Is your knee up to the stairs?"
Nicole was still watching. The bartender was waiting. A lone customer sat near the back of the restaurant, a balding older gentleman with one hand wrapped possessively around a sandwich oozing with melted cheese. He was tapping away at his phone with the other hand, but still, James could only imagine he, too, was listening. It was human drama. Anyone would.
But only a tiny one, James told himself. Only a passing curiosity to everyone other than the bartender and himself. The bartender's fingers were tight against his hip, and he liked the feeling; he breathed and said, "Yeah."
"You're certain?"
"Yeah. I can tell. I'll have a right bruise, but I haven't re-aggravated anything."
The bartender's lips tightened at the word "re-aggravated," but he nodded sharply, accepting James' assessment, and said, "Nicole? All right if I-"
She rolled her eyes, spreading her hands to encompass the nearly-empty cafe. "Michael. I think I got this."
The old man chuckled at something on his phone; Nicole swept her salt cellar off a table, and started again. There were two
swinging doors at the back of the restaurant, and the bartender led James through them, never letting go. Led him to something better.