three drabbles, a fic, and a group poetry project
[for sangueuk, in response to this post]
"I don't know," Zach says offhandedly, "I still think you looked like a cowboy."
"A cowboy?" Chris splutters. It's hard to be dignified when it's this hot outside. Plus the nic-fitting. He blames the nic-fitting.
"Yeah, you just need a ten gallon hat and a piece of hay."
Chris snorts. "Not a Marlboro Red?"
"I'm going for bucolic here, not nationalistic. Work with me." He looks closely at Chris. "Come on, finish up your ooey gooey goodness and then we're going to have a smoke."
"You mock my turtle."
"I mock because I care."
"Right." He sucks down the last of the drink and picks up his things.
"Pine."
"What."
"Get a fucking purse."
---
"Karl."
"What about him."
"Have you seen these pictures?"
"Ask me again, then think about the answer."
"Right. You've seen these pictures. These pictures where he looks like a member of Wham."
Chris pauses. Considers. Then concedes. "Plus, well, attractive."
"Plus that."
"And the man-watch."
"The guy can wear a watch, that is true."
"The guy can wear anything. The guy can wear a blonde wig."
"Unlike someone we know."
"Fuck off."
---
There's an alley behind Chris's building. He hides there sometimes. From what, he's not really sure, but he likes it anyways. He gets his lean on, lights up a smoke, and stares up at the slice of sky between buildings.
This is where Karl finds him.
Chris eyes him, then hands him a smoke. "How'd you know I was here?"
"Guess."
"Fucking busybody queen?"
"He has your best interests at heart."
Chris snorts. If only Karl knew what those interests were. He settles back against the wall and looks back up. "Right now my only interests are this sky and this cigarette."
Karl just smokes for a moment. "You really would make a good cowboy."
"Oh for fuck's sake." Chris passes a hand over his eyes.
"What? I've played a cowboy."
"Yeah, well, I've never played a member of Wham."
"What?"
"Nothing."
Suddenly the cigarette is out of his hand. He opens his eyes to find Karl standing close to him, grinning. "Did you just compare me to George Michael?"
Chris makes a play for the cig, a smile almost on his lips, his heart beating a little faster. "Maybe?"
Karl is an expert at Keep-Away, though, Chris knows. They've played this game before. "I've never been discovered wanking in a public bathroom," Karl says over his shoulder as Chris tries again from a different angle. He's foiled again, though.
"Not yet, at least. Fucker." He makes another lunge.
They've been playing this game for a while, really, Chris thinks as they end up once again entangled, limbs snarled together in a mockery of an embrace. His breath is short in his lungs and his skin feels prickly, like it's about to burst into flames. He lets himself hover in it for a moment, listening to their breathing and watching the pulse in Karl's neck.
Then, as usual, he concedes defeat. "Uncle, okay?" he says, turning his face away from Karl's, pulling against Karl's embrace. Karl hesitates, though, and Chris meets his eyes.
Oh,
Then Karl lets go, straightens them both up, hands Chris a cigarette.
It feels funny in Chris's hand, and after a moment he realizes it's the one that Karl had been smoking. He looks up, but Karl has looked away, has continued smoking as if nothing had happened.
Chris leans back against the wall, looks up. He holds the smoke in his lungs as long as possible.
*
[for withthepilot]
Karl likes how Chris's hair looks like a Brillo pad sometimes. Chris likes how during those times, Karl's still willing to touch it, to yank him aside just before he hits the car roof or oven door or bathroom mirror (hey, mornings are rough for myopics, okay), to push him down under the sheets, to pull him around the shower curtain for a kiss. It's domestic, it's disgusting, and it's Chris's favorite. Ever.
*
[for avictoriangirl's wonderful manip.]
"Well." Chris looks down at the ground, then conjures up a smile and tries to look at Karl like everything's a-okay. Karl's smart but Chris is pretty sure he doesn't look past Chris's machismo and pseudo-intellectual veneer. Or, at least, if he does, he usually leaves Chris some dignity and pretends he doesn't.
Thank fuck, at times like these.
Karl's visit to the set in Vancouver -- He'd just shrugged all modestly like he does, and said 'I was in the area, and figured you could use the company.' -- had been like a fucking dream to Chris, the cold forcing them to bundle up and forcing the breath out of their lungs in trails and Chris couldn't help but watch his mouth inhale and exhale far, far too often while they smoked, or talked, or ate. The guy has the most incredible mouth, okay; Chris is just a victim of circumstance.
Circumstances he's trying valiantly to overcome as they stand just outside his trailer, saying goodbye before Karl leaves for the airport. He's going to Germany or some shit; Chris keeps not listening to the details of the leaving, hoping that'll make it not true.
Fuck, he berates himself once again; he's fucking attached, and they're just friends. Ridiculous. He can hear Quinto mocking him in his head, but he shoves the voice down ruthlessly and sticks out his hand, what he hopes is a believable smile on his face. "So, listen, have a safe flight, okay?" even though it's the most inane thing a person can say before a flight, because it's not like they have control over the airplane, but his throat is like sandpaper and the space behind his eyes is tight from resisting crying like a fucking girl, so it's the best material he's got.
Karl reaches for his hand, shakes it solidly, and Chris tells himself not to hold on. Ten seconds later, he realizes their palms are still joined, warm despite the cigarettes and the fall BC air.
Karl's looking at him, really looking at him, and Chris, his heart thudding, opens his mouth to ask what's up--
But Karl's kissing him.
Karl motherfucking Urban is kissing him.
He's still got Chris's hand clasped between them and the other gently but intently on Chris's bicep and his lips are warm and Chris can't help it, his eyes slide shut and he just revels in it.
Karl breaks away, finally, eons later, and leans his forehead against Chris's while they breathe again. "So."
"So," Chris echoes, trying not to sound like he's just gotten the best fucking present ever.
Karl pulls back, his eyes warm and full of something Chris now recognizes. "Till next time?"
Chris's mouth opens into a full-fledged grin. "Fuck yeah, next time." Then he shoves Karl towards the exit. "Or maybe I'll just come find you in Germany."
"Austria," Karl corrects with a laugh.
Chris pins him with one last look. "Anywhere."
***
And then there's fic. This fic was supposed to be commentfic, a drabble, for this entry. Then it grew.
Title: Time Takes Time, You Know
Rating: R for language and sexual innuendo and situations.
Length: 3,620 words.
Genre: Romantic (first time) comedy.
Summary: Chris notices Karl wears manly watches. Poetry happens. Zach finds it. Shenanigans ensue.
Disclaimer: Obviously fictional content is FICTIONAL. Please, please don't sue me. And don't be hatin, we just like the fuckin.
It’s kind of random, the when of the noticing. They’re at an early read-through, a bunch of boys and two hot chicks sitting around a blank white table with meticulously bundled white widgets of top-secret script in front of them. Chris feels restless, like he always does at this stage, like any second they’re gonna say ‘Just kidding, we wrote Kirk out of this movie because you sucked so much in the one before,’ and in an attempt to contain the mania, his pen suffers severe deformations and he’s taken stock of everyone’s wardrobe before they’re past page three.
Backstory, it’s a killer.
His eyes skitter across Karl, then swing back. And stick. It’s spring in LA and one would think that would mean a t-shirt but no, Karl has a button-up on, pressed and dressed like anybody here gives a damn, like everybody here hasn’t seen him dressed to the nines and passed out from drunken exhaustion and all states in between.
Karl reaches up to scratch at his forehead, and Chris watches as one of Karl’s cuffs slides back from his wrist and his incredibly expensive, incredibly manly watch is revealed. On other people, on most people, it would be gaudy, it would be ostentatious, and on a guy like Karl, who is really neither of those things, one would think it would be out of place.
But somehow… somehow, Chris muses as he absently folds and refolds the corner of the page they’re reading through, Karl Urban can wear the shit out of a watch.
Then he sees Karl raising an eyebrow at him, and he slides back into the scene, done contemplating anybody’s wrists.
But after that, it’s like he can’t not notice. Karl’s watch’s life becomes a bit of a Thing for Chris: the hours of rehearsal where the watch is there, heavy and substantial and cozy, making Chris mildly jealous, versus the hours of filming where Karl’s wrist is bared for McCoy, making Chris mildly hard.
There’s a space there, a question mark, and for the first time in a long time, at least with a man, Chris wants to fill it.
What he fills it with, though, much to Chris’s chagrin-and that word is so appropriate because the last four letters? Yeah, he’s doing that, too-is a lovesong. He spends minutes, hours, weeks, composing something in his head, bits and pieces whenever it strikes him. He doesn’t even put it in a notebook, because he knows Zach steals that shit and fuck but does he not need that kind of blackmail. (You’d think Chris would have the good shit on Zach, Zach being the patchouli-est closet case in Hollywood, but Chris is not that guy, so... He watches his back.)
And when he turns it around, runs through it again one morning at about three am when they’ve been shooting since two days ago, he realizes he’s composed quite the epic chanson d’amour. And he can’t be bothered to do much more than grin lopsidedly about it, and Karl-McCoy gives him this Look and the take is ruined by Chris’s shout of laughter.
“What was that all about, Princess?” Zach asks under his breath during the re-set.
Chris ducks his head, too tired and keyed up and in love or some shit. “Did you ever notice that Karl can wear a watch?”
Zach merely purses his lips. “It is my understanding that the Constitution of the United States allows everybody the freedom to wear a timepiece.”
“Oh fuck, you must be tired to be whipping out the Guys & Dolls quotes.” Zach looks not at all guilty and Chris resists the urge to cross himself in apology to Brando’s ghost.
He persists, though, because, well, Zach asked, and then clearly missed the italics. He steps on the words like lead, not editing the curl of his own lips. “Karl. Can wear. A watch.”
Zach tilts his chin to the side, clearly still thinking Chris is ridiculous and slightly perplexing, in an annoying little-brother sort of way. “I fail to see the intrigue.”
Chris just shakes his head, tsking. Then he turns from Zach and shrugs expansively. “Rare is the man who can wear time well…”
“Oh my god,” Zach says with a sigh, “somebody kill this bitch before I-“
“Places!”
“…Thank God.”
It’s then that Chris decides okay, that tested the waters of plausible deniability, and the next time he has a moment between just himself and his white t-shirt, he mouths at a pen and scribbles lines into a notebook, filling blank spaces with ink and longing and thanking Whatever that he doesn’t have to make a living on his poetry, because man, it sucks.
He stares down at it, and grins anyway.
---
He should know better. He really, really should know better.
---
Zach knows where the notebooks live. Of course he does, one doesn't have to be a super spy to get one over on Chris Pine; the boy thinks he's withdrawn and well-kept but his systems are easily enough discerned, patterns visible through their cloak of monotony.
And once in a while, yes, Zach reads them. Chris is good, is the thing. He puts words together well, in spite of -- or perhaps because of -- how obviously painstaking he finds it.
So one day, near the beginning of filming, he pages through one while Chris is in the john, and Lo and Behold-- What do we have here?
Six minutes later, he hears a flush and water running and snaps the notebook shut and back into place.
He wants to keep this one to himself, at least for a while.
But that lasts for about a week, then he just can't resist another peek. And there's more, and oh god Chris must've written the newest one the last time they got stoned, because--
Zach is doubled over laughing into this hand when Chris comes into the room. "What the shit is so funny, you fucking--" His eyes land on the notebook and he pales, then goes red. "--faggot."
He lunges for it, but Zach spins away. "Uh-uuuh," he sing-songs.
"I fucking hate you," Chris grunts at him as he tries again.
Zach finally gives it back to him. Chris only has so many places to hide it, after all. "Sticks and stones and misappropriated anger won't break my bones, Christopher Robin."
Chris puffs up for a moment, the falls back onto the couch with the notebook. "You are one twisted Mother Goose."
"At least I don't write haiku porn."
"It's not porn."
The eyebrow, she goes up.
"Okay, fine," Chris acquiesces. "Soft core." Then he rallies. "But can you fucking blame me? Have you seen the way the guy can wear a watch?" And he heaves this huge disgruntled sound that would sound girly if he hadn't smoked so many cigarettes in his life.
Zach purses his lips, then leans over and smacks him upside the head.
"Hey! What the fuck?"
"What's the number one rule about Hollywood Heteronormality?"
"All bets are off at a Heffner party?"
"Well, that too," Zach allows, "but I meant don't assume."
Chris shakes his head. "No shit, Sherlock. But what am I wrongly assuming, here?"
Zach sighs. "Really?"
"Enlighten me."
Zach rolls his eyes to the ceiling, searching for the strength necessary for dealing with oblivious young gentlemen. Then he holds his hand out for the notebook.
Chris narrows his eyes at him for a second, then shrugs and hands it over. Zach leafs through it until he finds the one he's looking for, then he holds it out like it's storytime at the library, gesturing to it with his other hand. "A whole poem that's a thinly veiled forbidden fruit metaphor?"
Chris's eyebrows bunch together, a little threateningly. "And?"
"Oh for the love of-- He's about as forbidden as Disneyland, you idiot."
Chris stares at him for a moment. Zach waits. "You're not trying to say he's-- they're--" He gestures vaguely. "They're not-- You know…"
"Monogamous?"
Chris's nose wrinkles, and for a moment Zach wants to smother him with glitter and rainbows then leave him there, sad and alone and manly.
He resists. Barely.
"I believe that's exactly what I'm trying to say, yes."
Chris's face stays wrinkled, and Zach is suddenly reminded of Tori's little pug when she got disgruntled. "Seriously? You're sure?"
Zach smiles. "I'm sure."
Chris immediately jumps to the erroneous conclusion. "Wait, are you saying you've--"
Zach shakes his head, laughing gently. "Settle down, no, I've never boarded that particular train."
Chris looks mildly relieved. Then he seems to remember what they were talking about. "So you're saying his wife would be just peachy with it if he and I-- " He makes that stupid helpless gesture again.
Zach flips a couple pages in the notebook, then holds it up, clears his throat, and projects most Shakespeareanly. "'Show each other the damp inside caverns of our souls?'" He snaps the notebook shut. "Yes. I believe so."
Chris glares at him some more. "Well, okay, but that still doesn't mean he would."
And the way he firmly shuts down cuts at Zach, because this kid should realize what a gem he is.
Zach's pretty damn sure Karl has.
Apparently they're both just idiots.
So he goes for the direct approach. Often works with Virgos.
He holds out the notebook. "Talk to him. Ask him. See what he says."
Chris snorts. "Are you fucking kidding me?
"Not even remotely. You need to get on that." He points the notebook at Chris threateningly. "And if you don't, I'm going to take matters into my own hands."
Chris raises his hands in mock fear. "Ooo, I'm quaking." He pulls himself off the couch. "Now shut the fuck up and let's get out of here. I'm tired of hearing you talk about shit you don't understand."
Zach closes his eyes. "Right, because I've never wanted a married man before," he mutters, but not loudly enough for Chris's retreating back to actually hear him.
Fucking newbie gays, they're the worst.
As is proven over the next few weeks. Zach tries to be patient, he really does, but when Karl's gentle flirting and Chris's freight train-like oblivion continue into the next month, Zachary Quinto has had enough.
He sits with a coffee and several cigarettes thinking about it. Mulling over possibilities. A couple days ago when JJ'd been heinously annoying with the tapping-on-the-microphone thing, Zach had been struck by the idea of stealing it at the end of the day and reciting some illicit haiku over the loudspeakers. But that just seems cruel and besides, Zach is not looking to get into trouble with any of the ADs, at least not until late in filming. Next best would be leaving them around for Karl to find, little breadcrumbs of questionable literature, but… that's a lot of work, for one, and very slow, for two. Zach is ready for some action. Somebody needs to get some lovey dovey sex around here, and it sure as shit ain't him, recently, so he decides as he stubs out the third Parliament that a simple smash and grab and plant will do the job, and do the job very nicely indeed.
And okay so in the end there's not much smashing; he has a key to the place. But he wears black, anyways, and half waits for the alarm to go off or for his middle school principal to jump out of the shadows and send him to detention for 'being sneaky,' as she always called it. (Please, that one foray into the girls bathroom was so not for the reason she thought it was.)
But none of the above happens, of course. He hauls the notebook he's affectionately titled 'Misdirected Piteous Overthrows' out of the apartment and locks the door behind him without incident.
---
Karl falls into his chair in the corner of the flock of chairs in the corner of the soundstage, scrubbing his face with his hands, belatedly realizing the make-up guy's going to positively murder him for it, then reaching down with one hand for his post-its to make a note to buy the little guy those dodgy jalapeno-lime Cheetos he likes--
But instead of his post-its--because yeah he's a geek but he just doesn't do all the gadgets; he likes pencils that you sharpen and post-its that you put on people's noses--there's a notebook. A notebook with a post-it of its own.
Don't open this until after photography is done for the day.
And when you do, have liquor handy.
And your phone.
It's signed 'Your Fairy Godmother'. He recognizes Zach's handwriting, so he resists the temptation to open it immediately. He doesn't trust there not to be exploding ink or a sound chip that plays 'Be My Teddy Bear' at top volume.
Except… that note….
His hand lingers on the cover.
But then he's needed on stage and it's a scene with Chris so he trundles out of this chair. Ten minutes and several crinkle-eyed Pine smiles later, the mysterious notebook is the furthest thing from his mind.
---
They get let go early (and by 'early' he means 'at a human-being hour of about six') and Chris kinda just wants to go home and pass out to an old movie, but Zach insists they go back to Chris's place and have dinner delivered. They sprawl on the couch and somehow two hours and six beers and three courses of overpriced vegan food later, they're in a heated discussion about the evolution and reclamation of Broad Norfolk-- when the doorbell chimes.
Chris looks at the door, confused. Nobody uses the doorbell, unless it's a delivery person. And no delivery person is coming by at-- He reaches to check his phone for the time--
--only to find Zach holding it and smirking. The voicemail icon is flashing angrily on it and Chris jumps across the couch but Zach be nimble, Zach be quick because he's halfway to the door, yelling "We don't want no Girl Scout cookies!" at whoever's behind it, and Chris is torn between being mortified and amused.
Until he realizes that Karl Urban is standing on his stoop holding his notebook. Then he's just fucking pissed.
"Hi, hi guys," Karl starts, his eyes moving from one hipster to the other. "I just-- Chris, I tried to call, but nobody answered, so…" He shrugs. "I can come back, though, or-- whatever--"
"No no," Zach chirps. "This is my cue, so I shall be going." He turns to Chris, who is stuck, standing there in front of his couch, the wheels in his head spinning until they're smoking. "You're welcome."
"You. Bastard."
Zach holds up a hand benevolently. "Really, stop, you can thank me later."
Chris lunges without thinking, just knowing he wants to kill Zach and knowing that maybe if they fight hard enough he'll pass out and then when he wakes up Karl will have disappeared and this will all've been a dream--
But instead he runs into a wall of Karl, who is smiling but Chris tries not to notice. "Let him go," Karl says reasonably. "We'll punish him properly tomorrow."
Zach calls back from halfway out the door: "I don't think Chris does those kind of kinky threesomes, Karl."
Chris lunges again. "Get the fuck out of my house, you traitor!" He struggles against Karl's hold, fucking incensed and humiliated and ready to lie, to say anything to get himself out of this stupid fucking mess.
But Karl won't let him go. Karl is, in fact, pulling him closer, and Chris's body lurches into fifth gear.
Karl's words are low in his ear. "'Pulses hammering madly like some ticking time bomb'?"
"Oh, god," Chris manages. Then he huffs in a breath and shoves away. "Fuck you, okay? You were never supposed to see those, so don't come over here and mock me, because it's just cruel, and I didn't think you were that kind of--"
The last few words are muffled, because Karl has clamped one hand over Chris's mouth, the other hand having somehow dragged Chris back into Karl's personal space. "Pull your head in, would you?"
Chris blinks at him for a while. Then he nods warily. The hand falls away, but only to settle firmly on Chris's hip. Chris's body decided this is awesome, even though there are sirens going off in his head.
"I'm not the kind of guy, it's true." Karl says, his voice low. His eyes are intent on Chris's, his face warm and open and oh god Chris knows he's fucked. "And I'm not here to mock you." And his grip tightens, and it can't be anything but what it seems to be, and Chris feels his gut clench.
"I didn't think you were the kind of guy that cheats on his wife, either."
A corner of Karl's mouth turns up affectionately, but his gaze is still completely serious. "I'm not."
Chris's fist tightens where he didn't realize it was bunched in Karl's shirt. "Explain."
"You broke rule number one, Pine."
"You never gave me reason to assume otherwise, Urban."
"I thought I did. Apparently, according to Zach and, well, obviously by the looks of that notebook, I was being too subtle."
"Subtle."
Karl nods, and Chris swallows roughly as the look in his eyes turns distinctly un-wholesome. Chris's tongue darts out to the corner of his mouth, seeking comfort, and Karl lets out a frustrated noise--just before leaning in to press his lips against Chris's solidly.
The hand that was fisted in Karl's shirt clenches more tightly, then relaxes as Karl kisses him again, and again; tongues get involved and Chris is pretty sure his has never been happier.
But. The sirens. There's still one bleeping in his head.
He pulls back, out of breath but determined. "You're serious. You can--Natalie, she's--" So much for eloquence, Jesus Christ, but Karl's hands are sneaking under his shirt and he kind of wants to whimper.
"Do you want to call her? It's--" Karl raises one wrist to check his watch, and Chris swallows on a suddenly dry throat. "Afternoon tomorrow there, she might be available."
Chris shakes his head--doesn't even remember what the fuck he's saying no to, really--and grabs Karl's hand, unable to tear his gaze from that fucking goddamn watch.
Karl gives him a Look; Chris can feel it. "What?"
Chris shakes his head a little again, tracing the lines of the cool metal with his fingers, feeling the warm skin below. Then he looks up, meets Karl's eyes. His fingers don't stop moving, though.
His voice is like sandpaper. "I trust you."
"Good." Karl's smile, it lights up the room and shit and Chris inhales sharply before leaning forward to kiss him again. And again. Hey, he doesn't chew all those pens up for nothing, and pretty soon they're both gagging for it, rubbing against each other like fucking teenagers and Chris would be embarrassed but it's hitting Karl that strongly, too, so instead he grins into the kiss.
"Um…"
Well, it's more like a grunt, but the answer is a grunt, too.
"Yeah."
Karl knows where his bedroom is, which is good because Chris can't quite remember at the moment, especially when Karl leads the way so Chris's gaze gets stuck on that ass, which, frankly, could sell jeans, cologne, cars… anything. "Yet you keep using it to sell movies to geeks," he says absently, and Karl stops short just at the threshold of the bedroom.
"Should I ask?" he says, regarding Chris, a soft smile on his face, as Chris approaches him.
Chris wraps his arms around Karl, shoving his hands into his back pockets and shaking his head. "Just appreciating the view."
Karl accepts this, and kisses Chris again. Chris is so okay with this. But he's also okay with Karl eventually pulling them towards the bed, and totally okay with Karl divesting them of clothing like he's getting paid for it-- until Karl reaches for his watch.
"No! No," says Chris hastily, grabbing at Karl and yanking him down onto the bed. He gathers him close, settles their bodies together, fills himself up with the smell and sight and essence of Karl, then leans up to speak into Karl's ear.
"Leave the watch on."
---
Epilogue
The next morning, Chris sits cross-legged on his couch, staring at disbelief at the notebook.
"Zach Quinto is a meddling whore," he declares to his living room. A few minutes later, Karl shuffles out, in just his underoos, and Chris is nearly distracted from his righteous anger. "Sorry for waking you, and good god how do you look hot even first thing in the morning?" He pulls until Karl is curled up sleepily against him, his legs stretched down the length of the couch, then starts in again. "But this is just ludicrous. Please tell me you realized I didn't write most of these."
Karl kind of pushes his forehead into Chris's side. "I'm not completely stupid."
"I know, I know, just-- 'oh kiwi Karl / your hair flip is fabulous / such a sexy dork'?"
"You telling me I'm not a sexy dork?"
It's muffled into Chris's shirt, and Chris's lips curve into a stupid smile as he stares down at Karl's forehead. "Oh, you're totally a sexy dork."
"Case closed, then," Karl says, and shifts, and his big ole paw comes up to cup Chris's head and pulls him down until their lips meet. It's incredibly awkward. It puts a crick in Chris's neck. And he doesn't give a fuck.
Case closed, indeed.
FIN
AND THEN, I drunkenly posted THIS, an open poetry challenge, AND YOU ALL RESPONDED WITH FERVOR AND IT WAS AMAZING. And I was squeeing with jazzy_peaches about it, and SHE THEN MADE THIS. YOU GUYS. IT IS SO CUTE AND HILARIOUS. AND YOUR POETRY IS IN IT.
ODES D' KARL: A Selection of Works by Chris Pine
I FUCKING LOVE FANDOM. :D:D:D:D
ETA July 2012: And hey, there's now a sequel! :D
"I don't know," Zach says offhandedly, "I still think you looked like a cowboy."
"A cowboy?" Chris splutters. It's hard to be dignified when it's this hot outside. Plus the nic-fitting. He blames the nic-fitting.
"Yeah, you just need a ten gallon hat and a piece of hay."
Chris snorts. "Not a Marlboro Red?"
"I'm going for bucolic here, not nationalistic. Work with me." He looks closely at Chris. "Come on, finish up your ooey gooey goodness and then we're going to have a smoke."
"You mock my turtle."
"I mock because I care."
"Right." He sucks down the last of the drink and picks up his things.
"Pine."
"What."
"Get a fucking purse."
---
"Karl."
"What about him."
"Have you seen these pictures?"
"Ask me again, then think about the answer."
"Right. You've seen these pictures. These pictures where he looks like a member of Wham."
Chris pauses. Considers. Then concedes. "Plus, well, attractive."
"Plus that."
"And the man-watch."
"The guy can wear a watch, that is true."
"The guy can wear anything. The guy can wear a blonde wig."
"Unlike someone we know."
"Fuck off."
---
There's an alley behind Chris's building. He hides there sometimes. From what, he's not really sure, but he likes it anyways. He gets his lean on, lights up a smoke, and stares up at the slice of sky between buildings.
This is where Karl finds him.
Chris eyes him, then hands him a smoke. "How'd you know I was here?"
"Guess."
"Fucking busybody queen?"
"He has your best interests at heart."
Chris snorts. If only Karl knew what those interests were. He settles back against the wall and looks back up. "Right now my only interests are this sky and this cigarette."
Karl just smokes for a moment. "You really would make a good cowboy."
"Oh for fuck's sake." Chris passes a hand over his eyes.
"What? I've played a cowboy."
"Yeah, well, I've never played a member of Wham."
"What?"
"Nothing."
Suddenly the cigarette is out of his hand. He opens his eyes to find Karl standing close to him, grinning. "Did you just compare me to George Michael?"
Chris makes a play for the cig, a smile almost on his lips, his heart beating a little faster. "Maybe?"
Karl is an expert at Keep-Away, though, Chris knows. They've played this game before. "I've never been discovered wanking in a public bathroom," Karl says over his shoulder as Chris tries again from a different angle. He's foiled again, though.
"Not yet, at least. Fucker." He makes another lunge.
They've been playing this game for a while, really, Chris thinks as they end up once again entangled, limbs snarled together in a mockery of an embrace. His breath is short in his lungs and his skin feels prickly, like it's about to burst into flames. He lets himself hover in it for a moment, listening to their breathing and watching the pulse in Karl's neck.
Then, as usual, he concedes defeat. "Uncle, okay?" he says, turning his face away from Karl's, pulling against Karl's embrace. Karl hesitates, though, and Chris meets his eyes.
Oh,
Then Karl lets go, straightens them both up, hands Chris a cigarette.
It feels funny in Chris's hand, and after a moment he realizes it's the one that Karl had been smoking. He looks up, but Karl has looked away, has continued smoking as if nothing had happened.
Chris leans back against the wall, looks up. He holds the smoke in his lungs as long as possible.
*
[for withthepilot]
Karl likes how Chris's hair looks like a Brillo pad sometimes. Chris likes how during those times, Karl's still willing to touch it, to yank him aside just before he hits the car roof or oven door or bathroom mirror (hey, mornings are rough for myopics, okay), to push him down under the sheets, to pull him around the shower curtain for a kiss. It's domestic, it's disgusting, and it's Chris's favorite. Ever.
*
[for avictoriangirl's wonderful manip.]
"Well." Chris looks down at the ground, then conjures up a smile and tries to look at Karl like everything's a-okay. Karl's smart but Chris is pretty sure he doesn't look past Chris's machismo and pseudo-intellectual veneer. Or, at least, if he does, he usually leaves Chris some dignity and pretends he doesn't.
Thank fuck, at times like these.
Karl's visit to the set in Vancouver -- He'd just shrugged all modestly like he does, and said 'I was in the area, and figured you could use the company.' -- had been like a fucking dream to Chris, the cold forcing them to bundle up and forcing the breath out of their lungs in trails and Chris couldn't help but watch his mouth inhale and exhale far, far too often while they smoked, or talked, or ate. The guy has the most incredible mouth, okay; Chris is just a victim of circumstance.
Circumstances he's trying valiantly to overcome as they stand just outside his trailer, saying goodbye before Karl leaves for the airport. He's going to Germany or some shit; Chris keeps not listening to the details of the leaving, hoping that'll make it not true.
Fuck, he berates himself once again; he's fucking attached, and they're just friends. Ridiculous. He can hear Quinto mocking him in his head, but he shoves the voice down ruthlessly and sticks out his hand, what he hopes is a believable smile on his face. "So, listen, have a safe flight, okay?" even though it's the most inane thing a person can say before a flight, because it's not like they have control over the airplane, but his throat is like sandpaper and the space behind his eyes is tight from resisting crying like a fucking girl, so it's the best material he's got.
Karl reaches for his hand, shakes it solidly, and Chris tells himself not to hold on. Ten seconds later, he realizes their palms are still joined, warm despite the cigarettes and the fall BC air.
Karl's looking at him, really looking at him, and Chris, his heart thudding, opens his mouth to ask what's up--
But Karl's kissing him.
Karl motherfucking Urban is kissing him.
He's still got Chris's hand clasped between them and the other gently but intently on Chris's bicep and his lips are warm and Chris can't help it, his eyes slide shut and he just revels in it.
Karl breaks away, finally, eons later, and leans his forehead against Chris's while they breathe again. "So."
"So," Chris echoes, trying not to sound like he's just gotten the best fucking present ever.
Karl pulls back, his eyes warm and full of something Chris now recognizes. "Till next time?"
Chris's mouth opens into a full-fledged grin. "Fuck yeah, next time." Then he shoves Karl towards the exit. "Or maybe I'll just come find you in Germany."
"Austria," Karl corrects with a laugh.
Chris pins him with one last look. "Anywhere."
***
And then there's fic. This fic was supposed to be commentfic, a drabble, for this entry. Then it grew.
Title: Time Takes Time, You Know
Rating: R for language and sexual innuendo and situations.
Length: 3,620 words.
Genre: Romantic (first time) comedy.
Summary: Chris notices Karl wears manly watches. Poetry happens. Zach finds it. Shenanigans ensue.
Disclaimer: Obviously fictional content is FICTIONAL. Please, please don't sue me. And don't be hatin, we just like the fuckin.
It’s kind of random, the when of the noticing. They’re at an early read-through, a bunch of boys and two hot chicks sitting around a blank white table with meticulously bundled white widgets of top-secret script in front of them. Chris feels restless, like he always does at this stage, like any second they’re gonna say ‘Just kidding, we wrote Kirk out of this movie because you sucked so much in the one before,’ and in an attempt to contain the mania, his pen suffers severe deformations and he’s taken stock of everyone’s wardrobe before they’re past page three.
Backstory, it’s a killer.
His eyes skitter across Karl, then swing back. And stick. It’s spring in LA and one would think that would mean a t-shirt but no, Karl has a button-up on, pressed and dressed like anybody here gives a damn, like everybody here hasn’t seen him dressed to the nines and passed out from drunken exhaustion and all states in between.
Karl reaches up to scratch at his forehead, and Chris watches as one of Karl’s cuffs slides back from his wrist and his incredibly expensive, incredibly manly watch is revealed. On other people, on most people, it would be gaudy, it would be ostentatious, and on a guy like Karl, who is really neither of those things, one would think it would be out of place.
But somehow… somehow, Chris muses as he absently folds and refolds the corner of the page they’re reading through, Karl Urban can wear the shit out of a watch.
Then he sees Karl raising an eyebrow at him, and he slides back into the scene, done contemplating anybody’s wrists.
But after that, it’s like he can’t not notice. Karl’s watch’s life becomes a bit of a Thing for Chris: the hours of rehearsal where the watch is there, heavy and substantial and cozy, making Chris mildly jealous, versus the hours of filming where Karl’s wrist is bared for McCoy, making Chris mildly hard.
There’s a space there, a question mark, and for the first time in a long time, at least with a man, Chris wants to fill it.
What he fills it with, though, much to Chris’s chagrin-and that word is so appropriate because the last four letters? Yeah, he’s doing that, too-is a lovesong. He spends minutes, hours, weeks, composing something in his head, bits and pieces whenever it strikes him. He doesn’t even put it in a notebook, because he knows Zach steals that shit and fuck but does he not need that kind of blackmail. (You’d think Chris would have the good shit on Zach, Zach being the patchouli-est closet case in Hollywood, but Chris is not that guy, so... He watches his back.)
And when he turns it around, runs through it again one morning at about three am when they’ve been shooting since two days ago, he realizes he’s composed quite the epic chanson d’amour. And he can’t be bothered to do much more than grin lopsidedly about it, and Karl-McCoy gives him this Look and the take is ruined by Chris’s shout of laughter.
“What was that all about, Princess?” Zach asks under his breath during the re-set.
Chris ducks his head, too tired and keyed up and in love or some shit. “Did you ever notice that Karl can wear a watch?”
Zach merely purses his lips. “It is my understanding that the Constitution of the United States allows everybody the freedom to wear a timepiece.”
“Oh fuck, you must be tired to be whipping out the Guys & Dolls quotes.” Zach looks not at all guilty and Chris resists the urge to cross himself in apology to Brando’s ghost.
He persists, though, because, well, Zach asked, and then clearly missed the italics. He steps on the words like lead, not editing the curl of his own lips. “Karl. Can wear. A watch.”
Zach tilts his chin to the side, clearly still thinking Chris is ridiculous and slightly perplexing, in an annoying little-brother sort of way. “I fail to see the intrigue.”
Chris just shakes his head, tsking. Then he turns from Zach and shrugs expansively. “Rare is the man who can wear time well…”
“Oh my god,” Zach says with a sigh, “somebody kill this bitch before I-“
“Places!”
“…Thank God.”
It’s then that Chris decides okay, that tested the waters of plausible deniability, and the next time he has a moment between just himself and his white t-shirt, he mouths at a pen and scribbles lines into a notebook, filling blank spaces with ink and longing and thanking Whatever that he doesn’t have to make a living on his poetry, because man, it sucks.
He stares down at it, and grins anyway.
---
He should know better. He really, really should know better.
---
Zach knows where the notebooks live. Of course he does, one doesn't have to be a super spy to get one over on Chris Pine; the boy thinks he's withdrawn and well-kept but his systems are easily enough discerned, patterns visible through their cloak of monotony.
And once in a while, yes, Zach reads them. Chris is good, is the thing. He puts words together well, in spite of -- or perhaps because of -- how obviously painstaking he finds it.
So one day, near the beginning of filming, he pages through one while Chris is in the john, and Lo and Behold-- What do we have here?
Six minutes later, he hears a flush and water running and snaps the notebook shut and back into place.
He wants to keep this one to himself, at least for a while.
But that lasts for about a week, then he just can't resist another peek. And there's more, and oh god Chris must've written the newest one the last time they got stoned, because--
Zach is doubled over laughing into this hand when Chris comes into the room. "What the shit is so funny, you fucking--" His eyes land on the notebook and he pales, then goes red. "--faggot."
He lunges for it, but Zach spins away. "Uh-uuuh," he sing-songs.
"I fucking hate you," Chris grunts at him as he tries again.
Zach finally gives it back to him. Chris only has so many places to hide it, after all. "Sticks and stones and misappropriated anger won't break my bones, Christopher Robin."
Chris puffs up for a moment, the falls back onto the couch with the notebook. "You are one twisted Mother Goose."
"At least I don't write haiku porn."
"It's not porn."
The eyebrow, she goes up.
"Okay, fine," Chris acquiesces. "Soft core." Then he rallies. "But can you fucking blame me? Have you seen the way the guy can wear a watch?" And he heaves this huge disgruntled sound that would sound girly if he hadn't smoked so many cigarettes in his life.
Zach purses his lips, then leans over and smacks him upside the head.
"Hey! What the fuck?"
"What's the number one rule about Hollywood Heteronormality?"
"All bets are off at a Heffner party?"
"Well, that too," Zach allows, "but I meant don't assume."
Chris shakes his head. "No shit, Sherlock. But what am I wrongly assuming, here?"
Zach sighs. "Really?"
"Enlighten me."
Zach rolls his eyes to the ceiling, searching for the strength necessary for dealing with oblivious young gentlemen. Then he holds his hand out for the notebook.
Chris narrows his eyes at him for a second, then shrugs and hands it over. Zach leafs through it until he finds the one he's looking for, then he holds it out like it's storytime at the library, gesturing to it with his other hand. "A whole poem that's a thinly veiled forbidden fruit metaphor?"
Chris's eyebrows bunch together, a little threateningly. "And?"
"Oh for the love of-- He's about as forbidden as Disneyland, you idiot."
Chris stares at him for a moment. Zach waits. "You're not trying to say he's-- they're--" He gestures vaguely. "They're not-- You know…"
"Monogamous?"
Chris's nose wrinkles, and for a moment Zach wants to smother him with glitter and rainbows then leave him there, sad and alone and manly.
He resists. Barely.
"I believe that's exactly what I'm trying to say, yes."
Chris's face stays wrinkled, and Zach is suddenly reminded of Tori's little pug when she got disgruntled. "Seriously? You're sure?"
Zach smiles. "I'm sure."
Chris immediately jumps to the erroneous conclusion. "Wait, are you saying you've--"
Zach shakes his head, laughing gently. "Settle down, no, I've never boarded that particular train."
Chris looks mildly relieved. Then he seems to remember what they were talking about. "So you're saying his wife would be just peachy with it if he and I-- " He makes that stupid helpless gesture again.
Zach flips a couple pages in the notebook, then holds it up, clears his throat, and projects most Shakespeareanly. "'Show each other the damp inside caverns of our souls?'" He snaps the notebook shut. "Yes. I believe so."
Chris glares at him some more. "Well, okay, but that still doesn't mean he would."
And the way he firmly shuts down cuts at Zach, because this kid should realize what a gem he is.
Zach's pretty damn sure Karl has.
Apparently they're both just idiots.
So he goes for the direct approach. Often works with Virgos.
He holds out the notebook. "Talk to him. Ask him. See what he says."
Chris snorts. "Are you fucking kidding me?
"Not even remotely. You need to get on that." He points the notebook at Chris threateningly. "And if you don't, I'm going to take matters into my own hands."
Chris raises his hands in mock fear. "Ooo, I'm quaking." He pulls himself off the couch. "Now shut the fuck up and let's get out of here. I'm tired of hearing you talk about shit you don't understand."
Zach closes his eyes. "Right, because I've never wanted a married man before," he mutters, but not loudly enough for Chris's retreating back to actually hear him.
Fucking newbie gays, they're the worst.
As is proven over the next few weeks. Zach tries to be patient, he really does, but when Karl's gentle flirting and Chris's freight train-like oblivion continue into the next month, Zachary Quinto has had enough.
He sits with a coffee and several cigarettes thinking about it. Mulling over possibilities. A couple days ago when JJ'd been heinously annoying with the tapping-on-the-microphone thing, Zach had been struck by the idea of stealing it at the end of the day and reciting some illicit haiku over the loudspeakers. But that just seems cruel and besides, Zach is not looking to get into trouble with any of the ADs, at least not until late in filming. Next best would be leaving them around for Karl to find, little breadcrumbs of questionable literature, but… that's a lot of work, for one, and very slow, for two. Zach is ready for some action. Somebody needs to get some lovey dovey sex around here, and it sure as shit ain't him, recently, so he decides as he stubs out the third Parliament that a simple smash and grab and plant will do the job, and do the job very nicely indeed.
And okay so in the end there's not much smashing; he has a key to the place. But he wears black, anyways, and half waits for the alarm to go off or for his middle school principal to jump out of the shadows and send him to detention for 'being sneaky,' as she always called it. (Please, that one foray into the girls bathroom was so not for the reason she thought it was.)
But none of the above happens, of course. He hauls the notebook he's affectionately titled 'Misdirected Piteous Overthrows' out of the apartment and locks the door behind him without incident.
---
Karl falls into his chair in the corner of the flock of chairs in the corner of the soundstage, scrubbing his face with his hands, belatedly realizing the make-up guy's going to positively murder him for it, then reaching down with one hand for his post-its to make a note to buy the little guy those dodgy jalapeno-lime Cheetos he likes--
But instead of his post-its--because yeah he's a geek but he just doesn't do all the gadgets; he likes pencils that you sharpen and post-its that you put on people's noses--there's a notebook. A notebook with a post-it of its own.
Don't open this until after photography is done for the day.
And when you do, have liquor handy.
And your phone.
It's signed 'Your Fairy Godmother'. He recognizes Zach's handwriting, so he resists the temptation to open it immediately. He doesn't trust there not to be exploding ink or a sound chip that plays 'Be My Teddy Bear' at top volume.
Except… that note….
His hand lingers on the cover.
But then he's needed on stage and it's a scene with Chris so he trundles out of this chair. Ten minutes and several crinkle-eyed Pine smiles later, the mysterious notebook is the furthest thing from his mind.
---
They get let go early (and by 'early' he means 'at a human-being hour of about six') and Chris kinda just wants to go home and pass out to an old movie, but Zach insists they go back to Chris's place and have dinner delivered. They sprawl on the couch and somehow two hours and six beers and three courses of overpriced vegan food later, they're in a heated discussion about the evolution and reclamation of Broad Norfolk-- when the doorbell chimes.
Chris looks at the door, confused. Nobody uses the doorbell, unless it's a delivery person. And no delivery person is coming by at-- He reaches to check his phone for the time--
--only to find Zach holding it and smirking. The voicemail icon is flashing angrily on it and Chris jumps across the couch but Zach be nimble, Zach be quick because he's halfway to the door, yelling "We don't want no Girl Scout cookies!" at whoever's behind it, and Chris is torn between being mortified and amused.
Until he realizes that Karl Urban is standing on his stoop holding his notebook. Then he's just fucking pissed.
"Hi, hi guys," Karl starts, his eyes moving from one hipster to the other. "I just-- Chris, I tried to call, but nobody answered, so…" He shrugs. "I can come back, though, or-- whatever--"
"No no," Zach chirps. "This is my cue, so I shall be going." He turns to Chris, who is stuck, standing there in front of his couch, the wheels in his head spinning until they're smoking. "You're welcome."
"You. Bastard."
Zach holds up a hand benevolently. "Really, stop, you can thank me later."
Chris lunges without thinking, just knowing he wants to kill Zach and knowing that maybe if they fight hard enough he'll pass out and then when he wakes up Karl will have disappeared and this will all've been a dream--
But instead he runs into a wall of Karl, who is smiling but Chris tries not to notice. "Let him go," Karl says reasonably. "We'll punish him properly tomorrow."
Zach calls back from halfway out the door: "I don't think Chris does those kind of kinky threesomes, Karl."
Chris lunges again. "Get the fuck out of my house, you traitor!" He struggles against Karl's hold, fucking incensed and humiliated and ready to lie, to say anything to get himself out of this stupid fucking mess.
But Karl won't let him go. Karl is, in fact, pulling him closer, and Chris's body lurches into fifth gear.
Karl's words are low in his ear. "'Pulses hammering madly like some ticking time bomb'?"
"Oh, god," Chris manages. Then he huffs in a breath and shoves away. "Fuck you, okay? You were never supposed to see those, so don't come over here and mock me, because it's just cruel, and I didn't think you were that kind of--"
The last few words are muffled, because Karl has clamped one hand over Chris's mouth, the other hand having somehow dragged Chris back into Karl's personal space. "Pull your head in, would you?"
Chris blinks at him for a while. Then he nods warily. The hand falls away, but only to settle firmly on Chris's hip. Chris's body decided this is awesome, even though there are sirens going off in his head.
"I'm not the kind of guy, it's true." Karl says, his voice low. His eyes are intent on Chris's, his face warm and open and oh god Chris knows he's fucked. "And I'm not here to mock you." And his grip tightens, and it can't be anything but what it seems to be, and Chris feels his gut clench.
"I didn't think you were the kind of guy that cheats on his wife, either."
A corner of Karl's mouth turns up affectionately, but his gaze is still completely serious. "I'm not."
Chris's fist tightens where he didn't realize it was bunched in Karl's shirt. "Explain."
"You broke rule number one, Pine."
"You never gave me reason to assume otherwise, Urban."
"I thought I did. Apparently, according to Zach and, well, obviously by the looks of that notebook, I was being too subtle."
"Subtle."
Karl nods, and Chris swallows roughly as the look in his eyes turns distinctly un-wholesome. Chris's tongue darts out to the corner of his mouth, seeking comfort, and Karl lets out a frustrated noise--just before leaning in to press his lips against Chris's solidly.
The hand that was fisted in Karl's shirt clenches more tightly, then relaxes as Karl kisses him again, and again; tongues get involved and Chris is pretty sure his has never been happier.
But. The sirens. There's still one bleeping in his head.
He pulls back, out of breath but determined. "You're serious. You can--Natalie, she's--" So much for eloquence, Jesus Christ, but Karl's hands are sneaking under his shirt and he kind of wants to whimper.
"Do you want to call her? It's--" Karl raises one wrist to check his watch, and Chris swallows on a suddenly dry throat. "Afternoon tomorrow there, she might be available."
Chris shakes his head--doesn't even remember what the fuck he's saying no to, really--and grabs Karl's hand, unable to tear his gaze from that fucking goddamn watch.
Karl gives him a Look; Chris can feel it. "What?"
Chris shakes his head a little again, tracing the lines of the cool metal with his fingers, feeling the warm skin below. Then he looks up, meets Karl's eyes. His fingers don't stop moving, though.
His voice is like sandpaper. "I trust you."
"Good." Karl's smile, it lights up the room and shit and Chris inhales sharply before leaning forward to kiss him again. And again. Hey, he doesn't chew all those pens up for nothing, and pretty soon they're both gagging for it, rubbing against each other like fucking teenagers and Chris would be embarrassed but it's hitting Karl that strongly, too, so instead he grins into the kiss.
"Um…"
Well, it's more like a grunt, but the answer is a grunt, too.
"Yeah."
Karl knows where his bedroom is, which is good because Chris can't quite remember at the moment, especially when Karl leads the way so Chris's gaze gets stuck on that ass, which, frankly, could sell jeans, cologne, cars… anything. "Yet you keep using it to sell movies to geeks," he says absently, and Karl stops short just at the threshold of the bedroom.
"Should I ask?" he says, regarding Chris, a soft smile on his face, as Chris approaches him.
Chris wraps his arms around Karl, shoving his hands into his back pockets and shaking his head. "Just appreciating the view."
Karl accepts this, and kisses Chris again. Chris is so okay with this. But he's also okay with Karl eventually pulling them towards the bed, and totally okay with Karl divesting them of clothing like he's getting paid for it-- until Karl reaches for his watch.
"No! No," says Chris hastily, grabbing at Karl and yanking him down onto the bed. He gathers him close, settles their bodies together, fills himself up with the smell and sight and essence of Karl, then leans up to speak into Karl's ear.
"Leave the watch on."
---
Epilogue
The next morning, Chris sits cross-legged on his couch, staring at disbelief at the notebook.
"Zach Quinto is a meddling whore," he declares to his living room. A few minutes later, Karl shuffles out, in just his underoos, and Chris is nearly distracted from his righteous anger. "Sorry for waking you, and good god how do you look hot even first thing in the morning?" He pulls until Karl is curled up sleepily against him, his legs stretched down the length of the couch, then starts in again. "But this is just ludicrous. Please tell me you realized I didn't write most of these."
Karl kind of pushes his forehead into Chris's side. "I'm not completely stupid."
"I know, I know, just-- 'oh kiwi Karl / your hair flip is fabulous / such a sexy dork'?"
"You telling me I'm not a sexy dork?"
It's muffled into Chris's shirt, and Chris's lips curve into a stupid smile as he stares down at Karl's forehead. "Oh, you're totally a sexy dork."
"Case closed, then," Karl says, and shifts, and his big ole paw comes up to cup Chris's head and pulls him down until their lips meet. It's incredibly awkward. It puts a crick in Chris's neck. And he doesn't give a fuck.
Case closed, indeed.
FIN
AND THEN, I drunkenly posted THIS, an open poetry challenge, AND YOU ALL RESPONDED WITH FERVOR AND IT WAS AMAZING. And I was squeeing with jazzy_peaches about it, and SHE THEN MADE THIS. YOU GUYS. IT IS SO CUTE AND HILARIOUS. AND YOUR POETRY IS IN IT.
ODES D' KARL: A Selection of Works by Chris Pine
I FUCKING LOVE FANDOM. :D:D:D:D
ETA July 2012: And hey, there's now a sequel! :D