FIC: A Very Elaborate Show [Ocean's 12, Danny/Rusty, R] for the doitillegally ficathon
Title: A Very Elaborate Show
Rating: R
Fandom: Ocean's 12
Pairing: Rusty/Danny
Spoilers: For Ocean's 12, but I'm not sure it matters.
Prompt: When Danny gets woken up early and has however many espressos (5), and goes to Rusty's room... what they do to pass the time, aside from watching tv as is shown in the movie.
Length: 1700 words, give or take
Danny wasn't truly asleep when the phone rang. He was in that drifting in-between world, half dreaming, running through the day's itinerary, going over the plans in his mind, wondering if there were any loopholes they'd missed. He and Rusty had been over it a thousand times; it felt good, it felt solid, but they both knew that Toulour was unlike anyone they'd dealt with before.
So he wasn't truly asleep when the phone rang, and he wasn't really surprised when it did. They had thought he might try something, but they hadn't been quite sure what it might be. Linus had predicted a fire alarm, maybe, it was an old trick, but low tech, and generally effective.
But when the phone rang, he knew what it was. (And had Toulour made the effort and spent the money to change the lighting outside his room? He couldn't check, any sign of suspicion could give the game away, but he had to admit, it was impressive.)
He intentionally didn't clear his throat before rolling over and answering the phone.
Hello?
Buon giorno, Mister Eisenhower. This is your 5 a.m. wake-up call.
Really?
Yes, I'm afraid.
A pause.
Have a nice day, sir.
They were sure there were no cameras in the rooms, and Livingston checked for bugs every day. The hallways were watched, though, and Toulour might have eyes and ears in the rooms on either side, so he had to act exactly as Toulour clearly expected him to. Danny called to order room service, then quickly showered and was dressed before the coffee arrived. He buttoned the shirt most of the way, tipped the waiter, then drank the five espressos he'd ordered. He couldn't fake the wide-eyed effect such strong coffee had on him - and he would bet Toulour knew that - so he drank the coffee and headed down the hall to Rusty's room.
They knew the cameras would be there, and the exchange came as easily as if they had planned it. Which, to a point, they had.
Hey.
What are you doing?
What--? Sleeping. Why are you dressed?
It's 5:30, day of. We gotta go. Let's go.
It's 11:30. The night before.
But...
Oh.
Oh, he's mean. He's just mean-spirited. How many espressos did you have?
Five.
Yeah, come on.
When the door closed behind Danny, Rusty's face broke into a grin, but he kept his voice neutral and tired as he said "Have some wine."
"Thanks," Danny replied in a weary tone, giving Rusty the hand signal for "Clean?" Rusty nodded. Danny smiled. "Great," he said, as Rusty handed him a glass of red. The bouquet was fruity and ripe, and Danny felt his shoulders relax.
"Perfect," he said.
Rusty nodded. "I think so."
Danny sat down on one end of the couch. "Anything good on TV?"
Rusty dropped down next to him. European furniture wasn't really made for slouching, but as Danny had noted on more than one occasion, it was one of the things Rusty did best, along with planning jobs and knowing where to find good tacos at three in the morning in almost any American city.
"Not really," he answered. "But I'm sure we'll find something to keep us occupied."
Since all they had to do in the morning was look convincingly tired, it wasn't difficult to do. They started with some bread and oil - "they say it's from the Pope's personal olive groves," explained Rusty, "but for some reason you can buy it in the stores," - followed by a cheese tray and a bowl of fruit.
When Rusty bit off half of an apricot in one bite, the juice ran down his hand. Danny watched the tattoo, watched the muscles of Rusty's wrist as he twisted to lick the juice off. Rusty caught his gaze and grinned.
It wasn't long before they opened another bottle of wine; it was a Tuscan red, full of body and flavour.
"It has a mature depth," said Rusty, toasting Danny. "Not unlike yourself."
Danny started to grimace, then drank a mouthful of wine and smirked instead. "With a peppery undertone and a smooth finish," he toasted back, "not unlike yourself."
Rusty smiled, stood, and put his glass on the table. "Are you too old to mess around on the couch?" he asked.
"If the other option is a king-size bed with 300-count sheets," Danny replied, "then you bet your ass I am."
They adjourned to the bedroom, leaving the lights and television on in the main room, just in case Toulour was watching the light and shadow through the curtains.
"And speaking of your ass," Danny said, "where'd you get those boxers?"
"Little shop I found," said Rusty, removing the article of clothing in question and dropping it on the bureau. He turned and stood directly in front of Danny. "You like them?"
"I do." Rusty’s hands were on Danny's belt, on Danny's zipper, palming Danny through his own boxers, and Danny was leaning into his hands, moving in to lick the tendons of Rusty's neck.
It wasn't frantic and rushed, like it sometimes was, like it was after his jail time, like it was during the Benedict job. This time it was slower, lazier, more laid-back, and more comfortable. With Danny in Connecticut and Rusty in California, they had found parameters they could live with. This was well within those parameters.
Danny could feel Rusty's breath on his shoulder, hot and wet, and smelling rich and velvety, like the wine they'd been drinking. Danny rucked up Rusty's cotton T-shirt, hands glancing over Rusty's muscled stomach, then pulled the shirt over his head. With Rusty naked before him, Danny stepped out of his trousers, moved his hands to Rusty's hips, and pushed him back onto the bed.
"Lie down," he said, taking off his shirt. "I'm too old to do this on my knees."
Rusty moved to the top of the bed, leaning against the bunched up pillows, and spread his legs. Danny stretched out between them on his stomach, wrapped a hand around Rusty's half-hard cock, and licked around the head. He tightened his grip on Rusty's hot, smooth skin, and slid his lips down the shaft. Licking and sucking, he listened for the change in Rusty's breathing that would indicate his satisfaction level and the cue to move to the next stage of the evening. With this, as with so many other things, words weren't necessary.
Hearing a slight hitch on the breath intake, he pulled his mouth away, adjusted the tempo of his hand, and opened his eyes. He grinned. The tribal pattern around the base of Rusty's cock, like the one on Rusty's wrist, always made him smile. He couldn't help but remember the night Rusty had gotten it done, how much he’d paid the tattoo artist - a blue-haired pixie-type girl - to do it. He also remembered the series of incredible blowjobs he'd gotten when Rusty realized he couldn't fuck Danny with a fresh tattoo on his cock. Those were good times, thought Danny. Hell, they were all good times with Rusty.
A shift of the body below him brought him back to the present.
"Have you forgotten why we're here," groaned Rusty, "or are you distracted by the tattoo again?"
Danny hmmmm'd into Rusty's hipbone, and nudged him over on to his stomach. He'd barely gotten the condom and lube on before Rusty pushed back up against him, and Danny had to steady himself before finding the angle and pressing deep into him.
Rusty arched his back, head tilted back, and then curled forward, head between his arms, raising his ass higher into the air, giving Danny a different, deeper angle. He wasn't going to last long, Danny thought, thrusting, panting, but then, neither was Rusty.
He managed just a few more strokes before he fell forward, gasping, coming, and he managed to snake one hand under Rusty's body before they hit the mattress. Danny got a hand around Rusty's cock again, a couple of quick rhythmic tightenings of his fist, and he felt the pulse under his fingers as Rusty moaned once and came all over Danny's wrist.
When they both had their breath back, they headed back into the sitting room. If anyone else got a phone call, or a room service cart was sent by Toulour, it would be better if Danny and Rusty were playing their parts, not pulling on their clothes as if they were in a French farce.
After two more bottles of wine, when he judged Rusty's reaction time to have slowed somewhat, Danny thought the time was right to ask the question he'd had on his mind for the last couple of days.
"So what's going on with Isabel?"
Rusty sighed. "We should get another bottle of wine."
They sat on the sofa for another couple of hours, talking about everything and nothing, future plans, past jobs, women, and wine. Mostly women.
I don't know if she's just confused, or she's really turned the corner and hates me now.
You think I handled this wrong?
I was too forceful. I was too American.
She's different.
Maybe you're right, maybe she has moved on.
You know, I talked to a doctor about getting that tattoo removed. But given its location, he advised against it.
That guy doing Potsie is unbelievable.
There was no reaction for a few seconds. Then Rusty elbowed him in the ribs, sending more wine on to the floor in front of them.
"It's true," said Danny, smiling. "Voice acting takes talent." He took a long swallow of wine, draining his glass. "And for the record, I like that tattoo."
"You do, huh?"
"Very much. I don't think you should get it removed."
"I could tell." Rusty grinned and stretched, satiated and content. He reached to the coffee table and picked up his watch. "It really is 5 a.m. now," he smiled. "It's show time."
"Yes it is." Danny stood up, cracked his neck by tilting his head from side to side, and headed for the door.
"See you in jail?"
Danny nodded. "You bet."
Notes: Italicized dialogue is taken directly from the movie, as is the title. The cut-tag text is taken from the theme song for 'Happy Days'. Thank you to marginalia for beta, to dramaqueen_23 for subject-specific advice, and to iseult_variante for a very intriguing suggestion. Thanks as well to minervacat and triskellita for organizing the doitillegally ficathon. This was fun - we should do it again sometime!
Disclaimer: I have eaten amazingly juicy apricots in Rome, and I have been served "the Pope's olive oil".* Other than that, I own nothing and no one, and make no profit other than my pure satisfaction. However, if George and Brad would like to debate the many ways in which they (especially George) are totally awesome, and how Danny and Rusty are totally in love, I am available. Call me!
*The "Pope's olive oil" is actually NOT from the Pope's olive groves, but it does come from the suppliers to the Vatican - fornitori ponitifici - and is called Olio Carli.
*
Notes under the cut.
Rating: R
Fandom: Ocean's 12
Pairing: Rusty/Danny
Spoilers: For Ocean's 12, but I'm not sure it matters.
Prompt: When Danny gets woken up early and has however many espressos (5), and goes to Rusty's room... what they do to pass the time, aside from watching tv as is shown in the movie.
Length: 1700 words, give or take
Danny wasn't truly asleep when the phone rang. He was in that drifting in-between world, half dreaming, running through the day's itinerary, going over the plans in his mind, wondering if there were any loopholes they'd missed. He and Rusty had been over it a thousand times; it felt good, it felt solid, but they both knew that Toulour was unlike anyone they'd dealt with before.
So he wasn't truly asleep when the phone rang, and he wasn't really surprised when it did. They had thought he might try something, but they hadn't been quite sure what it might be. Linus had predicted a fire alarm, maybe, it was an old trick, but low tech, and generally effective.
But when the phone rang, he knew what it was. (And had Toulour made the effort and spent the money to change the lighting outside his room? He couldn't check, any sign of suspicion could give the game away, but he had to admit, it was impressive.)
He intentionally didn't clear his throat before rolling over and answering the phone.
Hello?
Buon giorno, Mister Eisenhower. This is your 5 a.m. wake-up call.
Really?
Yes, I'm afraid.
A pause.
Have a nice day, sir.
They were sure there were no cameras in the rooms, and Livingston checked for bugs every day. The hallways were watched, though, and Toulour might have eyes and ears in the rooms on either side, so he had to act exactly as Toulour clearly expected him to. Danny called to order room service, then quickly showered and was dressed before the coffee arrived. He buttoned the shirt most of the way, tipped the waiter, then drank the five espressos he'd ordered. He couldn't fake the wide-eyed effect such strong coffee had on him - and he would bet Toulour knew that - so he drank the coffee and headed down the hall to Rusty's room.
They knew the cameras would be there, and the exchange came as easily as if they had planned it. Which, to a point, they had.
Hey.
What are you doing?
What--? Sleeping. Why are you dressed?
It's 5:30, day of. We gotta go. Let's go.
It's 11:30. The night before.
But...
Oh.
Oh, he's mean. He's just mean-spirited. How many espressos did you have?
Five.
Yeah, come on.
When the door closed behind Danny, Rusty's face broke into a grin, but he kept his voice neutral and tired as he said "Have some wine."
"Thanks," Danny replied in a weary tone, giving Rusty the hand signal for "Clean?" Rusty nodded. Danny smiled. "Great," he said, as Rusty handed him a glass of red. The bouquet was fruity and ripe, and Danny felt his shoulders relax.
"Perfect," he said.
Rusty nodded. "I think so."
Danny sat down on one end of the couch. "Anything good on TV?"
Rusty dropped down next to him. European furniture wasn't really made for slouching, but as Danny had noted on more than one occasion, it was one of the things Rusty did best, along with planning jobs and knowing where to find good tacos at three in the morning in almost any American city.
"Not really," he answered. "But I'm sure we'll find something to keep us occupied."
Since all they had to do in the morning was look convincingly tired, it wasn't difficult to do. They started with some bread and oil - "they say it's from the Pope's personal olive groves," explained Rusty, "but for some reason you can buy it in the stores," - followed by a cheese tray and a bowl of fruit.
When Rusty bit off half of an apricot in one bite, the juice ran down his hand. Danny watched the tattoo, watched the muscles of Rusty's wrist as he twisted to lick the juice off. Rusty caught his gaze and grinned.
It wasn't long before they opened another bottle of wine; it was a Tuscan red, full of body and flavour.
"It has a mature depth," said Rusty, toasting Danny. "Not unlike yourself."
Danny started to grimace, then drank a mouthful of wine and smirked instead. "With a peppery undertone and a smooth finish," he toasted back, "not unlike yourself."
Rusty smiled, stood, and put his glass on the table. "Are you too old to mess around on the couch?" he asked.
"If the other option is a king-size bed with 300-count sheets," Danny replied, "then you bet your ass I am."
They adjourned to the bedroom, leaving the lights and television on in the main room, just in case Toulour was watching the light and shadow through the curtains.
"And speaking of your ass," Danny said, "where'd you get those boxers?"
"Little shop I found," said Rusty, removing the article of clothing in question and dropping it on the bureau. He turned and stood directly in front of Danny. "You like them?"
"I do." Rusty’s hands were on Danny's belt, on Danny's zipper, palming Danny through his own boxers, and Danny was leaning into his hands, moving in to lick the tendons of Rusty's neck.
It wasn't frantic and rushed, like it sometimes was, like it was after his jail time, like it was during the Benedict job. This time it was slower, lazier, more laid-back, and more comfortable. With Danny in Connecticut and Rusty in California, they had found parameters they could live with. This was well within those parameters.
Danny could feel Rusty's breath on his shoulder, hot and wet, and smelling rich and velvety, like the wine they'd been drinking. Danny rucked up Rusty's cotton T-shirt, hands glancing over Rusty's muscled stomach, then pulled the shirt over his head. With Rusty naked before him, Danny stepped out of his trousers, moved his hands to Rusty's hips, and pushed him back onto the bed.
"Lie down," he said, taking off his shirt. "I'm too old to do this on my knees."
Rusty moved to the top of the bed, leaning against the bunched up pillows, and spread his legs. Danny stretched out between them on his stomach, wrapped a hand around Rusty's half-hard cock, and licked around the head. He tightened his grip on Rusty's hot, smooth skin, and slid his lips down the shaft. Licking and sucking, he listened for the change in Rusty's breathing that would indicate his satisfaction level and the cue to move to the next stage of the evening. With this, as with so many other things, words weren't necessary.
Hearing a slight hitch on the breath intake, he pulled his mouth away, adjusted the tempo of his hand, and opened his eyes. He grinned. The tribal pattern around the base of Rusty's cock, like the one on Rusty's wrist, always made him smile. He couldn't help but remember the night Rusty had gotten it done, how much he’d paid the tattoo artist - a blue-haired pixie-type girl - to do it. He also remembered the series of incredible blowjobs he'd gotten when Rusty realized he couldn't fuck Danny with a fresh tattoo on his cock. Those were good times, thought Danny. Hell, they were all good times with Rusty.
A shift of the body below him brought him back to the present.
"Have you forgotten why we're here," groaned Rusty, "or are you distracted by the tattoo again?"
Danny hmmmm'd into Rusty's hipbone, and nudged him over on to his stomach. He'd barely gotten the condom and lube on before Rusty pushed back up against him, and Danny had to steady himself before finding the angle and pressing deep into him.
Rusty arched his back, head tilted back, and then curled forward, head between his arms, raising his ass higher into the air, giving Danny a different, deeper angle. He wasn't going to last long, Danny thought, thrusting, panting, but then, neither was Rusty.
He managed just a few more strokes before he fell forward, gasping, coming, and he managed to snake one hand under Rusty's body before they hit the mattress. Danny got a hand around Rusty's cock again, a couple of quick rhythmic tightenings of his fist, and he felt the pulse under his fingers as Rusty moaned once and came all over Danny's wrist.
When they both had their breath back, they headed back into the sitting room. If anyone else got a phone call, or a room service cart was sent by Toulour, it would be better if Danny and Rusty were playing their parts, not pulling on their clothes as if they were in a French farce.
After two more bottles of wine, when he judged Rusty's reaction time to have slowed somewhat, Danny thought the time was right to ask the question he'd had on his mind for the last couple of days.
"So what's going on with Isabel?"
Rusty sighed. "We should get another bottle of wine."
They sat on the sofa for another couple of hours, talking about everything and nothing, future plans, past jobs, women, and wine. Mostly women.
I don't know if she's just confused, or she's really turned the corner and hates me now.
You think I handled this wrong?
I was too forceful. I was too American.
She's different.
Maybe you're right, maybe she has moved on.
You know, I talked to a doctor about getting that tattoo removed. But given its location, he advised against it.
That guy doing Potsie is unbelievable.
There was no reaction for a few seconds. Then Rusty elbowed him in the ribs, sending more wine on to the floor in front of them.
"It's true," said Danny, smiling. "Voice acting takes talent." He took a long swallow of wine, draining his glass. "And for the record, I like that tattoo."
"You do, huh?"
"Very much. I don't think you should get it removed."
"I could tell." Rusty grinned and stretched, satiated and content. He reached to the coffee table and picked up his watch. "It really is 5 a.m. now," he smiled. "It's show time."
"Yes it is." Danny stood up, cracked his neck by tilting his head from side to side, and headed for the door.
"See you in jail?"
Danny nodded. "You bet."
Notes: Italicized dialogue is taken directly from the movie, as is the title. The cut-tag text is taken from the theme song for 'Happy Days'. Thank you to marginalia for beta, to dramaqueen_23 for subject-specific advice, and to iseult_variante for a very intriguing suggestion. Thanks as well to minervacat and triskellita for organizing the doitillegally ficathon. This was fun - we should do it again sometime!
Disclaimer: I have eaten amazingly juicy apricots in Rome, and I have been served "the Pope's olive oil".* Other than that, I own nothing and no one, and make no profit other than my pure satisfaction. However, if George and Brad would like to debate the many ways in which they (especially George) are totally awesome, and how Danny and Rusty are totally in love, I am available. Call me!
*The "Pope's olive oil" is actually NOT from the Pope's olive groves, but it does come from the suppliers to the Vatican - fornitori ponitifici - and is called Olio Carli.
*
Notes under the cut.