Just A Tad Too Long...
Title: One Night
Pairing: Paul/Ian
Word Count: 3504
Prompts: Thunderstorms, pyjamas, hide & seek, milkshake
“And the scores are as follows - Ian and Alan have 5 but Paul and Chris win with 7.” Paul grinned at the man sitting opposite him. Ian just sighed and rolled his eyes. He’d bloody lost again. This was getting ridiculous. He should have been used to losing by now but the insufferable smug expression on Paul’s face just made it intolerable. He nodded -a semblance of accepting defeat graciously- and they re-shot some parts of the show before they made their way back to the dressing rooms to get ready to leave.
A knock at his door. Ian pulled his coat on and answered the incessant noise. Paul. A smile on his face - not arrogant or triumphant though. Just friendly. He motioned for the taller man to enter and he did so, moving across the room and gracefully lowering his body into a chair in the corner. Ian looked at him quizzically. “You alright there?”
“Fine.”
“You don’t usually just barge in here for no reason.”
Paul shrugged.
“Fine. Well, I’m heading home. Good show, hey?”
Paul nodded.
“Oh yes, I totally agree.” Ian sighed and grabbed his briefcase off the table. “Merton not speaking. Now, there’s a novelty.”
A soft smile and Paul got up, looking a bit lost. He walked over to Ian and held out his hand. He shook it. Paul’s hand was warm and his grip firm, skin soft. Ian didn’t break the hold immediately - he liked… Christ. He pulled away but looking at the other man’s face found a trace of disappointment. Ian took a step closer and looked at Paul’s clothes. Not as bad as those he’d worn in the programme. A striped, colourful shirt, buttons not even done up properly. Ah, one missing. Ian smiled to himself. Further down. Jeans. Tight, dark jeans. Why didn’t he wear them more often? They looked good on his absurdly long legs. A jacket draped over his arm. Ian watched as Paul tugged it on and followed with a dark blue knit scarf. Uneven. Ian couldn’t help himself. Paul was taken aback as suddenly Ian’s hands were first on his chest then holding the ends of his scarf, evening it out so it was the same length on either side. Paul raised an eyebrow.
“No, I’m not obsessive-compulsive. It just, it just needed to be fixed.”
“You just want your hands on my gorgeous body, Hislop. How many times do I have to tell you?” Paul lowered his voice and put on a mock-serious voice. “This is my sexy, husky voice so listen carefully. My body’s all yours.” Ian stood there, still with one hand on Paul’s chest, looking stunned. Paul grinned, breaking his attention.
“Indeed.”
“You’re so odd sometimes.”
“As opposed to you?”
“I embrace my oddness though.”
“I had noticed.”
Paul opened the door and motioned for Ian to go out first. He nodded in recognition and did so. They walked down the corridor together in silence, towards the carpark. Finally, they made it to the front entrance. Paul looked out the glass door. “It’s raining.”
Ian stood next to him. “Bit of an understatement, don’t you think?”
“Maybe you’re right.”
“Does happen occasionally. God, I hate thunderstorms.”
Paul looked surprised. “Really? I find them strangely calming. Beautiful. The smell, the atmosphere… It’s thrilling.”
Ian shook his head. “Right, Paul. Of course. Beaches are horrible but thunderstorms with loud crashes of thunder and lightning are lovely.”
“They’re breathtaking. Beaches are too light, too sandy, too commonplace. Storms hold your attention. They have power.”
“Too much, if you ask me. I don’t much fancy driving all the way home in this.”
Paul hesitated, looked at his watch. “It’s late.”
Ian smiled. “How very observant.”
“I observe it’s late, that it’s dark, that you live a long way away and that you don’t want to be alone. That you’re hesitant to drive all that way on your own.”
“I’m not a ten year old girl, Paul. I’m quite able to look after myself.”
“Not the point. Do you want to?”
“I want to be in bed with a book and a cup of tea.”
“That could be arranged.” Ian looked confused. “Look, this storm is bad. It’s not very safe for you to be travelling home now. I don’t live far. How about you just come back to my place and stay the night? You can collect your car from here in the morning when it’s nice again and then bugger off so there’s no chance of trees being hit by lightning and crashing onto your car. Because, naturally, that’s extremely likely to happen.” Ian didn’t say anything. “C’mon. I’ll even let you have the comfortable bed.”
“And tea?”
“Unbelievably, I think even that can be arranged.”
“Okay then. Sounds like a plan.”
Paul smiled and indicated the door. “Let’s go then.”
Ian followed the taller man out into the rain, his body hunched and clutching his suitcase to his chest. Safe.
___
Ian sat down on an old leather armchair and sank into it. Well worn. Loved? Paul watched him, grinning and raising an eyebrow. “Big chair. Lots of very happy memories. If you know what I mean…” Ian looked disgusted. “You still want my bed?”
“I’m not twelve, Paul. I think even my puny mind can understand that you’re a man and have sex without me being sick. I’m a grown man too.”
Paul sat down in the chair opposite him. “Impossible. But you’re so cute and innocent looking…”
“You really are the most irritating tease. I never know when you’re serious.”
“Doesn’t matter. Now, that tea. Still want it?”
Ian was shivering. “Of course. The promise of that is the only reason I’m here.”
“Aww. That’s hurtful. I thought my mere presence would be inducement enough.”
“Egotist.”
Paul nodded. “How do you like it then?”
__
They sat on the floor, leaning against the sofa and drinking the wine Paul had so kindly brought out only half an hour ago. Side by side, trying to get the majority of the blanket that Paul had brought out for warmth. “It’s mine, Hislop! Gimme.”
“You offered. You jolly well can’t take it back now.
“I jolly well can.” He tugged fiercely and chuckled as the movement made Ian spill some wine on the shirt he was wearing. He wasn’t pleased.
“That’s my best shirt, y’know.”
“I do know now. Thank god you were here to enlighten me as to your preference in matters sartorial.”
Ian harrumphed. “Smart arse.”
“Want a different shirt? Might be a bit big though.” Ian looked at Paul and then grinning, poked his stomach and nodded smugly. Paul looked surprised. “No need to rub it in.”
“I’d love one. Feel free to leave the blanket here for me to steal.”
“There’s no way I’m doing that. The blanket’s coming with me.”
“Then so am I. I’m cold and wet.”
Paul sighed. “Fine. Have some warm pyjama bottoms as well. I’m certainly getting into something marginally more comfortable. These new jeans are much too tight.” He tugged at them and Ian’s attention was drawn. “Yes, thank you. Feel free to stop perving on my legs and crotch area any time you want.”
Ian blushed. “I’m not.”
“Of course not.” They both got up from their seated positions, Ian with a slight groan, betraying his age. Paul tried not to laugh at the older man standing next to him looking thoroughly miserable. The blanket was around both of their shoulders and their arms were almost in contact. Ian followed Paul’s lead and found himself at the doorway to Paul’s bedroom. Fairly tastefully decorated, which surprised Ian somewhat, with lots of books, DVDs, paper strewn across the room and posters of old films covering the large walls. “This is where it all happens.” Paul made a sweeping gesture with his arm towards his large bed, grinning at Ian. He grimaced.
“Thanks for that visual image.”
“Lovely, hey?”
“Not exactly the word I’d use.”
“No, it’s only got two syllables.”
“You can’t talk. I was listening to you on the radio only the other day and you came out with a word like it was perfectly normal and Nicholas was the only one who knew what you were talking about. He’s 85, for god’s sake!”
“Don’t you dare me of being more intelligent than I let on.” Paul yanked the blanket off Ian fiercely and he fell to the floor, unbalanced. Paul went over to a chest of drawers and pulled out a long pair of pyjama bottoms, covered in tiny pictures of Chaplin and a large T-shirt advertising his book on it. He gleefully handed them to Ian who held them aloft distastefully. “C’mon, Ian.”
“Are you seriously making me wear these?”
“You can go nude if you want…”
Ian quickly stood up and took the clothes off Paul. “Can I change somewhere?”
“Here?”
“A bathroom, perhaps?”
Paul pointed to the ensuite bathroom and Ian closed the door behind him to change. He couldn’t help glancing around as he pulled off his wet clothes and was amused to see a very girly looking shampoo sitting at the side of the shower. He knew Paul wasn’t with anyone at the moment. He took a closer look. Strawberry. Ha. He looked at himself in the mirror and sighed. Christ, he was looking old. How did Paul look so much younger than him still? The grey hair and weight didn’t help him but he still managed to not seem as old as Ian looked to himself and, indeed, felt. Oh well. He took the pyjama bottoms and tugged them on. God, they were long. He hitched at the knees to pull them up slightly. How long were Paul’s legs? He looked down and smiled indulgently to himself. He had mini Chaplins on his pyjamas. Ian found himself imagining Paul sitting down in the very same pyjamas, watching old silent films and laughing away to himself. It was a comforting image. Familiar. The shirt went on next. He remembered Paul wearing the very same shirt on an old episode of Have I Got News. He’d looked very good in it too. Not like Ian did when he glanced at himself in the mirror. It seemed massive on him. He knocked on the bathroom door, hoping Paul had finished changing himself so he could come out. No answer. He moved out slowly and watched in silence as Paul, shirtless, bent down to find something to wear on his top half. His back was so smooth and it looked soft. Ian shook his head.
“Hurry up, Paul. You’re taking as long as a teenage girl does to get ready for a date.”
The other man turned and grinned at him, still with his shirt not on. Ian found himself gazing at Paul’s chest and had to force himself to look at him in the eyes. Which were sparkling and very blue. Paul indicated for Ian to come over beside him and while Ian made his way to Paul’s side Paul pulled the T-shirt over his head. Plain white, for once it didn’t clash with something else Paul was wearing. In this case, the pyjamas bottoms were just plain striped in various shades of blue. Normal. Paul pointed to the window and drew the curtains across so Ian could see better. “Still pissing down hard out there. You should see the lightning. It’s amazing.”
“No thanks. Now, look, I really need a sleep. Is there a sofa somewhere I can sleep on?”
“I already told you that you could have the bed.”
“What about you, though?”
“I’ve got a spare bed made up in another room.”
“Where exactly?”
“Why?”
“If I need to find you.”
“To what? Come join me in bed because you’re scared?” Ian didn’t answer. Paul stifled the smart remark he wanted to make. He didn’t seem to be joking about this. He himself was scared of heights; maybe Ian was just afraid of storms. No problem there. “The spare room is just next door.”
“You’ll be there right.”
“Sure. I’m not going to be hiding in a cupboard. We’re not playing hide and seek.”
Ian took a step closer as a loud clap of thunder rang out. He looked vulnerable. “Don’t hide.”
Paul moved to him and hesitantly put his arms around Ian’s frame, holding him close to him own body. Ian seemed stiff and wooden but eventually relented and rested his head on Paul’s shoulder as Paul rubbed his back with small circular motions. A whisper in his ear. So soft. Did he really say it? “I’ll always be here for you.” Ian started and relaxed the grip he now had on Paul. They moved apart and Ian couldn’t look him the eye.
Paul left without a word and Ian climbed into the large bed, curling up with his head on Paul’s pillow and holding Paul’s duvet close to his body. It felt like him. He always came across as rather spiky and acerbic on television but having Paul’s arms around him then… It felt good, comfortable and warm. He suddenly remembered - had it been on TV or a print interview or something? Talking about when he’d been at the Maudsley, all he’d wanted from a friend was a hug. He was affectionate - cuddly, even, though he’d probably be shot if he ever told Paul that. He lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling watching the light flashing and making strange patterns with the shadows. It was very dark. He couldn’t sleep. He pulled the duvet off his body and silently padded to the other room. Where Paul was curled up asleep. He knocked. No answer. “Paul?” Nothing. He quietly moved over to the bed and climbed in under the duvet. Paul was curled up on his side and Ian was now in front of him, laying likewise. Hopefully he wouldn’t wake up. It felt more safe, having Paul’s larger body behind him, shielding him almost. He fell asleep almost instantly.
Paul woke up with a start. Crash! Lightning bathed the room in light and Paul noticed. Noticed that someone was laying right in front of him. If he moved another inch forward their bodies would be almost fully in contact. Bloody hell. Ian. Paul leaned over and watched him sleeping. So peaceful. The worry lines Ian seemed to have constantly etched on his face were softened into something resembling contentment. Paul hesitantly stretched his arm out and wrapped it around Ian, resting it so he was holding Ian in close to him. Ian shifted slightly at the change and reached out his hand slightly. Paul ran a single finger down the centre of his palm and smiled sleepily as Ian flinched. He removed it but left his arm in place. It felt right there. He rested his head against Ian’s back and fell asleep.
Ian woke to a very strange sensation. Another human body touching him. It had been a while. Somehow he’s managed to move so that, while Paul was now laying stretched out on his back, Ian’s head had found it’s way to a replacement pillow - Paul’s t-shirt covered chest. It was comfortable but odd. Odd to be here in another man’s bed, his colleague’s bed, resting against him as the rain, now only falling in tiny droplets, pattered down outside. He shifted and Paul’s grip on him tightened. Paul’s grip? Huh? Ian looked and saw that Paul’s long arm was around and under Ian, finding it’s way to wrap around his body and rest just below his shoulder, his long fingers lightly touching the material of the shirt. Ian watched Paul for a moment - she snored. Quietly, but nevertheless… His mouth was slightly open and he looked a bit restless. Asleep, though. Gently, he reached a hand up to Paul’s and ran his thumb along the inside of Paul’s wrist, where the skin was white and soft. One of Paul’s fingers twitched. Ian smiled but the expression quickly turned to shock as he turned slightly and saw Paul staring back at him with wide eyes. His mouth went dry. Paul raised an eyebrow. He had to speak. He glanced quickly at Paul’s arm which still remained around him. “Uh, morning.”
“It is. How clever of you to notice.” Ian rubbed the sleep from his eyes.
“Ha.”
“The storm’s stopped.”
“Yeah.”
Paul looked at the clock on his wall, the background of which consisted of a large picture of The Beatles. “Still early. Want some breakfast?”
“Can we stay here for a while? It’s warm.”
Paul nodded.
When Ian woke the second time, Paul was no longer there. The shower was running. Ian closed his eyes shut, trying to keep the vivid images in his head from going too far. He sighed. What the hell was he doing? Why the hell was he in such a weird situation but yet feeling right about it? He had known Paul a long time but not exactly this closely. The door of the bathroom opened and Ian opened a single eye slightly. Paul stood there in a white towel. No shirt. Just a wet towel. Wet. Towel. God almighty. His chest was wet. His boyish hair on his head was soaking. Ian wanted to run his hands through it. Paul sat down on the bed and it sank a bit. Ian shifted and Paul turned to look at him. “I know you’re awake.”
Ian opened his eyes to see Paul smiling at him. “You smell fruity.”
“Washed my hair.”
“With the girl’s strawberry shampoo?” Ian smirked.
“Yes. It’s so annoying having to get shampoo like that. I can’t help it that I have such long, luxurious locks…”
Ian’s smile disappeared and he sat up on the bed. Paul passed a small towel over his shoulder and Ian took it, a bit confused. “It needs drying. I can never do it properly. Could you…”
Ian didn’t say a word but simply took the towel and dried Paul’s hair, loving how fluffy it became as it dried. Bits stuck up at almost ridiculous angles and he could smell the strawberries quite strongly. “I don’t like strawberries.”
“I don’t like Private Eye but you don’t see me going on about it. Hurry up. I’m getting cold.”
“Put a shirt on.”
“I will once you’ve bloody decided to stop playing with my hair and just dry it like I asked.”
“Grumpy this morning, aren’t you?”
“Usually I’m bright and happy. This morning is different. You’re here.”
“Oh, thanks. My presence makes you unhappy?”
“Just brings out my grumpy, cynical side more than usual. Nothing wrong with that.”
Ian didn’t respond but passed the towel back to Paul and hopped off the bed. “My clothes better be dry again.”
“I already checked. The shirt’s not so feel free to keep that one. I have plenty of copies obviously.”
“And be a walking billboard for you? Hmmph.”
“Stop whining. It’s better than going shirtless, isn’t it?”
Ian acceded. “Fine. Now, did I hear talks of breakfast earlier this morning or did I imagine it?”
“I’m afraid that was a nightmare.” Paul laughed manically and Ian took a step towards the door. Paul stood up and followed him, pulling on an old sweatshirt as he did so.
Ian waited, resting an arm on the bench while Paul prepared some food. He stifled a laugh when he saw the soldiers but couldn’t help a burst of laughter escaping when Paul started making the milkshakes. He was such a child. He watched as the ingredients stirred around. Not pink. So Paul wasn’t making strawberry ones then, thank god. Banana? Looked likely. The noise ceased and Paul gracefully poured the drink into two tall glasses and handed one to Ian along with some proper food. They made their way to the sofa and sat side by side again, their arms slightly touching. Paul put some music on and Ian was pleased when it wasn’t some obnoxiously loud rock music or The Beatles (he was surprised he hadn’t done that just to be perverse) but some light classical pieces. He sighed. The milkshake tasted really good. Paul turned to him with a strange expression on his face. “What, Paul? Have I spilt something?”
“No, no. You look fine. Good. I was, I was wondering what you were actually doing today? Did you need to work or were you just…”
“I have the day off.”
“Stay?”
“Here?”
“No, just generally on this planet, Ian. Wouldn’t want to stretch your abilities too far.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“No problem. Yes, here. In my house.”
He paused.
“With me…”
Ian looked at his face, considering him. He wasn’t joking. No trace of a smile, slight concern even. He nodded and turned to his milkshake, shyly smiling. Paul grinned widely and sat up straighter in the chair.
Then he put a hand on Ian’s thigh. Ian nearly squeaked. Then he heard it: the sound that Ian loved more than anything else in the world - Paul’s laughter.